Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Forty-Seven

A half hour later, Striker and Felicia parked out front of the Tech Facility on Tenth Avenue. The grimy old building looked about ready to crumble. It was a completely unearthquake-proof structure in a city full of treacherous faultlines. Striker climbed out of the cruiser and looked up at one of the security cameras that panned down on him.

He wondered if anyone was monitoring it.

Felicia slammed her door. She bundled up her jacket, then turned her pretty, tired eyes towards Striker. ‘Any guesses what Ich found?’

‘Something’s weird. I could hear it in his voice.’

He climbed the front stairs, used his swipe card to gain access, then entered the foyer and flashed his badge to the security guard inside the safety booth. The door leading inside the main building clicked open. Striker walked through it with Felicia in tow.

The Tech Facility was, in essence, the Department’s catchall. It housed everything from Forensic Audio and Video to the headquarters of Vice, Drugs, and the Emergency Response Teams. Each of these divisions had long been pleading for better resources and a home of their own, which included a modern facility, but in a time of high taxes and budget cutbacks and a declining economy, they were forced to make do with what they had.

And it wasn’t much.

Striker walked down the faded brown carpet that still smelled of cigarette smoke, even though the smoking bylaw had been in effect for more than ten years. The walls were no better. The off-white was now beige. Most of the doors used old-fashioned keys, not coded pass cards. And everything else had a broken-down feel to it. Yet oddly enough, it worked.

Old school at its finest.

They turned the corner and came flush with the door to Forensic Audio, also known as The Matrix to all those who worked inside, which was essentially Ichabod and his lackey clone – a guy named Bernard whom no one had ever seen. Striker didn’t bother to knock. He swung open the door and stepped inside.

The room was tiny, barely twelve feet long by ten feet wide. It was further cramped by the tall support beam that occupied the centre of the room. Taped on the pillar was a picture of a soldier drinking from a green metal mug, and a quotation reading: Have a Nice Cup of Shut the Fuck Up and Wait Over There, Asshole!

Flanking the pillar on both sides was an array of ramshackle shelves. Each one was cluttered with micro-machines that constantly beeped and blinked. One made loud whirring sounds like it was going to explode at any second.

‘That’s a Personal Video Recorder,’ Striker said.

Felicia grinned. ‘Like you would know.’

‘What? No faith in my computer skills?’

‘You wouldn’t know a hot spot from a g-spot.’

‘I found yours a few times.’

‘That’s still a matter of opinion.’

‘Ouch.’

Felicia smirked, and Striker knew she’d bested him. He offered her a weak grin. He closed the door behind them, more in an effort to make some extra room than for privacy. Then heard shuffling.

As if on cue, Ich stuck his head out from behind the pillar. His gaunt face was tight around the eyes, yet slack everywhere else. His posture seemed to perpetually sag. He eyed them both with expectation, and the fatigue in his eyes was replaced by excitement.

‘Finally, Christ, you’re here.’

‘We came right away,’ Felicia said.

Striker stepped around a pile of Blu-ray discs sitting on the ground and looked at Ich’s desk. It was cluttered with computer parts – flash drives, discs, wires and a collection of other things Striker had never seen before. Next to them were six cans of Monster energy drinks, all of them opened.

‘Jesus Christ, Ich, you drink all that?’

‘Had to. Been up all night.’

Striker nodded. ‘We know and we appreciate it. Now what you get us?’

Ich waved them over to his work station. He reached up to the top shelf where a generic black box sat and hit the power button. After the green activity light flashed, Ich turned up the speaker volume, then swivelled the nearest monitor to face Striker and Felicia.

‘Anything good on the tape?’ Striker asked.

Ich shrugged. ‘It just finished transcoding when I called. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the whole segment myself yet, just the first ten seconds or so – but that was enough.’

‘Enough for what?’

Ich said nothing. He just hit Play.

Immediately the blue screen flashed and was replaced with the grainy, black-and-white pixelated footage Striker had seen back at the school. But now there was sound. Static-filled clatter. Gunshots. The shrill cries of panicking kids. More than before, it took Striker back to the moment, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest; the muscles of his hands twitched like they wanted to reach for his gun.

