Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Seventy-Eight

The rush-hour grind of Hastings Street was bad, and it was further bogged down by the road construction which seemed to be taking place at two-block intervals. Everywhere Striker looked there were men and women wearing orange reflective vests, sweating from the nonstop summer heat and exhaust fumes. He drove past two of them, all the while scanning every main street and alley they crossed.

‘You see Sleeves anywhere?’

‘No.’ Felicia cursed. ‘How the hell could they lose him?’

Striker made no reply. He was trying to focus on the situation at hand and not to let the frustration swell up on him. The plainclothes unit had lost visual continuity of Sleeves back at William MacDonald Elementary School. The ex-Prowler had cut through the school grounds and failed to exit on the other side. The area had since been cleared, with negative results.

Sleeves was gone.

Striker turned south on Victoria. Less than a half-block later, Felicia looked down at the BirdDog tracker and made a hmm sound.

‘Interesting,’ she said.

Striker cast her a glance. ‘What?’

‘Your plainclothes friends lost track of Sleeves somewhere around the elementary school, and look at this’ – she held up the handheld tracker – ‘Harry and Koda are just a few blocks away.’

Striker studied the screen. ‘They’re back near Semlin again – at the old chop shop, I’ll bet. The Hing-Woo.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Maybe meeting Sleeves.’

Her words ignited him. Striker cranked the wheel, hit the gas and raced around the Franklin Street bend. He turned up Semlin, stopped out front of the Hing-Woo warehouse, and hopped out with the handheld tracking device in hand. When Felicia joined him, he approached the front door of the warehouse and tried the handle.

Locked.

He went to look through the iron-barred window, paused. Sniffed. Then looked at Felicia.

‘You smell that?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It’s . . . gunpowder?’

Using one hand to hold the tracker, Striker drew his pistol with the other and slowly made his way around the building into the side lane, where the stink grew worse. Ten steps later, he saw someone sprawled out in the loading zone, surrounded by a brownish-red puddle. He stopped hard.

‘Heads up, Feleesh, we got a DB here.’

She drew her pistol. ‘Copy. I got you covered.’

Striker swept his eyes around the lane, checking for threats. But all he saw were some old wooden pallets. An empty loading zone. And some broken bottles of soy sauce in the corner.

‘Cover me to the west,’ he said.

‘Copy, west.’

Striker approached the body.

As he closed the distance, it quickly became apparent that half the victim’s face had been blown away from the gunshot. Both knees had also been shot out. Striker reached the body, leaned forward, and saw the hoodie – it was a dirty white colour with red block lettering across the front:

SNAFU.

‘Ah fuck me, this is Sleeves.’

Felicia came up beside him, gun nestled between both hands. ‘I’ll call it in.’

As she got on her cell and alerted Dispatch, Striker scanned the lane one more time. When he saw nothing, he started west, then stopped. He looked down at the handheld tracking device and saw that the red-car icon representing Harry’s undercover Ford cruiser was still stationary.

And it was right behind him.

He turned around and approached the mouth of the lane, and saw no sign of Harry’s undercover cruiser. Not on the side street. Not in the laneway. And not in the vacant lot where the old car dealership had been torn down.

For a moment he thought the GPS was buggered, or that the mount had dislodged from the vehicle. But then he looked across the way and saw the elevated parking lot of the A&W burger stand.

Up there.

Felicia got off her cell. ‘Patrol’s a block out.’

Striker never took his eyes from the parking lot. ‘Put your back against the wall and hold the area, Feleesh . . . There’s something I need to see over here.’

Seventy-Nine

Harry cut through the front door of the A&W burger stand, trying to get his breath.

Did that happen?

Did that really just fucking happen?

The words raged through his mind. His head felt light. He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to stop the trembling of his hands. But the shakes were hitting him hard now. Really hard.

Did that really just fucking happen?

Koda urged him on. ‘We gotta go, we gotta go, we gotta move!’

Harry said nothing. In front of him, rows of people blocked the way. The line-up to the till was twelve deep. And all around him, most of the tables were already full of people eating hamburgers and French fries and onion rings. All he could smell was grease and vinegar and gravy.

‘Move, Harry, we gotta move!’

Robot-like, on autopilot, Harry moved across the tiled floor and pushed his way through the east-side door that led to the parking lot. The thick glass made the door heavy, and when it swung open, hot humid air blasted in his face.

He started for the car.

Slowed.

Stopped.

Something tugged at the back of his mind . . . something Sleeves had said during their cell phone conversation:

I’m on Hastings Street.

It made Harry wonder: Why had Sleeves been looking for them up on Hastings Street when the meeting place was in the alley behind the warehouse? The more he thought about it, the more obvious the answer became – because Sleeves had seen their cruiser parked in the A&W parking lot.

Up ahead, Koda was reaching for the vehicle.

