Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Ninety-Six

Striker had no idea how many minutes had passed by the time he’d made it back to Commercial Drive. His head felt clouded; his senses distorted. Already there were police cars everywhere. One cop guarded the dead van driver who had been dumped on the west side of Grandview Park. Another cop took custody of a deceased girl Shen Sun had shot near the front of the stage. And one was parked in front of Turk’s Coffee Shop, where a paramedic was patching up Felicia.

Striker hurried up the Drive, red and blue flashes of police lights reflecting off the lingering smoke. The strip was now deserted. As he neared Felicia’s side, she pushed past the paramedic and stumbled up to him. She stopped at an arm’s length, a question in her eyes.

‘He got away,’ Striker said. ‘With the girls.’

‘Did you see what he was—’

‘A white Hobbes Meats truck. Already broadcast it.’ The words fell oddly from his lips, sounding hollow, forced. He felt like a dam full of holes, ready to crumble at any second. When he spoke again, he fought to maintain control of his emotions. ‘They could be anywhere.’

‘Let’s go back to the car – we’ll find them.’

Striker looked at her face, saw the dried blood on her chin and neck, the swollenness of her jaw. He nodded, and they turned north on Commercial. They’d barely gone ten steps when his BlackBerry vibrated against his hip. He lifted it so he could read the call display, and felt a stab of electric fear and hope in his heart when he read the name: Courtney.

He picked up fast. ‘Hello?’

The voice that replied was masculine, clipped, and brief: ‘Ironworkers Bridge. Halfway.’

‘Shen Sun?’

‘Block traffic at both ends of bridge. And come alone, Gwailo. Otherwise, both die.’ The line went dead.

Striker stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, then turned to look at Felicia, who had heard every word.

‘He wants you alone on the bridge? What, does he think you’re out of your mind?’

‘I’m going.’

‘Jacob, you can’t—’

‘I have to, Felicia. Why do you think he called? He could have escaped by now, but he didn’t. It’s no longer about the theft or the murders or the position he was promised – it’s about him and me now. I’m what he wants.’

‘Just stop for a second. Slow down. Think about this. It’s what he wants, Jacob. Jesus, at least wait for a sharpshooter.’

‘There’s no time.’

She grabbed his arm, got in his face. ‘Jacob, it’s suicide.’

Striker pulled away. ‘He’s got Courtney, Felicia. He’s got my little girl.’

Before she could respond, he marched back to the police car, thinking over the words Shen Sun had spoken. The orders were clear. Meet halfway across the bridge. Shut down the bridge at both ends. Those two sentences alone told Striker everything he needed to know about the situation. A negotiator would be of no use.

Nothing would be.

Shen Sun wasn’t planning on surviving the night.

Ninety-Seven

The Ironworkers’ Memorial Bridge was a 1200-metre, six-lane steel monstrosity that spanned the Burrard Inlet, connecting the city of Vancouver to the Northern Shore. It was built up high, on concrete pillars that rose from the foaming, turbulent waters below like a series of grey gnarled fingers. A perpetual fog brooded around the structure, one so thick it made the paved lanes seem more like a witch’s cauldron than a roadway. The bridge had been built in 1957, and in the process of construction had cost 136 workers their lives.

Striker prayed it would take no more tonight.

It took him and Felicia less than four minutes to reach the south on-ramp. Already, a marked patrol car had blocked off the entrance, its red and blue emergency lights reflecting off the heavy fog that roamed the pavement like a crawling beast. Next to the police cruiser, a patrol cop dressed in orange and yellow reflective gear waved him over and said, ‘Park it there, Striker.’

He did.

When he climbed out, he recognised the man. It was Chris Mathews, from the Two-Eight squad. Striker walked towards him, his head feeling as fogged as the roadway. He’d barely gotten ten steps when a white unmarked cruiser came speeding up the on-ramp behind them. Its lights were flashing, the siren turned off. The cruiser slid across the wet asphalt, coming to a slow stop not five feet away. The driver’s door opened and a man in a white shirt hopped out.

One look at him and Striker stopped cold.

Laroche.

The Deputy Chief came stomping around the cruiser, his face pale and twisted in the harsh glare of the headlights. He was followed by Inspector Beasley.

‘Striker!’ he called, his voice cracking in the cold. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve already got ERT and a negotiator on route.’

Striker turned to face the man. ‘Did you pull the units from my house?’

‘That doesn’t concern you.’