He glanced over at Felicia, and saw the machine-like calmness of her features. Her lack of an emotional response irritated him. He looked back at the screen just in time to see the boy dressed as the Joker dive underneath the cafeteria table. The two gunmen – White Mask and Red Mask – looked at one another, and for the first time, Striker heard them speak. It was static-filled, intermittent, and garbled.

He touched Ich on the shoulder. ‘Scroll it back.’

Ich did as instructed, and Striker listened again.

‘It’s still garbled – can you clean it up a bit?’

Felicia stepped forward, seized the volume knob and turned it up. ‘Not garbled, Jacob – another language.’

Ich grabbed Felicia’s hand. Removed it from his controls. Then raised a finger in an admonishing gesture. ‘No touching. This is all very sensitive equipment. Hold on a second and I’ll try to diminish the background noise.’

Felicia gave him an annoyed look, but held her tongue.

Striker was thankful for it. He watched Ich bring up some software audio controls, something that looked like a row of amplifier settings. He began fine-tuning the sounds. After thirty seconds, Ich hit Play again, and the gunmen’s voices became clearer. Each one of them distinct.

Felicia listened intently. ‘Chinese?’

Striker shook his head. ‘Technically, there is no Chinese – it would be either Cantonese or Mandarin. But the answer to that is still a resounding no.’

‘A resounding no?’ Felicia said, the irritation in her voice plain.

Striker never looked away from the screen. ‘Listen to the sounds; the inflections. It’s not tonal. So it’s something else – something different.’

Felicia tapped Ich on the back. ‘Who around here can speak Asian languages?’

He looked back through fatigued eyes. ‘We got Truong in Vice. And Iwata in Drugs. They’re probably your best bets. Second floor.’

‘I’ll see if I can find one of them.’

She left, and Striker moved closer to the screen as the feed progressed. He watched more analytically this time as the gunmen dragged the boy dressed as the Joker out from under the table, then yanked him to his feet.

‘Bah ma loh?’ they asked, several times. ‘Bah ma loh! . . . Bah ma loh, Chantelle O’Riley?’

The boy finally pointed to the far corner of the room, where the girl in the pleated school skirt lay huddled. And even though Striker knew it was coming, the moment made him feel ill. He studied the scene as the gunmen marched across the room, an air of arrogance in their stances that was overpowered only by Chantelle O’Riley’s terror.

Striker knew the next part as well. Red Mask would pull the Glock from his waistband, then shoot her twice in the chest and once in the face. Her death was coming, yet again, and he wanted to look away. To close his eyes. To shut his ears.

But he would not.

Instead he prepared himself to watch and hear her death. And he promised himself he would recall this moment with total clarity, should he feel even a trace of pity or compassion when he caught the monster responsible.

But he was completely unprepared for what he heard next.

The gunman – Red Mask – pointed his firearm into Chantelle O’Riley’s face, and just before pulling the trigger, he asked her three times: ‘Bah ma loh? Bah ma loh? Bah ma loh!’

The girl opened her mouth, stuttered, ‘I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about.’

Red Mask moved closer, and this time he spoke in heavily-accented English. ‘Where is she?’ he said very slowly. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Forty-Eight

Red Mask felt sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades as he lurked amidst the maple trees of 2301 Trafalgar Street – the Kwan house. It was not a part of the original plan, but here he was nonetheless, trying to manifest order out of chaos. Again.

A light was on inside the living room. He had been watching it for ten minutes. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything. But so far nothing came.

He started for the backyard, then stopped hard when a flicker of movement caught his eye. Inside, a tall woman turned on a television set. She looked part-Asian. Late thirties. Slender in face and toned in body.

Red Mask recognised her. It was Patricia Kwan. Mother of Riku Aiyana.

With his shoulder aching like a bad tooth, he drew his pistol from his waistband and rounded the house. Out back, he cut between a pair of plum trees that flanked the deck, then hiked up the stairs. The porch was old. It screamed of his coming. When he made it to the back door, it was locked. Through the pane he could see that the news was on. Using the noise as cover, he broke the window with the butt of his Glock, then reached through the opening and unlocked the deadbolt.

The door swung open and Red Mask stepped into the kitchen area. He closed the door. Heard the click. Locked the deadbolt.

There would be no escape for those inside.

