Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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The
Survivor
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Sean Slater, 2011
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Sean Slater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78
of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-85720-038-9
Library Hardback ISBN 978-0-85720-187-4
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-039-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD
The Survivor is dedicated to:
My wife, Lani, who has given me two wonderful children and always makes our house a happy home,
And to my mother, Jo-Ann Oakley, who puts everyone else first and is always there with her endless love and support.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks go to:
My partner, Constable Kirk ‘O.M.T.’ Longstaffe, for being the perfect soundboard and first reader (and safeguard).
Constable Warren ‘The code word is “hot dog”’ Tutkaluke, for his expertise in ammunition types and operations.
And to Sgt Steve ‘the Silver Fox’ Thacker, for his expertise in department structure and investigative techniques.
Any mistakes made from their assistance are mine alone to bear.
I would also like to acknowledge the following people, who have long supported (or in some way suffered because of) my writing career:
Luke and Riley, for sitting there beside their father so many times, writing their own little stories and reading their own little books. You are always so good and you make me so proud.
Larry ‘Poppa’ Oakley, who has been there for everyone since day one.
Bill and Jamie.
Cindy – I’m sorry about the typewriter . . . (No, I’m not).
My father (I miss you) and Mary (I just saw you), and Adamo and Nick.
Lydia and Gail and Yen Yen.
Dean and Lori Methorst, who offered support and an Oscar-winning show of interest throughout the early years.
Harry Methorst, who suffered through every one of my first drafts.
Rita Methorst, for her support (and for putting up with Harry ;o).
Dietrich Martins, who let me drag him to every local bookstore Vancouver owns.
Helga, Joe, Ian and Paula, who make up the best critique group in the world.
Jason ‘a green flash of light’ Gallant.
Joe and Margot Cummings, with whom Lani and I share memories of story and Stella.
Lisa and Phil ‘Watch out for those Tic Tacs’ Webb.
Gramps and Grandma, who helped me pay for some of those writing courses.
Dean and Kris, who took off the blinders and showed me what voice was.
Taffy Cannon for her encouraging words during a difficult time.
My college professor Chris Rideout, who in one semester showed me what passion for story truly is.
Daniel Kalla, John Fuller and Ros Guggi, for setting up the wonderful time and experience I gained during the Sunday Serial Thriller(s) in The Province newspaper.
Kasia Behnke, Rosanna Bellingham, Madeleine Buston and Zoe King, who make up the wonderful staff at Darley Anderson Agency.
My talented editor at Simon & Schuster UK, Libby Yevtushenko, and my copy editor, Joan Deitch, who helped turn this good story into a great book.
Suzanne Baboneau at Simon & Schuster UK for taking a chance on me.
And last – and definitely not least – my superb agent, Camilla Bolton, whose tireless work helped perfect this novel, and who was the first person to see promise in my career as a novelist.
I thank you all.
If there’s anyone I have overlooked, please forgive me. It is a crazy time.
Sincerely,
Sean
The
Survivor
Wednesday
One
Dying is easy; living is the hard part.
Homicide Detective Jacob Striker knew this too well. Although ‘surviving’ seemed a better word than ‘living’. How could it not? The past two years had been cruel. His wife was dead. His daughter was an emotional void. And now, just an hour into his first shift back from a six-month stress leave, the day was turning to shit. God, it was barely midmorning, just ten minutes to nine, and already Principal Myers had called about his daughter. The last thing Striker wanted to do was pull himself and his partner, Felicia Santos, from the road, but Principal Myers had been adamant. Striker had no idea what Courtney had done this time. Or what punishments her actions would merit.
But whatever the outcome, it wasn’t going to be good.
Striker steeled himself for more bad news as he marched down the mahogany-walled corridor to Caroline’s office – yes, they were on a first-name basis now, he and Principal Myers – passing under the fighting gold gryphons of the St Patrick’s High School banners.
