Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Eighteen

Striker cut through the school foyer, the heels of his boots sounding loud in the empty antechamber. He was headed for the cafeteria, to check out the gunmen he’d shot – a task which was causing his stomach to rise and his heart to clench. He’d liked to have done it hours ago, but nothing this day had gone well.

He’d barely made it halfway across the foyer when the school’s front doors swung open and Felicia walked inside. A soft wind followed her. The air was clean and cold and crisp; it smelled of fall leaves.

Striker breathed it in – to counteract the smell of old, dried blood. The metallic stench was all around him. On the walls, the floors, in the air. Even on his body, making him feel sticky, grimy.

He wiped the thought from his mind, waved Felicia over. ‘How’d it go?’ he asked.

She had a pissed-off look on her face, and a stack of yellow papers in her hands. She walked over, not bothering with the pleasantries, and said, ‘Here you go. You can rule out Nava Sanghera. She’s in Saint Paul’s Hospital getting her appendix out as we speak.’

‘And the other kid, that student helper, what was his name – Sherman Chan?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘Can’t locate him. He hasn’t reported in with any of the teachers and he isn’t on the list.’

‘What list?’

‘This one.’ She held up the yellow bundle of papers and beamed. ‘List of the dead.’

‘Jesus, Felicia, you don’t have to say it with such enthusiasm,’ Striker said. ‘These are dead kids we’re talking about.’

For a moment the words just hung there. Then Striker reached for the list. ‘Let me see that.’ He took the pages, and Felicia gave them up, almost unwillingly. Lists of injured and lists of the dead. The bundle felt thick in his hands.

The list of the dead was sorted by surnames, with the additional info of where the body had been found. Striker ran his finger down each page, stopping on page six where he found the heading: Cafeteria. Just the sight of the word made his stomach queasy. When he read on, he saw that only three girls were listed in this section, and before he could figure out which was the one from the video, Felicia spoke up.

‘Chantelle O’Riley.’

Striker looked up from the list. ‘What?’

‘The girl from the cafeteria. The one they shot in the corner. Her name is Chantelle O’Riley.’

‘But how did—’

‘I talked to Ich.’ She pointed at the stack of papers. ‘All the names are right there, updated as little as five minutes ago. I got it directly from Principal Myers.’

Striker ruffled through the pages, stopped, let out a heavy breath. ‘How is Caroline holding up?’

‘She’ll make it.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘She’ll have to.’ He scanned through the names. There were now twenty. But only three names stuck out to him:

Conrad MacMillan.

Tina Chow.

Chantelle O’Riley.

The first two kids were ones he knew; the last one was a stranger. These three had been targeted. After talking to the witness, Megan Ling, he was sure of that. But why? What was the connection? He stared at the pages, desperately hoping for something to jump out at him. A familiar ethnicity, a social link, a similar age or class.

But nothing did.

He had no idea what Chantelle O’Riley was about as a student or a person, but he did know Conrad MacMillan and Tina Chow. At least, he had four years ago. And they couldn’t have been more different. Conrad was in Grade Twelve now, and by all accounts, popular; Tina was a Grade Ten kid and relatively unknown.

Polar opposites.

So why these two?

There was something there. An unknown connection lurking somewhere beneath the violent surface. There always was. The body of the iceberg, so to speak. Striker took out his pen and circled their names.

‘We’re missing something with these three.’

Felicia crossed her arms. ‘There’s over twenty dead kids on that list, Jacob, not to mention the dozens injured. There could be a hundred different connections.’

‘But these three were singled out.’

‘We’re assuming.’

He didn’t respond right away. He just looked over the pages with a despondent feeling. This was no longer just about the case, it was about these kids’ lives, and the lives of their families. Striker wondered how many of their parents had even been notified yet? Being a father himself, he could understand the devastation the news would bring, and the thought of informing these parents was unbearable. It hurt even to imagine it.

‘Follow me,’ he finally said to Felicia.

‘Where we going?’

‘To the cafeteria. I need to see the bodies.’

Striker moved quickly down the halls, and Felicia followed silently. The mention of the cafeteria had done something to her; Striker could see it, as easily as the deepening lines under her eyes.

And he understood it completely. He felt it, too.

