Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Seventy-Two
Half an hour later, Striker sat on the examination table with his shirt off and an Intern assessing his head wound. His head was ringing and all sounds were dull, but what bothered him most was how weak he felt. Despite the lean muscle that covered his body, he felt thin, exposed. Had he not already been in such good shape, he would have broken down by now.
He wanted sleep.
The Intern was a young blonde girl. Striker allowed her to do her thing, all the while letting his own mind wander to the Critical Care Room, where Patricia Kwan was being treated. The thought of her made his head hurt – almost as much as his hands. He turned them over, studied his palms, and assessed the redness. When he made a fist, the skin felt swollen, like it might tear if he tightened his fingers too much.
The Intern took notice. ‘Doctor Hart is the Specialist. He’ll look at that. Should be here any minute.’
A knock came on the door, and Felicia entered the room. ‘Hey.’
Striker looked at her, not wanting to know but having to ask. ‘She okay?’
‘Patricia?’ Felicia shrugged. ‘Gonna take some time to know.’
‘What about her daughter?’
‘No news on Riku Kwan either.’ Felicia moved around the Intern, sat down on the only chair the room offered, and pulled a Cadbury chocolate bar from her coat pocket. She caught Striker’s stare and held it up for him to see. ‘Hazelnut. Got it from the vending machine in the staff lounge.’ She broke off a piece, leaned forward and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘For the pain.’
Striker chewed. The chocolate tasted wonderful, and he realised how hungry he was.
The Intern tutted as she assessed the gash that ran horizontally across Striker’s upper left brow. She wiped away some blood and said, ‘This is going to require stitches. But first we’ll have to get you in for some scans.’
Striker looked at her. ‘Scans? What kinda scans?’
‘CT. X-ray for sure.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘A few hours.’
‘Absolutely not. Just stitch me up.’
‘You hit your head pretty hard, Detective Striker,’ the young woman began. ‘I would really recommend—’
‘Just stitch the goddam thing.’
The Intern frowned. ‘Very well. Hold this against the wound.’ She then turned and headed out of the room, presumably to get supplies.
As she left, the Specialist walked in. Dr Hart was a tall man, terribly thin, with a face so long and gaunt it made Ich look tanned and square-jawed. He offered only the briefest introduction to Striker and did not so much as look at Felicia. He turned Striker’s hands over, asked him to make a fist, then nodded sagely.
‘Minor burns,’ he finally said. ‘Chemical. Not quite second degree. You’re lucky.’
‘Don’t feel so lucky,’ Striker told him.
‘Have you seen Ms Kwan?’ The doctor spoke the words without emotion. ‘Trust me, you’re lucky.’ He pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled on it. ‘Get this cream, apply it several times a day for two weeks. It will help with the skin elasticity. The scarring will fade over months.’
Striker nodded. ‘What the hell was it – battery acid?’
‘No, much worse. It was nitric acid, and in a highly concentrated form. Corrosive on human flesh and extremely disfiguring.’
Felicia interrupted. ‘Nitric acid? I’ve never heard of it.’
The doctor cast her a sideways glance, as if her comment was an annoyance. He finished working on Striker, then turned around and without another word, headed for the exit. When he reached the doorway, Striker called out to him.
‘Hey, Doc, tell me . . . Patricia Kwan – is she going to make it?’
Dr Hart stopped in the doorway. He gave Striker a long, hard look and raised his hands in a who-knows gesture.
‘Keep the stitches clean,’ he said, and left the room.
After the Intern stitched the gash on Striker’s brow, Striker and Felicia left the treatment room. Felicia walked slowly, and Striker loved her for it. Every muscle in his back felt bruised, deep down into his bones.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked.
‘Attached.’
‘The doctor said you have a concussion.’ She held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Tuesday,’ he said, and smiled.
‘You’re such a shit.’
They continued on. Striker steered Felicia away from the east hallway, where Patricia Kwan’s room was located, and where there were now an entire slew of cops guarding and taping off the scene. No doubt Noodles would be there, or at least on his way. And Deputy Chief Laroche, too.
Striker was in no mood to talk to him.
They took the east elevator down to the first floor, then went outside through the north side exit. The sun was out, fighting through the cloud. The moment the hospital door closed behind them, Striker spotted the very people he was trying to avoid – Inspector Beasley and his diminutive leader, Deputy Chief Laroche.