All around him roamed ghosts and goblins and Jokers and Batmen – a sea of eerie spooks getting ready for the festivities. Most of the students were taking the opportunity to dress up for the occasion, though a few still wore their school uniforms. The kids, ranging from thirteen to seventeen, were loud and boisterous. Their overlapping conversations mutated into one loud din in the high-ceilinged antechamber of the walkway.
Excitement was in the air. Striker could feel it.
Halloween was coming.
He stopped and looked back at his partner, who followed a few steps behind. Despite his annoyance at being summoned here again, he tried to keep things light.
‘That guy over there with the hockey mask,’ he said. ‘Looks a lot like your last boyfriend.’
Felicia brushed back a few wayward strands of her long brown hair, and smirked. ‘Technically, you were my last boyfriend.’
‘Like I said, good-lookin’ dude.’
Felicia let out a soft laugh, and Striker felt an uncomfortable moment envelop them. It had been this way since their breakup a few months back. He looked away from her stare and led her on through the mob of Grade Eight to Twelve students.
Principal Myers was waiting in her office. Her chic, cream-coloured business suit looked out of place with her Sally Jessy Raphael, Coke-bottle glasses that were barely a shade redder than her short curly hair. She held a manila file in her hands, a thick one – Courtney’s student file, no doubt – and upon seeing Striker, she offered a forced smile.
He cleared his throat. ‘I heard you needed tickets to the Policeman’s Ball,’ he joked, and when she didn’t laugh, he dropped the act. ‘Oh Christ, Caroline, what’s she done this time?’
‘What do you think she’s done?’ the Principal responded. ‘She skipped out. Again. Fifth time this month.’
Striker felt his jaw tighten. ‘Any ideas where she went? Or who she was with?’
Before the woman could respond, a series of loud bangs came from somewhere down the hall, near the school’s assembly hall or cafeteria. Principal Meyers stiffened at the sound like she’d been slapped.
‘Halloween is two days away,’ she said, ‘and I can’t wait till it’s over. All day long, the firecrackers. They never stop.’
As she finished speaking, another series of explosions rocked the room. This time, the sounds made Striker stop cold. The explosions were sharp – like the crack of a bullwhip.
Ka-POW—Ka-POW.
Ka-POW—Ka-POW—Ka-POW.
He spun around and found Felicia in the doorway. One look at her hard expression and he knew he’d heard it right.
Not firecrackers.
Gunfire.
Something heavy and automatic.
Two
‘Jesus Christ, we got an Active Shooter.’ Striker turned to Principal Myers. ‘Call it in, now!’
But she just stood there with a look of disbelief on her face. Striker snatched up the phone, dialled 911 and thrust the receiver into her hand.
‘Tell them we got a shooter in the school!’
He reached into his shoulder-holster, left side, and found the grip of his gun. Sig Sauer, forty cal. Twelve rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber. He looked at Felicia, saw that she had already drawn her gun, and gave her the nod.
‘On me,’ he said.
‘Just go.’
With his partner at his side, Striker aimed his gun to the low ready and left the cover of the office. He swung into the hall. Kept close to the wall. Turned right at the first corner. Stared down the long corridor.
For the briefest of moments, there was only silence. No gunfire. No explosions. No screaming. Just nothing. And everything felt oddly surreal. Previous nightmare incidents flooded him – the Active Shooter situations everyone had seen on their TV screens a million times:
Dunblane.
Virginia Tech.
Columbine.
But St Patrick’s High?
Somehow it didn’t ring true for this peaceful community. He wondered if he’d heard the noise wrong. After all, it was his first day back to work in six months. Maybe he was out of sync. A little rusty. Maybe—
The explosion echoed through the hall, killing Striker’s doubts. The blasts were deep-based, heavy enough to feel in his bones. They resonated with power. Combat shotgun. Every cop’s worst nightmare in a close-quarters gun battle.
And it sounded close.
Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Shoot on sight.’
‘Take left, I got right,’ was all she said.
So Striker took left, and together, the two of them swept down the hallway, clearing each room as they went. They’d barely turned the first corner when they heard the screams – high-pitched, frantic wails.
Just ahead. On the left.
The cafeteria.
Striker checked his grip on the Sig and took aim on the double doors. They were wooden, painted in a cheap latex blue, and had inset wired-windows. As if on cue, the doors swung open and teenage kids came running out. Streams of them. Dressed as Iron Men and Jack Sparrows and cheerleaders and princesses. They were screaming. Crying. Hysterical. One girl, a small blonde all of fifteen, stumbled out. Her white school shirt was splattered with blood and she had peed down her legs. She wobbled towards them on clumsy feet, stopped, and found Striker’s eyes.
‘They’re shooting. They’re killing everyone . . .’
Her left knee buckled and she collapsed, landing face down on the beige tiles of the hallway floor. Striker looked down at her twitching body, saw the red meaty exit wounds on her back.
Hydra-Shok rounds.
‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ Felicia gasped.
She went for the girl, but came to an abrupt halt when the firing started again. Striker yanked her back. Bullets exploded through the steel-wired glass of the cafeteria doors, sending glass and steel fragments everywhere.
‘Down, stay down!’ Striker ordered.
A second later, when the shooting lulled, he gripped Felicia’s shoulder, then pointed to the door on the far side. She nodded her understanding, and the two of them took sides. Once set, Striker readied his gun, eased open the nearest door and scanned inside the cafeteria for the gunman. To his horror, he didn’t find one.
He found three.
Three
Gunsmoke owned the cafeteria. It floated through the air in thin waves. The greyness brought with it the stink of burned gunpowder. And urine, and blood, and shit.
The smell of fear.
Striker blocked it all out. With beads of sweat rolling under his collar, he scanned the rest of the cafeteria for any other immediate threats, found none, then focused on the ones he had already located.
Three gunmen. Thin builds, average height. Instinct told him they were males, but it was impossible to tell. They were all dressed alike. Black baggy cargo pants. Black hoodies. And hockey masks – one white, one black, one red.
A scene from a real-life nightmare.
The sighting damn near froze Striker. He’d expected to find one gunman, two at the most. But definitely not three. He scanned the corners of the room. Teenage kids were trapped everywhere. Balled up on the floor. Huddled beneath tables. Sprawled out behind the serving counters. Many of them were already dead.
Or dying.
One girl, dressed as a pixie, lay face down on the floor, a stone’s throw from the entrance doors. Redness surrounded her, spilled all over the beige floor tiles. At first glance, Striker was shaken. The girl looked a lot like Courtney – long, straight, auburn hair; creamy skin; lean build – and he’d almost lost control, forgotten his training and run from cover to her side. But then a horrible relief spilled through him; his daughter wasn’t in school today.
This girl was someone else’s daughter.
Numbness overtook him. The girl was dead – she had to be, with that much blood lost. But then she shifted. Lifted her head. Looked at him through empty, milky eyes.
‘Help me,’ she got out.
She was directly in the gunmen’s path.
Striker felt his stomach rise against him, fought it down. Every second wasted meant another dead child. He forced his eyes away from the girl and found the closest of the three gunmen – the one with the black hockey mask. He had another kid pinned in the corner of the room, behind the serving line entrance. He was pointing a machine gun at the boy. Yelling things Striker couldn’t make out. Then suddenly, he stopped yelling, angled his head towards Striker and raised the machine gun.
‘Down, down, down!’ Striker yelled to Felicia. ‘He’s got an AK!’ He ducked low and right, taking cover behind the nearest wall, and a series of explosions echoed like cannon-fire in the small room. Striker didn’t hesitate. He waited for the lull in gunfire, peered around the cafeteria doors, located Black Mask—
And blasted off three shots.
