Sean Slater - The survivor

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?’

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.

‘You here about the noise?’ a woman asked.

He looked over and saw an old lady, dressed in nothing but an orange cotton robe and oversized fluffy slippers. In her hands was a steaming cup, and at her feet was an old Basset Hound.

‘What noise?’

She jerked her head towards the Kwan house. ‘I dunno, a loud one, that’s for sure. Sounded like something damn well exploded in there. Took you guys long enough, I called it in over five minutes ago.’

‘Get inside,’ was all Striker said.

He crouched low, sprinted down the sidewalk that flanked the frontyard bushes, and raced up the front porch steps. At the door, he stopped. He leaned around the porch railing and tried to peer through the bay window, but the curtain was drawn. The flickering glimmer of a television set caught his eye, and seconds later, a harsh sound startled him — feminine, desperate, pained. It was followed by a man’s voice, neutral in tone, but direct and authoritative.

In control.

‘Where is she?’ the man asked. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Striker stepped back from the front door, assessed the structure. It was made of oak, solid as hell, and locked by a steel deadbolt. If he attempted to kick it in, he’d have to do it with one strike; otherwise, the element of surprise would be lost and he’d be an easy target when he broke through.

No time. There was no time.

No other option.

He readied his gun and leaped forward, kicking out his right leg and driving the heel of his boot onto the inner portion of the deadbolt. The steel was strong; the lock remained secure. But the frame busted inwards with a loud wooden snap!

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker yelled.

He used his momentum to push forward through the opening, getting out of the fatal funnel as quickly as possible. He collided heavily with the wall, balanced himself, and got his first true look at the shooter.

Red Mask was standing to Striker’s right. In the living room.

Without the mask on.

The sight was almost startling. He was an Asian male, with narrow hard eyes and a face much older than Striker had expected. Definitely not a student from St Patrick’s High. Instantly Striker knew he had been right.

He was dealing with a trained killer.

The expression Red Mask wore was not one of surprise or fear or even anger, but one of acceptance. His body was in a semi-crouched position, ready to bound. In his hand, he held a glistening black pistol. It blended in with the darkness of his kangaroo jacket.