The Survivor (27 page)

He wondered if anyone was monitoring it.

Felicia slammed her door. She bundled up her jacket, then turned her pretty, tired eyes towards Striker. ‘Any guesses what Ich found?’

‘Something’s weird. I could hear it in his voice.’

He climbed the front stairs, used his swipe card to gain access, then entered the foyer and flashed his badge to the security guard inside the safety booth. The door leading inside the main building clicked open. Striker walked through it with Felicia in tow.

The Tech Facility was, in essence, the Department’s catchall. It housed everything from Forensic Audio and Video to the headquarters of Vice, Drugs, and the Emergency Response Teams. Each of these divisions had long been pleading for better resources and a home of their own, which included a modern facility, but in a time of high taxes and budget cutbacks and a declining economy, they were forced to make do with what they had.

And it wasn’t much.

Striker walked down the faded brown carpet that still smelled of cigarette smoke, even though the smoking bylaw had been in effect for more than ten years. The walls were no better. The off-white was now beige. Most of the doors used old-fashioned keys, not coded pass cards. And everything else had a broken-down feel to it. Yet oddly enough, it worked.

Old school at its finest.

They turned the corner and came flush with the door to Forensic Audio, also known as The Matrix to all those who worked inside, which was essentially Ichabod and his lackey clone – a guy named Bernard whom no one had ever seen. Striker didn’t bother to knock. He swung open the door and stepped inside.

The room was tiny, barely twelve feet long by ten feet wide. It was further cramped by the tall support beam that occupied the centre of the room. Taped on the pillar was a picture of a soldier drinking from a green metal mug, and a quotation reading:
Have a Nice Cup of Shut the Fuck Up and Wait Over There, Asshole!

Flanking the pillar on both sides was an array of ramshackle shelves. Each one was cluttered with micro-machines that constantly beeped and blinked. One made loud whirring sounds like it was going to explode at any second.

‘That’s a Personal Video Recorder,’ Striker said.

Felicia grinned. ‘Like you would know.’

‘What? No faith in my computer skills?’

‘You wouldn’t know a hot spot from a g-spot.’

‘I found yours a few times.’

‘That’s still a matter of opinion.’

‘Ouch.’

Felicia smirked, and Striker knew she’d bested him. He offered her a weak grin. He closed the door behind them, more in an effort to make some extra room than for privacy. Then heard shuffling.

As if on cue, Ich stuck his head out from behind the pillar. His gaunt face was tight around the eyes, yet slack everywhere else. His posture seemed to perpetually sag. He eyed them both with expectation, and the fatigue in his eyes was replaced by excitement.

‘Finally, Christ, you’re here.’

‘We came right away,’ Felicia said.

Striker stepped around a pile of Blu-ray discs sitting on the ground and looked at Ich’s desk. It was cluttered with computer parts – flash drives, discs, wires and a collection of other things Striker had never seen before. Next to them were six cans of Monster energy drinks, all of them opened.

‘Jesus Christ, Ich, you drink all that?’

‘Had to. Been up all night.’

Striker nodded. ‘We know and we appreciate it. Now what you get us?’

Ich waved them over to his work station. He reached up to the top shelf where a generic black box sat and hit the power button. After the green activity light flashed, Ich turned up the speaker volume, then swivelled the nearest monitor to face Striker and Felicia.

‘Anything good on the tape?’ Striker asked.

Ich shrugged. ‘It just finished transcoding when I called. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the whole segment myself yet, just the first ten seconds or so – but that was enough.’

‘Enough for what?’

Ich said nothing. He just hit Play.

Immediately the blue screen flashed and was replaced with the grainy, black-and-white pixelated footage Striker had seen back at the school. But now there was sound. Static-filled clatter. Gunshots. The shrill cries of panicking kids. More than before, it took Striker back to the moment, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest; the muscles of his hands twitched like they wanted to reach for his gun.

He glanced over at Felicia, and saw the machine-like calmness of her features. Her lack of an emotional response irritated him. He looked back at the screen just in time to see the boy dressed as the Joker dive underneath the cafeteria table. The two gunmen – White Mask and Red Mask – looked at one another, and for the first time, Striker heard them speak. It was static-filled, intermittent, and garbled.

