Sean Slater - The survivor

‘How’s it going, ladies?’ he said. ‘Can I interrupt this Mary Kay meeting?’

Morningstar kicked the door. ‘Fuck you!’

Pemberton just stood there and looked menacing.

Striker grinned. ‘You getting all acquainted with one another in there?’ He looked at Pemberton and laughed mockingly. ‘Is it true what they say — once you have black…’

‘Go fuck your mother,’ Pemberton said. ‘You lying prick, Striker! You said you owed us one. Said you’d look out for us. You’re a lying fuck!’ He stepped forward and kicked the door so hard it shook and the viewing hatch closed.

Chinese Tony reared back nervously.

Striker held him steady. He flipped the hatch back open and made eye-contact with the two men inside. ‘Don’t get your panties in a knot, ladies, I brought you some fresh meat here. Now you can have a menage-a-trois — Hotel Skid-style.’

A nervous whimper escaped Tony’s lips and his entire body tightened. ‘No fuckin’ way I’m going in there.’

Striker just smiled at him. ‘Hope you smuggled in some lube.’

‘I’m gonna tell my lawyer!’

‘Go ahead and tell him whatever you want. But he won’t get down here for at least three hours after the call is made. Plenty of time for some good old-fashioned lovin’.’

Chinese Tony’s face hardened. ‘Stop fuckin’ round, Striker.’

‘You should really consider your words better when you’re about to go in the can, Tony. You see the big black dude in there,’ he pointed through the glass window at Morningstar, ‘there’s a reason I picked him to be in your cell. And the white wacko, too. See, they were both victims as kids. Sexual molestation cases. Anal rape — real bad stuff. They’ve suppressed most of it, but I bet they’ll remember it all when I tell them your dirty little secret.’

Tony’s face paled. ‘I ain’t got no secrets.’

‘You’re a skinner, Tony.’

‘Fuck you, I am.’

‘Like the little boys.’

‘This is bullshit.’

‘Every cop knows it — and they’re just waiting for the information to nail your tight little ass to the wall.’ Striker pointed into the cell. ‘And soon they will, too. Unless we talk. Up to you really. You wanna talk to me — or you wanna take your chances in there with Ebony and Ivory?’

Tony’s chest was heaving and sweat dappled his skin, as if the Cell Block 2 was suddenly too hot.

‘Go fuck your mother.’

Striker didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, shoved Tony inside, and Tony let out a terrified croak.

‘Striker!’

‘I told you, Tony, I got dead kids on my hands and a crazed gunman out there. I’m willing to break all the rules on this one. And a piece of shit like you means nothing to me.’ Striker grabbed the edge of the door, looked at Morningstar and Pemberton, and smiled. ‘I told you guys I’d look out for you, and that I’d owe you one. Well, here it is. The name of your new cellmate here is Chinese Tony. He’s a skinner. Have fun with him.’

Striker slammed the door shut and the harsh metallic sound echoed throughout the halls. Not a second later, Chinese Tony let out a horrible cry and started pounding frantically on the door.

‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk, I’LL FUCKING TALK!’

Striker opened up the door, saw Chinese Tony on his stomach, trembling, crying, his prisoner clothing already half-ripped from the lower part of his thin white body. His ass was hanging out. In behind him, Pemberton and Morningstar stood with strips of Tony’s prison clothes in their hands. Striker turned his eyes down to Tony.

‘You’ll tell me everything?’ he said.

‘Everything, Striker, everything. I swear!’

‘Good. Because you shut me out again and you’ll be right back here — and next time, this door won’t open back up.’

Ten minutes later, Striker sat across from Chinese Tony in one of the interview rooms located behind the main booking area. The air was cooler and much more comfortable here, and the lighting was brighter. The room was secure.

‘Have some water,’ Striker said, and slid bottled water across the table.

Chinese Tony accepted it with trembling hands. He tried to uncap it, couldn’t, and Striker did it for him. He passed the water back and tried not to notice the bad smell in the room.

Chinese Tony had pissed himself.

Striker put down his water, fixed Tony with a hard look. ‘The van,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’

For a moment, Tony’s deep-set eyes took on a distant look, and he drank more and more water as if trying to delay the inevitable. After a few seconds, water spilled from the corner of his mouth onto the desk.

‘We just stole it, is all.’

‘Stole it?’

‘ Stole it. We was out lookin’ for something — Ali K and me — and then we headed up through the back lane of Pender there.’

‘The south lane.’

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. ‘Yeah, I guess. We cut into one of them underground parkades, and then we heard this motor running. So we turned the corner and looked up, and there it was — this white van someone left running. One of the back doors was open. Like they was loading it or something.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, we just ran up to it and saw no one was there, so we slammed the back door and hopped in each side and drove it out of the underground.’ He stopped speaking, took in a long breath. ‘Underground was dark. Wasn’t till we got out on Georgia we realised there was those bodies in the back. And then — just like that — there was these cops behind us, and we just kinda panicked. We dumped the van and ran outta there, ran straight through the projects.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over. The story made sense — Chinese Tony was a prominent car thief, and vans were his MO — but the odds of finding that van were bullshit. Striker fixed him with his best cold look.

‘One more lie and you go right back to the tank.’

‘I told you-’

‘You didn’t just happen across that van and steal it, Tony, someone hired you to do it. Who?’

‘I told you-’

Striker stood up. ‘Let’s go. Back to Cell 9.’

‘They’ll kill me if I tell!’

Striker said nothing. He stood by the door and studied Chinese Tony. The man looked frail, terrified. He was shaking so hard, the chair rattled against the floor. Striker leaned forward, down to Chinese Tony’s eye-level. ‘No one will ever know but you and me.’

Tony looked down, his lips trembled.

‘I promise you that,’ Striker added.

Chinese Tony wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his prison gear, then let out something between a laugh and a cry.

‘Kim Pham,’ he finally got out.

The name was familiar to Striker, and then he recalled — Kim Pham, the manager of the restaurant that owned the van.

Striker watched Tony’s face for any change in expression as he asked, ‘Who the hell is Kim Pham?’

‘He’s their leader.’

‘Whose leader? Leader of what?’

‘The Shadow Dragons.’

Striker stopped. All at once, Patricia Kwan’s nonsensical words came back to him: ‘… the house was filled with dragons…’ He let it hang in the back of his mind.

‘This Kim Pham,’ he said. ‘Did he contact you directly?’

Tony shrugged. ‘Well, no, not directly. He usually does. But not this time.’

‘Then how? Who?’

‘Some woman. Never heard her voice before. Left a message on my cell that they needed me again. Said it was urgent. But I never saw her, never got no name or nothing. Just did what I was told. Like I always do.’

‘Why did she hire you?’

Tony shrugged again. ‘To get rid of the van, to dump it in the river.’