The Survivor (39 page)

The thought turned his palms sweaty.

He tried to lighten the mood, divert his worries. He looked at a young blonde woman, her big breasts barely contained by her sexy nurse costume, and he smiled at Felicia.

‘Don’t you have one of those outfits?’

‘Yeah, but it’s more the Kathy Bates type.’

‘You gonna hobble me?’

‘Believe me, some days I’d like to.’

He laughed, and the release felt good.

They walked to the end of the breezeway, where the mustering crowds thinned, and Striker was thankful for it. They paused at another square, and Striker milled about while Felicia searched for a directory. They needed to find the auditorium. That was where Grace Lam was speaking at the International Gang Conference.

Striker looked forward to seeing her. She was supposed to be a guru in the world of gang intelligence. From what Striker had learned from Meathead, Grace Lam had started her career in Los Angeles, studying the Grape Street Watts gang, then gotten herself an interview with the infamous Monster Cody Scott when no one else could. After that, she’d been mentored by some of the finest gangologists Los Angeles and New York had to offer. When she’d earned the distinction of being a certified gangologist, she’d started her own thesis, focusing on South Asian gangs. That work had landed her in Vancouver.

It was a telling statement of the underground activity that existed in Canada.

With this thought in mind, Striker approached a water fountain that sat nestled in between a concrete bench and a Japanese plum tree. Being the end of fall, the leaves were still red, but slowly turning purple and yellow and brown.

The area had a certain serenity. Striker wished he could enjoy it. He looked across the square. On the other side of the concrete expanse was a row of terminals at a coffee shop. Internet access. Thoughts of the nitric acid attack on Patricia Kwan returned. He crossed the breezeway and entered the shop. He sat down at one of the computers, then started up Google. He was into his sixth link, reading through the long article, when Felicia found him.

‘I located the auditorium,’ she said, then leaned down and stared at the screen. ‘Nitric acid – what did you find?’

He sat back in the chair, an uncomfortable plastic thing that groaned and stretched beneath his weight, and pointed at the photo of a disfigured woman on the screen. ‘This acid is the stuff of nightmares,’ he said. ‘It’s deadly. Turns flesh to jelly, mutates the hell out of it. If not treated immediately, the effect is permanent.’

‘Then you were lucky.’

He focused on a few jpegs on the screen – horrible images of mutilation – and continued explaining what he’d read: ‘Here in Canada, nitric acid is mainly used for industrial reasons – processing and manufacturing, stuff like that. But overseas, this shit has become the weapon of choice in some countries – for the humiliation that the disfigurement causes as well as the pain. And to inspire fear. It’s used quite commonly as a repayment for adultery . . . the list of victims just goes on and on and on.’

‘What countries?’

‘Hmmm. Mostly the Asian ones. Hong Kong. The Philippines. But the Middle East, too.’

‘Cambodia?’

Striker shrugged as if to say, who knows. ‘Did you find Grace Lam?’

‘One better,’ she said. ‘I spoke to her.’

‘And?’

‘She’ll be meeting us in twenty minutes. At Legal Grounds.’

*

Legal Grounds was a small but chic coffee shop away from the clatter of the university crowds, near the bottom of the Burnaby Mountain. The place had been built without a dime spared. The walls were oak, the floors were birch, and throughout the room were loveseats and high-backed armchairs – all of them supple burgundy leather.

Behind the counter was a young brunette, about twenty, dressed in an outfit that resembled a tuxedo. On the wall behind her was a large golden image of the Scales of Justice. Striker stared at it as he bought Felicia one of her fancy lattes – the Charter, as they called it. It was nothing more than an expensive vanilla latte with chocolate sprinkles. Striker bought himself an Americano, black. Then they took their drinks to a small secluded nook in the back.

‘Thanks for the latte,’ Felicia said.

‘Yeah, sorry it took so long, I had to sign a loan to get it.’

She smiled and sipped her drink, and Striker joined her after taking off his long coat and draping it over the back of the chair. They sat there, waiting and going over the case. To Striker, the moment felt surprisingly wonderful. It was the first respite they had had, even if it was forced.

Twenty minutes later, Grace Lam appeared. She walked into the lounge, and Felicia stood up and waved her over.

