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Authors: Sean Slater

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The Guilty

BOOK: The Guilty
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The Guilty

Jacob Striker [3]

Sean Slater

Canada (2013)

When Homicide Detective Jacob Striker discovers a torture chamber
in a steel barn down by the river, he is propelled into an
investigation that leads to two mysterious bombers. Every few hours,
another victim is targeted, located - and then blown to smithereens. 
Very quickly, Striker realizes the attacks are not random. But one
obvious question remains: Why? With people dying at an alarming rate,
Striker desperately searches for an answer to this question. When he
discovers it, a stark coldness fills him. For he begins to understand.
The reason leads back to a police file that is now ten years old. To a
dark and dangerous place across the seas. And to one of Striker's oldest
mentors and dearest friends. 
With time running out, Striker must
catch the two bombers before they finish the job and complete their kill
list. Otherwise there will be little left for Jacob Striker to save.
Little left, but dust and bones.
The Guilty

Sean Slater
is the pseudonym for Vancouver Police Officer Sean Sommerville. As a police officer, Sommerville works in Canada’s poorest slum, the
Downtown East Side – an area rife with poverty, mental illness, drug use, prostitution, and gang warfare. He has investigated everything from frauds and extortions to homicides. Sommerville
has written numerous columns for editorials for the city newspaper. His work has been nominated for the Rupert Hughes Prose Award, and he was the grand-prize winner of the Sunday Serial Thriller
contest. His debut novel,
The Survivor
, was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Award.

Also by Sean Slater

The Survivor

Snakes & Ladders

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS company

Copyright © Sean Slater, 2013

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Sean Slater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47110-136-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47110-138-0

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

This book is dedicated to two people who shared my childhood and helped make it such a magical time.

To
Billy
,

who I gave an airplane ride into a tree.

I am sorry for that (not really).

And to
Cindy
,

whose Barbie dolls I drowned in the bathtub too many times to count.

I’m sorry for that, too (again, not really).

Contents

Part 1: Fuse

Wednesday: One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Thursday: Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Eighty

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Eighty-Three

Eighty-Four

Eighty-Five

Eighty-Six

Eighty-Seven

Eighty-Eight

Eighty-Nine

Ninety

Ninety-One

Ninety-Two

Friday: Ninety-Three

Ninety-Four

Ninety-Five

Ninety-Six

Ninety-Seven

Ninety-Eight

Ninety-Nine

One Hundred

One Hundred and One

One Hundred and Two

One Hundred and Three

One Hundred and Four

One Hundred and Five

One Hundred and Six

One Hundred and Seven

One Hundred and Eight

One Hundred and Nine

One Hundred and Ten

One Hundred and Eleven

One Hundred and Twelve

One Hundred and Thirteen

One Hundred and Fourteen

One Hundred and Fifteen

One Hundred and Sixteen

One Hundred and Seventeen

One Hundred and Eighteen

One Hundred and Nineteen

One Hundred and Twenty

One Hundred and Twenty-One

One Hundred and Twenty-Two

One Hundred and Twenty-Three

One Hundred and Twenty-Four

One Hundred and Twenty-Five

One Hundred and Twenty-Six

One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

Saturday: One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

One Hundred and Thirty

One Hundred and Thirty-One

One Hundred and Thirty-Two

One Hundred and Thirty-Three

One Hundred and Thirty-Four

One Hundred and Thirty-Five

One Hundred and Thirty-Six

One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

One Hundred and Forty

One Hundred and Forty-One

One Hundred and Forty-Two

One Hundred and Forty-Three

One Hundred and Forty-Four

One Hundred and Forty-Five

One Hundred and Forty-Six

One Hundred and Forty-Seven

One Hundred and Forty-Eight

One Hundred and Forty-Nine

One Hundred and Fifty

One Hundred and Fifty-One

Two

Three

Part 1:
Fuse
Wednesday
One

The bomb may have been set to go off in three hours, but the fuse had been lit nine years ago. They had been long years. Hard years. And the notion of it all brooded in the
bomber’s mind like a nuclear winter haze.

He knelt on the concrete floor of the steel barn and stared at the woman who was strapped to the chair in front of him. She was attractive. Middle-aged. Dark-skinned. And she was crying softly
– had been for damn near an hour now. Mascara-thick tears stained her ebony cheeks.

Her sorrow meant nothing.

He turned his eyes away from the woman. Ignored her sobbing and waffling and suffering. Instead, he focused on the burlap sack, for it was what mattered now. As he opened the bag, the orange
light of the barn lamp tinted his face, making his damaged skin look like a dried-up peel. It was a sight to behold, and the gobsmacked woman tied to the chair could not help but stare.

He focused on the strange motley of items he was removing from the bag.

Yellow sponge . . .
check
.

Micro-tape recorder . . .
check
.

Red file folder . . .
check
.

And of course, the toy – a hand-crafted wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform. That was the essential piece . . .
BIG check
.

The bomber stared at the toy. The wooden duck was roughly the size of an iron, and had been personified with arms and legs, so that it somewhat resembled a Daffy or a Donald Duck, and not a real
one. Painted on its chest was a bright red number
6
. The sight of it made the bomber smile sadly. He stuck his finger through the steel O-ring, gave it a pull, and listened to the
bird’s voice-box come to life:

‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

The recording ended, and he looked at the duck for a long moment. His smile slipped away, but he did not frown. He did not show any emotion. He just knelt there looking at the wooden duck and
feeling overwhelmed by memories – ones which were slanted and out of order.

Like a row of freight train cars that had gone off the tracks.

When his thoughts derailed, he stared at the woman. A strange mix of emotions distorted her face. Confusion. Fear.

Pain
.

She choked back her tears. ‘Pl-please. I’ve told you
everything
. You don’t . . . you don’t have to do this.’

In an instant, his expression changed. Turned dark. And his blue eyes looked like ice under the jagged rim of black hair. When he angled his head to see her, his face looked maniacal in the
strange orange hue of the barn lamp.


I’m
not doing anything,’ he said. ‘You’re the reason for all of this. And you bloody well know it.’

The woman broke down.

He barely heard her sobs. Already he was looking at his watch, going over timelines, analysing strategy. So far, the operation was going well.

Battle One of this long war had started.

Were it not for the fact that he really didn’t
want
to do this – hell, he didn’t want to hurt anyone – the bomber would have smiled. Because everything was going
perfectly well. Spot on without a glitch.

And then the teenage girl stumbled through the first-floor doorway.

And everything went to hell.

Two

Homicide Detective Jacob Striker sat in the driver’s side of the undercover Ford Fusion and sipped from a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, black. The brew was hot
– too hot for the summer heat wave which had moved in late June and was still residing like a bad tenant, halfway through July.

BOOK: The Guilty
10.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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