Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Striker placed the key in a brown paper bag, sealed it, then left it on the passenger seat for Noodles. He stood back from the Honda and peeled off his gloves, then met Felicia’s stare and didn’t bother to smile.

‘We’ve done all we can do here,’ he said.

She nodded reluctantly. ‘He’s gotten away.’

‘Not for long.’

He strode back to the cruiser, and Felicia followed. They drove out of the alley and headed south. Back to ground zero. Where the nightmare had started. Where they would have to find their next lead in the case.

St Patrick’s High.

Eight

Courtney Striker stood in front of the dressing-room mirror in Warwick’s Costume Rentals and frowned at her reflection. The nurse costume was sexy – and she wanted that, wanted something that would attract the eyes of every boy she met during the Parade of Lost Souls on Friday – but it was a pretty common costume, clichéd, and well, just not her.

Besides, Raine had already gotten one. And if Raine was gonna wear one to the Parade of Lost Souls, then there was no way she was going to wear one too. With the exception of Courtney’s abs, Raine definitely had the better body. She was a half foot taller and had long slender legs; Courtney’s were shorter and more muscular.

Raine had bigger boobs that looked ready to pop right out of the costume; Courtney’s were small and perky.

Raine had skin like caramel; Courtney’s was white as milk foam.

And Raine had dark chocolate fuck-me eyes, as Bobby Ryan, the captain of the hockey team, had put it yesterday. Courtney’s eyes were blue. Not radiant blue. Or iceberg blue. Or even winter-sky blue. They were just an ordinary plain blue.

Hell, when it came right down to it, none of her features compared with Raine’s.

The thought soured Courtney’s mood. She reached behind her back and began unbuttoning the dress. She’d barely gotten it halfway undone when Raine tore open the curtain and stuck her head inside the small change room.

‘What you think, Court?’

Courtney shrugged, made a face. ‘Something else maybe.’

‘But we could go as twins. Two nurses – it would be, like, sooo cool. Especially later when we’re at the concert.’

‘No. Something else.’

Raine switched bags. ‘How ’bout this then? That Disney Princess, the redheaded one – Ariel. It’s perfect for you!’

‘You mean the Little Mermaid?’ Courtney looked at the picture on the bag and saw nothing but a low-riding tail and a green-clam bra on the supermodel displaying it. She felt her cheeks get hot. ‘That shows like waaay too much.’

Raine grabbed another bag. ‘Little Bo Peep?’

Courtney felt her cheeks get even redder. ‘Why does it say Adult Fantasy on the corner of the bag?’

Raine looked down. ‘Ooops, this one is crotchless.’ She giggled, then said, ‘Oh, I know! I know for real this time.’ She swished the curtain closed and disappeared again.

Courtney said nothing, she just kept undoing the buttons behind her back and wondered if a push-up bra would help to even her and Raine out. Probably not. It wasn’t fair. Raine was gorgeous. Voluptuous. Everything.

Christ.

Courtney stripped off the dress, hung it on the hook and slumped down on the dressing-room bench, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, and waited for the next costume Raine could dig up.

The change room was small, a cubicle Courtney could barely turn around in, and it had a cinnamon-like smell from some scented candles or perfume or something. It bothered her allergies. She sat there, feeling a little chilled from the store air-conditioning and wishing Raine would hurry up, and wondering if she was ever going to find something that looked hot on her.

‘Try this!’ Raine said as she burst back through the curtain.

The unexpected movement startled Courtney, and she giggled from surprise. She looked at the costume in Raine’s hand and saw dark red satin and black silk.

‘What is it?’

‘Little Red Riding Hood. It goes perfectly with your hair.’

When Courtney held it up and saw how short the skirt was, she swallowed nervously. ‘I dunno, there’s not much to the skirt.’

‘Exactly. And it comes with super-high-heeled boots. Trust me, it’ll be hot.’

‘You sure?’

‘Of course I am. Look at how the red silk sticks to your belly. You got the flattest stomach out of all the girls – the guys’ll love it. They’ll wanna drink margarita shooters outta your belly button.’

The comment made Courtney smile, and she looked at the dress again, this time feeling a little more confident. She was about to try it on when her phone rang. She hoped it was Bobby Ryan – God, he was, like, Jonas Brother hot – and frowned when she read the caller ID.