Striker took a step closer, his hands balling into fists. ‘I asked you a question, Laroche. Did you or did you not have patrol guard removed from my house?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s face. ‘You’re damn right I did! My men aren’t your personal—’

Striker punched the man square in the face, sent him sprawling backwards. The Deputy Chief hit the pavement, landing hard on his ass. Stunned, he sat up, touched his lip, then looked at the blood on his fingers. Disbelief coloured his face, quickly replaced by anger.

‘How dare you strike a commanding officer! I’ll have your badge for this—’

Striker stepped forward, grabbed the Deputy Chief by the scruff of his shirt.

‘Let go of me!’ Laroche screamed.

Striker ignored the order; he dragged the man back to the police cruiser, opened the rear door, and threw him inside. When he slammed the door closed, the Deputy Chief let out a frustrated howl and grabbed the door handle. He tried to open the door, reefed on it hard, but the safety lock engaged. He pounded his fist on the glass.

‘Striker! Striker! Open this door immediately! It’s an ORDER!’

As Inspector Beasley started for the car, Striker stepped in his way, fixed him with an icy stare.

‘My kid’s up there. I’m going up. No negotiator. No ERT. No Air One. No goddamn nothing.’ He stabbed a finger towards the Deputy Chief. ‘That little prick gets out and in any way endangers my daughter’s life, and I’ll shoot the fucker. I mean it, I’ll goddam shoot him and you can arrest me for it later.’

Inspector Beasley’s mouth dropped open.

Striker continued, ‘And if Laroche comes up there and any bad shit happens, I will hold you personally responsible, Beasley. Got it?’ Without waiting for a response, Striker turned away from the man and found Felicia. He came up in front of her, spoke softly. ‘Don’t let anyone up this road.’ He then took her pistol as a spare and tucked it in the back of his belt.

‘Be careful,’ she urged.

There was nothing to say, so he just nodded, then turned away.

It was time to face Shen Sun Soone.

Ninety-Eight

Striker marched quickly up the bridge deck. The asphalt was damp, and covered with metal and plastic fragments from an earlier accident. His boots slipped as he hurried on. With every step he took, the bridge inclined, becoming steeper and steeper, and he rose higher and higher into the fog. Until it felt like he was walking into the cloudbanks.

Up ahead, the headlights of the Hobbes Meats van came into view. The sight hit Striker like a physical force and he stopped. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the flashing red and blue gleam of the police lights. From this distance, saturated by the heavy blanket of fog, they looked small and faint, like tiny bulbs on a Christmas tree.

He was alone on this one.

And the girls’ lives depended on him.

The Sig Sauer sat snugly in its holster – and he dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun for comfort as he marched on. The rubber grip was cold, harder than usual in this freezing weather, almost slippery from the icy moisture. Striker wrapped his fingers around the grip, squeezed tight, moulding it to the flesh of his palm.

The wind kicked up, strong and fierce, blowing his hair in all directions and sending the flaps of his suit jacket whipping to the sides, exposing his gun. And though he knew undoubtedly that Shen Sun would expect him to be armed, there was no point showboating it. He pinned the jacket down with his elbow, kept his fingers loose and ready.

The bridge lamps, weak against the heavy fog, shed a minimal light. Striker could barely make out the vague shape of the van as he closed in, just the halogens. He strained his eyes for any sign of Shen Sun or the girls – for any sign of movement at all – but saw none.

From far below, he heard the rushing sound of water as the Fraser River slammed into the bridge foundation. Striker was well over the waterway now, had been for the last fifty metres.

He marched on. After another twenty feet, the van lights mutated from a single globular glow into two clearly distinct headlights. And soon Striker could hear the heavy rumble of the engine, and smell the dirty diesel in the air. Ten steps later, the outline of the vehicle became sharper. Ten more steps, and he could make out the blurry lettering on its side.

‘You stop now.’ The voice was quick, hard, angry.

Striker did as instructed. He looked ahead, tried to figure out where the voice had come from. But all he could see was the bright piercing glow of halogen headlights. And he realised that the van had been parked this way to blind him.

He stared into the piercing light, raised a hand to ward off the glare.

‘I’m here, Shen Sun. You got what you wanted. Now let the girls go.’

‘What I want?’ The voice was mechanical, numb, spoken more like a statement than a question. ‘Never do I have what I want.’

‘Where are the girls?’

‘Your daughter? She is here. I give proof.’ There was a brief pause, and suddenly a scream filled the air.

