Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Twenty-One

As Striker approached the body of Black Mask, he searched the floor for the machine gun. It had been an AK-47. A Kalashnikov. He was certain of that – or at least he had been – but as he scanned the area, it was nowhere to be seen. He recalled seeing it fly over the serving counter behind the hot food racks, right after he’d plugged the shooter.

But nothing was there. Just blown-apart pop cans, jars of Jell-O, and Saran-Wrapped sandwiches.

Doubt lingered in Striker’s mind, like the beginning of a migraine. He shrugged it away, pretended it didn’t exist, then spotted another round on the floor near the serving counter. It was longer than the one Felicia had found, and pointier, tapered near the front. The cartridge was grey steel, the bullet jacketed with dull copper plate.

An AK-47 round.

The find killed Striker’s doubts. The gun must have been secured by the first attending officers, he rationalised. Had to be. Sure as hell couldn’t leave a machine gun sitting around unattended. Not in a school of all places. It was a detail he would have to investigate later.

Even if a part of him didn’t want to know the answer.

The lighting above Black Mask was dim, because the overhead fluorescent lights had been shattered by the ricochet of gunshot blasts. It was fitting, if not poetic. Black Mask, out of the light, dead in the shadows.

The body was lying in the exact same position as the last gunman – on his back, hands out to the sides, face up towards the ceiling. Yellow crime scene tape formed a box around the tertiary crime scene, looking like an evil Christmas ribbon. Striker gloved up with fresh latex.

‘I’m not finished over there!’ Noodles called out.

‘You never are.’

‘Don’t fuck with it, Shipwreck!’

Striker was too deep in thought to respond. Red Mask had taken the time to de-face and de-hand the other shooter, White Mask – the one with the Quenton Wong ID in his pocket – but not this gunman. So why? It didn’t add up. Striker leaned over the body and studied it. This gunman’s physique was less muscled than the other. Thin. Not fully developed. It was not implausible that he was a teenager. A student.

Striker studied the mask of the fallen gunman. It was pitch black in colour, moulded to fit the face, with two horizontal slots for eyes.

Two bullets had struck Black Mask, one just left of the centre of his head – a perfect lethal shot – and one in the chest bone. Striker inspected the path of the first round. The fatal bullet had entered through the gunman’s left cheek, the shock of the impact shattering one third of the black hockey mask.

Striker recalled what Laroche had told Felicia: ‘The boy might have been innocent.’

Impossible, Striker thought. And yet, the words haunted him.

With gloved fingers, he reached out and gently peeled the mask up and over the gunman’s head. Dried blood had stuck the plastic to the young man’s face like a second skin, and it came off with a soft pop sound.

He was exposed.

Striker studied the face. The shooter was definitely a teenager. One he had never seen. Asian, young – maybe sixteen. Something tugged at the back of Striker’s mind.

‘Felicia,’ he called. She was standing by Noodles; the two were going over something. She stopped talking and looked over.

‘Yeah?’

‘Get Caroline.’

Felicia didn’t respond verbally. Maybe it was the tone in his voice. She nodded and left the cafeteria. When she returned with Principal Myers five minutes later, Striker saw that Caroline’s eyes were clearer now, but her face remained ghostly white. She walked across the cafeteria on wobbly legs.

‘Over here,’ Striker called.

Felicia marched along, unruffled and unconcerned; Principal Myers followed slowly, as if every step was painful. Her eyes scanned the cafeteria, stopping on every covered body that filled the room. The grief on her face was damn near palpable. Striker could tell what she was thinking:

Which ones of my kids are under those sheets?

Hardened cop or naive civilian, it was too much for anyone to assimilate.

Principal Myers came to within a foot of the crime-scene tape, where Striker was crouched, and she shivered as if cold.

‘Caroline—’

‘You want me to look?’

‘I’ve got a hunch who this kid is, and I think you know too.’ He looked up at the Principal. ‘Be warned, he’s been shot in the face. Most of the damage is out the back of the head, where the bullet exited, but still . . . it won’t be pretty.’

‘Okay,’ she managed.

Slowly, Striker stood up, to reveal the body behind him.

‘You recognise this kid?’

Principal Myers said nothing for a moment. She just wavered on the spot, and Felicia had to grab her arm for fear the woman would careen over. After a few seconds, tears slid down her face as she whispered, ‘It’s Sherman. My student helper.’

Striker nodded. ‘Now we know who turned off the video.’ He ducked out from under the crime scene tape. Spoke softly. ‘Who was this kid, Caroline? I mean, really. Who did he hang out with?’