DAD.

Raine saw. ‘Don’t answer – you’ll have to go home.’

‘Believe me, I’m not.’

She waited for the phone to finish ringing, then scrolled through the missed calls. She saw his number on there four times.

‘Principal Myers must’ve called him,’ she said.

‘So your dad knows you’re skipping.’

Courtney leaned back against the change-room wall, slumped down defeated. ‘I’m dead. I am so dead. He’s gonna ground me for sure. He’ll ruin everything. The party, the concert . . . I wish Mom was still around.’

For a moment, both girls said nothing. Then Raine took control. She grabbed the dress and held it against Courtney’s chest. Made a whistling sound, and her lips took on a mischievous grin.

‘Deep dark red, baby. Brings out your hair. And red is hot, hot, hot!’

Courtney grinned. ‘You think?’

‘For sure. Bobby Ryan’s gonna love it!’

Both girls broke out into a series of excited giggles.

‘Come on,’ Raine urged. ‘Try it on.’

Courtney took the dress, looked at the price tag and almost choked. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘So?’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t have that kind of money.’

‘Who says you need to?’

Courtney gave a nervous look towards the sales clerk who was standing just outside the curtain.

‘I’m not stealing anything,’ she whispered.

Raine let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘Well, duh. I’ll buy it for you.’

‘It’s almost two hundred bucks.’

Raine smiled. ‘Being sexy don’t come cheap, Court.’

‘You’re missing the point – it’s almost two hundred bucks.’

‘Hundred schmundred. It’s nothing.’

Courtney looked at the dress, then back at Raine. ‘You got that kind of money?’

Raine laughed again. ‘My mom does.’ Before Courtney could say more, Raine wheedled, ‘Come on, Court, put it on.’

Courtney finally gave in. She stepped into the dress, felt the silk and satin slide up her body, and felt good in it. Felt sexy. She turned around so Raine could zip up the back, then pulled her long, reddish-brown hair free so that it spilled all around her shoulders.

‘Friggin’ perfect,’ Raine said.

Courtney looked at herself in the mirror, stared where the material clung to her like a second skin, her belly showing through the thin red satin. Raine was right. She did have a flat stomach.

And she did look good.

Her phone vibrated against the hard wooden surface of the bench, and she reached down and turned it off.

No way in hell Dad was screwing this up too.

She needed the costume. They’d gotten front-row tickets for Britney Spears on Friday, and it was gonna rock hard. But before that, they were going to the Parade of Lost Souls party. They had to.

Bobby Ryan was going to be there.

Nine

As Striker drove back to St Patrick’s High, he felt as if they were on a House of Horrors ride at the carnival. Small swells of anxiety crept into the back of his heart, causing it to beat a little faster with every mile. He felt hot. His skin was sweaty.

He pulled at his shirt collar to get some air, then gave Felicia a quick glance. He saw the relaxed expression on her face and the casualness of her posture, and he wondered how the hell she could be so cool all the time.

Her ability to distance herself was unnerving.

They drove on. The weather was cold and blustery, but the eleven o’clock sky remained clear and bright. Sunny, even. Unusually beautiful for such a fall day, especially one so late in October.

It seemed wrong, given all that had happened.

Imperial Road curved lazily around the woodlands as they followed it south, the road surface uneven and slippery. They passed through the swerving tunnels of maple trees until the north end of the school came into view.

A mob of people had gathered. Clusters of mothers and fathers massed near the roundabout. A handful of officers were speaking with them. Most of the parents were as white as sheets. Some of their faces were filled with fear and longing. Others were loud and hostile, ready to riot at a moment’s notice. An explosive tension filled the air.

Striker felt sick for them. From this day forward some of their homes would feel empty, filled with an unnatural silence; a grief too deep to be explained. He knew this because he had felt it after Amanda died. Even after two long years, there was still a strange emptiness inside his core. A dark and hollow place.

He looked ahead and spotted a white unmarked Crown Victoria, parked out front of the school. The White Whale, everyone called it, because there was no colour less operational than white.