The black hockey mask exploded inwards and the gunman’s head snapped back. A spray of hair and bone and blood and brain painted the wall behind him. The machine gun flew from his fingertips, spun through the air and landed somewhere behind the serving counter. By the time his lifeless body hit the ground, Striker was already aiming his Sig at the second gunman. At White Mask.
But the gunfire had alerted the second shooter.
White Mask saw Striker. Raised his own pistol. Opened fire. And the gun went off with a heavy sound.
The wall behind them cracked apart, and white-painted brick exploded through the air, along with bits of dust and plaster fragments.
‘Shit, he’s got a forty-five!’ Felicia yelled from behind the cover of the doors.
Striker raced forward. He dropped low and left, slamming into the wall and taking shelter behind the nearest row of lockers. It was poor cover, and would never stop a forty-five. White Mask kept firing. The first round buried itself in the thick wood of the cafeteria door behind Striker; the second round penetrated the thin steel of the lockers and let out a shrieking metallic clatter as it ricocheted somewhere next to him.
‘Down, down, get DOWN!’ he heard Felicia yell, and suddenly, she was right there beside him, covering him, firing madly.
He dropped to one knee. Took aim on White Mask for the second time.
Opened fire.
His first three shots missed their target, flew somewhere high and wide, but the last round hit centre mass. Right between the pecs, base of the throat. And White Mask let out a strange, agonised shriek. The pistol locked tight in his spasming fingers, his arms dropped to both sides, and his body rolled forwards and plopped on the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Two down,’ Striker said.
From the far end of the cafeteria, Red Mask let out an angry cry and levelled his shotgun at them. Striker grabbed hold of Felicia and dived right, pulling her into the kitchen area. The moment they hit the ground, a deafening boom filled the air.
‘You get hit?’ he asked Felicia. But she was already rolling left, reloading.
Striker let her go, then mirrored her. He rolled right, peered out the kitchen doorway into the cafeteria, and caught sight of Red Mask. The gunman was marching towards them. Closing in. Just a hundred feet away.
Time enough for an emergency reload.
Striker hit the mag release, ripped out the mag, and was in the process of reloading when he registered movement. He looked up and watched the gunmen do something that took his breath away.
Reloading, Red Mask sprinted up to the body of White Mask. He stood above him, aimed the single-barrelled shotgun downward, and blasted two rounds through the shooter’s face. He then racked the shotgun and pumped one more round through each of White Mask’s hands.
‘What the fuck?’ Striker heard Felicia say.
Before he could respond, Red Mask raised the shotgun and blasted off another round at them. Striker swung back into the kitchen, taking cover as the fluorescent lights above him shattered. Dust and smoke filled the air. He tasted blood. Kids were screaming.
He peered out again and located Red Mask – the gunman was fleeing, escaping through the exit doors at the far end of the cafeteria.
‘He’s running, he’s running!’ Striker yelled. ‘Cover me!’
He jumped up and sprinted past the two dead gunmen, in between the huddles of terrified students, across the smears of fresh blood that now painted the floor. He raced up to the rear window and scanned the area beyond.
Outside was the front of the school. In the parking lot, he saw Red Mask hop into a small green car. A mid-90’s Honda Civic, one of the many that dotted the parking lot. The engine started, and the vehicle accelerated down the driveway.
‘He’s mobile,’ Striker said.
He raced out into the parking lot with Felicia fast in tow. Already the Civic was pulling onto the main road and turning north. Striker ran into the middle of the driveway. He took aim and opened fire, and the rear window of the Civic shattered. The car swerved all over the road, almost losing control and skidding into one of the storm ditches that flanked Pine Street, then it managed to navigate the slide and regain control.
It straightened out and accelerated north.
Striker ran after it, firing until he could no longer make out the licence-plate. Firing until the vehicle grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared from view behind the tall sweeping hemlocks and firs of the nature reserve. Firing until his magazine had run dry and all he heard was the click-click-click of a goddam empty magazine clip.
