The Survivor (20 page)

How could they not? Meathead was an asset. A force to be reckoned with. He was afraid of no man, and his military background and fighting arts gave him the skills to lead any operation the Department required. He was a specialist.

Striker pointed ahead. ‘There he is.’

Felicia made an
ugh
sound.

Striker parked the cruiser in the nearest stall, and they both climbed out.

‘Morning, Meathead,’ Striker called.

Meathead looked up and spotted them both. ‘Shipwreck. Fellatio.’

Felicia’s posture tightened. ‘In your dreams, pal.’

‘Oh, all the time, Beautiful.’ Meathead barked out a laugh. ‘Hell, give me a few minutes and I’ll whip something up for you right now.’ He closed his eyes, dropped his hand into his black sweatpants and started making perverted, grunting noises.

Felicia gave Striker one of her
Can-we-leave?
looks, and he ignored it. He stepped closer to Meathead, gave the man a swat on the shoulder.

‘Knock it off.’

‘Gimme a second, I’m almost there.’

‘
Meathead
.’

‘Oh fine, ruin my fun.’ Meathead opened his eyes, offered a dirty smirk, then returned his attention to the black case he was securing. It was for the carbine, the latest long-range rifle the Department was investing in. Meathead snatched it up like it weighed five pounds, not fifty, and threw it in his locker. Once everything was secure, he walked away and motioned for Striker and Felicia to follow him.

They did, Striker with fast steps, Felicia purposely lagging behind.

They cut across the oil-stained pavement to a small doorway located behind a large concrete support pillar. Meathead opened the door to reveal a small briefing room, complete with large rectangular table and an overhead projector, which was turned off. In the far corner of the room was a row of filing cabinets. Cheap metal ones. Opposite them, a series of computers lined the wall. They were linked together, Striker noted, but almost certainly without connection to the outside world.

Meathead took note of Felicia’s expression and winked. ‘You look tired, Beautiful. You need to spend some time off your feet.’

‘I do. Every time I smell your breath.’

‘So it’s getting better then.’ When she didn’t respond, Meathead added, ‘I’ve been brushing more since our last meeting. Bought a Sonicare.’

Striker grinned and moved closer to Meathead. He smelled burned gunpowder. The air was strong with it. And gun oil, too. Obviously Meathead had been up at the range today, probably his third visit of the week.

Gun oil and gunpowder suited the man.

Before Striker could say anything, Meathead removed the T-shirt he was wearing and took another one from the corner of the room. The shirt looked a size too small against his massive arms. Striker took notice of the shirt. It was a grey-green colour and it had a red maple leaf on the top left, covered over by the numbers 499.

‘Four nine-nine?’

Meathead gave him a pissed look. ‘Larry Young, man – how could you forget?’

The moment Striker heard the name he was embarrassed. 499 was the badge number of Larry Young, the Emergency Response Team member killed during a drug raid. His name was gospel around the Department. And rightly so.

‘The shirts came out a few months back,’ Meathead said, ‘when you were on leave. Probably why you had the mental blip.’

‘Yeah, sure. Get me one, will you?’

‘Will do.’

Striker cleared his throat, then pulled the bullet he had found in the hidden compartment out from his jacket pocket. He thrust it at Meathead. ‘Here. Take a look at this.’

Meathead took the round, stared it over and whistled. The bullet was made of hard-tipped, shiny brass. ‘Is this the ammo they were using?’

Striker nodded. ‘One type. Tell me what it is.’

Meathead raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I want confirmation.’

‘Official warfare ammo, buddy. Full metal jacket.’

Striker thought it over. ‘That’s what they were shooting indiscriminately.’ He handed Meathead another bullet. ‘They also used this, but only on some of the kids – the ones I think were targeted.’

Meathead took the next bullet and examined that one, too. ‘Hollow tip, man. Hydra-Shok. Ultimate stopping power. They were taking no chances with these ones.’

Striker shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

Felicia came over, took the bullet from Meathead’s hand and gave it the onceover. ‘What don’t you get?’ she asked Jacob.