‘He . . . he was a good kid. Really, he was. A good kid.’

‘Good kids don’t murder other kids.’ Together with Felicia, Striker guided the Principal away from the fallen gunman, to the other end of the cafeteria where there were no bodies or blood to distract her. Once there, he sat her down and said straight to her face: ‘Whatever image you had about this kid is gone, Caroline. Forget it. He’s not what you thought. I need you to be sharp here. Think hard. Who was Sherman Chan, and who did he hang out with?’

The woman reached into her suit jacket and pulled out a package of Kool Lights. Menthol.

‘Not in here,’ Striker said. ‘It’s a crime scene.’

She put them away. ‘He . . . he didn’t have a lot of friends. Sherman was a computer kid, a bit of a loner, really. Though he did hang out with two other boys. One was from the computer lab, and the other was his friend’s friend. An older boy by a few years. Previous drop-out.’

‘Their names?’

‘Raymond Leung was one of them,’ she said. ‘He was Sherman’s friend in the computer lab. A foreign kid. Exchange student from Hong Kong. Doesn’t speak a whole lot of English. I can get you his details.’

‘Good, we’ll need them.’ Striker wrote down the name in his notebook, then looked at Caroline. ‘And the other kid? The older one – the drop-out.’

‘Que Wong.’

‘Que Wong?’ Striker’s eyes shifted back to the crime scene behind them, where Noodles was taking swab samples from the headless gunman. He gave Felicia a quick glance, making sure she said nothing, then focused back on Principal Myers. ‘I need to speak to these kids, Caroline.’

She nodded. ‘I think they live together,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you their contact information. And photographs.’

Striker stopped her. ‘They haven’t been located yet?’

‘Raymond never showed up for school today, and as for Que – well, he’s been gone from this school for a long time now. Never really was in attendance, even when he was here.’

An electric sensation pulsed through Striker, but he said nothing more. As he ushered Principal Myers out of the cafeteria, he told her he needed their yearbook photos, or whatever else she had that was more recent. On the way down the hall towards her office to get him the printouts he required, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and wept.

Striker looked away and sighed. She was damaged goods now. Nothing would ever be the same for her again. Certainly not in this school.

And maybe not in life.

Felicia came up next to him. ‘Good instincts about Black Mask. You were bang on right about the kid.’

He turned to face her. ‘I know that. I always knew that. You should have known it too, instead of listening to Laroche.’

She let out a tight breath. ‘Look, Jacob, I never said I didn’t believe you.’

‘And you never said you did, either.’

‘You’re picking at straws.’

‘Am I? Look at the dead kid over there and tell me that.’ Striker tried to suppress his anger, but couldn’t. ‘We’re the only reason more kids aren’t dead, Felicia. Us, not Laroche. And here Mr White-shirt wants to take my gun away. Un-fucking-real.’

‘Jacob—’

He turned away and grabbed his cell. He looked at the screen, saw that there were no calls, and grimaced. He dialled Courtney’s number again, got the latest Britney message, something about someone being a womaniser. That was good, it meant she was fine, though more concerned about changing her voice messages than contacting her father. Again, he tried to leave a message but couldn’t. He shut off the phone. Cursed. Caught Felicia’s stare.

‘She’s still screening her calls,’ he said.

‘She probably doesn’t know what happened yet – you know how teenagers are with the news – and she sure as hell doesn’t want you to know she’s skipping school. She probably has no clue about any of this. Otherwise she would call, Jacob. You know that.’

He looked at her like she was crazy. ‘How couldn’t she know? It’s been hours since the shootings.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe her cell died, maybe she left it at home, maybe she’s turned it off to avoid you because she knows she’s in shit. Who cares? We know she’s all right, people have already told us that. One of those girls – Marnie Jenkins – spotted her on a bus near the mall not an hour ago. She’s out there having fun.’

Striker moved to the cafeteria window, stared outside. The sky was losing light, everything looking colder and darker. It felt like it had two years ago when the problems with his wife, Amanda, were at their worst. Just prior to her death.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Almost four o’clock.’

Christ, he thought. Over seven hours since the shootings. It felt like days. Another life.

And now, maybe it was.

He drew his Sig and slid out the mag. He replaced it with another full one, out of habit, then put the pistol back into the holster. When he looked at Felicia, she was eyeing him warily.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I’m thinking the world has gone crazy.’ Striker scanned the cafeteria, took one last look at the hell he would never forget. At the blood that was everywhere, turning the floor into a giant red-and-white checkerboard. At Noodles, who was still taking fluid samples from one of the gunmen. At Sherman Chan – Black Mask – the student helper Striker had shot dead.