Striker had expected someone elegant and mature, someone professor-like. But Grace Lam was none of that. She was young, maybe thirty years of age, not an inch over five foot and easily two hundred pounds. Her body and face were equally round, like two perfect circles. In contrast, she had small, hard eyes and lips so thin she looked perpetually angry. Sweat trickled down the sides of her cheeks as she hurried in.

Striker looked from Felicia to Grace, then back again. ‘You could be sisters,’ he said.

Felicia gave him an unimpressed look. ‘You’re a bastard.’

Striker just smiled and sipped his Americano.

After Grace had bought a coffee – something sweet like Felicia’s; Striker could smell it – she sat down in a chair facing both Striker and Felicia. In her hands was a silver-and-black ToughBook laptop, which she placed across her knees, and a thick brown briefcase, which she set down beside the table.

‘So how did you come to find me?’ she asked. ‘I’m actually on leave.’

‘First off, thanks for seeing us,’ Striker said. ‘Especially on your leave.’ When Grace said it was no problem, he continued. ‘We found you through Meathead – I mean Hans Jager; he’s a part of the International Gang Task Force. He said you were the one to talk to.’

Grace got a strange look on her face, and Striker wondered how Meathead had managed to offend her, too.

‘And this is about?’ she asked.

‘The massacre at Saint Patrick’s High.’

The mention of the shooting made Grace’s expression tense up a little. It was a small change, barely noticeable, but all the easiness left her face.

‘Gangs?’ she asked.

‘Shadow Dragons,’ Felicia said.

From his coat, Striker produced some of the Ident photographs of White Mask’s body and showed them to Grace. ‘Here is a partial tattoo on the base of the neck, there,’ he said. ‘He also has a number 13. Crudely done though. A home job.’

Grace looked at the images for only a few seconds, before saying, ‘The partial tattoo is the tail end of a dragon.’

‘Dragon?’ Striker asked.

Felicia leaned forward. ‘How can you be so sure?’

Grace pointed to the photo. ‘By the colour and location. Red and gold are the colours of prosperity and good fortune; the left side is the sinister way, and the dragon looks backwards across the shoulder – a spiritual protector from one’s enemies.’

‘Sounds like superstition to me,’ Striker said.

‘It is,’ Grace replied. ‘In fact, I’m surprised that you found one at all – it’s a rather old tradition. New members never do it. In fact, they’re no longer getting tattoos at all nowadays – makes them too easy to identify that way.’

Felicia cut in: ‘I’ve never heard of this gang before today, not even once.’

‘That’s because the information is misleading.’ Grace opened her briefcase and sorted through a pile of manila folders. After some searching, she found the correct one, flipped it open and set it down on the table.

The first thing Striker saw was a huge number four, followed by the image of a red triangular flag.

Grace noted his stare, and explained: ‘The pennant is triangular, representing the three basic forces of the universe – Heaven, Earth and Man.’

‘I’ve seen that pennant before,’ Striker said, ‘but I didn’t know it represented the Shadow Dragons.’

‘It doesn’t.’

Striker gave Felicia a glance, saw the confusion masking her face, and he felt it, too.

Grace continued: ‘The Shadow Dragons are nothing in the big scheme of things; what they are is the tail of the beast. If you want to define them – categorise them in some way – they’re a feeder gang, just puppets, doing the nasty work for their superiors back East and hoping to one day become an accepted part of the real gang.’

‘And what real gang are we talking about here?’ Felicia asked. ‘The Angels?’

Grace shook her head, suppressed a laugh. ‘Sorry. Everyone says that. No, it goes further back than that, I’m afraid. And worlds away. What you’re dealing with here is the Fourteen K.’

Striker stiffened. ‘Fourteen K? Aren’t they a division of the Triads?’

Grace nodded slowly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘The Triad Syndicate.’ The words felt strange on Striker’s tongue. ‘I thought they were dismantled. Folklore.’

Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘They would like you to think so. Though the folklore stuff isn’t too far off when you consider the Triad ways. And their history.’ She turned to Felicia. ‘The Triads were born out of secrecy, you know, by refugee monks.’

‘Monks?’

‘Well, they were essentially rebels back then – revolutionaries determined to overthrow the Qing or Manchu Dynasty. We’re talking way back here.’

‘When exactly?’ Striker asked.

‘The seventeen hundreds.’

Felicia made a sound. ‘Christ, that’s ancient.’