The Crown Vic belonged to the road boss. Car 10. Meaning the Inspector of the day. There were many of them that ruled the road, and most of them were men Striker not only respected but admired. Guys like Jean Concorde who had been one of the best investigators the Department had ever seen, or Reggie Yorke, who was as operational as men come, spending the bulk of his time with Strike Force and the Emergency Response Team. Hell, even Davey Falk was a good man, lacking the operational and investigational skills the other two Inspectors had, but making up for it with his steadfast support of the men and women under him. All were exceptional men, and Striker hoped to see one of them behind the wheel of the White Whale.

But as he and Felicia drove nearer and the occupant came into view, Striker’s hopes faltered and were replaced by a morbid feeling of something between frustration and disgust. It was the Deputy Chief himself.

‘Oh Christ,’ Striker said. ‘It’s Laroche.’

‘Avoid him,’ Felicia said.

‘Just what we need now. The one guy in the Department who can make even an Active Shooter situation worse.’

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Of course you would say that.’

Felicia shot him a fiery look, as if preparing for an argument, but then let the comment go.

Striker slowed their speed as they passed the white Crown Victoria. Inside the car sat Deputy Chief Laroche. His dyed black hair, which was slicked back over his head in an oily smear, contrasted with the unblemished white of his skin. As if to counteract the glare of his face, he’d adorned himself with a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses with overly dark lenses. He wore the standard white shirt that all Deputy Chiefs and Inspectors wore, starched so strongly it looked like white cardboard rather than a cotton-polyester blend, and had adorned himself with all the medals he’d earned during his time in the Army – a time which everyone knew he’d spent on this side of the ocean in field management despite his claims that he’d seen battle in the Kuwaiti wars. In one hand, Laroche held a steaming hot cup of Starbucks; in the other, a sandwich overflowing with cheese and lettuce. He took a huge bite of it as they drove by, and Striker turned his eyes back to Felicia.

‘Kids are dying in there and that prick’s out here eating sandwiches.’

The earlier defiance of Felicia’s face crumbled away. ‘Well, he’s . . . he’s got to eat sometime, I guess.’

‘Have we eaten yet?’ When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘We’ve been on the road since eight.’

‘I’m not getting into this, Jacob.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’

She gave him another hot look, and for a moment, she seemed ready to say more, but changed her mind.

They left the White Whale parked a half block behind them and drove into the roundabout at the school driveway, past the front entrance. Striker parked, climbed out, and had a flashback of chasing Red Mask. He could still hear the loud bangs of the gunfire, still smell the lingering scent of burned gunpowder.

He closed his eyes, attempting to suppress the frantic blur, and flinched when a door slammed shut.

To the south-east, where the gym was located, a gaggle of paramedics exited the building. They came in twos, each pair rolling a gurney. On the gurneys were victims, some as young as thirteen.

The paramedics hurried in different directions to many waiting ambulances that were parked all over the school’s front lawn. Striker watched one girl being loaded up. She was about fifteen. Dripping with a redness that managed to seep through the medics’ blankets. Her eyes were out of focus, her face slack and without colour, as if there were no more blood in her body to redden her cheeks. The rear door of the ambulance closed and it accelerated away.

‘That should be it,’ a nearby voice said.

Striker turned and spotted a row of men snaking out of the building. It was a parade of combat boots and ballistic helmets and heavy weaponry – MP5 machine guns, sniper rifles, and close-quarter combat shotguns. The Emergency Response Team. All wore black padded uniforms, covered with dark grey, reinforced-ceramic plates. The lead, Zulu Five-One, was Tyrone Takuto, a Eurasian cop Striker knew well. Takuto had a distant look in his eyes, detectable even behind the protective goggles.

Striker met his stare. ‘Any more kids in there?’

‘Just bodies.’ Takuto spoke with machine-like precision, without emotion. ‘All the injured have been evacuated and all the uninjured are being staged in the gym. Dogmen are running the halls right now, giving it a final clear – just to be sure we got every one of them.’ He glanced back at the school. ‘There’s a lot of bodies in there still . . . a lot of bodies.’

Felicia stepped forward, and for the first time, she looked shaken. ‘How bad is it?’

Takuto just kept looking at the school. ‘Things like this make you fear sleeping,’ he murmured.

