Sean Slater - The survivor

Striker held it up, grinned. ‘Coffee money.’

Felicia finally gave him the smile he’d been drilling for all morning. ‘Make mine a latte.’

He gathered up all the free ammunition, stuck one of the rounds inside his pocket, then placed the rest in a brown paper bag for Ident. He left it in the centre of the table with a large sign that read: Ammo from Hidden Compartment in Civic. Check for Prints.

Then he called Noodles and told him about the find.

‘This is fucking insane,’ Noodles said. ‘I was just gonna call you. I heard about the ammo issues, so I did some analysis here. Looks to me like these kids were shot with different types. Some 762s and some frangible forty-cals.’

Striker glanced left at Felicia as she stared into the car at the hidden compartment. ‘I’ve got matching ammo here, Noodles. These guys were pros. I need you to get down here and look at this stuff.’

‘No can do. I’m still covering bases here on the docks with the Wong body. Plus you got me chasing down samples on Leung’s body. I’m gonna be hours still — you’re making too many crime scenes for me, you prick.’

Striker cursed. ‘I need you, Noodles.’

‘I’m sending John Winter down.’

‘Winter? He’s a friggin’ rookie.’

‘Maybe so, but he came in second overall in the competition back East. I taught the kid everything I know, Shipwreck. He’s good.’

Striker accepted it, albeit grudgingly. ‘Keep me posted on everything, and get Winter to call me when he’s done.’

Noodles agreed, then hung up. Striker walked back to the table, picked up one of the Glocks and scanned it for a serial number. Felicia was staring at him with a lost look on her face.

‘How did you know?’ she said. ‘About the compartment?’

‘I already told you. I’d seen it before and had taken courses.’

‘But what exactly? Walk me through it.’

Striker put down the Glock. ‘Well, there were a few things, really. The ignition was brand new and had clearly been replaced. That was the biggest clue. But there were other things, too. Couple of scuff marks where the dash meets the steering column. And then there was the fob.’

‘But that fob could’ve been for anything — a garage, an apartment, another car.’

‘Could’ve been. But it wasn’t.’

She said nothing, she just stared at him. Her dark eyes were beautiful but hard to read.

Striker shrugged. ‘Like I said, it was one of many factors.’

‘And the happy face?’

‘More specifically, the magnet inside. It was very strong. Kept sticking to everything. And you needed that to complete the circuit. It’s one of those extra little securities these maggots use nowadays, so that patrol cops can’t use the fob to unlock the compartment during street checks. That’s why the radio also had to be turned on, to complete the circuit. It’s one more safety precaution for dial-a-dopers.’

She nodded. ‘What else?’

Striker took the other pistol from the table, scanned it for a serial. Found none. ‘For two, no trinket should’ve been there at all. Think about it. No assassin’s going to start accessorising his key chain for a stolen car he intends to dump. It was there for a reason. I just had to figure out what that reason was — though I’m still a little bit lost as to why he left the keys at the scene in the first place. Must’ve dropped them, been his first mistake.’ He gave Felicia a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe he’s hurt worse than we thought.’

Felicia was quiet for a moment, then leaned against the car and crossed her arms. ‘Well bravo, Jacob. Nice to see you had so many ideas in your head all this time. And thanks so much for keeping me in the loop.’

He looked up from the gun barrel he was assessing. ‘You’re not actually pissed, are you?’

‘We’re partners, and you didn’t even tell me.’

‘I wasn’t sure.’

‘You had an idea.’

Striker picked up the shotgun. The serial number had been removed from the barrel here too. It was to be expected. He scanned the steel for any grind marks, saw none, and nodded. Half to himself, half to Felicia.

‘No serial.’

This seemed to distract her. ‘Gone? Completely?’

‘Looks like it. We’ll do the DNA thing first. Check it against the databank. But that will take a few weeks at best, even with a priority rush. Then we’ll see if the Feds can get some serial numbers from the barrels.’

‘You said the serial was gone.’

‘It is. But they didn’t file it off, they used acid.’ Striker held up the barrel for her to see and rubbed his finger along the black shiny barrel. The metal was smooth. ‘The factory stamping leaves an impression right through the steel. Lasers can pick it up. Problem is we got none here, but the Feds do. And if they can get a serial, we’ll do a trace, see if it’s registered. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

Felicia looked at all the guns laid out on the table. ‘So we got no serials.’

Striker put the shotgun back down alongside them. ‘Not worried about the serials. What I want to know is whether these guns were used on any of the victims. Ballistics will have to tell us that. Through the pathologist.’

‘But the serials-’

‘There’s a billion handguns in North America, Feleesh. Registered, unregistered, it makes no difference. There’s just too damn many for us to track. They fly across the borders like leaves. A gun won’t lead us anywhere. What will, is the hidden compartment — there’s only a handful of people in this country who can make that.’

This notion seemed to perk her up.

‘And even fewer who could do it so quickly,’ she said.

Striker smiled. ‘Exactly. Whoever did this would need to have the materials on hand, the tools required, and the know-how. Given the timeframe and the fact that these guys weren’t going to chance it by driving around the province, that person will be somewhere here in the Lower Mainland. Has to be. And once we find out who that is, we can trace things back to the school. Find out who our shooters were. Find out who was really behind this attack.’

Felicia gave him a pointed look. ‘Any other ideas you’re holding back?’

‘No. I don’t got a clue. But I know someone who will.’

‘Who?’

‘Just your favourite person in the whole entire world.’

A look of disgust crept across her face. ‘Please God, tell me you’re not talking about Hans Jager.’

Striker laughed out loud.

‘You got it, darlin. The one and only. Time to go see Meathead.’

Half an hour later, just after eight o’clock as the sun was finally coming up, Striker and Felicia pulled into the south lane of Tenth Avenue, then turned down the steep driveway that led into the underground police parkade. Striker swiped his card, keyed in his ID number and drove into the protected area of the building. The steel-reinforced gates automatically closed behind them.

Felicia grimaced at the low ceiling, which was covered with grey stalactites of fire-retardant foam. ‘Feels like a tomb down here.’

Striker agreed. ‘Welcome to the Bunker.’ It was the first time he’d been back here at Specialty Unit Headquarters since his stress leave, and it felt good.

He scanned the area. The lower levels of the complex contained electronically-secured lockers that housed the high-tech military weaponry required for the Emergency Response Team. This place was a favourite hangout for Meathead, who planned on making the move from the International Gang Task Force to the Emergency Response Team the moment his application was approved by the Inspector. So when he had suggested they all meet here to discuss matters, Striker hadn’t been surprised.