‘WAIT!’ Harry said. ‘Don’t touch that car!’

Koda stopped. Wheeled back. ‘Jesus, what now?’

‘We got to make sure it’s not rigged or nothing.’

The thought of another bomb going off made Koda’s already-white face turn an even sicklier pallor, and he reared away from the vehicle.

‘You check it,’ he said.

Harry offered no response. He approached the undercover cruiser, got down on his hands and knees, and looked beneath the frame. The search took little time. Seconds. And he found something. There, on the top of the leaf spring, was a device – though it was not the one Harry was expecting to see.

He reached under, tried to pry it free, and broke the base of the device right off the mount. He looked at what he was holding and felt a coldness wash over him. Not a bomb, but something equally frightening – a Vancouver Police Department BirdDog.

They were being tracked.

Eighty

Striker hurried up the steep incline of Semlin Drive and turned into the A&W burger stand. Inside, the foyer was jammed with the dinner rush. People were lined up at the tills, sitting in booths, and even waiting for an available washroom.

The radio chirped at his side, and Sue Rhaemer began broadcasting that a dog was heading down to the shooting, along with several more patrol units. Moments later, Inspector Osaka came across the air, his voice thick with disbelief that there had been yet another death on his watch this week.

‘Car 10 heading up,’ he said.

Striker blocked it all out. Made his way into the crowd. Assessed the people:

Chinese girl. Tight shorts, bikini top.

Black male, tall, shaved head.

Three white kids, computer geeks.

All non-threats.

He pushed further into the crowd, heading towards the parking lot. Halfway there, through the maze of people, he spotted the two cops he was looking for – Harry and Koda. They were in the parking lot just outside the burger shack. Koda’s Halloween face was lost and stressed. Harry’s expression was one of tension and seriousness.

Harry was looking right back at him.

‘Hold it right there!’ Striker called out.

He headed for the door.

Eighty-One

One moment Harry was standing there in disbelief, holding the GPS unit and realizing with all certainty that this was definitely Vancouver Police Department property. The next moment, he was eyes-locked with Jacob Striker.

‘Motherfucker,’ he said.

He panicked. Stuffed the GPS base into his pocket. Then spun away from the restaurant. Immediately, his eyes found Koda. The man was standing there with a stunned look on his wrecked face.

Harry quickly formulated a plan. He grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic and the snub-nose pistol he’d used to kill Sleeves and stuffed them into Koda’s hands. The man’s face filled with apprehension.

‘What the hell—’

‘Get out of here,’ Harry ordered.

‘But—’

‘Go now!’

Koda’s eyes flitted over Harry’s shoulder, then narrowed with understanding when he saw Jacob Striker coming through the restaurant. Gear in hand, he spun away from Harry and raced for the driver’s side of the car.

Seeing Koda go, Harry wheeled about. He beelined towards the restaurant door to intercept and delay Striker from reaching the Crown Vic. All the while, a hundred thoughts raced through Harry’s mind – all the standard questions he’d need answers to:

Why were you there?

Why did Koda take off?

Do you know Sleeves is dead in the alley?

Did you hear the gunshots?

The questions were endless. And halfway there, another idea surged to the forefront of his mind, one which would cover their tracks entirely.

Burn the car.

Harry stopped walking in the direction of the restaurant, spun about, and raced back towards Koda. After five steps, he caught sight of Koda, sitting there in the driver’s seat – and the sight of the man made him come to a halt.

Koda was sitting there, frozen, with a terrified expression on his face. He was staring at the object that had been placed on the dashboard of the cruiser.

A doll of some kind.

Suddenly, Koda let out a strangled cry. He shouldered open the car door. Tried to get out.

But he was far too late.

A strange, wind-sucking sound filled the air, and was followed by a piercing flash of light. In one quick blast of smoke and fire and tearing metal, the Ford Crown Vic cruiser exploded – killing Chad Koda in the process.

Eighty-Two

Striker raised his hands without thinking.

The flash came first – one giant burst of light, followed by the fracturing sounds of the windows. A percussive force powered through the A&W restaurant, driving wood and rock and dirt and glass shards with it. One moment, Striker was hurrying to get outside, the next thing he knew he was spinning across the floor like a small toy flung by some giant child. He rolled and flipped, and slammed into a nearby wall. Stunned, he instinctively reached for his pistol. Drew it. Tried to focus.

All around him, people were crying. Crawling. Screaming:

‘I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding!’

‘A bomb! It was a fucking bomb!’

‘. . . an ambulance, we need an ambulance . . .’

‘. . . she’s not breathing, someone—’

The screams and cries all mutated into one loud din that Striker could barely hear through his deafened ears. Dizzy, reeling, he grabbed on to the nearest booth and hauled himself to his feet. The tiles beneath his shoes felt like moving mush; and the world shifted.