‘Why use full metal jacket? I mean, these guys were there to kill, so why not go for a round that’s frangible – like a Hydra-Shok. Or, even better yet, some Federal HST? That shit leaves a two-inch spiral through a man. I know they didn’t need anything too fancy; these were just a bunch of high-school students, after all. No one was wearing body armour. But if you’re going for maximum fatalities, why not pick the proper ammunition?’

‘Maybe they weren’t going for maximum kills, maybe they were going for numbers,’ Felicia suggested. ‘Maximum casualties. Fear.’

Striker decided she was right about that. Full metal jacket would over-penetrate, ricochet, strike more targets. Cause more casualties. But the gunmen had been careful to use the Hydra-Shok ammo on Tina Chow and Conrad Macmillan and Chantelle O’Riley. Which was part of the reason why these kids seemed targeted. So why Hydra-Shok?

A signature?

Meathead interjected, ‘Semantics, man. Doesn’t really matter. You got a person at your mercy and shoot enough rounds of any kind through them, they’re Swiss cheese. Plus I hear these guys had shotguns and an AK-47. They want to go for fatalities, that’s more than enough firepower to take down a bear.’

As Meathead finished speaking, Felicia’s cell went off. She answered it, but had difficulty getting a strong signal in the underground. She lost the call. After cussing, she turned to Striker and handed him the bullet.

‘It’s Caroline,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna walk up a level and call her back.’

Striker was glad to see her leave. She’d been acting strange all morning. Distant, almost hostile at times. And Meathead’s banter wasn’t helping the mood. With her out of the way, there was less pressure.

Meathead watched her go and grunted. ‘Man, I’d like to tap that.’

‘
Tap
that?’

‘Like a keg, baby.’

‘You ever hear of harassment?’

‘Yeah, and I been trying to get me some, Boss. But so far no luck.’

Meathead barked out another hyena laugh, and Striker sighed. He said nothing to encourage the man, because Meathead was like that; he fed off of other people’s attention, and the more praise he got, the wilder and more crude he became. Striker focused their attention back on the investigation.

‘I found all this ammo in the stolen Civic.’

‘For real?’

‘Hidden compartment.’

‘No shit. Floorboards?’

‘Dashboard. Which is why I’m here.’ Striker moved over to the table and sat down. ‘I’ve been out of the loop on this stuff for a few years now. You’re the one in Gangs, you deal with these rejects all the time. So tell me, where do they get this work done?’

Meathead walked across the room to the fridge and opened the door. He pulled out a couple of Gatorades and threw the orange one to Striker. He kept the Berry Blue for himself. Held it up. Grinned.

‘Blue – to match my balls.’

‘If you’re matching, it should be smaller. The shot-glass version. Now back to the hidden compartment.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Meathead uncapped the Gatorade, drank some, cleared his throat. ‘How long did they have to make these modifications?’

‘Car was stolen nine days before the attack.’

Meathead made an interested sound. ‘Well, that rules out the Blaine Brothers.’

‘Why?’

‘They work out east. Ontario. But they’re the best. Both guys are in their fifties now, former soldiers – real ones, saw Desert Storm. Then they came home and turned private.’ He chugged back some sports drink, wiped his mouth with his forearm. ‘They got a whole modification business going on down there, making cars bullet-proof and adding hidden compartments. But they usually work on Escalades or Hummers, maybe even the odd Beamer. Not Civics though. And it takes time to do this stuff. A full month for anything good.’

Striker commented, ‘It would take them half the nine days just to drive the car out east and back.’

‘Exactly, so it would have to be local. What kind of monkey work they do to the dashboard?’

‘Solid stuff,’ Striker said. ‘Professional. No one would know anything was there unless they removed the dash. Fresh-install, too. New ignition, new radio, and a magnetic circuit to boot. Barely a mark on the dashboard, or anywhere for that matter.’

Meathead dragged his finger through the air as if writing or counting. ‘Five names come to mind,’ he finally said. He told them to Striker, who wrote them down in his notebook.

‘All local?’ Striker asked.

‘Yep. Two are in the Valley, one on the North Shore, far as I can remember. Don’t know where the other two are, but they were always rounders, so probably East Side – at least, that’s where they were a few years back.’

Striker read the names silently. They weren’t familiar. He looked back up and met Meathead’s stare. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. Some of these guys are bad dudes, man. Pop a cop no problem. So be careful.’