‘You twisted little fuck.’ Striker started forward.

‘Come, and they die.’

He stopped cold. Said nothing. Just waited. Listened. Tried to focus and calm the panic. Think. Judging by the direction of Shen Sun’s voice, Striker figured he was near the tail end of the van. Left side. A tactically sound position.

One Striker would have chosen himself.

Striker took a small step to the left, inching his way out of the worst of the glare. And for the first time, he spotted a vague outline behind the lights. A wide blur – three bodies, crammed together – between the rear of the van and the bridge railing.

Two were standing. One was seated.

‘What do you want, Shen Sun?’ Striker asked. He took another small step out of the glare.

‘What do I want?’ His voice was hollow, eerie. ‘I want my brothers back. My sisters. Father. Mother. This is what I want.’

Striker listened carefully to the words. The man was making no sense. Striker inched over a little more, tried to give his eyes time to adapt.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I tell you what I want from you, Gwailo. I want you to feel the pain I felt, when you ended my mission, when you killed Tran. And Father.’

‘I never killed your—’

‘Yes, you did!’ Shen Sun snapped. ‘The man was here because of you – only because of you. You destroyed my future. My life. Everything! And now you have same pain I have – and you must choose.’

Striker raised his hands in the air, purposely to distract the gunman, and inched his way a little more to the left. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

‘Then I speak simple. I have gun against daughter’s spine.’

Striker moved a little more left.

‘And here is Kwan child,’ Shen Sun continued. ‘The one we both search for.’

A little more left . . .

‘I give you choice, Gwailo. Simple. Choose Kwan child and she live. But I shoot daughter in spine, and you watch for rest of life knowing your fault.’

‘Shen Sun—’

‘Or choose your daughter – but Kwan child dies.’

‘That’s no option at all.’

‘It’s all you have.’

‘It’s nothing.’

Shen Sun cocked his head, spoke softly. ‘Family, or honour?’

‘I can’t—’

‘Family – or honour!’

Ninety-Nine

Shen Sun watched the gwailo’s hopeless expression with a sense of euphoria. He was exhausted; his shoulder seared with pain. And there was no chance of him escaping this situation alive.

None of that mattered.

All that existed in the moment was the terror of the girls before him, and the heavenly desperation of the cop ahead. And he laughed out loud, for he could not help himself. All his life he had strived to be 14K – to be with Shan Chu, the King Daddy himself, the Dragon Head – and before the mission had started, he had been promised a swift trip back to Macau if things at St Patrick’s High had gone well.

But things had not gone well. The whole mission had been disastrous. All because of Detective Jacob Striker. Shen Sun had been forced to improvise. To alter the plan. It had been the only way to keep his dream alive. The only way to reach the place he called home.

And to find the Perfect Harmony.

How odd it was. Here at the end of his life – for that was surely what this was – he had found it. And unexpectedly so. Not in a place, or an object, or even through some achievement. No, he had found it through a state of mind. And that was what it was, wasn’t it? The Perfect Harmony. Finding whatever it was that you were missing inside, that one lost piece that would make a man truly whole. Well, he had found it. At long last, he had found it.

And it was power.

‘This isn’t necessary,’ the cop said.

‘Make choice, Gwailo.’

‘We can find another way.’

‘Make choice, I say.’

To Shen Sun’s lower left, Riku Kwan let out a sob. He pressed his foot down harder on her ankle, making certain she remained seated. Not that she would attempt escape. He had made it quite clear: any attempt to escape would result in a quick death for both of the girls.

‘Shen Sun,’ Striker said. ‘I’ll do anything—’

‘Choose!’

To Shen Sun’s right, Courtney squirmed. He clutched the hood of her Little Red Riding Hood costume, twisting his fingers deep into the material. She let out a cry as his fingernails dug into her back, but he held her tight.

‘I won’t make that choice,’ the cop finally said.

The words hit Shen Sun like the end of a whip. And for the first time since the gwailo had set foot into the headlights, he felt his euphoria seeping away. The pain in his shoulder became sharper, the throbbing of his head more violent. His body was sweating and shivering, and the weakness of his legs had returned, keeping him off-balance.

‘You will not . . .’ he began. Then Shen Sun Soone felt the world fading on him. He looked up at the cop, standing in the circular glare of the fog-veiled headlights, and suddenly he could see him for what he was – for what he had always known Jacob Striker to be – ever since their first encounter back at the school.