Out in the parking lot, the undercover police cruiser was nothing but a fragmented, flaming shell now. Dark smoke poured through the lot like some form of unfurling, gaseous molasses. And on the ground, not twenty feet from the blast, was Harry.

The man tried to get up.

Fell.

Tried again.

Striker reached into his jacket pocket for the portable radio, found it wasn’t there. Swearing, he got his legs moving. He navigated through the chaos in the restaurant. Past two girls who were standing there like frozen statues. Around an old lady who was on her knees, sobbing. He reached the exit door. Stared through the broken glass panes into the parking lot.

And then he saw the woman.

She was small but stocky. Dressed in coveralls – just like the man he’d chased yesterday by the toy store. She moved quickly into the parking lot, in a semi-crouched position, and she moved with purpose. From behind her back, she suddenly pulled something out and zoned in on Harry.

Gun.

She had a gun.

Striker kicked open the broken frame of the door. Raised his SIG. Fought to stabilize himself.

‘Police – don’t move!’

The woman did not so much as flinch. She dropped lower, kept moving towards her target, and took one quick glance in Striker’s direction – assessing; clearly assessing. Then she raised her gun and took aim.

But not at Striker.

She aimed at Harry.

Eighty-Three

With the world shifting all around him, Striker opened fire.

The first bullet hit the cement wall of the neighbouring shop; the second ricocheted off the burning husk of the police car; the third shattered the brick wall behind the woman. It startled her. Stopped her dead in her tracks. And she turned her eyes towards him.

Saw that he had her lined up.

‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ Striker ordered.

In between them, Harry crawled behind a cement parking barrier.

When the woman saw this, her face darkened. She could not reach him now. And her hands tightened on the pistol.

‘Don’t do it,’ Striker warned.

He put one hand against the door frame to stabilize himself and fought to steady his aim.

‘Drop the gun! Drop it right now—’

He’d barely finished the sentence when the male appeared. He came from the south end of the lot, and was dressed exactly the same as the girl – a pair of workman’s coveralls with an orange vest.

Like a flag-person.

The man raced across the lot, firing at Striker as he came. Quick double-taps.

Striker dropped down and hit the ground as the shots rang out. One-two, three-four. They ricocheted throughout the foyer. Clattered off tile and steel. Shattered more glass. And caused the remaining customers to wail and scream in terror.

In the parking lot, Harry returned fire.

Striker needed cover. He rolled onto his belly. Tried to lift his head above the window partition and engage the enemy. But it was impossible – bullets continued to spear through the restaurant in a constant stream of suppressive fire.

Five-six, seven-eight.

He was pinned down. Unable to reposition.

Couldn’t get a shot off.

And then he spotted Felicia. He had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been there. But suddenly she was at the broken remains of the northeast window, using the wall as cover and emptying her clip on their enemies.

Her unexpected presence changed the firefight, forcing the enemy to reposition. They slid in behind one of the lot’s cement parking barriers and returned fire – though now on Felicia. Two streams of bullets punched through the window like sideways rain.

‘Down!’ Striker yelled. ‘Everyone stay DOWN!’ Felicia dropped low and rolled for cover as more glass shattered all around her; Striker seized the moment. He rolled out. Extended his arms. Took aim. And returned fire.

Two shots, one hit.

And the man in the orange work vest let out a surprised cry. He stumbled backwards. Fell. Landed on his ass. And still, he kept firing – one constant, steady rhythm of gunfire, with each bullet plunking into the wall behind Striker.

Again, Striker rolled for cover.

And then, as quickly as the gun battle had started, it ended.

And there was only silence.

Striker looked at Felicia. Saw blood on her hand.

‘You hit?’ he asked.

‘Just glass. Go.’

Striker clambered to his feet. Peered out from cover. Scanned the parking lot.

Out there, the police cruiser was in flames, and Harry was on his hands and knees, struggling to cross the lot. Disoriented, Harry took aim and tried to get a shot off. But before he could so much as pull the trigger, one of the shooters lined him up and fired.

The bullet hit him square on.

Harry let out a cry and crumpled to the ground.

Striker ran to assist him.

He took hold of Harry, saw that the kevlar vest had saved him by taking the round, and dragged him back to the paltry cover of the A&W restaurant while Felicia provided cover. Once inside, Striker spotted his portable in the debris. He snatched the radio up, stuffed it into his jacket, and raced back outside. With his equilibrium slowly returning, he made it to the far end of the parking lot where there was a five-foot-high concrete wall.

Felicia caught up and they both looked over the wall.

Below, the laneway was empty. Straight ahead to the north, the lot that had once been the used car dealership also appeared vacant. So was the road to the east. When Striker looked west – towards the crime scene where the dead body of Sleeves still lay behind the Hing-Woo – all he saw was the red and blue gleam of police lights. As quickly as the gun battle had begun, it was now over.