At everything.

It was too much. All too much.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Striker said. ‘I’m drowning in the shit. I need to leave this goddam school for bit. Clear my head. Everything here is too close.’

Through the double-doors, Striker spotted Caroline at the end of the hall. She had returned with the yearbook pictures, and Striker went out to meet her. He took them, thanked her, and left her standing and staring at the crime scene in front of her.

When Felicia caught up to him, Striker spoke aloud: ‘Sherman Chan was Black Mask. That fact is undeniable. And as far as we know – at least from the ID in the gunman’s pockets – Que Wong was White Mask.’

‘Which leaves only Red Mask,’ Felicia said.

‘Right. According to Caroline, Raymond Leung lived with Quenton Wong. He was also known to hang out with Sherman Chan. So it can’t be a coincidence that Raymond was absent from school today.’

‘You think he’s Red Mask.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

They headed for Kerrisdale.

Twenty-Two

Courtney sat opposite Raine and Que in a small secluded booth. It faced the front door, which led directly into the north lane of Kingsway. An unusual entrance anywhere else, but it seemed to make sense with this restaurant, the Golden Lotus. Everything about the place felt secluded and secretive. No sign lit up the parking lot, telling the world the restaurant even existed; the iron-barred windows were blocked from view by dark green hanging drapes, and there were no printed menus. Que had ordered everything for them in Cantonese.

When the food came, Courtney had to admit he’d done well.

Raine pushed a plate of pan-fried prawns towards Courtney. They smelled of garlic and green onions. ‘You got to try one of these, Court, serious. They’re to die for.’

She took one and broke off the tail. Put the meat in her mouth. It tasted strongly of chilli pepper and something sweet.

‘Isn’t that just so damn good?’ Raine said again. ‘I could eat, like, the whole plate myself. Serious. The whole plate.’ She plucked up another one and stuffed it into Que’s mouth. He let her, not really looking at either of the girls but keeping his eyes on the doorway.

It had been like that the entire meal, and it was making Courtney nervous.

No one would ever have accused Que Wong of being a social butterfly, but he had barely said two words since they’d gotten there. Hell, he’d said more to the waiter when ordering their food. And as for the food, he’d hardly touched a thing, instead choosing to sip from the bottle of Wiser’s Deluxe he had ordered with the meal. He just sat there, sipping whisky, waiting and looking out the front window. He chewed the prawn mechanically, then caught Courtney’s stare.

‘Want more?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Then what is it?’

‘You’re sweating.’

He tilted his eyes up, as if he could somehow see the beads of perspiration dampening his brow, and grabbed a napkin. After wiping his forehead, he muttered something about the restaurant being hot.

But the restaurant wasn’t hot. If anything, it was cold. So cold that Courtney had put on her jacket. She looked to Raine for a response.

But Raine was smelling the glass of whisky Que had poured for her and wincing. She caught Courtney’s stare and giggled. When Courtney didn’t respond, she gave her a look that said, What now?

Courtney said nothing. She looked outside to where Que had been staring all meal long, and saw the growing darkness of the sky. A quick glance at her watch told Courtney it was now half past four, and she let out a surprised sound. In an hour, Dad would be finishing up his shift in Homicide. An hour after that, he’d be home. And given the fact he knew she’d been skipping, he was gonna be in one hell of a mood. The thought soured her, and she wished her mom was still around. Missed her terribly.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Raine said.

Courtney looked up. ‘I have to go.’ She pulled out her wallet.

‘Don’t bother,’ Que said. He reached into the left pocket of his designer hoodie and pulled out his wallet. It was a fancy one, black shiny leather, maybe eel or snakeskin, and covered by a red and gold design she couldn’t make out. More noticeably it was bulging with green, easily a couple of inches thick.

Que got up from the table, pulled out a pack of Player’s Filter Lights cigarettes and lit one up. Took a long drag. He walked to the register, where a slender Asian girl was adding up receipts behind a Cash Only sign. She touched his arm several times and smiled a lot. Que didn’t seem to notice. He paid for the meal, all the while keeping his head craned to the alley outside.

Courtney leaned across the table. ‘You see how much money he’s got in his wallet?’

Raine shrugged. ‘Always does.’

‘How’s he get it?’

