Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Forty-Three

Harry drove towards the southwest section of Vancouver. The more he thought about his situation, the more he realized there was but one way out. In order for his family to have any hope of a peaceful future, it was going to require a violent present.

When he reached the Marpole district, the GPS icon on his tracking display was a steady red colour. It told him that Striker and Felicia were in the 4400 block of Camosun Street. Just across from St Patrick’s High School. They were stationary.

By the time Harry had reached 41st Avenue and started westward, the icon was flashing.

Striker and Felicia were on the move.

He pulled over for a moment and watched the red icon move past the school and down Imperial Drive. Soon the car was racing west, out towards the university grounds, at speeds of one hundred and forty K.

Three times the speed limit.

Harry watched the icon race into the centre of the campus and stop in the middle of the Thunderbird thoroughfare. Speed equalled zero. He sat there anxiously, waiting for them to move again; when they did not, he put the car in Drive and headed for UBC.

Something important was happening.

One Hundred and Forty-Four

The steam tunnels of UBC had long been a place of urban legend among the campus populace. Tales of students making it into the secret entrance were abundant, as were the horror stories of those who had entered and never come out again. Some writings even claimed that there was a serial killer lurking below the streets.

Most of it was gobbledygook, but the fact was the tunnels did exist. The University of British Columbia, being one of the few remaining steam networks left in North America, still used the terribly inefficient system to pipe in heat from the steam plant to all the old dorm buildings and the administrative offices the university owned.

For anyone who had access to Google – and the knowledge of where to look – the main entrance was no secret.

While Striker waited for UBC maintenance staff to answer his call, Felicia found the information they needed on the Internet. She lowered her phone and stopped walking down Thunderbird Avenue. She turned to talk to him.

‘Okay, there’s a few entrances,’ she said. ‘Three are somewhat hidden and off the track, but the main one is just ahead.’ She pointed to what appeared to be a rather large manhole cover that sat less than twenty feet off the main drive, in a square recess of concrete. ‘That’s it right there.’

Striker grabbed a tyre iron from the cruiser and neared the manhole. He looked down. The lid was seated properly, fitting snugly into its receptacle, and there were no signs of tampering. He jammed the tyre iron in between the rim of the cover and the manhole receptacle and applied some pressure. The round plate of steel gave a little and, seconds later, lifted altogether.

Striker removed it.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Where they went.’

‘There are other entry points,’ Felicia started, but Striker cut her off.

‘No. You don’t understand. These covers are normally locked. We should never have even been able to get in here . . . Someone went in before us, and it sure as hell wasn’t a maintenance man.’

Felicia looked into the hole. Everything below was a sea of darkness. ‘Maybe we should call in the Emergency Response Team.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They show up and this entire thing is over.’

‘He might have bombs down there, Jacob.’

‘Might nothing – you can damn well bet on it. And he’ll set them off the moment he sees ERT.’ Striker drew his pistol and double-checked that the magazine was secure. ‘I’ll go in alone.’

‘Don’t be an ass.’ Felicia drew her own piece.

Striker didn’t respond. He just swung his leg into the hole, stepped on the first rung of the ladder, and climbed down into the murky darkness below. Seconds later, Felicia followed him.

They were in.

One Hundred and Forty-Five

Having no access to night-vision goggles, Striker and Felicia were left peering through a crimson darkness. The underground was a series of long cement tubes, running north and south and east from their location. All along the top of the tunnels, a series of red lights dimly illuminated the way.

Striker took out his flashlight and shone it in all three directions. Within twenty feet, the way south led to a gated door that was locked. That left them with two options. He shone his flashlight on the ground, scanning the area for footprints in the dust. As he did so, Felicia let out an excited sound.

‘Look here,’ she said.

Striker did. Mounted on the wall was a strange-looking sensor, obviously new. It was blinking every so often – a deep red light.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said.

‘Looks like part of a relay system,’ Felicia said. She looked down the tunnel and then above them. ‘We’re underground and this is thick cement. Oliver probably can’t get a signal down here without one. He’d need it for any type of radio communications or Internet devices.’

‘Or to trigger a bomb,’ Striker said.

He looked around further.

On the side of the wall, running down the entire stretch of tunnel, were two large red pipes and two large blue pipes. They were hot – Striker could feel heat radiating off them – and they were covered in a thin film of dust. In the dimness of the tunnel, it was difficult to tell if it was the same kind of dust found at the crime scenes, but as Striker analysed it, something else caught his eye.