They were parked out front.
Striker studied him through the windshield. The Deputy Chief’s face looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten his full ten hours’ sleep last night, and there was plenty of agitation in his tight facial muscles. The sight should have made Striker smile, but he didn’t. Oddly, he felt for the man.
Much as Striker hated to admit it, Laroche had his own stresses, too.
Laroche exited the White Whale, which was parked at the kerb. As he slammed the passenger door, he spotted Striker. Instantly, his dark eyes narrowed and his white face turned red.
‘What the hell have you done now, Striker?’ he asked.
Striker stopped walking. ‘What have I done?’
‘You’re damn right, you. Everywhere you go I have to follow with more men and more crime scenes. We got six of them now, and that’s just the primaries, set up from here to Dunbar. Department’s running out of goddam crime-scene tape, and I’m out of men. You’ve effectively killed our budget for the entire year.’
Striker looked back, deadpan. ‘Yes, I know you’re very concerned about your budget, sir. And I’m sure Constable Kwan will be too – if she survives her injuries.’
Laroche’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not the one who put her in that position.’
‘Of course not, because you don’t do anything. Only thing you do well is your hair. You got one out of place, by the way.’
‘Striker—’
‘You know, Kwan might care about your budget, too. If she survives her injuries. And if we can find her daughter.’
‘Don’t be so—’
‘Riku Kwan is still missing, by the way, in case you weren’t aware of that. I know she’s just a young girl and her safety doesn’t rank up there with your fiscal matters, but I thought you should know.’
Laroche pointed a finger. ‘I’m writing you up, Striker. And I’ll be forwarding this to Internal. Today.’
The Deputy Chief turned away from Striker, towards Inspector Beasley, and began giving the man shit about something. Striker ignored them both. There were more important things to focus on right now. In order to learn Red Mask’s identity, they were going to have to learn more about the Shadow Dragons.
And that meant using every resource Striker had.
He got on his cell and called up Meathead, the man who had the most connections to experts on Asian gangs. Meathead answered on the second ring, and Striker filled him in on what kind of expert they needed.
‘So?’ Striker asked. ‘You know of any?’
Meathead’s reply was quick and definitive. ‘Yeah, just one. The Lamb.’
Seventy-Three
Red Mask cut down the south lane of East Hastings Street. Pain and confusion ruled his mind. He had no idea why he was taking this route, only that it was away from St Paul’s Hospital, where he had completed the first step of his mission. Patricia Kwan had been fortunate to survive the first attack in her home; she would not survive this second one at the hospital.
The thought brought him no happiness. No contentment either. Just one step closer to mission completion.
To the Perfect Harmony.
Huddled in an alcove at the left side of the alley were three women. Crack whores. One of them – a blonde with pockmarked skin – gave him a wary look. He ignored her, and at the next alcove took shelter from the afternoon winds. They blustered through him with enough force to hamper his speed.
The smell of piss and shit hit him. The Downtown East Side. This festering place. The sickness of the city was bested only by the sickness of his body. With every step, the weight of his shoulder bones tore open his wound a little further.
Not that it mattered.
He reached inside his pocket and took out the vial of pills. White and yellow ones. He couldn’t remember what the old herbalist had said, how many to take, so he dumped a few of each in his mouth and chewed them into paste. He had just finished swallowing when he spotted the man. Around fifty, and six feet tall – large for an Asian – he wore a baggy coat that offered perfect cover for weapons holstered beneath. The man entered the lane, casually looked in Red Mask’s direction, then disappeared between the apartment complexes on the south side.
Red Mask felt his jaw clench. This was not the first time he had seen him. The man stuck out. His walk was distinctive, as if he had something wrong with his back. As if his spine was made not from bone and ligament, but wooden rods. When he walked, he took long stork-like strides.
Red Mask recognised this walk. He’d seen it back home in Cambodia. This was the result of disease. Some villagers called it ‘Tree Spine’ or ‘the sickness from the North’, but Red Mask knew the real reason for it. It was punishment.
Bad karma.
The first time he had seen this man was just after leaving Sheung Fa’s office. And that thought weighed heavy in his chest because it meant only one thing.