‘His dad’s a businessman overseas. In Hong Kong. Makes theme parks or hotels or something like that. Something fancy. Anyway, he’s loaded. Don’t worry so much, Court. God, you always worry!’

When Que returned to the table, Raine got up, excused herself, and went to the washroom. With her gone, a silence filled the air. Uncomfortable. Courtney listened to the clatter coming from the kitchen, looked up and found Que’s fake green eyes staring heavy on her. He took another deep drag on his cigarette, blew out a long trail of smoke, and grinned.

‘I should take you out for dinner sometime, too, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Take you out for dinner, just you and me.’ He leaned forward and rested on his forearms. ‘One night when you’re really, really hungry, Beautiful.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be that hungry.’

‘You might be,’ he said, and smiled.

Courtney leaned back in her chair, away from the table, away from Que until Raine got back from the rest room.

‘What you guys talk about?’ Raine asked.

‘Food,’ Courtney said. She let out a long breath. Her throat was dry, her water glass empty. She refilled it from the pitcher, drank a third of a glass, and looked back at the register, just in time to see Que get up and pay for another bottle of whisky. As he did so, he leaned forward across the counter and his white hoodie rode up at his waist.

Courtney blinked. There was something underneath the back of Que’s hoodie, something about the size of a man’s hand. And it brought back all the bad feelings she’d been experiencing ever since they’d met him two hours ago in the mall.

It was a gun.

Courtney knew it. For sure. She’d seen her father’s Sig too many times to count when he worked plainclothes or undercover.

‘Raine,’ she started, then cut herself short when Que returned to the table.

He didn’t sit down. Instead he took his wallet back out, grabbed a pair of fifties, and handed them to Raine. ‘Take a cab home,’ he said.

Her smile weakened. ‘But I thought . . . Well, I thought that tonight . . .’

‘I have to go. Meet me at the usual place tomorrow night.’

The smile slipped a little more from Raine’s face and she gave Courtney a confused look. Que grabbed her, pulled her close. He gave her a long kiss, one so deep Courtney’s cheeks grew hot and she turned momentarily away from them. When the kiss ended, Raine let out a gasp, laughed softly, and touched his face.

‘Are you sure—’

‘I have to go,’ he said again. His voice was distant, faraway. ‘Wait here for ten minutes before you leave.’

‘Wait?’

‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be gone a while.’

‘But I thought tonight was going to be—’

‘Enough!’ he snapped. He rubbed a hand over his face and muttered something in a language Courtney didn’t understand. ‘I should never have gotten this close to you.’

Raine gave him a lost look. ‘I don’t understand.’

Que looked back at her, said nothing for a long moment, then he touched her face softly.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s me. Go home.’

Raine nodded. ‘You’ll call?’

‘Meet me tomorrow, like we’d planned. We’ll talk more then.’

He kissed her again, hard, then turned away and grabbed the bottle of whisky. He spoke to the young Asian girl at the cash register, and she led him through the kitchen out the rear entrance. The door slammed closed, so loudly the girls heard it in the eating area, and then they were alone again, just the two of them in a strange back alley restaurant that had no menus or sign or name. A place where people left by the back door.

Twenty-Three

Striker drove.

They took the soft decline of Dunbar Street, heading south towards Kerrisdale. Traffic was heavy, the narrow roadway clotted from the rush-hour flow. Everyone was fighting to make their way home under the dark shroud of cloudbanks. Road conditions were poor. Striker felt the car slip on an oily patch of rain, and he eased off the gas.

No point in dying just yet.

‘We should be calling the Emergency Response Team.’ Felicia spoke the words with authority, and it was the fourth time she had said this to Striker.

‘And like I’ve told you, there’s no time for that. We call in ERT and this will turn into a six– or seven-hour standoff. You know how it is with those guys. Next thing you know we’ll have dogmen on scene, and Laroche will show up and call for a negotiator – and then we’ll have a real wait on our hands.’

Felicia rested her head against the window. ‘Fine. Your call, Jacob. But Laroche is gonna freak, and you know it.’

‘All the more reason to do it.’ When Felicia didn’t respond, Striker explained his reasoning. ‘Look, all we got on this Raymond Leung kid is circumstantial at best. Friendship and absenteeism. Nothing. We don’t have one bit of hard proof that Raymond Leung is involved in anything worse than skipping class.’

Felicia bit her lip. ‘Still, Laroche should know.’

‘Forget Laroche.’

‘I’m just saying—’

‘You’re always “just saying”. Haven’t you ever noticed how the guy never makes a decision? Not on anything? He just shows up for the news conference and reiterates decisions other people have made. Gets his fat face on TV and takes absolutely no responsibility for anything. Not ever.’