Striker understood him completely. Night terrors.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Last I heard we had eleven confirmed dead, over thirty wounded.’

Striker scanned the line of ERT members. Each one of them looked exhausted, like they’d just been on a ten-day mission, not a two-hour school clearing.

‘What else you find in there?’ he asked.

‘Just carnage. Pretty much what you’d expect.’

‘Any traps, any explosives?’

‘IEDs? No, none.’

‘Not even a homemade rig?’

‘None yet. But the dogs are still searching.’

Striker thought this over. No booby traps. Unusual. IEDs – or Improvised Explosive Devices – were the norm nowadays. And that was mainly because of an Active Shooter’s intent. Terror wasn’t the only goal here: inflicting the maximum number of casualties was a high priority. The more carnage, the more coverage. The better the headlines.

The media spotlight was everything.

Striker watched Takuto tell his boys to take five, then strip off his ballistic helmet and goggles. He used his forearm to mop the sweat from his brow, then sat down on a kerb and leaned back against the cream stucco of the school’s outer wall. Striker was about to ask him more questions when Takuto looked across the parking lot and sneered.

‘Look at that prick.’

Striker glanced back and spotted Deputy Chief Laroche in the White Whale. The man was brushing his hair back over his head and checking out his teeth in the mirror. It wasn’t until the three media vans pulled up – one for BCTV, the other two Global – that Laroche finally lumbered out of the vehicle.

The mob of reporters rushed towards the school, microphones and video cameras ready. They reached the yellow crime scene tape and stopped hard, bunching together, almost crawling over one another. There was excitement in their faces, a palpable buzz in the air. Children had been slaughtered in the safety of their school.

Story of the Century.

Without thinking, Striker neared the mass. Watched the reporters fixing their make-up. Positioning themselves for the cameras. Making sure they got their best angle.

Moments later, Deputy Chief Laroche strutted in from the north. He marched stoically up to the crime scene tape, his pressed hat held gently in both hands, rim down – just the way Striker was sure he’d practised in front of the mirror a hundred times. The lineless perfection of Laroche’s hair told anyone who cared to notice that he never wore the damn hat. It was just a necessary prop, a part of the intended image.

Striker listened to the beginning of the speech, the Deputy’s voice dripping with cosmetic grief, his words laced with heavy pre-planned pauses, and Striker wondered if the man had taken the same long pauses while sucking back his Starbucks sandwich in the car.

‘I was on scene in minutes,’ the Deputy said.

And when one of the reporters asked him if he’d ever faced an Active Shooter before, Laroche looked him in the eye, offered a steely expression, and reminded the group of his wartime experience, being carefully vague so as to never really explain what he did during the war, and adding at the last moment: ‘There were children, dammit, children – how couldn’t we respond?’

It was too much for Striker to take, and he knew he had to do one of two things – expose the man for the fraud he was and make a scene in front of the media, or remove himself from the situation. Common sense and compassion told him that the last thing the families needed at this time was a police drama. So he gritted his teeth and turned away. With a heavy heart, he marched through the school’s front doorway and stepped back into the carnage that this day’s insanity had wrought.

Ten

An hour later, Striker finished helping the paramedics check the last of the unresponsive bodies. Then he made his way to the boys’ changing room. It was just after twelve noon. He stood alone at one of the sinks, looked around. Everything in the room felt too small – the green lockers, the yellow benches, the white hand-dryers on the wall.

His body shivered uncontrollably. His suit jacket was gone, left behind somewhere in the chaos – he’d draped it over one of the exposed children – and his shirt was so saturated with blood it looked more red than white, sticking to his skin wherever it was stained.

The blood wasn’t his, and that pained him, filled him with a strange revulsion. More bodies had been discovered, some by the dogs, some by police. Some of the wounded, in an effort to hide from the gunmen, had hidden themselves from help as well, and it had been their demise.

Striker had done his best to save them all – the wounded, the dying – and to his credit, his actions might have saved a few lives. He understood that. Deep in his heart, he understood that. But more of the wounded had died than been saved.

A lot more.

Felicia’s earlier words now haunted him: ‘We should go back.’

And he wondered if she had been right. After all, what had they gained by pursuing Red Mask?

