Sean Slater - The survivor

‘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.

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.

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.

Once out of the elevator, they walked into Major Crimes. It was one large carpeted rectangle, divided by four rows of cubicles. Flanking the room were three soundproofed interview rooms, each one connected to a viewing room with cameras and recording equipment. Above the first door, a tiny white light was flashing.

Someone was in a session.

Striker cut down the aisle towards his desk. The work space he and Felicia shared was in the rear of the room, the northeast corner, which suited him just fine. It was away from the hustle and bustle of the front desk, and on the odd occasion when one of the white-shirts came down, he was far enough away to avoid them.

Their cubicles were on opposite sides of the walkway, his facing north and hers south, which made it easy for rehashing; all they had to do was turn around and talk.