He touched Ich on the shoulder. ‘Scroll it back.’

Ich did as instructed, and Striker listened again.

‘It’s still garbled – can you clean it up a bit?’

Felicia stepped forward, seized the volume knob and turned it up. ‘Not garbled, Jacob – another language.’

Ich grabbed Felicia’s hand. Removed it from his controls. Then raised a finger in an admonishing gesture. ‘No touching. This is all very sensitive equipment. Hold on a second and I’ll try to diminish the background noise.’

Felicia gave him an annoyed look, but held her tongue.

Striker was thankful for it. He watched Ich bring up some software audio controls, something that looked like a row of amplifier settings. He began fine-tuning the sounds. After thirty seconds, Ich hit Play again, and the gunmen’s voices became clearer. Each one of them distinct.

Felicia listened intently. ‘Chinese?’

Striker shook his head. ‘Technically, there is no Chinese – it would be either Cantonese or Mandarin. But the answer to that is still a resounding no.’

‘A
resounding
no?’ Felicia said, the irritation in her voice plain.

Striker never looked away from the screen. ‘Listen to the sounds; the inflections. It’s not tonal. So it’s something else – something different.’

Felicia tapped Ich on the back. ‘Who around here can speak Asian languages?’

He looked back through fatigued eyes. ‘We got Truong in Vice. And Iwata in Drugs. They’re probably your best bets. Second floor.’

‘I’ll see if I can find one of them.’

She left, and Striker moved closer to the screen as the feed progressed. He watched more analytically this time as the gunmen dragged the boy dressed as the Joker out from under the table, then yanked him to his feet.

‘
Bah ma loh?
’ they asked, several times. ‘
Bah ma loh!
. . .
Bah ma loh, Chantelle O’Riley?
’

The boy finally pointed to the far corner of the room, where the girl in the pleated school skirt lay huddled. And even though Striker knew it was coming, the moment made him feel ill. He studied the scene as the gunmen marched across the room, an air of arrogance in their stances that was overpowered only by Chantelle O’Riley’s terror.

Striker knew the next part as well. Red Mask would pull the Glock from his waistband, then shoot her twice in the chest and once in the face. Her death was coming, yet again, and he wanted to look away. To close his eyes. To shut his ears.

But he would not.

Instead he prepared himself to watch and hear her death. And he promised himself he would recall this moment with total clarity, should he feel even a trace of pity or compassion when he caught the monster responsible.

But he was completely unprepared for what he heard next.

The gunman – Red Mask – pointed his firearm into Chantelle O’Riley’s face, and just before pulling the trigger, he asked her three times: ‘
Bah ma loh? Bah ma loh? Bah ma loh!
’

The girl opened her mouth, stuttered, ‘I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about.’

Red Mask moved closer, and this time he spoke in heavily-accented English. ‘Where is she?’ he said very slowly. ‘Where is
Riku Aiyana Kwan
?’

Forty-Eight

Red Mask felt sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades as he lurked amidst the maple trees of 2301 Trafalgar Street – the Kwan house. It was not a part of the original plan, but here he was nonetheless, trying to manifest order out of chaos. Again.

A light was on inside the living room. He had been watching it for ten minutes. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything. But so far nothing came.

He started for the backyard, then stopped hard when a flicker of movement caught his eye. Inside, a tall woman turned on a television set. She looked part-Asian. Late thirties. Slender in face and toned in body.

Red Mask recognised her. It was Patricia Kwan. Mother of Riku Aiyana.

With his shoulder aching like a bad tooth, he drew his pistol from his waistband and rounded the house. Out back, he cut between a pair of plum trees that flanked the deck, then hiked up the stairs. The porch was old. It screamed of his coming. When he made it to the back door, it was locked. Through the pane he could see that the news was on. Using the noise as cover, he broke the window with the butt of his Glock, then reached through the opening and unlocked the deadbolt.