A long scratch mark ran down the entire length of pipe. It had been ground right into the red paint and gave off a silver gleam from the metal below.

‘Check it out. Looks fresh. Rothschild’s police knife maybe.’

Felicia noticed the scratch. ‘Or Oliver leading the way. Believe me, he knows we’re coming, Jacob.’

‘I know that. But what choice do we have?’

Striker began following the scratch down the eastern tunnel. Within thirty feet, the passage angled left, then after another ten feet, left again. Before Striker knew it, he had no idea which way they were heading. The place was a giant underground labyrinth, and it was getting progressively hotter with every step. When they turned another corner, Striker lost his balance and put out his hand. It touched the red pipe next to them, and he pulled it away fast.

‘Fucking hot,’ he said.

Felicia said nothing; she just listened. There was a rushing sound in the tunnel. A soft but constant rumble.

‘That’s the steam in the pipes,’ she said. ‘You can imagine the pressure.’

Striker looked at the pipes for a long moment. ‘If Oliver sets off a bomb down here, we’re gonna be like lobsters in a pot.’ He took out his cell phone and tried to get a signal. When it failed, he cursed. ‘I thought he had relays down here?’

Felicia just shrugged like she had no idea.

Striker turned to face her. ‘You have to go back.’

‘What?’ She gave him a stunned look. ‘Without you? No way.’

‘There’s no choice. If Oliver blows us up down here, we’ll cook to death, Feleesh. You, me, Rothschild – the kids. You got to get that steam turned off, and as fast as you can.’

‘But—’

‘There’s no choice. We’re out of time.’

Felicia said nothing for a moment. She swore, then gave him a quick hug and a kiss.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’

Then she turned and hurried back down the tunnel.

Striker watched her turn the bend and disappear from sight. Alone and sweating from the growing heat, he tightened his grip on the SIG and headed deeper into the crimson darkness of the tunnel.

One Hundred and Forty-Six

Five minutes later, Striker hiked down a long sloping corridor. As he went, he passed by a couple of iron-barred gates that owned locks so old they appeared rusted. The heat and humidity grew, and so did the darkness. When he turned the bend, there were no more red lights overhead.

Everything was pitch-black.

He stopped. Took one cautious step forward. And suddenly a series of red lasers shot all over the tunnel – red crimson beams slicing through the blackness. Striker’s first thought was of the laser tripwires he’d triggered in the sewer systems behind the A&W parking lot.

They’re just laser trips, he recalled the bomb expert saying.

But were they now? And were they designed to stop someone from entering the room – or to prevent them from leaving? At the very least they would slow down someone’s escape.

He aimed his flashlight down the pathway, scanning the floor for tripwires or pressure pads. When he saw none, he slowly, cautiously, made his way down the corridor, stepping over and ducking under each crimson beam in his path.

Beside him, the sound of the steam-pressurized pipes grew louder, moaning like a trapped beast desperate to break free. The heat coming off them was immense.

Thoughts of Oliver setting off a bomb in the tunnels brought a sick feeling to Striker’s stomach. With the combination of darkness, locked doors, laser tripwires, and the never-ending maze, escape from the steam tunnels would be impossible.

Striker cut a final corner and found himself facing a steel door. There, he paused, unsure of what to do. Opening it could not only warn Oliver that he was coming, but trigger a detonation.

Yet what choice did he have?

He reached out and placed his flashlight hand against the steel. Then he readied his pistol and gently pushed open the door. What he saw caused his heart to constrict.

He was standing at the entrance to a control room. Everything was tinted dark red from the overhead lights, and the air was so hot it was suffocating. To his far left, slumped with his back to the concrete wall, was Mike Rothschild. His hands were cuffed to a large steel pipe and blood trickled down the left side of his skull.

His head hung low, his eyes were dazed.

To Striker’s far right was another closed door. Steel, with a deadbolt across the facing. It looked heavy. Across the front was one word:

Maintenance.

‘Welcome to the command room,’ a weary voice said.

Striker turned and looked directly across the room. There, half in the shadows, was Oliver Howell. The man sat on a long steel table, next to a static-filled television monitor and what looked like a green-lighted router. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, complete with a radio, gun and flashlight – but where his bulletproof vest should have been, Oliver had made some modifications. Strapped across his chest were not Kevlar and trauma plates, but long cylindrical columns.