Now, filled with cops and paramedics, the entranceway seemed ordinary and safe, if not a little cluttered and disorganised. It certainly felt nothing like the war zone it had been earlier this morning. Striker stopped. He turned and looked into Felicia’s face.

‘You okay?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

‘Good, good. We okay then?’

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Why wouldn’t we be?’

‘You acted kinda funny back there, in Caroline’s office. When I sent you to check up on that Nava Sanghera kid.’

Felicia sighed, like he just didn’t get it, then said, ‘You gave me an order, Jacob. A fucking order. And in front of everyone.’ When he didn’t apologise, and instead looked back at her in confusion, her face darkened. ‘I’m not being mentored here, Jacob, I work here. And I have for the past six months. I’ve been the primary on more files than anyone else in the office and I’ve got the highest solvability rate – you’d know that if you’d been around for ten seconds.’

She finished venting, and Striker let the air clear for a moment.

He smiled. ‘Wow, you really go for the jugular, don’t you?’

‘Hey, I’m part-vampire, right? What do you expect?’ She crossed her arms, went on: ‘And don’t talk to me about being fair. You’re never fair. Not once, in as long as I can remember, have you ever been fair.’

‘We talking about work again, or our relationship?’

‘There you go again, always with the jokes.’

‘I was just trying to lighten—’

‘You can’t lighten this. I’m not the rookie any more. Not in Homicide, and certainly not on the job. And I don’t like being treated that way. Hell, you’re the one who just came back. If anyone should be giving orders around here, it’s me.’

He let out a bemused chuckle. ‘I’m a ten-year Homicide vet, Feleesh, what do you expect? Shit, I got more time on lunch than you got on the job. Which makes me senior. I’m the primary on this case and I always will be.’

‘Self-appointed.’

‘Maybe so, but by right.’

Felicia opened her mouth like she was going to say more, then gave up. Her posture sagged, as if all the fight had drained out of her system. She looked down the hall, in the direction of the cafeteria, and when she spoke again, the fire in her eyes had gone out, and her voice was quiet.

‘Let’s just get this over with.’

Striker agreed. He reached out, touched her arm. ‘Look, Felicia, I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean a thing by it. I didn’t even know I was doing it.’

She just nodded.

‘I talked to some kids,’ she said. ‘They knew where Courtney was. Said she’d taken off to Metrotown Mall. Gone looking for costumes for the Parade of Lost Souls party on Friday. She’s been seen there since the shooting started. So she’s fine, Jacob. She’s safe. She’s just ignoring you like always.’

He exhaled slowly. ‘Thanks.’

‘I thought you should know.’ When he didn’t respond, Felicia gave him a puzzled look. ‘You know, it’s okay to be relieved. You’re human, after all. Far as I can tell.’

He tried to smile at her comment, but couldn’t. Learning that Courtney was safe was paramount, even if he had believed it from the beginning. But it didn’t relieve the stress he felt, the burden that weighed heavily on every decision he made. He looked back at Felicia and said, ‘I tagged him.’

‘What?’

‘The gunman, the one who escaped – Red Mask. I tagged him once, when I shot out the rear window of the car. I know it, I can feel it. I got him. And he’s hurt.’

‘I know,’ Felicia said. ‘That’s great.’

‘It’s not great, it’s a disaster.’ When Felicia gave him a confused stare, he continued: ‘There’s nothing more desperate than a wounded animal. If he was planning on killing more kids, I’ve just done the worst thing possible – I’ve sped up his plans.’ As Striker finished speaking the words, a cold, dark feeling filled his core. And he knew instinctively that something bad was going to happen. Something for which he would be responsible. Something he would regret.

There was no doubt about it. More death was coming.

Nineteen

Red Mask lay on a table. He opened his eyes. Looked around.

The room he was in was small, lit by bulbs bright as the winter sun. In the far corner by a greyish wall stood a small, old man. He was bald. With wrinkles carved so deep his face looked wooden.

It was the doctor. Jun Kieu.

Red Mask ignored him. He lay, staring up at the glaring whiteness above. Suddenly, Kim Pham blipped into view, snapped his fingers at the two men who stood guard by the door and said, ‘Get the fuck out.’

The room cleared, and then there was only Red Mask and Kim Pham and the doctor.

‘Release me,’ Red Mask said.

The doctor came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be still.’

Red Mask could not. He had gone back in time.