The horrors of the cafeteria still filled his mind. The heat of the gun as it kicked in his hands; the hot smell of gunsmoke; the shrill cries of the teenagers.

They would be with him forever.

It made him think of Courtney. Again. Word had come in through the student grapevine. She’d been seen by friends at the mall, but it was Metrotown, not Oakridge. She was safe and unhurt, and by the sounds of things completely unaware of the school shootings.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

With trembling hands, he reached down and snatched the BlackBerry from his belt. The screen was smeared with sticky redness. He wiped it on his trousers. During the past half-hour, he had called her ten times, but she had yet to return his call. And he was getting mad. He dialled her number yet again, and this time it rang through to voicemail:

‘Hey there, you’ve reached the Court! Don’t get toxic on me ’cause I can’t take your call right now – I’m out getting ready for the concert. Just two more days til BRIIITNEEEY!’

The concert . . .

The Britney Spears concert.

What else could matter in the life of a fifteen-year-old girl? Were it not for the hell around him Striker could have laughed.

The greeting ended with a loud beep. Striker tried to leave a message, but couldn’t. The message box was full. He hung up, called home, and got no answer there either. Just Courtney’s small voice on the answering service. It made him feel sick.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ He slammed the cell down on the sink.

‘She’ll call, Jacob.’

The sound alerted him. He looked up at the reflection in the mirror and watched Felicia as she entered the boys’ changing room. Unlike him, her clothes were almost blood-free. She wore blue latex gloves and held a bundle of rumpled clothes and some brown paper bags. He hadn’t heard her open the door, much less sneak into the room. She was like a goddam fox sometimes. But a tired one now. Despite the sharpness of her Spanish eyes, everything else about her appearance looked haggard. Her shirt was sloppily half-tucked into her trousers, and her face looked older than it had this morning.

Almost as old as he felt.

‘First I can’t get through at all,’ he explained. ‘Now her message box is full.’

Felicia closed the door, came nearer. ‘Well, she wasn’t here when the shooting started, twenty people have testified to that. She’s out with her friends at Metrotown. Skipping school. Safe and sound. So don’t freak on me.’

‘I don’t freak.’

The BlackBerry screen was sitting on the lip of the sink. The bloodied screen stuck out amidst the white porcelain. Striker willed the phone to ring. It didn’t, so he stood there silently.

Felicia came right up beside him, touched his arm. ‘Look, you gonna be okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re shaking.’

‘You excite me.’

She frowned. ‘You know, Jacob, if it’s too soon for you after your wife’s—’

‘It’s not.’

‘I’m just saying, it wasn’t all that long ago that Amanda died, and—’

‘Jesus Christ, Felicia, we were just in a shootout this morning, and now we’re back where it all happened. It’s got nothing to do with Amanda! You sure as hell never thought it was too soon when we were dating.’ He gave her a challenging look, then felt the wind go out of his sails. He closed his eyes. ‘Let it go, okay? For just once, listen to what I say and let–it–go.’

‘Fine.’

Striker turned on the hot-water tap. The trickling was loud in the boys’ changing room – amplifying the fact that no boys were there, getting ready for gym class. There was no laughing. No joking. No chatter. Just a harsh, overbearing silence.

When steam rose from the basin, Striker put his hands under the hot water and watched the white enamel turn pink. For the first few teenagers, he had worn latex, but soon the gloves had become so slippery, he’d abandoned them. Now, his hands dripped with redness. It was everywhere.

He sniffed softly, winced. The coppery smell of old, dried blood was all around him now, overpowering, and no matter how viciously he scrubbed his skin, more blood seemed to wash off of his hands.

Felicia cleared her throat. She dropped the bundle of clothes on one of the change-room benches, shifted from foot to foot. ‘Got these from Holmes. He’s your size, more or less. Either way, it’s some new clothes.’

He kept scrubbing. ‘Don’t need them.’

‘Your shirt is soaked, Jacob. In blood.’

‘I’ll change later. At home.’

She let out a heavy breath, as if debating something, then made eye-contact with him in the mirror’s reflection. ‘Look, they’re seizing your clothes.’

He stopped scrubbing.

‘Because of the shooting,’ she said. ‘It’s an order. From Deputy Chief Laroche.’