Their enemies had vanished.

Eighty-Four

‘Where the hell did they go?’ Felicia asked.

Striker grabbed his radio, keyed the mike. ‘We got another bomb explosion,’ he said. ‘And shots fired. Two shooters – male and female. Caucasians. Dressed like city workers in reflective vests and overalls. Last seen running south from the A&W parking lot on Hastings.’

He took a moment to get his breath.

‘Should I call in ERT?’ the Dispatcher asked.

‘Yes,’ Striker replied. ‘And a dog. And some ambulances to the restaurant, Code 3. Casualties unknown.’

Striker let go of the mike and scanned the area to the south one more time. There was nothing. The two shooters had just plain disappeared. It made no sense. Pistol in hand, he walked down the off-ramp into the rear lane with Felicia paralleling him. Once his feet touched the pavement, he spotted what he was looking for and pointed:

‘Right there. Blood droplets.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Heading east.’

They followed the trail. Twenty steps later, Striker and Felicia stopped when the blood droplets ended abruptly. Suddenly the suspects’ vanishing act made sense. Striker pressed his mike:

‘They’re using the sewer systems.’

At Striker’s feet was a manhole cover, partially unseated. When he crouched down to look at it, he saw more blood. He looked up at Felicia.

‘Stand back.’

When she got out of the way, he grabbed hold of the rim. He readied his gun. Yanked open the manhole cover. And they both stuck their pistols down into the hole.

Leading down from street level was a series of metal rungs embedded in the cement tube. At the bottom, there was only darkness. Striker broadcast the find and stared into the void below. Images of the two shooters escaping flashed through his mind, and it ate away at him.

He took out his flashlight and readied his pistol.

Felicia saw this and let out a startled sound. ‘Whoa-whoa-whoa – you’re not going down there.’

‘I need to see where they’re going.’

‘Send in a dog first.’

‘The dog’s ten minutes out, they’ll be long gone by then.’

‘So let them go.’

‘I’m not losing them again.’

Before Felicia could object a third time, Striker stepped down on the rung. The metal felt thin and weak under his shoe and the contact made a hollow scuffing sound in the cement tube.

He dropped lower and lower into the darkness.

When his feet touched the bottom, he immediately crouched down low and shone the flashlight in both directions. To the immediate west was a steel door that was padlocked. To the east was a long, narrow passageway that darkened quickly but seemed to turn south at the end.

Striker took one step that way.

Suddenly, a loud whistling sound filled the tunnel. High in pitch. So sharp it hurt his ears. Then a series of red lines shot out all across the path. Some of them were vertical, some horizontal, and some crisscrossed. One look at them and Striker knew exactly what they were:

Laser tripwires.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said and stepped back.

Going down that way would be suicide.

Up above him, Felicia called out a warning. ‘I’m coming down to back you up!’ She stepped on the first rung, but Striker waved her away.

‘No! Don’t come down! Get out – get out now!’

Eighty-Five

Cradling his left arm, not allowing the shoulder joint to move, the bomber stumbled down the long, winding corridors of the sewer system with Molly by his side. The bullet had tagged him. Torn through the upper-left shoulder. And something inside that joint had broken.

He could feel the bones grinding.

‘We got them,’ he said through the haze. ‘We got them both.’

‘Keep moving,’ Molly said.

‘. . . them both . . .’

‘Come on. Leg it. We have to keep moving.’

He looked left at her, and suddenly, she was no longer Molly, but one of his squadmates dragging him across the Green Valley plains. And he was watching his body bleed out.

From somewhere high above him, he could hear the sharp zings of the bullets flying by, and he could feel every ounce of the lead and steel and copper that had torn through his body from the exploding bomb. It was hot – the metal was so goddam hot. He was on fire.

The inside of his body was aflame.

‘My leg,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them take my leg.’

‘No one’s taking your leg.’

‘The doctor . . . don’t let him take—’

Molly shook him. ‘You’re not back there, you’re here. Look at me, look at me!’

And then, suddenly, the world changed again. And the soldier looking back at him was gone. And in the man’s place was Molly. ‘Get up,’ she was saying. ‘You’ve got to get up! Get up! Let me help you. LET ME HELP YOU!’

He struggled back to one knee, then managed to stand. The world tilted on him. The tunnel seemed to be moving in impossible, unnatural circles. Like some demonic carnival ride. And the air was hot. Stuffy. Rank. His shoulder seared with pain. So much so that he feared he’d black out.

But instead of losing consciousness, the reverse happened – a sharp, distinct clarity swept into him. And he laughed out loud because everything was finally okay again.

He was moving.

Seeing action.

Operating.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt completely, undeniably, one hundred per cent wonderful.

He felt alive.