In his mind, Kim Pham’s white suit fell away and was replaced by a green cap and a grey buttoned-down jacket. There were screams coming from outside the window, from where the women were kept. And a machinelike voice spoke.

‘You are a special agent of the Central Intelligence Agency.’

‘Sister,’ Red Mask replied, and in his mind he was eight years old again. ‘Where is my sister?’

‘You are an emissary of the United Socialistic Soviet Republic.’

‘No. No. My family—’

‘You have shit in the food supplies to make the others sick.’

‘What?’

‘You have falsified medical documents to undermine the reputation of this hospital because it is an icon of its kind and a great testament to the glory.’

‘Mother! I want my mother!’

And then, like an evaporating mist, the vision dissipated. And Kim Pham stood there. The muscles of his face were tight behind his padded cheeks.

‘Fuck, this is bad. Bad, bad, BAD. Nothing is finished! The bosses won’t be happy.’ He paced back and forth, balled his fists against the sides of his head, then stopped. He leaned back over Red Mask and spoke in English, as he always did, for their dialects were too far apart. ‘Can you hear me? For fuck’s sake, can you hear anything?’

The words were too loud and too soft. But Red Mask responded. ‘I am here, I am awake.’

Kim Pham’s voice deepened. ‘What the hell happened over there? Did you get the job done?’

Red Mask felt the images overtake him, wave after nauseating wave. ‘A man appeared. Like a ghost. He came from nothing.’

‘A man? What man? What are you talking about? Was he a cop?’

‘A soldier, yes.’

Kim Pham became silent. He looked up at the flat-screen monitor that hung on the far wall. The news was on. The entire focus was St Patrick’s High. The images were blunt: yellow police tape; dead kids; frantic parents; lots of cops. Pham watched for a long moment, then nodded in acknowledgement of what was happening. He turned around slowly and gave Red Mask an odd look.

‘Where is Tran?’

The words hollowed out Red Mask’s heart. ‘Tran is no more.’

‘Stop talking in fucking riddles!’ Kim Pham yelled. He paused. ‘And what about Sherman Chan?’

‘Dealt with. As planned. But not . . . not Que Wong.’

‘Not Que.’ The words sounded flat as Kim Pham spoke them. ‘You let him get away?’

‘He did not show. That is why Tran had to come.’

‘Fuck! Another fucking failure. There’s gonna be a lot of heat over this, a lot of heat. They will not tolerate this.’ Kim Pham got on his cell, dialled and had a quick conversation in a dialect Red Mask could not understand. When he closed the flip-phone, he asked, ‘Where is Tran’s body?’

‘Where it fell.’

‘Stop talking in chicken fucking English – where did it fall?’

‘Saint Patrick’s.’

Kim Pham’s eyes took on a faraway stare. Eventually, he nodded. Gave Red Mask’s uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Rest, my friend. You need to heal.’ As Kim Pham turned to go, he gave the doctor a sideways glance. The old man nodded back. The movement was minimal, but Red Mask noticed the exchange.

And he acted.

When the doctor came towards him with the syringe, Red Mask grabbed the old man’s wrist. ‘What is name of medicine?’

The doctor tried to pull away. ‘It’s . . . it’s an antibiotic.’

‘What is name?’

‘. . . Naxopren . . .’

‘Liar!’ In one quick motion, Red Mask bent the old man’s wrist back until a loud crack filled the room. The doctor screamed, fell back, and Red Mask sat up. Kim Pham turned from the door, his hand going for his gun.

Red Mask was quicker. With his good arm, he pulled the Glock from behind his waistband and fired three times from the hip.

Pham’s white suit exploded with redness and he let out a strangled sound; he fell forward, landing hard on the dirty green vinyl. Almost immediately, the stairwell door burst open and the two men who’d brought Red Mask downstairs raced into the room.

Red Mask shot them both. By the time they hit the ground he was rushing across the small room. He locked the stairwell door. Spun and found the doctor. The old man was crouched in the corner, the needle still clutched in his broken right hand.

‘I have done nothing! Nothing!’ he whispered.

Red Mask neared the old man. ‘Untrue. You have done much, Doctor Kieu. In Vu Nuar, and Anlong Veng. Yes, you have done much horrible things. What is name of medicine?’