‘Laroche.’ Striker almost spat the word. ‘That spindly little fuck. Spent half the morning in front of the camera while we were looking for kids.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Christ, he even realise we got dead kids out there, or he too busy getting his hair to look just right?’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Is it?’ Striker held out his arms, showing the blood. ‘Look at me, Felicia. Look at me. You see that? It’s blood. Children’s blood. You see Laroche? He’s been on scene for damn near two hours, and his shirt is still white and pristine. Not a friggin’ splatter on his shirt, not a wrinkle in his slacks.’

‘It’s not his job—’

‘His job? His job? He took an oath to save lives, first and foremost. End of discussion.’ Striker gave her a sideways look. ‘You should stop and listen to yourself once in a while. Ever since you worked under that guy, you act like he’s the goddam Pope or something. I don’t know if he’s going to retire at year’s end or ascend to the heavens.’

Felicia’s lips tightened at the comment.

‘I just hope he doesn’t hurt himself when he falls off his pedestal. It’s a long way down, baby.’

‘That’s enough.’

‘Damn right it is.’ He unbuttoned the shirt and stripped it from his body. He saw Felicia looking at him, and threw her the shirt. ‘He gonna seize my underwear, too?’

Felicia said nothing, she just bagged the shirt. When she met his eyes again, he gave her a defiant look.

‘What else?’

‘He wants your gun.’

Striker recoiled. ‘Over my dead body,’ he started. Then he lost the words and zoned out.

Something bugged him. Something was wrong here. As much as he hated to admit it, especially with Laroche being involved, seizing his clothes was normal procedure – who knew what trace elements he’d picked up from the kids he’d been trying to save? – but seizing his gun before the incident was over, now that was another matter entirely. He stopped washing the blood off his hands and arms, and turned around. Saw nervousness in Felicia’s eyes.

‘What the hell is going on, Feleesh?’

‘There’s a lot going on, Jacob, I’m not privy to every—’

‘Don’t mess with me. Not now.’ He stepped towards her and spoke with slow deliberation. ‘What – is – going – on?’

Her lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to speak. Her eyes took on a thousand-yard gaze.

‘The first kid you shot . . .’

‘What kid?’

‘The kid, the gunman – Black Mask. He might . . . he might not have been involved, we think.’

‘We?’

‘Well, the Deputy Chief. Laroche.’

Something spasmed inside Striker’s chest, tightened like a steel band across his heart ‘The kid had a hockey mask on.’

‘It’s Halloween week.’

‘And he was holding a gun – a fucking machine gun.’

Felicia raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Jacob, I’m just relaying the message.’

He let out a shocked laugh. ‘“Relaying the message”? Jesus Christ.’ He leaned on the sink and replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. Black Mask had held a gun, there was no doubt about it.

A friggin’ machine gun.

Right?

The exact details eluded him now; the entire morning was a blur. And after a long moment, he gave up trying to recall it. He snapped out of the memory. Made the water colder, then splashed some on his face. Dried himself off with a paper towel.

Felicia opened another paper bag for his trousers. He pulled them off, handed them to her and put on the new ones Holmes had lent him. When he attached the gun holster to his belt, Felicia gave him a hard look.

‘Jacob—’

‘Laroche ain’t getting my gun.’

‘It’s an order.’

‘Fuck him and fuck his orders. This isn’t over, Felicia. That prick’s still out there somewhere, and he’s gonna strike again. I know he is, you know he is. And I’m not going to be unarmed when it happens.’ He adjusted the holster, slid his Sig into the leather pouch and locked it down. ‘Laroche wants my gun, he can come get it – when we got someone in custody, and not a second before.’

Felicia looked up at him, her pretty face tense and her Spanish eyes dark as black coals. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘No, I’m trying to put one out.’

‘Jacob—’

Before their argument could continue, one of the suits from the Tech Division poked his head into the room. The man had an extremely thin frame, a hooked nose, and an enormous Adam’s apple. It was Ich – Ichabod, as everyone called him. As in Ichabod Crane, from Sleepy Hollow. Perspiration sheened on his face, and he was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon.

‘God, finally I found you guys,’ he said.

Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’

‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really . . . strange.’