This man was an assassin.
Red Mask returned to the main drag of East Hastings. At the corner, he entered the Jin Ho Café. The waitress hurried over and offered him a seat, but he ignored her, going immediately to the narrow hallway that led down to the washrooms, and turning to spy out of the glass front window.
Within a minute, the strange man reappeared on the sidewalk out front, his stiff legs plodding him along with surprising speed and grace.
One look from this closer distance and Red Mask felt a coldness sweep through his belly. The man’s face was angular, like those from the north, with high, thick cheekbones and narrow hard eyes. Red Mask recognised him. It was the Man with the Bamboo Spine. A man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
He was here to kill him.
Seventy-Four
It was almost three in the afternoon by the time Striker and Felicia made it to Simon Fraser University. The campus was located high atop Burnaby Mountain, a good half-hour drive from the downtown core. Rush hour had been bad.
After they parked in the top lot, Striker walked with Felicia by his side through the outdoor breezeway of the convocation mall that was flanked by cafeterias, coffee shops and bookstores. It was cold and windy out. Even the rays of sun, breaking through the red and yellow foliage of the trees, seemed cold.
Winter was slowly edging out the fall.
As they passed a small sitting area where the crowd thickened, Striker studied the students around him. He was struck by how much older they seemed than the high-school kids. The majority were in their late teens and early twenties. Adults. Most noticeably, a lot of them were dressed in costumes. Today was Halloween after all, Friday, and the crowd was littered with everything from nurses to ninjas. The masquerade gave the campus a dark but exciting aura, and it made Striker feel like he was back at St Patrick’s High School.
The thought turned his palms sweaty.
He tried to lighten the mood, divert his worries. He looked at a young blonde woman, her big breasts barely contained by her sexy nurse costume, and he smiled at Felicia.
‘Don’t you have one of those outfits?’
‘Yeah, but it’s more the Kathy Bates type.’
‘You gonna hobble me?’
‘Believe me, some days I’d like to.’
He laughed, and the release felt good.
They walked to the end of the breezeway, where the mustering crowds thinned, and Striker was thankful for it. They paused at another square, and Striker milled about while Felicia searched for a directory. They needed to find the auditorium. That was where Grace Lam was speaking at the International Gang Conference.
Striker looked forward to seeing her. She was supposed to be a guru in the world of gang intelligence. From what Striker had learned from Meathead, Grace Lam had started her career in Los Angeles, studying the Grape Street Watts gang, then gotten herself an interview with the infamous Monster Cody Scott when no one else could. After that, she’d been mentored by some of the finest gangologists Los Angeles and New York had to offer. When she’d earned the distinction of being a certified gangologist, she’d started her own thesis, focusing on South Asian gangs. That work had landed her in Vancouver.
It was a telling statement of the underground activity that existed in Canada.
With this thought in mind, Striker approached a water fountain that sat nestled in between a concrete bench and a Japanese plum tree. Being the end of fall, the leaves were still red, but slowly turning purple and yellow and brown.
The area had a certain serenity. Striker wished he could enjoy it. He looked across the square. On the other side of the concrete expanse was a row of terminals at a coffee shop. Internet access. Thoughts of the nitric acid attack on Patricia Kwan returned. He crossed the breezeway and entered the shop. He sat down at one of the computers, then started up Google. He was into his sixth link, reading through the long article, when Felicia found him.
‘I located the auditorium,’ she said, then leaned down and stared at the screen. ‘Nitric acid – what did you find?’
He sat back in the chair, an uncomfortable plastic thing that groaned and stretched beneath his weight, and pointed at the photo of a disfigured woman on the screen. ‘This acid is the stuff of nightmares,’ he said. ‘It’s deadly. Turns flesh to jelly, mutates the hell out of it. If not treated immediately, the effect is permanent.’
‘Then you were lucky.’
He focused on a few jpegs on the screen – horrible images of mutilation – and continued explaining what he’d read: ‘Here in Canada, nitric acid is mainly used for industrial reasons – processing and manufacturing, stuff like that. But overseas, this shit has become the weapon of choice in some countries – for the humiliation that the disfigurement causes as well as the pain. And to inspire fear. It’s used quite commonly as a repayment for adultery . . . the list of victims just goes on and on and on.’