Explosives.

Striker counted six on the front alone.

‘Oliver—’ Striker started.

‘Finally, we’re all here.’ Oliver spoke the words softly, weakly. He looked over at Rothschild. ‘The man who murdered my father’ – he looked back at Striker – ’and the man who murdered my sister.’

‘I murdered no one.’

Oliver made no reply. He just sat there, the slick flesh of his face looking like broken-in red leather in the strange tint of the safety lights. Striker deftly scanned the man up and down. Oliver’s right fist was closed tight. In it was a small rectangular clip of some kind.

A detonator.

Oliver caught his stare.

‘It’s a pressure release,’ he explained. ‘Just like the ones I used to disarm in the Green Zone . . . though I gave this one a ten-second delay.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Just enough time to let you think about what you did before it goes off and we’re all bathed in blistering hot steam.’

‘Where are the children?’ Striker asked.

But Oliver only smiled. He opened his arms wide, and the exertion made his arms and shoulders tremble. ‘Go ahead, Detective. Take your shot. All it takes is one single trigger pull – and then we can end this. Redemption for all.’

One Hundred and Forty-Seven

Striker did not react.

Time . . .

He needed to give Felicia time . . .

He stood there in the entrance to the control room and took in all of his surroundings. In the far corner of the room sat an opened crate. Inside it were supplies, most of which appeared to be technological gear and ammunitions. Next to it sat a small red cooler that had a medical emblem on the front. At the right end of the room was the closed steel door:

Maintenance.

Striker studied it and thought of Cody and Shana.

He turned back to Howell and met the man’s stare. ‘Are the children in there?’ When the bomber said nothing, Striker added, ‘They’re not a part of this, they’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Nothing wrong?’ Oliver laughed oddly. ‘What wrong did my father do?’

Striker looked back at the man. ‘Your father did nothing wrong. We both know that. You, on the other hand, have committed murder.’

‘Retribution—’

‘Murder, Oliver. Because what you think happened is all wrong.’ Striker took a small slow step into the room, and Oliver’s fingers tightened on the release pad. ‘I know it all,’ Striker continued. ‘You think the Emergency Response Team betrayed your father. That Koda was the lead, and Rothschild was the shooter. You think Archer was shot in the back and blown up in the process, and you also think that Osaka covered up the shooting.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed at the words, but he said nothing.

Striker continued:

‘You think that Dr Owens falsified her reports to hide the murder and that her cousin, Keisha Williams, was money-laundering the funds. And you believe that everyone is culpable, no matter how small or indirect their role in this mess.’

Still, Oliver said nothing.

‘I also know you derived this belief from inconsistencies in the police and medical reports, along with the audio tapes.’ Striker edged his way a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘That’s why you kidnapped Dr Owens – not to torture her, but to interrogate her. To corroborate what you already believed. And you think you got that from her.’

Oliver’s expression remained unreadable. After a short moment, he nodded slowly. ‘You’re good at your job, Detective.’

‘Better than you. I found the truth.’

A quick burst of anger flashed through Oliver’s eyes. ‘I know the truth.’

‘You know nothing.’ Striker took another step closer to the maintenance door. ‘The fact is, you’re right and you’re wrong.’

Oliver’s expression communicated nothing.

‘Koda did cover up the shooting,’ Striker said. ‘And Owens did falsify the report . . . but that’s as far as it goes. When your father was shot, Oliver, it wasn’t because everyone betrayed him. It was because the entire scene down there was chaos. Rothschild didn’t purposely shoot Archer in the back, it was an accident.’

For the first time, Oliver smiled. And he did so darkly. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Detective?’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘I take you for nothing. I don’t have to – the evidence speaks for itself.’

‘What evidence?’

Striker edged a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘During that call, Rothschild had to reposition. He moved from a south to north position. He had to – because of the downward slope of the river. Otherwise he’d be shooting from a level position, lighting up his men instead of covering them.’

The dark look on Oliver’s face turned from one of anger to cold suspicion, but he remained silent.

‘You’re a military man,’ Striker said. ‘You have a hundred times more experience than I do. Wartime experience. So you tell me: does that make sense to you?’

Oliver let out a long breath, wiped away the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ve seen the radio reports.’

‘I know you have. You got printed-up copies of the entire CAD call. But you didn’t actually pull the tapes, did you? I know you didn’t. Know why? Because I did. And the tapes don’t match the call – just like the medical tapes don’t match the written report.’

