Sean Slater - The survivor

‘I don’t know what he is,’ Striker said. ‘But I do know this — he’s got a condition not to be in any motor vehicle without the registered owner present, so he can have fun explaining how his prints got inside that van.’

‘You said it’s only a partial print — that’ll never hold up in court.’

Striker gave her a quick look. ‘He doesn’t know that.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s a tough little shit. Doubt he’ll talk.’

‘Then we revert to plan B.’

‘Plan B?’

‘Yeah. I know a dark secret about Chinese Tony most others don’t.’ Striker flashed her a nasty grin. ‘And at a time like this, I’m more than willing to use it.’

The sun was breaking through the tops of the Stanley Park trees as they drove down Comox Street and stopped in front of Hedgeford Estates. The apartment building was a twelve-storey, made of grey concrete slabs and black mirrored glass. The sunlight glinted off it.

Striker hated the place. It was a favourite abode of mid-level drug traffickers, and it pissed him off that a dial-a-doper like Chinese Tony could live here when he was collecting welfare — an amount which, on its own, couldn’t pay the rent.

‘His unit’s right there,’ Striker said, and pointed. ‘The side that flanks the walkway.’

The target suite was number 112, which meant the main floor, north-east side. The ground-floor location was no fluke; it gave Chinese Tony a quick escape exit when the cops or other enemies came around.

‘He’ll probably run,’ Felicia said.

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘You want the talk or the knock?’

He smiled. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’ll flip you for it.’

‘Seniority.’

‘You really gonna play that card again?’

‘Till the day I retire.’

Felicia frowned, then left for the building’s front entrance.

Striker waited just outside the patio doors to Chinese Tony’s apartment, hidden by a row of bushes. Behind him, a redbrick walkway circled the parking lot, turned north towards the tennis courts then trailed off into the lagoons of Stanley Park.

He watched the harsh fall winds blow leaves across the court. It was cold, but he left his long coat open for better manoeuvrability. He checked his watch. It was just after eight in the morning, and that was good. Chinese Tony would most likely be home. The prick did most of his crimes at night.

Striker waited for his cell to ring. It did. He picked up.

‘You set?’ Felicia asked.

‘Do the talk.’

‘Okay.’ He heard, ‘Police! Open up!’ And seconds later, the soft grating sound of the patio doors sliding open.

Striker peered through a break in the hedge and spotted the man they were after.

Chinese Tony was a white guy — he’d gotten the nickname from being the only white kid to hang with the Gum Wah Boyz way back in the late nineties. He was a scrawny little puke — always had been, but he’d grown even thinner since Striker had last seen him.

Using his own product, Striker knew. Common mistake.

Chinese Tony’s cheeks were sucked in, and his eyes were deep round hollows. New scars marked his face, the largest one trailing from his left eye and disappearing under his chin. His dark brown hair was shorter than before, cut jagged and bowl-like, real greasy. He wore the usual dirtbag attire — holey blue jeans and a black hoodie — and he came scrambling across the backyard patio like a cockroach running from the light. He crossed the yard, hopped the fence -

— and Striker nailed him in the chest with a hard elbow.

Chinese Tony went reeling backwards. He hit the gate, his legs gave out, and he collapsed. When he looked back up again, his eyes were cloudy.

‘What the fuck?’ he started.

‘Why you running from the police, Tony?’

‘Who the… Detective Striker?’

‘I’m touched you remembered.’ Striker grabbed the man’s arm and was surprised at the bone thinness. He flipped Tony over so that he was prone on the grass, then handcuffed him. When the cuffs were double-locked behind his back and Felicia came walking around the building into the common area, Striker hoisted him back up to his feet.

‘Why were you running from the police?’ he repeated.

‘I got no warrants.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I ain’t breachin’ nothing. Seen my PO just yesterday. So fuck you. You got nothing, man. Nothing.’

Striker grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, pulled him close, spoke quietly. ‘Listen up and listen hard, you little maggot. I got three dead bodies in a vehicle down on East Pender, and witnesses are pointing you out as the driver. I’d say that’s something.’

‘I was home.’

‘Did I even say when this happened?’

Chinese Tony licked his lips, said nothing.

‘Also, we got a couple prints off the steering wheel,’ Felicia added. ‘Good ones, too. Or else we wouldn’t be here wasting our time.’

‘I was sleeping, see? Ali K was here, too. He’ll tell you that.’

Striker looked at Felicia, and she smiled. The only person who could possibly be Chinese Tony’s alibi would also be the same person who had been the passenger in the stolen van.

Striker grinned. ‘Ali’s prints are in the vehicle, too, Einstein. Got any other stories you want to throw out there?’

Chinese Tony’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

Striker made a point of laughing. ‘Your story’s got more holes than a box of Cheerios.’ He tightened his grip on Tony’s hoodie, pulled him even closer. Whispered, ‘I don’t give two shits about the motor vehicle breach, got it? What I care about are the dead bodies.’

‘I already told you, I wasn’t even in no van.’

‘Did I ever say it was a van?’

The words caught Chinese Tony off guard, and he stuttered, ‘I w-want my l-lawyer.’

Striker nodded, never letting his eyes deviate.

‘Those bodies might be linked to a lot of dead kids,’ he said. ‘Now I don’t know how you got involved in this, but I do know one thing — you were in that goddam van. So you can ’fess up now and tell me what your part is, or we can do it the hard way.’

‘I want my fuckin’ lawyer.’

Striker turned to Felicia and smiled. ‘Awesome. Plan B it is.’

The table was wet when Red Mask awoke, and his body was slicked with sweat. The room was cold. So terribly cold. And there was that smell again.

He heard the sound of running water and saw the old man standing by the sink, his arthritic spine all twisted from the rear view. He was washing off steel tools.

The old man must have sensed something, for he turned around. Found Red Mask with his eyes. ‘You fell into unconsciousness.’

Red Mask tried to think back. There was no memory. ‘Is bullet removed?’

The old man shuffled over to the table and dropped the lump of mashed lead into Red Mask’s palm. ‘The bringer of so much sorrow. It is yours. Well earned.’

Red Mask looked at the source of his pain; it was so small.

‘I must go,’ he said.

The old man grimaced. ‘You can go nowhere. Your body is weak. Very weak.’

‘My spirit is strong.’

‘The spirit is housed by the body.’

Red Mask sat forward, and let out a cry. The pain was just as intense as before, but different. Less sharp, more diffuse. He swung his legs off the table and carefully stood. His legs trembled but did not give out.

‘I owe you much.’

The old man put a vial of pills into his hand. ‘You must take these. Every hour. To fight off the infection.’

Red Mask stuffed the vial into his pants pocket. Then the old man touched him.

‘Your body needs rest.’

‘I will rest when dead.’