The Guilty (34 page)

Striker studied the screen. ‘They’re back near Semlin again – at the old chop shop, I’ll bet. The Hing-Woo.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Maybe meeting Sleeves.’

Her words ignited him. Striker cranked the wheel, hit the gas and raced around the Franklin Street bend. He turned up Semlin, stopped out front of the Hing-Woo warehouse, and hopped out with the
handheld tracking device in hand. When Felicia joined him, he approached the front door of the warehouse and tried the handle.

Locked.

He went to look through the iron-barred window, paused. Sniffed. Then looked at Felicia.

‘You smell that?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It’s . . .
gunpowder
?’

Using one hand to hold the tracker, Striker drew his pistol with the other and slowly made his way around the building into the side lane, where the stink grew worse. Ten steps later, he saw
someone sprawled out in the loading zone, surrounded by a brownish-red puddle. He stopped hard.

‘Heads up, Feleesh, we got a DB here.’

She drew her pistol. ‘Copy. I got you covered.’

Striker swept his eyes around the lane, checking for threats. But all he saw were some old wooden pallets. An empty loading zone. And some broken bottles of soy sauce in the corner.

‘Cover me to the west,’ he said.

‘Copy, west.’

Striker approached the body.

As he closed the distance, it quickly became apparent that half the victim’s face had been blown away from the gunshot. Both knees had also been shot out. Striker reached the body, leaned
forward, and saw the hoodie – it was a dirty white colour with red block lettering across the front:

SNAFU.

‘Ah fuck me, this is Sleeves.’

Felicia came up beside him, gun nestled between both hands. ‘I’ll call it in.’

As she got on her cell and alerted Dispatch, Striker scanned the lane one more time. When he saw nothing, he started west, then stopped. He looked down at the handheld tracking device and saw
that the red-car icon representing Harry’s undercover Ford cruiser was still stationary.

And it was right
behind
him.

He turned around and approached the mouth of the lane, and saw no sign of Harry’s undercover cruiser. Not on the side street. Not in the laneway. And not in the vacant lot where the old
car dealership had been torn down.

For a moment he thought the GPS was buggered, or that the mount had dislodged from the vehicle. But then he looked across the way and saw the elevated parking lot of the A&W burger
stand.

Up there.

Felicia got off her cell. ‘Patrol’s a block out.’

Striker never took his eyes from the parking lot. ‘Put your back against the wall and hold the area, Feleesh . . . There’s something I need to see over here.’

Harry cut through the front door of the A&W burger stand, trying to get his breath.

Did that happen?

Did that really just fucking happen?

The words raged through his mind. His head felt light. He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to stop the trembling of his hands. But the shakes were hitting him hard now. Really hard.

Did that really just fucking happen?

Koda urged him on. ‘We gotta go, we gotta go, we gotta
move
!’

Harry said nothing. In front of him, rows of people blocked the way. The line-up to the till was twelve deep. And all around him, most of the tables were already full of people eating hamburgers
and French fries and onion rings. All he could smell was grease and vinegar and gravy.

‘Move, Harry, we gotta
move
!’

Robot-like, on autopilot, Harry moved across the tiled floor and pushed his way through the east-side door that led to the parking lot. The thick glass made the door heavy, and when it swung
open, hot humid air blasted in his face.

He started for the car.

Slowed.

Stopped.

Something tugged at the back of his mind . . . something Sleeves had said during their cell phone conversation:

I’m on Hastings Street.

It made Harry wonder: Why had Sleeves been looking for them up on Hastings Street when the meeting place was in the alley behind the warehouse? The more he thought about it, the more obvious the
answer became – because Sleeves had seen their cruiser parked in the A&W parking lot.

Up ahead, Koda was reaching for the vehicle.

‘WAIT!’ Harry said. ‘Don’t touch that car!’

Koda stopped. Wheeled back. ‘Jesus,
what now
?’

‘We got to make sure it’s not rigged or nothing.’