‘What countries?’
‘Hmmm. Mostly the Asian ones. Hong Kong. The Philippines. But the Middle East, too.’
‘Cambodia?’
Striker shrugged as if to say, who knows. ‘Did you find Grace Lam?’
‘One better,’ she said. ‘I spoke to her.’
‘And?’
‘She’ll be meeting us in twenty minutes. At Legal Grounds.’
*
Legal Grounds was a small but chic coffee shop away from the clatter of the university crowds, near the bottom of the Burnaby Mountain. The place had been built without a dime spared. The walls were oak, the floors were birch, and throughout the room were loveseats and high-backed armchairs – all of them supple burgundy leather.
Behind the counter was a young brunette, about twenty, dressed in an outfit that resembled a tuxedo. On the wall behind her was a large golden image of the Scales of Justice. Striker stared at it as he bought Felicia one of her fancy lattes – the Charter, as they called it. It was nothing more than an expensive vanilla latte with chocolate sprinkles. Striker bought himself an Americano, black. Then they took their drinks to a small secluded nook in the back.
‘Thanks for the latte,’ Felicia said.
‘Yeah, sorry it took so long, I had to sign a loan to get it.’
She smiled and sipped her drink, and Striker joined her after taking off his long coat and draping it over the back of the chair. They sat there, waiting and going over the case. To Striker, the moment felt surprisingly wonderful. It was the first respite they had had, even if it was forced.
Twenty minutes later, Grace Lam appeared. She walked into the lounge, and Felicia stood up and waved her over.
Striker had expected someone elegant and mature, someone professor-like. But Grace Lam was none of that. She was young, maybe thirty years of age, not an inch over five foot and easily two hundred pounds. Her body and face were equally round, like two perfect circles. In contrast, she had small, hard eyes and lips so thin she looked perpetually angry. Sweat trickled down the sides of her cheeks as she hurried in.
Striker looked from Felicia to Grace, then back again. ‘You could be sisters,’ he said.
Felicia gave him an unimpressed look. ‘You’re a bastard.’
Striker just smiled and sipped his Americano.
After Grace had bought a coffee – something sweet like Felicia’s; Striker could smell it – she sat down in a chair facing both Striker and Felicia. In her hands was a silver-and-black ToughBook laptop, which she placed across her knees, and a thick brown briefcase, which she set down beside the table.
‘So how did you come to find me?’ she asked. ‘I’m actually on leave.’
‘First off, thanks for seeing us,’ Striker said. ‘Especially on your leave.’ When Grace said it was no problem, he continued. ‘We found you through Meathead – I mean Hans Jager; he’s a part of the International Gang Task Force. He said you were the one to talk to.’
Grace got a strange look on her face, and Striker wondered how Meathead had managed to offend her, too.
‘And this is about?’ she asked.
‘The massacre at Saint Patrick’s High.’
The mention of the shooting made Grace’s expression tense up a little. It was a small change, barely noticeable, but all the easiness left her face.
‘Gangs?’ she asked.
‘Shadow Dragons,’ Felicia said.
From his coat, Striker produced some of the Ident photographs of White Mask’s body and showed them to Grace. ‘Here is a partial tattoo on the base of the neck, there,’ he said. ‘He also has a number 13. Crudely done though. A home job.’
Grace looked at the images for only a few seconds, before saying, ‘The partial tattoo is the tail end of a dragon.’
‘Dragon?’ Striker asked.
Felicia leaned forward. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Grace pointed to the photo. ‘By the colour and location. Red and gold are the colours of prosperity and good fortune; the left side is the sinister way, and the dragon looks backwards across the shoulder – a spiritual protector from one’s enemies.’
‘Sounds like superstition to me,’ Striker said.
‘It is,’ Grace replied. ‘In fact, I’m surprised that you found one at all – it’s a rather old tradition. New members never do it. In fact, they’re no longer getting tattoos at all nowadays – makes them too easy to identify that way.’
Felicia cut in: ‘I’ve never heard of this gang before today, not even once.’
‘That’s because the information is misleading.’ Grace opened her briefcase and sorted through a pile of manila folders. After some searching, she found the correct one, flipped it open and set it down on the table.