The kitchen light was off. From the darkness, he spotted Patricia Kwan in the living room. She was watching the TV and stretching. The black spandex she wore clung hungrily to her body; she was more muscular than he had thought.

As Red Mask moved nearer, the broken glass crunched beneath his runners. For a moment, the woman remained oblivious. Then her eyes caught his reflection and she gasped. Spun about. Screamed and raised her arms—

And Red Mask slammed the butt of his pistol across her face.

Patricia Kwan dropped awkwardly to the ground, colliding with the bureau. She turned over, her eyes unfocused with shock, her face smeared with blood. On the hardwood were three of her teeth. She fought to speak.

‘What – please – what do you want from me?’

‘Where is daughter?’

‘What?’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Patricia Kwan’s eyes widened, her face paled, and she scrambled backwards.

Red Mask walked after her, controlling her with his presence. Then the room suddenly tilted. A hotness flooded him, and his head was floating, lifting right off his neck.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘You must stop. Escape is forbidden.’

Patricia Kwan dove for the table, and Red Mask finally understood her intentions. She was not trying to escape, she was going for the phone. He reached out to grab her, but was too late; she smacked the emergency dial.

The call went through.

He let out a scream and ripped the phone from the wall.

‘It dialled,’ she said. ‘I got it through.’

He moved closer. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

The woman reared, and Red Mask reached for her. His feet bumped into something and he toppled forward. When the gun went off – the thunderous blast of a 40 cal filling the room – he was barely aware that he had shot her.

The room echoed with the explosion.

And there was screaming. She was screaming.

He climbed to his feet. He stepped forward, grabbed Patricia Kwan’s long black ponytail and dragged her into a seated position.

‘Please . . .’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan? Tell me where daughter is and she will not suffer; refuse this information and she will have much pain.’

Patricia Kwan started to cry. ‘Please, oh God, please, I’ll do anything—’

‘Discussion is not permitted.’

He used his arm to wipe the sweat from his eyes, felt the room moving on him again. The infection was bad. Time was running out. He grabbed Patricia’s right hand, slammed it hard on the living room table and splayed her fingers. Then he placed the barrel of the gun in the centre of her palm, grinding the steel muzzle into her flesh. He met her eyes.

‘I ask you one time now, Patricia Kwan.’

‘No – please!’

‘Where – is – Riku – Kwan?’

Forty-Nine

Striker felt an icy coldness hit his heart. It had been over twenty-four hours since Red Mask had escaped, and all that time this Kwan girl had been one of his intended targets. Experience told Striker he was already too late, but he had never been a man to give up on hope.

‘The Kwan house,’ Striker said to Ich. ‘Call it in now – tell them to send everything they got.’

Striker then ran for the exit, reached the cruiser, started it over. A quick computer search told him that the Kwan house was in Kitsilano, and that wasn’t overly far away from the Tech Building.

He floored it.

Traffic was bad, and Striker got caught dead smack in the middle of rush hour. Everywhere he looked there were red tail-lights. He turned on the lights and siren, and made good use of the air horn at every intersection.

As Kitsilano drew closer, the traffic thinned and Striker turned off the emergency equipment for fear of alerting the gunman. He parked the cruiser in the nearest bus lane on Trafalgar. People at the stop gaped as he jumped out and raced north.

Three blocks later, he saw something that made him pause.

Parked on the roadside, three houses down from the Kwan residence, was a blue Toyota Camry. The manufacturer and model of the car did not warrant his attention so much as did the condition of the driver’s side door. The lock had been punched, and when Striker drew closer, he saw wires hanging from the ignition. There were dark stains on the beige interior.

Blood.

Striker stood back from the vehicle and analysed his surroundings. The Kwan house was just three lots down. He studied it – a one-storey Kitsilano special, plastered in dark green that matched the heavy wall of bushes flanking the yard. Everything was still and quiet, and it gave Striker a bad feeling. He drew his pistol and headed for the lot. As he was nearing, a voice startled him.

‘You here about the noise?’ a woman asked.

He looked over and saw an old lady, dressed in nothing but an orange cotton robe and oversized fluffy slippers. In her hands was a steaming cup, and at her feet was an old Basset Hound.

‘What noise?’

She jerked her head towards the Kwan house. ‘I dunno, a loud one, that’s for sure. Sounded like something damn well exploded in there. Took you guys long enough, I called it in over five minutes ago.’