‘Naxopren! Naxopren!’

‘Inject yourself.’

The doctor’s eyes became rounder. ‘I . . . am not sick.’

‘Inject yourself!’

When the doctor did not move, Red Mask snatched up the syringe and drove the needle into his shoulder.

The old man screamed. ‘Please, please, Mok Gar Tieun!’

But Red Mask did not listen. He depressed the plunger.

The old man gasped. Trembled. Started to cry.

Red Mask’s face hardened. ‘Tears from you, Doctor? An irony – and an insult to your victims.’

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but only spittle came out. He clutched at his chest, then fell forward and slumped in the corner like a child’s doll. His breaths came deep and heavy; soon he began to shake more violently. Foam bubbled all around his lips. And then he became still.

The threat was over.

Red Mask struggled to get up and let out a cry when he put pressure on his injured shoulder. He focused on the TV screen. The news was on, showing a photograph of the cop who had ruined everything. The one who had manifested from nothing. Beneath his face was a name: Detective Jacob Striker.

Red Mask stared at him with dead eyes, this man who had killed Tran.

Let him come, he thought. It will change nothing. I will find the girl. And I will finish the job.

He headed for the exit with this one thought on his mind. The girl was still out there somewhere – the only one who had escaped him. Now that Tran was gone, her death was all that mattered. He would find her. And then he would kill her.

Twenty

Striker approached the cafeteria with Felicia beside him. The doors were open. Standing out front of them was a young cop – male, East Indian, easily six feet tall and square-jawed. A solid guy, no doubt, but still a rookie. Had to be. Only rookies got stuck with the shittiest of all posts – guard duty. When Striker got close enough to see the badge number on his shirt, he nodded with understanding. The kid barely had six months under his belt.

Six months, and already this would be his worst day on the job.

Striker badged him, then grabbed a pair of protective booties and slipped them over his shoes. Felicia did the same. They gloved up and stepped under the police tape.

The first thing Striker noticed was the smell – not of blood or of urine or of anything bad. It was a sweet smell – almost caramel-like. He looked ahead to the kitchen and saw the blown-apart racks of Coke bottles. Black liquid was stuck to the floor. Memories of dropping to the ground with shotgun blasts impacting over his head hit Striker, as explosive in his mind now as they had been in reality six hours ago.

He jerked in response to the memory and slowed his steps. Then he felt Felicia’s heavy stare upon him. No doubt analysing him. If he stalled at all, the questions would begin:

Is it too soon, Jacob?

Do you need some time, Jacob?

Are you coping, Jacob?

Without meeting her eyes, he said, ‘It’s sticky here,’ and made a point of walking around the tacky goo. He marched into the eating area where the gunfight had erupted, and immediately spotted four covered bodies. Students.

He turned away and saw another body. From where it lay, he knew it was one of the gunmen.

‘White Mask.’

Dark fascination overtook Striker, and he moved forward.

The body of the gunman lay face up between the first and second row of cafeteria tables. The bloodied-red vinyl around the body had been blocked off by red cones and bright strands of yellow tape.

Another crime scene within the crime scene.

Emotions hit Striker. So many of them. They mixed into some strange concoction he could not define. Suppressing them, he walked right up to the police tape, crouched low, and looked at the body.

The gunman’s head was completely gone, as were both his hands – obliterated in response to the shotgun blasts Red Mask had pumped through them. Even now as Striker stared at the carnage, he could hear the violent explosions reverberating through the room: ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-BOOM. Up this close to the body, he could now clearly detect the unique stink of death – the urine and blood and shit. And the faint trace of burned gunpowder, which lingered as a dark reminder.

‘There’s not much of the prick left,’ Striker said.

Felicia came up behind him. ‘Yeah, he kinda lost his head over the whole ordeal.’

Striker leaned back under the tape and stood up. He analysed where White Mask had fallen, then considered where Red Mask had been standing. He pointed to the area beyond the body. ‘Look for teeth over there. We gotta find something, some way of identifying this bastard.’

‘Ident’s already done that.’

‘They find any?’

‘No, but they combed this place down.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Keep looking.’

Felicia started to say more, stopped. She just shook her head, turned around, and walked between the second and third row of tables. After a few steps, she leaned down and, with a gloved hand, picked up one of the rounds that had been expelled during the firefight. She inspected it. A brass casing with an inset head on the bullet. Frangible. She held it up for him to see.