‘Can I finish a sentence?’

‘Who’s stopping you?’

‘You are, and you’d know that if you listened to yourself as much as you want other people to.’ She took in a deep breath, then continued, ‘All I’m saying is, yes, the man has flaws. We all do. But for some reason, you’ve got it in for him. You provoke him. Like you did back at the school.’

‘Back at the school?’

‘Yes.’

‘I provoked him?’

‘You were a bit harsh.’

‘He wanted my gun.’

‘He has a right to it, Jacob. A legal right. Hell, an obligation. And you challenged him on it, right in front of everyone. You gave him nowhere to go, no way out. Like you always do with anyone who so much as blocks your way.’

‘You saying I’m a bull in a China shop?’

‘More like a rampaging rhino.’ She let loose a soft laugh, then stopped talking for a moment, as if replaying the scene in her mind.

Striker held his tongue on this one. Because he had to. It was typical of Felicia to never leave anything be. She would just pick and pick and pick until there was nothing left. Sometimes, with her, it was better to let things go.

The light changed to green, and Striker drove south on Dunbar. When they crossed Forty-First Avenue, he reached down and made sure his gun was snug in its shoulder-holster. Just feeling the grip brought him a sense of calm. He gave Felicia a glance.

‘We’re getting close. Call for another unit – preferably plain-clothes. We’ll need them stationed out back in case this prick runs.’

Felicia got on her cell, called Dispatch, got a unit started up.

A few turns later, on Balsam Street, Striker killed the headlights and pulled over. The twilight was deepening, the dark sky purpling under the growing reaches of night and angry cloud. Striker stared through the darkness, thankful for the few streetlights that splattered the road.

Far down Balsam Street, at the end of the roundabout, stood a large, square, two-storey house. It was a modern special – made up of big dark windows and grey concrete walls – and front-lit only by the weak light of the streetlamps.

Striker pointed ahead to it. ‘That’s Quenton Wong’s residence, or at least where he’s listed as staying.’

‘What about Raymond Leung?’

‘Leung is an exchange student. Apparently, he lived with Quenton in his parents’ house.’ Striker shrugged. ‘That’s all I could get from Caroline.’

He pulled out his cell and called Information. After obtaining the telephone number for the residence, he called it, let the phone ring a dozen times, got no answer and hung up.

‘No one’s home,’ he said. ‘Or no one’s answering. No machine either.’

Felicia never took her eyes off the house. ‘No lights are on.’

‘Means nothing. God knows, if I was on the run, every light in the house would be off and I’d be as heavily armed as possible.’ He located the magazine release on his pistol, he pushed the button and slid out the mag, made sure it was topped up, then reloaded. He glanced down at Felicia’s chest, looking for a trauma plate bump.

‘You wearing?’

She rapped her knuckles over the centre of her chest, and it made a hard thunk! ‘Momma didn’t raise no fools.’

‘Good.’ Striker reached into the back seat and grabbed the shotgun. He racked it once, chambering a round, and gave Felicia a grave look.

‘Time for some people to face the Reaper.’

When backup was in place – all of them plainclothes units – Striker gave Felicia a nod and she drew her pistol. His palm felt wet, almost slippery now, and he tried to convince himself it was just the rain wetting his skin. But he knew better. And all at once, it felt like he was heading back into the cafeteria again to battle the three gunmen.

Tactically, the situation was a nightmare. Two cops with forty cals and one shotgun. They had no distraction or dark-light devices, just a couple of Maglites and the flashlights attached to their guns. On that note Felicia had been right. The Emergency Response Team could handle this takedown better, especially if machine guns and shotguns became the weapons of choice.

But ERT needed time, and that was the one luxury they couldn’t afford. As far as Striker was concerned, time didn’t even exist any more. Not in a normal state. Everything was just one big rush before the next shooting.

He snuck down the sidewalk, shotgun in hand. It was loaded with ten gauge – enough power to stop a black bear – and he rejoiced at the feel of the stock against his inner arm. It wasn’t just any old shotgun, it was a combat shotgun. Benelli. A tiny piece of lightning in his hands.

Without looking back, he asked Felicia, ‘You got me covered?’

She came up behind him and gave his shoulder a squeeze, indicating she was not only there, but on full alert. Striker readied the shotgun and moved forward.