Striker nodded. At that moment, Felicia swung open the door and came marching back into the room. Her pretty face looked preoccupied.

‘Everything okay?’ Striker asked.

‘No. That was Caroline. She’s gone Chernobyl on us – total meltdown.’

‘Can you blame her?’

‘She says the parents of some of the dead have called. They won’t leave her alone. They want answers to a lot of things she doesn’t know answers to.’

The notion bothered Striker. He felt for these people. And he couldn’t imagine their grief. Losing a loved one was hard enough, but losing a child – well, that was life-destroying. Soon, he and Felicia would have to talk to the parents of the deceased, not only for the good of the investigation, but out of simple decency and respect. First on that list were the Chows, the MacMillans, and the O’Rileys.

But before he could do that, he needed to do their background checks.

He gave Meathead a final glance, saying, ‘Keep your cell on, I might need you.’

‘Will do, Boss.’

Then Striker and Felicia went back to the car, drove out of the underground parkade. They headed for Main and Hastings. To their home base.

Major Crimes.

Thirty-Three

The morning sun broke through the dirty yellow drapes and formed a thin gold line across Red Mask’s eyes. He lay flat on a small wooden mat. The pain told him he was still alive. It moved through his shoulder like a worm eating his tissue.

From somewhere down below, he could hear the angry words of a couple arguing. Someone had stolen something from someone, and someone was gonna pay. Through violence or sex or maybe both. The argument was nothing unusual for this place. After all, this was the Aster, one of the worst slums in Strathcona. Anyone living here was a junkie, a whore, or one of the endless crazies littering the Skids.

And anyone that mattered never set foot in this place.

Red Mask was unconcerned. The police would never locate him. His only known living quarters was his mailing address, and that was 533 Raymur Street. In the projects underneath the overpass. Down by the train tracks.

Where Father lives.

The thought came from nowhere. Left him empty.

He could not see Father again. Not after all that had happened. How could he ever tell him about Tran? He couldn’t. It was but one of the many sacrifices required to reach the Perfect Harmony.

A sad smile broke his lips. Harmony. It now seemed such an empty word.

He rolled off the mat and felt the jagged shrapnel of the bullet tear through his shoulder. He vomited, bringing up nothing but transparent fluid. When the spasms stopped, he forced himself to stand in the tilting, shifting room. With his good arm, he reached behind his back and felt the rubberised grip of the Glock.

He was armed. He was prepared.

Pain or no pain, infection or no infection, living or dying, he had to go. It was time to complete his orders. It was time to finish the mission.

Thirty-Four

Striker felt hazy as they drove for coffee. He blamed it on the lack of sleep, but knew there were deeper issues. He aimed the unmarked cruiser north and glanced east. Daylight was breaking across the sky, fighting through the thin wisps of cloud. The growing light made everything feel less harsh, almost pretty. Even in the Skids. It reminded him it was actually morning, and he called home to see if Courtney was up. She wasn’t. He wondered if she would’ve picked up anyway after reading the call display and seeing it was just dear ol’ Dad.

Probably not.

She was pissed at him. Again. Like she always was for anything he did. Whether it was because he wouldn’t let her go to a late-night party, or because he had two legs and breathed oxygen – it didn’t seem to matter. There was no logical explanation half the time, and no chance of avoiding her emotional outbursts. The fiasco with Felicia last night had only made everything worse. With Courtney at home. And with Felicia at work.

The memory fluttered through his brain, made his blood pressure rise. He pushed it away, drove the cruiser down to the Powell Street diversion and cut through the Starbucks drive-thru. He ordered an Americano for himself, black, and a lemon poppy-seed muffin. When he asked Felicia what she wanted, her response made him laugh.

‘Grande caramel latte, cream cheese muffin and a chocolate croissant.’

‘That’s all?’

‘It’s a start.’

He blinked. ‘You’re serious? You want
that
for breakfast?’

‘I need fat and sugar and carbs, Jacob, and I need them now.’

He made the order, got them through the drive-thru, and turned back down Powell Street towards the police station. He parked the cruiser in a Patrol Only parking spot on the south side of Cordova – where non-patrol cars were always parked, despite the nonstop email warnings – and headed for the 312 Annexe with Felicia at his side.