‘Hydra-Shok,’ she said.

Striker recalled the meaty exit wounds he had seen in some of the students.

‘Bag and tag,’ he said, and Felicia continued her search.

With her out of the way, Striker could better focus. He examined the top of White Mask’s neck. It was an uneven fleshy ridge. The edges glistened, and here and there spots of whitish bone and yellow cartilage could be seen – some of them blown deeper within the body.

The musculature around the neck struck him as odd. There was too much muscle bulk for a teenager. Striker grabbed hold of each clavicle and tried to move them. The joints shifted, but very stiffly, and he wondered if it was ossified near the sternum. That would mean the John Doe was older than they thought. Maybe even over thirty. He wasn’t sure, but it was something to bring up with the Medical Examiner.

Fanning down the left side of White Mask’s neck was a strange, golden design. It added colour to the copper skin. Striker leaned close and studied it. Calligraphic lettering, he thought, or perhaps an artistic design. Something tribal.

It was hard to tell because most of the design was blown away. The part which remained was clear around the edges, and the colours were vibrant. It had been done by a professional, no doubt. Unfortunately, eighty percent of it was gone, along with the rest of the gunman’s neck and head. Striker took out his notebook, noted the location and design, and drew a copy of what he could make out. Then he called Felicia over. She looked unimpressed.

‘That look gold or yellow to you?’ he asked.

‘Amber sunshine.’

The small stab at humour felt good, and Striker managed a weak grin. ‘I’m serious, Feleesh.’

‘Gold. Definitely gold.’ She knelt down and leaned under the police tape for a better look. ‘But there’s red in there too, at the uppermost edges.’

‘Red?’

Striker took a better look and realised she was right. He’d thought it was dried blood, but the colour was too bright compared to the rest of the crusted goo. It was ink.

‘Good call.’

After writing this information in his notebook, his eyes fell upon the area where the neck met the chest. Just below the collar bone, left side near the heart, was a crudely tattooed number 13. Striker noted this too. Wrote it down.

He scanned the rest of the chest.

Located perfectly in between the collar bones, at the top of the chest bone, there was one small dark hole, barely noticeable in contrast to the sundered flesh of the neck. This was the first point of impact – where his bullet had gone through, dead centre, then carried out via the rear of the throat, tearing through the gunman’s spinal cord.

Striker stared at that spot, and the recollection hit him all over again. The moment had happened so fast, more reaction and muscle memory than intention. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome might have been, had this first shot not landed with such pinpoint accuracy.

The thought left him sick inside.

Felicia stood beside him. She dropped her hand to her holster and rested her palm on the butt of her pistol. ‘That’s the shot that dropped him. Probably saved our lives. And God knows how many others.’ She spoke the words calmly, logically, without a trace of emotion. As if she were talking about a shot he’d made at the range, or even in a video game.

It drove Striker nuts. Here he was, struggling not to have a meltdown, while Felicia remained cool and composed.

‘Yeah, I got him centre mass,’ he finally said.

‘Great shot.’

‘Well, one of us had to hit him.’

Felicia flinched at the words. Striker caught her reaction, and immediately regretted saying them. You’re an ass, he told himself. Why push things? As Felicia spun away from him and headed in the other direction, he said ‘Look, Felicia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘Yes, Jacob, you did.’

‘Felicia . . .’

‘I’m looking for teeth. That is what you wanted – right, Boss?’

Striker stood fixed to the spot, half of him still angry, half wondering if he should go after her. He watched her search the room, clearly doing a grid, her head angled down, her long brown hair draping across the caramel skin of her cheek. She was beautiful – something he noticed far too often, but never mentioned. And for a moment, he recalled the brief time they’d shared together. It had been a wonderful two months, a temporary reprieve from the grief of losing Amanda. And though it had been exactly what he needed, he now regretted it. Nothing had been the same since. Not with their partnership, and not with their friendship.

And he wondered if it would ever be that good again.

Just then, the blue cafeteria doors swung open, stealing Striker’s attention. He looked over and saw a short cop walk through. He had a full head of jagged white hair, big white bushy eyebrows, and a stomach that hung way down over his belt. Looked like a mad professor.