The thought of another bomb going off made Koda’s already-white face turn an even sicklier pallor, and he reared away from the vehicle.

‘You check it,’ he said.

Harry offered no response. He approached the undercover cruiser, got down on his hands and knees, and looked beneath the frame. The search took little time. Seconds. And he found something.
There, on the top of the leaf spring, was a device – though it was not the one Harry was expecting to see.

He reached under, tried to pry it free, and broke the base of the device right off the mount. He looked at what he was holding and felt a coldness wash over him. Not a bomb, but something
equally frightening – a Vancouver Police Department BirdDog.

They were being tracked.

Striker hurried up the steep incline of Semlin Drive and turned into the A&W burger stand. Inside, the foyer was jammed with the dinner rush. People were lined up at the
tills, sitting in booths, and even waiting for an available washroom.

The radio chirped at his side, and Sue Rhaemer began broadcasting that a dog was heading down to the shooting, along with several more patrol units. Moments later, Inspector Osaka came across
the air, his voice thick with disbelief that there had been yet another death on his watch this week.

‘Car 10 heading up,’ he said.

Striker blocked it all out. Made his way into the crowd. Assessed the people:

Chinese girl. Tight shorts, bikini top.

Black male, tall, shaved head.

Three white kids, computer geeks.

All non-threats.

He pushed further into the crowd, heading towards the parking lot. Halfway there, through the maze of people, he spotted the two cops he was looking for – Harry and Koda. They were in the
parking lot just outside the burger shack. Koda’s Halloween face was lost and stressed. Harry’s expression was one of tension and seriousness.

Harry was looking right back at him.

‘Hold it right there!’ Striker called out.

He headed for the door.

One moment Harry was standing there in disbelief, holding the GPS unit and realizing with all certainty that this was definitely Vancouver Police Department property. The next
moment, he was eyes-locked with Jacob Striker.

‘Motherfucker,’ he said.

He panicked. Stuffed the GPS base into his pocket. Then spun away from the restaurant. Immediately, his eyes found Koda. The man was standing there with a stunned look on his wrecked face.

Harry quickly formulated a plan. He grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic and the snub-nose pistol he’d used to kill Sleeves and stuffed them into Koda’s hands. The man’s face
filled with apprehension.

‘What the hell—’

‘Get out of here,’ Harry ordered.

‘But—’

‘Go now!’

Koda’s eyes flitted over Harry’s shoulder, then narrowed with understanding when he saw Jacob Striker coming through the restaurant. Gear in hand, he spun away from Harry and raced
for the driver’s side of the car.

Seeing Koda go, Harry wheeled about. He beelined towards the restaurant door to intercept and delay Striker from reaching the Crown Vic. All the while, a hundred thoughts raced through
Harry’s mind – all the standard questions he’d need answers to:

Why were you there?

Why did Koda take off?

Do you know Sleeves is dead in the alley?

Did you hear the gunshots?

The questions were endless. And halfway there, another idea surged to the forefront of his mind, one which would cover their tracks entirely.

Burn the car.

Harry stopped walking in the direction of the restaurant, spun about, and raced back towards Koda. After five steps, he caught sight of Koda, sitting there in the driver’s seat – and
the sight of the man made him come to a halt.

Koda was sitting there, frozen, with a terrified expression on his face. He was staring at the object that had been placed on the dashboard of the cruiser.

A doll of some kind.

Suddenly, Koda let out a strangled cry. He shouldered open the car door. Tried to get out.

But he was far too late.

A strange, wind-sucking sound filled the air, and was followed by a piercing flash of light. In one quick blast of smoke and fire and tearing metal, the Ford Crown Vic cruiser exploded –
killing Chad Koda in the process.

Striker raised his hands without thinking.