And then, as quickly as the nightmare had started, it was over.
Only a horrible silence filled the air.
Without thinking, Striker automatically ejected the spent mag, let it fall to the wet asphalt of the roadway, and reloaded. A sheen of sweat masked his fair skin, and steam rose from his overheated body in the misty October air.
Away, Striker thought. Jesus Christ, he got away.
The gunman wanted to live – a highly unusual trait for an Active Shooter on a killing spree. To Jacob Striker, a ten-year Homicide Detective, that one action scared him more than anything else. It confirmed his greatest fear.
This nightmare had only begun.
Four
Damp wind blustered through the bullet-smashed windows of the Honda Civic, its wails as loud as those of the murdered schoolkids. Red Mask drove on, his attention focused on the road ahead. Blood saturated the black cotton of his kangaroo jacket; it bled from the open wound in his left shoulder and ran down his arm, across the black leather glove. He angled his body, trying to leave no blood on the seat.
When he reached the south lane of Ninth Avenue, he found what he was searching for – a narrow alley crammed with cars and garbage cans. The backyards lining it were padded with green sweeping trees.
Red Mask cranked the wheel hard, his left shoulder tearing, and felt the Civic shudder when its rear-end collided with a row of garbage bins. Despite the coldness of late fall, perspiration dampened his brow. Not far away, sirens wailed.
They would be here.
Soon.
Red Mask drove on down the lane. Halfway along it, he found a wider stretch of road that sat beneath the high overhang of a willow tree. He glanced at the tree. Backed by an ice-blue sky, the bark looked black.
The tree was dying.
Red Mask killed the thought. He forced his eyes away from the horrible tree, and backed the Honda up until the rear bumper banged into the tree trunk. His mind felt hot, overcooked, and a low hum buzzed in his ears – the leftover echoes of the shotgun blasts. Even his heartbeat sounded too loud, pulsing through his temples like a hammer on steel. He tried to think, but a mechanical grinding noise tore him from his thoughts.
At the next yard, a garage door was rising.
With his right hand, Red Mask snatched his Glock off the passenger seat. Pistol ready, he fought open the driver’s door and rolled awkwardly out of the Civic. He slipped in behind the willow tree.
Watched.
Waited.
An engine started inside the garage, then a black Lexus backed out. An expensive model. Golden chrome, shaded rear windows, glistening black paint. The driver, a small old man, seemed oblivious of Red Mask’s presence. He was fidgeting with his mirrors as he reversed.
Red Mask stepped into the centre of the road, shouting, ‘Do not move!’
The old man looked up. Confusion filled his eyes.
Red Mask gave him no chance to think; he moved forward and pointed the pistol. In response, the old man raised his hands, slowly, cautiously, keeping his trembling palms facing forward. The bright gold of his wristwatch shimmered against his tanned and wrinkly skin.
‘Now just be easy there, son—’
‘Remove yourself from vehicle!’
The old man bit his lip, then the sternness in his face crumpled away and he did as ordered. Once outside the Lexus, in the middle of the lane, the smallness of his frame became apparent. Dressed in a dark green tailored suit, his body was thin and frail. His breath came in fast and shallow gasps.
‘Now just . . . just be calm there, son, don’t go—’
‘Discussion is not permitted.’ Red Mask ordered him into the Honda Civic, then made him park the car inside the garage. Once done, Red Mask flicked the gun. ‘Turn off engine.’
The old man obeyed.
‘Give me keys.’
The old man did as ordered, with shaky hands, and Red Mask grabbed the keys. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket – Player’s Filter Lights – and leaned into the car, tucking them between the seat and console. Then he stepped back and raised his pistol.
The old man gave him a pleading look, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded very soft and very far away.
‘I’ve got money, son, I’ve got lots and lots of money . . .’
Red Mask shot him once in the face.
‘Not about money,’ he said.