An evil spirit in human form. An earthbound demon.

It made no difference.

‘Make choice!’ he demanded for the last time.

And the cop did.

He reached down, drew his pistol, and ran forward. And just like the evil spirit he was, he fell out of the light into the darkness, and vanished from sight.

One Hundred

The seconds felt like hours.

Striker burst forward, cleared the glare of the headlights and took quick aim the moment the two girls and the gunman came into view. Raine was grounded, on her knees, sobbing but out of the line of fire.

Courtney was not.

She was held tight by the madman, pulled close, a human shield. There was little room – definitely not enough room for a shot. And yet Striker knew he had no choice. If he didn’t act now, Shen Sun would kill her. He squeezed the trigger, heard the blast shake the entire area around them . . .

And then heard Courtney’s agonised scream.

She collapsed onto the wet concrete of the sidewalk, then rolled off the kerb into the lane. Even in the poor light, the dark, glistening splatter that covered her belly was obvious. And Striker realised it hadn’t been him who had fired the shot.

Shen Sun stepped forward. Into the light. Raised his pistol.

Striker saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. He darted left, took aim again, and heard three shots blast off. He felt bone-breaking pain as his chest and ribs cracked from the impacts. The force sent him reeling. He landed hard on his back, in the middle of the road, fighting to breathe, but still managing to pull the trigger in rapid fire.

Bang-bang-bang-BANG! The shots rang out, too many to count.

And then there was more screaming. The girls were screaming.

Striker rolled left, propped himself up on one arm, and scanned the sidewalk. He spotted Shen Sun, hobbling like an old, crippled man across the sidewalk. Towards Raine. His left arm hung limply and his right leg didn’t work right.

Striker raised his gun and drew down on the man. But he couldn’t get the shot off – not without hitting Raine. The girl screamed out in terror as Shen Sun grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, and pulled her into him.

‘Please!’ she screamed. ‘PLEASE!’

Shen Sun ignored her. He reared up to the bridge railing, wrapped his arms around her, and then found Striker with his eyes.

‘History is circle, Gwailo. Past is also future.’

There was no time left. Striker kept his aim tight, the sights lined up on the centre of Shen Sun’s face, and he pulled the trigger. All he heard was the god awful click-click-click of an empty chamber.

Shen Sun smiled. Smiled as if all the pain and rage and fear had left him and he had found peace. For a moment, he looked calm, serene . . . harmonious. Then he threw his body backwards.

In one quick, horrible moment, Shen Sun and Raine slipped over the railing and were swallowed up by the greyness beyond. Nothing was left behind in their wake, except a young girl’s cry that would forever be embedded in Jacob Striker’s mind.

Epilogue

One Hundred and One

Three weeks later, early in the morning, Striker pulled into the visitors’ parking lot of the G.F. Strong Rehab Centre and felt his BlackBerry vibrate on the side of his belt. The caller was Sergeant Ronald Stone from Internal. He didn’t answer, but punched the ignore button instead. There was enough on his plate today without having to deal with Professional Standards.

He locked the car and headed for the main building. The sun was out and the sky was blue, but the air was crisp and cold. Snow had fallen the previous morning, testament to the fact that winter had definitely arrived. The cedar bushes that flanked the walkway were clean and white, and decorated in Christmas lights.

Red and blue.

The snow from Striker’s boots turned the hard tiles of the hospital floor slippery, and he walked carefully as he made his way from the admitting area down to Rehab. Once in the wing, he stopped by the Christmas tree planted beside the nursing station and smelled the strong scent of pine in the air. He scanned the area and spotted the Occupational Therapist, a middle-aged East Indian lady. She was only five feet tall but built like an aircraft carrier.

‘Mr Striker,’ she said at the sight of him, and offered a wide smile.

‘Janeeta,’ he said. He took a long hard look down the hallway, in the direction of Courtney’s room. His nerves felt on fire. ‘How’s she coming?’

‘She’s coming well, Mr Striker.’

‘But will she walk normal again?’

Janeeta looked at the chart she was holding, flipped through the pages, then looked back at Striker and gave his arm a soft rub. ‘Why don’t you go talk to your daughter, Mr Striker?’

He nodded, then walked down the hall to Room 14.

‘Hey, Pumpkin,’ he said as he stepped through the door.

Courtney was seated on the bed, looking out the window. She wore a burgundy pair of track pants from Roots, complete with a matching sweat top. At the sound of his voice, she looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was unreadable.