Approaching the house from the front was bad tactics, even under the best of circumstances. To the west, the neighbour’s exterior lights were turned off, and Striker saw no motion detectors. He opted to use the yard as cover. As he led Felicia through it, straddling the fence and searching for dogs, the thought of booby traps filtered through his mind. IEDs – Improvised Explosive Devices – were common with these nut-jobs, starting back with the Columbine kids who had planned on blowing up the entire library.

Because of this, he stopped when they crested Que Wong’s backyard, he turned to face Felicia and whispered, ‘Eyes up for IEDs. Wires. Bottles. Containers – whatever. High and low. Watch every step.’

She nodded. Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were steady, determined. As much as a part of him begrudged her this ability to turn her emotions to ice, he also loved it. She was a rock in the field, always standing next to him when the worst of the shit hit.

That couldn’t be said about all the other cops he’d worked with.

A long hedge of manicured bush, five feet high, separated the two yards. In the rain and darkness, it looked like a solid row of blackness. As Striker flanked the hedge, searching for a break in the bush, a sliver of light found his eyes. It was coming from Que Wong’s backyard.

From the ground.

‘What the hell?’ Striker heard Felicia say.

He reached back and tapped Felicia, then pointed to the lit-up area of grass. Her long hair was wet, sticking to the edges of her face, and she shivered as she nodded. Striker felt the cold, too. The fall wind picked up, whistling through the greenery and blowing the rain into his face.

With Felicia covering his back, he crept along the bush-line until he found a small break in the greenery. It was narrow, but passable. He pressed between the two bushes and took in the full view of the yard.

It was ordinary, small. In the middle, near the house, was a small patio area, complete with a propane barbecue and an outdoor patio table with chairs. At the far end of that, an upright cement birdbath stood, nestled between two rows of barren shrubs. Striker let his eyes roam beyond the shrubs to a pile of old broken cinderblocks by the far fence.

The light was coming from the pile.

Striker made sure Felicia saw it. When she nodded, he moved forward and cleared the rest of the yard, finishing up with the patio. From this new vantage, he could see that the cinder blocks weren’t in a pile, but were arranged in a small square design. And in the very centre of them was a hatch, coming right out of the earth. A square of dirty light spilled out around the edges.

‘Well water?’ Felicia guessed.

He shook his head. ‘Bunker.’

‘Bunker?’

‘An old bomb shelter, I think. Step back. Cover me.’ He dropped down to one knee and studied the door in the earth. It was small, barely two feet by two feet. Only one person could get through that space at a time, and that was if there was a ladder going down, not steps. He took out his flashlight, turned it on, and ran the beam all around the edges of the hatch.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Looking for wires. Igniters. Switches.’

‘You see any?’

‘No. But be ready.’

He put his flashlight away and with the shotgun in one hand, he grabbed hold of the latch, the steel feeling cold and wet against his skin, and heaved as fast and hard as he could.

The door was hinged at the top, and the joints screeched gratingly as the door opened, then slammed hard against the back row of cinderblocks.

Striker stared down into the hole and saw no movement inside. A dim light from an unseen source revealed a rickety-looking ladder descending into the earth. At the bottom, a murky passageway trailed north.

‘It goes towards the house,’ he told her. ‘Watch our backs.’

As he stepped down onto the first rung of the ladder, Felicia grabbed his shoulder.

‘You’re not going down there,’ she said.

He never took his eyes off the cavern below. ‘You got a better idea?’

‘Yeah. Get a dog.’

‘Forget that. No mangy mutt’s going down here to tear through all my evidence.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Just cover me,’ he said.

‘It could be a trap.’

‘Exactly, so don’t follow. Stay here and make sure no one locks me down there.’ And before she could protest more, he descended into the earth.

The ladder went down ten feet, then ended abruptly. Once on the ground level, he could see the source of the light: an exposed fluorescent tube that ran down the centre of the far room. From its light, he could see that the long corridor he was standing in ran straight towards the house, then ended in a large open room. From where he stood, there appeared to be no other doors in or out.

Just one big underground square of concrete.

Keeping the shotgun ready, he stepped forward. The room was cluttered with things. Stacks of small water tanks lined the far wall. Wooden shelves held canned goods, survival kits, batteries and toiletries. Sheets of white plastic covered the walls.

Striker stood still. Breathed as quietly as he could. Waited and watched for movement. There were no obvious signs of threat, but that meant nothing. Situations like this were explosive and often unpredictable.

He inched forwards into the open room. Almost immediately, he detected something in the air. Something beside dampness and old rotting wood. It was a distinct smell, a familiar smell.