‘Get inside,’ was all Striker said.

He crouched low, sprinted down the sidewalk that flanked the frontyard bushes, and raced up the front porch steps. At the door, he stopped. He leaned around the porch railing and tried to peer through the bay window, but the curtain was drawn. The flickering glimmer of a television set caught his eye, and seconds later, a harsh sound startled him – feminine, desperate, pained. It was followed by a man’s voice, neutral in tone, but direct and authoritative.

In control.

‘Where is she?’ the man asked. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Striker stepped back from the front door, assessed the structure. It was made of oak, solid as hell, and locked by a steel deadbolt. If he attempted to kick it in, he’d have to do it with one strike; otherwise, the element of surprise would be lost and he’d be an easy target when he broke through.

No time. There was no time.

No other option.

He readied his gun and leaped forward, kicking out his right leg and driving the heel of his boot onto the inner portion of the deadbolt. The steel was strong; the lock remained secure. But the frame busted inwards with a loud wooden snap!

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker yelled.

He used his momentum to push forward through the opening, getting out of the fatal funnel as quickly as possible. He collided heavily with the wall, balanced himself, and got his first true look at the shooter.

Red Mask was standing to Striker’s right. In the living room.

Without the mask on.

The sight was almost startling. He was an Asian male, with narrow hard eyes and a face much older than Striker had expected. Definitely not a student from St Patrick’s High. Instantly Striker knew he had been right.

He was dealing with a trained killer.

The expression Red Mask wore was not one of surprise or fear or even anger, but one of acceptance. His body was in a semi-crouched position, ready to bound. In his hand, he held a glistening black pistol. It blended in with the darkness of his kangaroo jacket.

‘Red Mask,’ Striker said, the words falling unexpectedly from his lips. He raised his Sig to open fire, but before he could get a shot off, the gunman spun away from the slumped woman and leaped into the adjoining dining room.

He was quick, Striker thought. So goddam quick.

Before Striker could reposition, shots rang out. Loud, rapid-fire: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! Bullets rained through the walls, spraying chunks of wallpaper and gypsum into the air.

The years of training took over; Striker dropped low and spun left. More gunfire thundered through the room and the front-room window cracked. One of the rounds tore through the mirror to his left, shattering it into hundreds of shiny splinters. Another bullet hit the metal frame of the door and let out a sharp ziiiing as it ricocheted somewhere down the hall. Others punched into the floorboards, the loud thunk-thunk-thunk of the breaking oak filling the air.

Striker remained low, weathered the storm.

In the living room, the woman was clambering to her feet. ‘Help! Someone help me!’

‘Down!’ he yelled to her. ‘Down! Stay down!’

But she wasn’t listening. She climbed to her feet, turned around as if in a daze, and Striker saw the patches of red that splattered her neck and arm. She’d been hit. And by the looks of it, she was bleeding out bad. She spun around as if she didn’t know where she was, ran left, bumped into the ottoman and toppled forward.

‘Stay DOWN!’ Striker yelled again. He kept a low stance, edged forward and peered into the room.

There was no sign of Red Mask.

The gunman had vanished.

Striker inched out further, until he could see around the bend of the wall, into the dining room. Through the back window, he caught a glimpse of the gunman. Red Mask was outside, running down the back porch steps.

Escaping again.

Striker raced across the room, up to the window, and spotted the man running between a giant pair of maple trees at the far end of the lot. He took quick aim and opened fire, shooting right through the living room window until his mag ran out of bullets.

Through the cracks of glass, Striker could see he had failed. Red Mask had already reached the lane.

Striker reloaded while running through the kitchen. The door to the backyard was open and rocking from the incoming wind. He ran up to it and scanned the narrow trail where the gunman had fled towards the lane.

It was empty.

Striker swore. The gun felt heavy in his hand, and hot. He kept it aimed ahead, his finger alongside the trigger as he made his way down the back porch steps, onto the wet grass of the lawn. He circled the garage, cutting past the small vegetable garden. By the time he reached the lane, the weak wail of faraway police sirens filled the night. Their long undulating cries were heaven to his ears.

Help was near.