‘Snow,’ was all she said.

‘Yeah, first time in two years. Christmas is coming.’ He pointed to her tracksuit. ‘Got your colours ready, I see. Very festive.’

Courtney didn’t smile. ‘It hasn’t snowed like this since Mom died.’

The words punched through Striker, took his breath away. Mainly because she was right. The last time it had snowed was the night Amanda had taken off, when she’d driven for her friend’s house on the North Shore and never made it back. The memory seemed like yesterday. And Striker wished he could forget it all.

He approached the bed, crested it, and rubbed his hand over the top of Courtney’s upper back – away from her healing scar – in his best attempt to show support. He stared outside at the snowy roadway, thought about what his daughter didn’t yet know, then sat down in the bedside chair and faced Courtney.

‘You know, we’ve never really talked about that night,’ he said softly.

‘You’ve never wanted to.’

He nodded. ‘There are reasons, Pumpkin. Ones not too nice.’

He spoke the words reluctantly. When he looked up and saw the seriousness of her stare, he considered letting the subject go, once again burying it with the rest of the past. But this time, he could not. Everything was different now. It was time for a clean start. Time for honesty.

He closed his eyes, trying to think how best to word it. ‘Things between your mom and I weren’t as good as you remember them, Courtney. Our marriage wasn’t perfect. To be honest, it wasn’t working all that well.’

‘I know, Dad.’

He blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I know about the affair.’

He twitched in his seat. ‘Affair? What affair?’

‘With you and Felicia.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘You think that?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to think?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’ve been acting the way you have.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed deeply. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault for not telling you.’ He leaned closer, took her hand and said, ‘Courtney, I never cheated on your mother. Me and Felicia never so much as dated until seven or eight months ago.’

Her face took on a confused look. ‘Then what—’

‘Your mother wasn’t well, Courtney. In fact she was quite sick. Clinically depressed. She wouldn’t even leave the house half the time. It was an issue – her bipolar diagnosis – and we always tried to hide that from you, but I guess . . . I guess it was wrong of us.’

‘Bipolar?’

‘She was on medication and seeing a specialist in Kerrisdale.’ He took in a deep breath, studied the shock on her face, then told her the worst of the truth. ‘The night she left home, I didn’t let her drink and drive, Courtney. In fact, she hadn’t drunk a drop.’

‘But then how . . .’

Striker said gently, ‘The Dinsmore Bridge . . . it’s straight and flat. And there was no traffic that night. When your mother drove off the bridge, Courtney, it wasn’t an accident. It was her own doing.’

The words made Courtney flinch, and she almost pulled her hand free from Striker’s grip. He watched her intently, expecting her to cry and crumble, or at least get angry and lash out. But she did neither. She just stared out the window, at the snowy hills outside, and her face took on a sad look.

‘You okay, Pumpkin?’

‘I think I always knew,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I just didn’t want to believe it.’

‘I’m sorry about your mother, Pumpkin. And about Raine.’

Courtney looked up at him and her expression was wretched. ‘It’s so strange. When Raine and I were in the back of that van, I thought we were going to die, I really did. And Raine was just out of it. Like in shock or something. So I stuck a bunch of frozen steaks down the front and back of her shirt. I thought that it would protect her if he started shooting, but now . . . now I wonder if that was what weighed her down. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t swim to shore. I killed her.’

Striker looked into her eyes. ‘The fall killed her. And the currents are strong. She never would’ve been able to swim out.’

‘I just feel—’

‘You did all you could. And thank God for those frozen steaks. They may have deflected the bullet a bit. The doctor says you’ll walk again.’

‘But how well?’

Striker held her hand. ‘I don’t know.’

Courtney didn’t reply. Moments later, a few tears slid down her cheeks.

Striker stood up and wrapped his arm around her, gave her a long hug, felt her warm breath under his chin, smelled the lemony scent of the laundry detergent on her clothes. She held him, too, and just as tight. When her arm finally relaxed a little, Striker pulled back and looked at her face.

‘What do you want for Christmas?’

‘Getting this bullet out of my spine would be a nice start.’

He laughed, genuinely and hard, and touched her face. ‘I love you, Pumpkin.’

‘I love you, too, Dad.’

He fetched her suitcase from under the bed, made sure it was locked and secure, then helped ease her off the bed into the wheelchair.

‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re going home.’