The door swung open and Red Mask stepped into the kitchen area. He closed the door. Heard the click. Locked the deadbolt.

There would be no escape for those inside.

The kitchen light was off. From the darkness, he spotted Patricia Kwan in the living room. She was watching the TV and stretching. The black spandex she wore clung hungrily to her body; she was more muscular than he had thought.

As Red Mask moved nearer, the broken glass crunched beneath his runners. For a moment, the woman remained oblivious. Then her eyes caught his reflection and she gasped. Spun about. Screamed and raised her arms—

And Red Mask slammed the butt of his pistol across her face.

Patricia Kwan dropped awkwardly to the ground, colliding with the bureau. She turned over, her eyes unfocused with shock, her face smeared with blood. On the hardwood were three of her teeth. She fought to speak.

‘What – please – what do you want from me?’

‘Where is daughter?’

‘What?’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Patricia Kwan’s eyes widened, her face paled, and she scrambled backwards.

Red Mask walked after her, controlling her with his presence. Then the room suddenly tilted. A hotness flooded him, and his head was floating, lifting right off his neck.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘You must stop. Escape is forbidden.’

Patricia Kwan dove for the table, and Red Mask finally understood her intentions. She was not trying to escape, she was going for the phone. He reached out to grab her, but was too late; she smacked the emergency dial.

The call went through.

He let out a scream and ripped the phone from the wall.

‘It dialled,’ she said. ‘I got it through.’

He moved closer. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

The woman reared, and Red Mask reached for her. His feet bumped into something and he toppled forward. When the gun went off – the thunderous blast of a 40 cal filling the room – he was barely aware that he had shot her.

The room echoed with the explosion.

And there was screaming.
She
was screaming.

He climbed to his feet. He stepped forward, grabbed Patricia Kwan’s long black ponytail and dragged her into a seated position.

‘Please . . .’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan? Tell me where daughter is and she will not suffer; refuse this information and she will have much pain.’

Patricia Kwan started to cry. ‘Please, oh God, please, I’ll do
anything
—’

‘Discussion is not permitted.’

He used his arm to wipe the sweat from his eyes, felt the room moving on him again. The infection was bad. Time was running out. He grabbed Patricia’s right hand, slammed it hard on the living room table and splayed her fingers. Then he placed the barrel of the gun in the centre of her palm, grinding the steel muzzle into her flesh. He met her eyes.

‘I ask you one time now, Patricia Kwan.’

‘No – please!’

‘Where – is – Riku – Kwan?’

Forty-Nine

Striker felt an icy coldness hit his heart. It had been over twenty-four hours since Red Mask had escaped, and all that time this Kwan girl had been one of his intended targets. Experience told Striker he was already too late, but he had never been a man to give up on hope.

‘The Kwan house,’ Striker said to Ich. ‘Call it in now – tell them to send everything they got.’

Striker then ran for the exit, reached the cruiser, started it over. A quick computer search told him that the Kwan house was in Kitsilano, and that wasn’t overly far away from the Tech Building.

He floored it.

Traffic was bad, and Striker got caught dead smack in the middle of rush hour. Everywhere he looked there were red tail-lights. He turned on the lights and siren, and made good use of the air horn at every intersection.

As Kitsilano drew closer, the traffic thinned and Striker turned off the emergency equipment for fear of alerting the gunman. He parked the cruiser in the nearest bus lane on Trafalgar. People at the stop gaped as he jumped out and raced north.

Three blocks later, he saw something that made him pause.

Parked on the roadside, three houses down from the Kwan residence, was a blue Toyota Camry. The manufacturer and model of the car did not warrant his attention so much as did the condition of the driver’s side door. The lock had been punched, and when Striker drew closer, he saw wires hanging from the ignition. There were dark stains on the beige interior.

Blood.

Striker stood back from the vehicle and analysed his surroundings. The Kwan house was just three lots down. He studied it – a one-storey Kitsilano special, plastered in dark green that matched the heavy wall of bushes flanking the yard. Everything was still and quiet, and it gave Striker a bad feeling. He drew his pistol and headed for the lot. As he was nearing, a voice startled him.