Sean Slater - The survivor

Located perfectly in between the collar bones, at the top of the chest bone, there was one small dark hole, barely noticeable in contrast to the sundered flesh of the neck. This was the first point of impact — where his bullet had gone through, dead centre, then carried out via the rear of the throat, tearing through the gunman’s spinal cord.

Striker stared at that spot, and the recollection hit him all over again. The moment had happened so fast, more reaction and muscle memory than intention. And he couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome might have been, had this first shot not landed with such pinpoint accuracy.

The thought left him sick inside.

Felicia stood beside him. She dropped her hand to her holster and rested her palm on the butt of her pistol. ‘That’s the shot that dropped him. Probably saved our lives. And God knows how many others.’ She spoke the words calmly, logically, without a trace of emotion. As if she were talking about a shot he’d made at the range, or even in a video game.

It drove Striker nuts. Here he was, struggling not to have a meltdown, while Felicia remained cool and composed.

‘Yeah, I got him centre mass,’ he finally said.

‘Great shot.’

‘Well, one of us had to hit him.’

Felicia flinched at the words. Striker caught her reaction, and immediately regretted saying them. You’re an ass, he told himself. Why push things? As Felicia spun away from him and headed in the other direction, he said ‘Look, Felicia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-’

‘Yes, Jacob, you did.’

‘Felicia…’

‘I’m looking for teeth. That is what you wanted — right, Boss?’

Striker stood fixed to the spot, half of him still angry, half wondering if he should go after her. He watched her search the room, clearly doing a grid, her head angled down, her long brown hair draping across the caramel skin of her cheek. She was beautiful — something he noticed far too often, but never mentioned. And for a moment, he recalled the brief time they’d shared together. It had been a wonderful two months, a temporary reprieve from the grief of losing Amanda. And though it had been exactly what he needed, he now regretted it. Nothing had been the same since. Not with their partnership, and not with their friendship.

And he wondered if it would ever be that good again.

Just then, the blue cafeteria doors swung open, stealing Striker’s attention. He looked over and saw a short cop walk through. He had a full head of jagged white hair, big white bushy eyebrows, and a stomach that hung way down over his belt. Looked like a mad professor.

Striker counted him as a good friend. It was Jim Banner. Noodles, as everyone called him — ever since he’d almost choked to death while eating a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack in Burnaby. Noodles worked in Ident. Hell, he was Ident. Worked seven days a week and damn near twelve hours a day. He carried the usual blue-light device and associated tool box, and upon seeing Striker he waddled faster and hollered across the room: ‘Hey, Shipwreck, stay the fuck out of my crime scene!’

Shipwreck. Few people were allowed to call Striker that, but Noodles was one of them. Which was only fair, considering that the eighty-thousand-dollar speedboat Striker had sunk on the team getaway ten years back had belonged to the man.

Striker smiled at him. ‘This is my crime scene, Noodles.’

‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Noodles reached the body of White Mask. ‘Last thing I need is more of your goddam DNA screwing up my results.’

‘I’ll try not to jerk off in the scene.’ Striker looked at his watch. ‘’Bout time you got your ass down here. It’s only been six hours since the shootings. What the hell took you so long? Someone open an all-day buffet down the road?’

‘Yeah, your mother did. Wanna know what I was eating? I’ll give you a hint — I’m not a vegetarian.’

Striker laughed, and let the banter go.

Noodles put down his tools. ‘Already been and gone twice, numb-nuts. Here to get some more blood samples.’ He looked down at the blown-apart body. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

Striker followed his gaze to the corpse. All the humour he had felt moments ago dropped away. ‘What have you got for me so far?’

Noodles shrugged. ‘The kid had a wallet in his back pocket. Nothing’s confirmed, but the name on the ID is Quenton Wong. He’s nineteen. Born December twenty-fifth.’

‘Oh joy, a Christmas Baby.’ Striker looked the body over. ‘Nineteen? Sounds a bit young for what I’m seeing.’

Noodles nodded in agreement.

‘What kind of ID?’ Striker asked.

‘Just the standard stuff. Driver’s licence, BCID, some bank cards, and of course, an old Saint Patrick’s Student ID Card. His primary residence is listed as Kerrisdale — Balsam Street. I’ve already sent the ID upstairs for prints and trace evidence.’

Striker thought of the gunmen. It looked like they were connected to the school in some way. Ex-students maybe. ‘You run him, Noodles?’

‘Yeah. And he’s got nothing. No history, criminal or otherwise.’

Striker frowned. ‘Completely negative? Tattoos and all?’

‘Fucking everything.’

Striker looked at White Mask’s ribs. On the left side was a series of thick white serrated scars, each about three inches in length.

‘What about those marks?’ he asked. ‘He’s got some on his inner arm too. Really odd scar formation.’

‘They look odd because he got them when he was still growing.’ Noodles looked back at the corpse, gave a shrug. ‘I dunno, Shipwreck. The guy’s a complete non-entity in the system. And by that I mean every damn database: CPIC, LEIP, PIRS and PRIME. Haven’t checked across the border yet, but I’ve done enough of your job. You can do that later.’

Striker turned silent for a moment. The fact that this kid had no police history, criminal or otherwise, was disturbing, if not unbelievable.

Noodles strapped on a pair of latex gloves. He nodded towards Felicia, who stood across the room with a pissed look still marring her pretty features, and said with a smirk, ‘What’s with my Spanish fantasy? Seems kind of sour. Or is she just picking up the better parts of your personality?’

‘The world should be so lucky.’

Noodles laughed. ‘You two at it again?’

‘Like the Inquisition.’

‘Jesus, isn’t this your first day back?’

Striker sighed. ‘Call me when you get some results.’ He wrote this latest information into his notebook. By the time he’d closed the book and stuffed it back into his pocket, Felicia had joined them.

‘Hey, Noodles,’ she said.

‘My Persian Princess.’

‘I’m Spanish, not Middle Eastern.’

Noodles shrugged as if to say, What? After that he went to work on the body. Felicia addressed Striker. There was no warmth in her voice.

‘Grid search done, Boss. No teeth found, Boss. Anything else, Boss?’

‘No, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Due diligence done.’

He turned away from Felicia and Noodles and marched steadily back across the room to the north-east corner — the one area he’d been avoiding since he’d entered this damn cafeteria. That was where the other gunman was still lying.

The shooter Laroche had deemed ‘possibly innocent’.

Black Mask.

As Striker approached the body of Black Mask, he searched the floor for the machine gun. It had been an AK-47. A Kalashnikov. He was certain of that — or at least he had been — but as he scanned the area, it was nowhere to be seen. He recalled seeing it fly over the serving counter behind the hot food racks, right after he’d plugged the shooter.

But nothing was there. Just blown-apart pop cans, jars of Jell-O, and Saran-Wrapped sandwiches.