‘The CAD call—’

‘CAD calls are typed out by Dispatchers on the fly, Oliver. People miss things, they make mistakes. If you had taken the time to listen to the actual tapes, you would have heard Rothschild repositioning.’

Oliver’s face took on a blank look, then it tightened.

‘Liar,’ he said.

Striker shook his head. ‘No. I’m not. It was a rookie squad, Oliver. A bunch of novices thrown together at a moment’s notice. When Chipotle started shooting, the men just panicked – all of them except your father, which doesn’t surprise me because he was the only one who had seen wartime action. Archer only turned to run when he realized he’d lost the entire squad. And that’s when Rothschild tried to take out Chipotle. The bullet went through the living room window, north side, and exited out the south side through the dining room. It struck your father as he ran for cover. That’s how he got hit in the back, Oliver. That’s how the breach went off.’

‘Liar,’ he said again.

‘It was an accident.’

Oliver’s face tightened. ‘It’s fucking bollocks.’

But Striker only shook his head solemnly. ‘Same goes for Osaka. His investigation was dropped only because he didn’t have enough evidence. Why? Because Koda wrote the police reports and Owens doctored the medical reports. There was no cover-up on his part. He was just overburdened with work and the shooting looked straightforward.’ Striker reached the maintenance door. ‘You murdered an innocent man.’

Oliver’s entire body began to tremble. ‘Lies.’

‘It’s true. Your father’s shooting and the subsequent explosion was nothing more than a horrible accident in a chaotic gun battle. Osaka, Koda, Owens, Williams, the cops back at my house, even your sister’s death . . . it’s all been for nothing. You were wrong.’

‘LIES!’ Oliver roared.

Striker stopped talking and took a long look at the man. The flesh of his face had turned a purplish-red colour now and spit bubbles formed on his lips. Beads of sweat covered his face and neck regions, and his eyes were large and wild and glaring.

‘Where are the children, Oliver?’

His stare was faraway, his voice quiet. ‘It’s not true.’

‘They have no mother. She died just months ago.’

‘. . . not fucking true.’

‘Their father is all they have left.’

‘. . . not true . . .’

‘Oliver,’ Striker said. ‘Oliver.’

But the man was no longer listening. He was zoning out now. Fading. And his posture was sagging, his entire body leaning to the left. Striker focused on the man’s hands. They were trembling, weakening, slowly loosening on the pressure-release plate of the detonator.

‘Oliver,’ Striker said again. ‘OLIVER!’

But it was no use. He was losing him.

One Hundred and Forty-Eight

Oliver heard his name being called, but the words seemed small – so distant that they were not only miles away but in another plane of existence. He was fading, he knew. He could feel it. Slipping away to that faraway place where he and Molly were kids again, where Mother was baking scones and Father was healthy and strong and alive.

‘Oliver! Focus on me, Oliver!’

So hot . . . he was so goddam hot.

And so cold too.

Light. Swelling. Floating.

Recollections hit him. Memories slowly untangling in time:

Father was spinning him round in the air, giving him an airplane ride.

Then Father was leaving. Standing at the car. And he was sobbing, peeking out between the drapes, saying, ‘Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go.’

Then he was off to war.

And Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.

His men were dying all around him – chunks of flesh being punched from their bodies by the AK47 fire.

And the helicopter was dropping down – the loud whup-whup-whup of the blades sounding like angry thunder . . .

Oliver looked up. Blinked. Let out a small laugh.

The memories made sense, the timeline was in order. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, his head felt clear. Like the clouds of confusion had finally dissipated.

He looked up at Striker oddly. ‘Do you believe, Detective?’

The question seemed to surprise the big cop. ‘Believe? You mean, in God?’

‘In God. In flesh and spirit.’

‘I believe there’s something there, yes.’

Oliver smiled sadly. ‘How fortunate for you. The feeling must be nice.’ When Striker offered no other words, Oliver continued. ‘You know what I believe in, Detective? I believe in Semtex. I believe in fuse kits. And copper jacket rounds.’

‘Oliver—’

‘I believe in dust and bones.’

‘There’s still a way out of this, Oliver. A way to make things right.’

But Oliver shook his head. ‘You’re a good man, Detective. I can see that now. I’m glad I never killed you . . . But you’re wrong about everything.’

‘Oliver—’

‘You’re wrong.’