‘Maybe so, but even today, the history lingers. To be accepted into the gang is a complicated process involving swearing thirty-six oaths before the altar, and with many convoluted rituals and sacred phrases.
Sham Tai Wang Fung
is one of them.’

‘
Sham Tai
– what?’

‘
Sham Tai Wang Fung
– Extensive Transformation and Uniting Heaven.’ Grace took a sip of her coffee. ‘The penalty for betrayal is death by “a myriad of swords and thunderbolts”. Or at least, that is the oath. As you can tell, this stuff is extremely outdated, but the ceremonies remain, especially in the Far East where they are very superstitious.’

‘The Far East as in Toronto?’ Striker asked.

‘As in Hong Kong. Their headquarters.’

Felicia put down her latte, wiped her mouth. ‘Not to be rude, but it sounds ridiculous.’

Grace nodded. ‘To the Western world, yes. Every belief the Triads hold is logic mixed with superstition. Strategic yet tempered by mysticism, planned thoroughly yet done so with numerology.’

‘Numerology?’ Striker asked.

Grace nodded. ‘Oh yes, numerology is
huge
in the Triad Syndicate.’ She turned the folder pages until she found a listing. ‘Here, look at this. The list ascends in order of status.’ She turned it so that Striker could see.

Numerology of Triad Hierarchy

426 – Red Pole. Brigade Enforcer.

415 – Pak Tsz Sin. White Paper Fan. Senior advisor.
Knowledge of Triad history.

438 – Sheung Fa. Canada Liaison Officer.

483 – Fu Chan Shu. Deputy Leader.

489 – Shan Chu. King Daddy. Dragon Head.

As Striker read the list and made notes in his notebook, Grace spoke. ‘You say this guy had a number 13 tattooed on his body. Where was it?’

‘Chest. Left side.’

Grace nodded. ‘The number 13 covers the heart because it’s out of respect for the thirteen monks.’

Now Striker felt completely lost. ‘What monks?’

‘The Shao Lin monks, in the Fujian Province. We’re talking four hundred years ago, but it does show you who – and what – you’re dealing with here. The Triads have alliances all across the seas: in the Philippines, Hong Kong, Macau, Cambodia, Viet Nam – the list is as long as there are places. And they will never go away.’

Striker thought this over for a moment. Then: ‘What I still don’t get is how a group of teenage kids from Saint Patrick’s High School got tangled up with a global gang.’

Grace agreed. ‘I really see no connection, Detective. The Triads are a very secretive group. They would never be involved in something like this.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Striker said. ‘They are.’

Seventy-Five

Que Wong’s friend, better known as Mr Creepy to Courtney and Raine, had his own pad in the 1800 block of East Georgia Street – a bad part of town but perfect for the girls as it was only four blocks away from Commercial Drive and Venables Street, the starting point for the Parade of Lost Souls party.

The building was old, even for Commercial Drive, made up of cracked grey concrete and filthy windows. Out front, a small grassy area was blocked off by a rusted iron fence. Inside it was a teeter-totter with a swing set, neither of which looked used.

Courtney reached the front entrance. Dressed in nothing but her Little Red Riding Hood costume, she felt exposed, a step away from being naked, and she suddenly realised how much of her ass the costume revealed. It was too much. Hadn’t seemed like this in the change room. And she was cold, wished she’d brought a jacket or something.

From somewhere above, maybe on the third floor, she could hear a baby crying and a couple arguing. The man’s voice was slurred and distorted. Trying to ignore the clatter, she pressed the building buzzer and found it broken. She pushed on the front door and it opened anyway.

Once inside, a musty smell hit her; it seemed to come from the worn-out brown carpets. The building interior was cold and dark. Mr Creepy’s apartment was on the sixth floor. One look at the small rickety booth of an elevator convinced Courtney to take the stairs, which were equally narrow and confining. When she reached the sixth floor, she stepped into the hallway and heard the loud ruckus of a party going on. As she walked down the hall and around the corner, she realised it was coming from Mr Creepy’s place.

The front door was wide open, and people were spilling out into the halls. The air was heavy with cigarette and pot smoke. It made Courtney hesitate, unsure.

But then Raine poked her head out, spotted Courtney and let out a squeal. ‘Oh my GOD – you look so
hot
in that costume.’