The flash came first – one giant burst of light, followed by the fracturing sounds of the windows. A percussive force powered through the A&W restaurant, driving wood and rock and dirt
and glass shards with it. One moment, Striker was hurrying to get outside, the next thing he knew he was spinning across the floor like a small toy flung by some giant child. He rolled and flipped,
and slammed into a nearby wall. Stunned, he instinctively reached for his pistol. Drew it. Tried to focus.

All around him, people were crying. Crawling. Screaming:

‘I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding!’

‘A bomb! It was a fucking bomb!’

‘. . . an ambulance, we need an ambulance . . .’

‘. . . she’s not breathing, someone—’

The screams and cries all mutated into one loud din that Striker could barely hear through his deafened ears. Dizzy, reeling, he grabbed on to the nearest booth and hauled himself to his feet.
The tiles beneath his shoes felt like moving mush; and the world shifted.

Out in the parking lot, the undercover police cruiser was nothing but a fragmented, flaming shell now. Dark smoke poured through the lot like some form of unfurling, gaseous molasses. And on the
ground, not twenty feet from the blast, was Harry.

The man tried to get up.

Fell.

Tried again.

Striker reached into his jacket pocket for the portable radio, found it wasn’t there. Swearing, he got his legs moving. He navigated through the chaos in the restaurant. Past two girls who
were standing there like frozen statues. Around an old lady who was on her knees, sobbing. He reached the exit door. Stared through the broken glass panes into the parking lot.

And then he saw the woman.

She was small but stocky. Dressed in coveralls – just like the man he’d chased yesterday by the toy store. She moved quickly into the parking lot, in a semi-crouched position, and
she moved with
purpose.
From behind her back, she suddenly pulled something out and zoned in on Harry.

Gun.

She had a gun.

Striker kicked open the broken frame of the door. Raised his SIG. Fought to stabilize himself.

‘Police – don’t move!’

The woman did not so much as flinch. She dropped lower, kept moving towards her target, and took one quick glance in Striker’s direction – assessing; clearly assessing. Then she
raised her gun and took aim.

But not at Striker.

She aimed at Harry.

With the world shifting all around him, Striker opened fire.

The first bullet hit the cement wall of the neighbouring shop; the second ricocheted off the burning husk of the police car; the third shattered the brick wall behind the woman. It startled her.
Stopped her dead in her tracks. And she turned her eyes towards him.

Saw that he had her lined up.

‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ Striker ordered.

In between them, Harry crawled behind a cement parking barrier.

When the woman saw this, her face darkened. She could not reach him now. And her hands tightened on the pistol.

‘Don’t do it,’ Striker warned.

He put one hand against the door frame to stabilize himself and fought to steady his aim.

‘Drop the gun! Drop it right now—’

He’d barely finished the sentence when the male appeared. He came from the south end of the lot, and was dressed exactly the same as the girl – a pair of workman’s coveralls
with an orange vest.

Like a flag-person.

The man raced across the lot, firing at Striker as he came. Quick double-taps.

Striker dropped down and hit the ground as the shots rang out.
One-two, three-four.
They ricocheted throughout the foyer. Clattered off tile and steel. Shattered more glass. And caused
the remaining customers to wail and scream in terror.

In the parking lot, Harry returned fire.

Striker needed cover. He rolled onto his belly. Tried to lift his head above the window partition and engage the enemy. But it was impossible – bullets continued to spear through the
restaurant in a constant stream of suppressive fire.

Five-six, seven-eight.

He was pinned down. Unable to reposition.

Couldn’t get a shot off.

And then he spotted Felicia. He had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been there. But suddenly she was at the broken remains of the northeast window, using the wall as
cover and emptying her clip on their enemies.

Her unexpected presence changed the firefight, forcing the enemy to reposition. They slid in behind one of the lot’s cement parking barriers and returned fire – though now on
Felicia. Two streams of bullets punched through the window like sideways rain.

‘Down!’ Striker yelled. ‘Everyone stay DOWN!’ Felicia dropped low and rolled for cover as more glass shattered all around her; Striker seized the moment. He rolled out.
Extended his arms. Took aim. And returned fire.