The first thing Striker saw was a huge number four, followed by the image of a red triangular flag.
Grace noted his stare, and explained: ‘The pennant is triangular, representing the three basic forces of the universe – Heaven, Earth and Man.’
‘I’ve seen that pennant before,’ Striker said, ‘but I didn’t know it represented the Shadow Dragons.’
‘It doesn’t.’
Striker gave Felicia a glance, saw the confusion masking her face, and he felt it, too.
Grace continued: ‘The Shadow Dragons are nothing in the big scheme of things; what they are is the tail of the beast. If you want to define them – categorise them in some way – they’re a feeder gang, just puppets, doing the nasty work for their superiors back East and hoping to one day become an accepted part of the real gang.’
‘And what real gang are we talking about here?’ Felicia asked. ‘The Angels?’
Grace shook her head, suppressed a laugh. ‘Sorry. Everyone says that. No, it goes further back than that, I’m afraid. And worlds away. What you’re dealing with here is the Fourteen K.’
Striker stiffened. ‘Fourteen K? Aren’t they a division of the Triads?’
Grace nodded slowly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘The Triad Syndicate.’ The words felt strange on Striker’s tongue. ‘I thought they were dismantled. Folklore.’
Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘They would like you to think so. Though the folklore stuff isn’t too far off when you consider the Triad ways. And their history.’ She turned to Felicia. ‘The Triads were born out of secrecy, you know, by refugee monks.’
‘Monks?’
‘Well, they were essentially rebels back then – revolutionaries determined to overthrow the Qing or Manchu Dynasty. We’re talking way back here.’
‘When exactly?’ Striker asked.
‘The seventeen hundreds.’
Felicia made a sound. ‘Christ, that’s ancient.’
‘Maybe so, but even today, the history lingers. To be accepted into the gang is a complicated process involving swearing thirty-six oaths before the altar, and with many convoluted rituals and sacred phrases. Sham Tai Wang Fung is one of them.’
‘Sham Tai – what?’
‘Sham Tai Wang Fung – Extensive Transformation and Uniting Heaven.’ Grace took a sip of her coffee. ‘The penalty for betrayal is death by “a myriad of swords and thunderbolts”. Or at least, that is the oath. As you can tell, this stuff is extremely outdated, but the ceremonies remain, especially in the Far East where they are very superstitious.’
‘The Far East as in Toronto?’ Striker asked.
‘As in Hong Kong. Their headquarters.’
Felicia put down her latte, wiped her mouth. ‘Not to be rude, but it sounds ridiculous.’
Grace nodded. ‘To the Western world, yes. Every belief the Triads hold is logic mixed with superstition. Strategic yet tempered by mysticism, planned thoroughly yet done so with numerology.’
‘Numerology?’ Striker asked.
Grace nodded. ‘Oh yes, numerology is huge in the Triad Syndicate.’ She turned the folder pages until she found a listing. ‘Here, look at this. The list ascends in order of status.’ She turned it so that Striker could see.
Numerology of Triad Hierarchy
426 – Red Pole. Brigade Enforcer.
415 – Pak Tsz Sin. White Paper Fan. Senior advisor.
Knowledge of Triad history.
438 – Sheung Fa. Canada Liaison Officer.
483 – Fu Chan Shu. Deputy Leader.
489 – Shan Chu. King Daddy. Dragon Head.
As Striker read the list and made notes in his notebook, Grace spoke. ‘You say this guy had a number 13 tattooed on his body. Where was it?’
‘Chest. Left side.’
Grace nodded. ‘The number 13 covers the heart because it’s out of respect for the thirteen monks.’
Now Striker felt completely lost. ‘What monks?’
‘The Shao Lin monks, in the Fujian Province. We’re talking four hundred years ago, but it does show you who – and what – you’re dealing with here. The Triads have alliances all across the seas: in the Philippines, Hong Kong, Macau, Cambodia, Viet Nam – the list is as long as there are places. And they will never go away.’
Striker thought this over for a moment. Then: ‘What I still don’t get is how a group of teenage kids from Saint Patrick’s High School got tangled up with a global gang.’
Grace agreed. ‘I really see no connection, Detective. The Triads are a very secretive group. They would never be involved in something like this.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Striker said. ‘They are.’