Striker counted him as a good friend. It was Jim Banner. Noodles, as everyone called him – ever since he’d almost choked to death while eating a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack in Burnaby. Noodles worked in Ident. Hell, he was Ident. Worked seven days a week and damn near twelve hours a day. He carried the usual blue-light device and associated tool box, and upon seeing Striker he waddled faster and hollered across the room: ‘Hey, Shipwreck, stay the fuck out of my crime scene!’

Shipwreck. Few people were allowed to call Striker that, but Noodles was one of them. Which was only fair, considering that the eighty-thousand-dollar speedboat Striker had sunk on the team getaway ten years back had belonged to the man.

Striker smiled at him. ‘This is my crime scene, Noodles.’

‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Noodles reached the body of White Mask. ‘Last thing I need is more of your goddam DNA screwing up my results.’

‘I’ll try not to jerk off in the scene.’ Striker looked at his watch. ‘’Bout time you got your ass down here. It’s only been six hours since the shootings. What the hell took you so long? Someone open an all-day buffet down the road?’

‘Yeah, your mother did. Wanna know what I was eating? I’ll give you a hint – I’m not a vegetarian.’

Striker laughed, and let the banter go.

Noodles put down his tools. ‘Already been and gone twice, numb-nuts. Here to get some more blood samples.’ He looked down at the blown-apart body. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

Striker followed his gaze to the corpse. All the humour he had felt moments ago dropped away. ‘What have you got for me so far?’

Noodles shrugged. ‘The kid had a wallet in his back pocket. Nothing’s confirmed, but the name on the ID is Quenton Wong. He’s nineteen. Born December twenty-fifth.’

‘Oh joy, a Christmas Baby.’ Striker looked the body over. ‘Nineteen? Sounds a bit young for what I’m seeing.’

Noodles nodded in agreement.

‘What kind of ID?’ Striker asked.

‘Just the standard stuff. Driver’s licence, BCID, some bank cards, and of course, an old Saint Patrick’s Student ID Card. His primary residence is listed as Kerrisdale – Balsam Street. I’ve already sent the ID upstairs for prints and trace evidence.’

Striker thought of the gunmen. It looked like they were connected to the school in some way. Ex-students maybe. ‘You run him, Noodles?’

‘Yeah. And he’s got nothing. No history, criminal or otherwise.’

Striker frowned. ‘Completely negative? Tattoos and all?’

‘Fucking everything.’

Striker looked at White Mask’s ribs. On the left side was a series of thick white serrated scars, each about three inches in length.

‘What about those marks?’ he asked. ‘He’s got some on his inner arm too. Really odd scar formation.’

‘They look odd because he got them when he was still growing.’ Noodles looked back at the corpse, gave a shrug. ‘I dunno, Shipwreck. The guy’s a complete non-entity in the system. And by that I mean every damn database: CPIC, LEIP, PIRS and PRIME. Haven’t checked across the border yet, but I’ve done enough of your job. You can do that later.’

Striker turned silent for a moment. The fact that this kid had no police history, criminal or otherwise, was disturbing, if not unbelievable.

Noodles strapped on a pair of latex gloves. He nodded towards Felicia, who stood across the room with a pissed look still marring her pretty features, and said with a smirk, ‘What’s with my Spanish fantasy? Seems kind of sour. Or is she just picking up the better parts of your personality?’

‘The world should be so lucky.’

Noodles laughed. ‘You two at it again?’

‘Like the Inquisition.’

‘Jesus, isn’t this your first day back?’

Striker sighed. ‘Call me when you get some results.’ He wrote this latest information into his notebook. By the time he’d closed the book and stuffed it back into his pocket, Felicia had joined them.

‘Hey, Noodles,’ she said.

‘My Persian Princess.’

‘I’m Spanish, not Middle Eastern.’

Noodles shrugged as if to say, What? After that he went to work on the body. Felicia addressed Striker. There was no warmth in her voice.

‘Grid search done, Boss. No teeth found, Boss. Anything else, Boss?’

‘No, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Due diligence done.’

He turned away from Felicia and Noodles and marched steadily back across the room to the north-east corner – the one area he’d been avoiding since he’d entered this damn cafeteria. That was where the other gunman was still lying.

The shooter Laroche had deemed ‘possibly innocent’.

Black Mask.