Thoughts of Patricia Kwan flooded Striker’s mind, the splatters of blood that painted her arms and chest and neck. Her clothes had been damn near saturated with blood. An arterial bleed, for sure, the most serious kind. He tried to push the thought from his mind and focus on the lane, on all possible escape routes Red Mask might have taken. But three steps later, the image of Patricia Kwan returned to him.

Only he could save her.

He took another hard look around the alley, saw dozens of places the gunman could have fled, and knew he was out of options. A woman’s life was at stake. He turned around and raced back inside the house. Hopefully, the coming patrol units would set up containment, get a dog track, and find Red Mask.

Before he killed again.

Fifty

By the time Courtney had gotten over the shock of what had happened and come to terms with the fact that some of her friends had been killed, her head was full of depressing thoughts and she was fighting to get herself back into that wonderful state of denial – the same one she had made use of when Mom had died. She made the decision to never think about the shootings again, if it were possible. And to divert her mind, she did what she always did.

She looked through all of Bobby Ryan’s pics.

And the more she looked at pictures of him, the more she managed to drown out the depression that was creeping in. Soon it was gone altogether – or at least suppressed to the point where she could ignore it – and a low-level excitement ran all through her body as she imagined herself and Bobby together. A nervous dread filled her, too, as she flicked from photo to photo to see if he was cuddling or kissing any other girls.

When she saw that he wasn’t, she felt better, but her anxiety stayed.

She right-clicked on a few of her Bobby favourites, then saved them to the folder on her desktop. When done, she opened up the one she loved most – the one with him smiling and holding a Starbucks cup – and made it her screensaver.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she let go of him. She clicked off of the Friends tab and returned to her Home tab. She needed to add her own personal blog for the day, but all she could come up with was a big fat zero. She slumped in her chair, looked at her tagline, and felt dismayed. So far, all it read was:

The Court is . . .

She finally finished it honestly with:

Missing Mom.

But then she thought it might make her look sappy – God, what if Bobby looked at it, or even worse, that bitch from English class, Mandy? She’d laugh at her, tell all their friends. The thought was agonising, so Courtney quickly deleted the words, then changed them to:

Tired of living here with Dad.

She looked at it. Grinned. That definitely sounded better. Tougher. More angsty. A twinge of guilt fluttered in the corner of her heart, but she drowned it out, thinking that Dad wasn’t even on Facebook, so what would he know? Besides, all he cared about was work and investigations and that goddam Felicia Santos.

But Felicia . . .

She would be on Facebook. No doubt about it. She was into all the cool things. Which was kind of weird, really.

Courtney typed her name in the search bar and found her in seconds.

Felicia wasn’t added as a Friend yet – not that she ever would be – so all Courtney got was her main picture. But that was enough. There she was, Felicia Santos, staring back with her big pretty eyes and long beautiful brown hair brushed over her shoulders. In some ways she reminded Courtney of Raine. So confident. So alluring. And as much as Courtney hated to admit it, Felicia was pretty cool in her own right. She was hot and Spanish and had big boobs busting out everywhere and a perfect smile – all the things men liked.

Made no sense why she was into Dad. The thought made her feel miserable, and she was grateful when she saw Raine sign on with a similar message:

Raine is gonna lose her freakin’ mind if Mom doesn’t just BACK OFF!!!!

Courtney laughed, felt suddenly good inside. Misery loves company, right? She typed back in:

Wanna go out?

The response came back quickly:

Already am. Going to meet Que.

At Que’s place?

At his friend’s pad. Like he asked me to yesterday. At the restaurant. Am going for the night. Already got key. And chii-illls!

You mean???

;0)

Courtney just stared at the screen, put a hand against her chest. Her heart was beating fast and hard. She typed back another message:

R U sure? U can stay here.

Call U 2morrow. Parade and Britney!

Call me now!

L8R.

Now.

:0)

Raine signed off.

Courtney sat there, staring at the monitor. Thoughts of Raine fell through her head. Raine out there with Que. Raine going back to his pad. Raine losing her virginity. The thought had excited her moments ago; now it made her feel completely alone. Isolated.

Trapped.

The house seemed dark and quiet and filled with so many wonderful memories that now brought her so much pain. She wished she could close her eyes, go to sleep and never wake up. And that notion made her realise one thing more than ever: she had to get away from here. Really get away. Or else she’d die. She’d really die.

Just like Mom.