Sean Slater - The survivor

And before Striker could react to this, Ibarra found the name connected to the image of the cook. Striker snatched the paper from his hands and read it over. He turned to face Felicia.

‘Call Dispatch,’ he ordered. ‘Call the papers. Call every TV station you know.’

Felicia stood up from her chair. ‘Red Mask?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘His name is Shen Sun Soone.’

Shen Sun Soone stood rooted to the spot. The sweet aroma of Chinese pork buns filled the air around him, but it did not stir his hunger. All he thought of was the Man with the Bamboo Spine.

The 14K assassin.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was Dai Huen Jai, a former Big Circle Boy — one of the Vietnamese National Liberation Army soldiers turned mercenary. These men had a willingness to resort to unnecessary torture. And they did so in horrifically creative ways. Death by slow boiling; death by skinning; death by disembowelment — all procedures conjured up to inspire fear in their enemies.

And it worked with great success.

‘Take seat,’ the waitress said to Shen Sun. ‘You take seat. You order food. Eat much.’

Shen Sun left the restaurant, feeling divided. A part of him longed for Macau, where Shan Chu was located. If only he could go there and hold tea with Shan Chu, then there might be hope. But that was impossible. Shan Chu was Dragon Head, above even Sheung Fa. He did what was necessary to protect the syndicate. And because of that, the order for Shen Sun’s death was understandable. The Triad need for secrecy superseded everything else. So when Shen Sun’s photo started popping up on every TV screen around the city, his fate was sealed.

The news media had ordered his death, every bit as much as Shan Chu.

The door to the Jin Ho Cafe slammed shut from the wind, the glass rattling. It tore him from his stupor. Woke him to the harsh truth. There was no future — not for him. Perhaps there never had been. Perhaps he had died that day in the camps, and now he was nothing more than a shadow wandering this earth.

He stood on the corner of East Hastings and Hawks and stared at the cold expanse of sky. Moments ago it had seemed sunny. Now it was grey.

He reached under his shirt, pulled the Glock from his waistband and placed the barrel flush against his temple. His finger rested heavy on the trigger. The steel was cold. But there was an easiness now. Peace. He gently squeezed the trigger.

And stopped.

Something had caught his eye. Something across the road. It was subtle at first, like the softest change of wind. But it was there. It was undeniably there.

And it was magnificent.

Across the road, on the north side of Hastings, was the Sunshine Market. The store awning was old and yellow with a dozen golden pennants hanging down. Each one boasted a symbol — Peace, Strength, Prosperity, Wisdom. The wind tilted them all towards the west.

All except one.

In the centre hung a single red pennant. Triangular. And on its face was the character for Perseverance. Unlike all the other ones, this pennant tilted towards the east. Against the wind. And Shen Sun could not believe his eyes.

It was a sign, he knew. A glorious rescue. He stared at that red triangular pennant tilting towards the east, and felt his eyes turn wet. Soon tears ran down his cheeks, tasting salty on his lips.

‘Tran?’ he asked.

The wind died and all the pennants stopped flapping.

Shen Sun let the gun fall to his side. Smiled. He would finish the mission. And he would survive. Like he always had, no matter what came up against him, be it the Khmer Rouge, the Shadow Dragons, a Big Circle Boy. Or some gwailo cop chasing him down at every turn.

Nothing could stop him.

He looked east, in the last direction he had seen the Man with the Bamboo Spine marching. Only a few blocks away was Raymur Street. And that told Shen Sun the true destination of his newfound enemy. The Strathcona Projects.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was going after Father.

When the Man with the Bamboo Spine got the call, he was already walking under the Hastings Street overpass. The crossroad below the pass was Raymur Street, and it was home to most of the cross-dressers and transsexuals Vancouver had to offer.

The overpass was in shadow, not only from the overhang of the road above, but from the cloudless sky. A grey darkness had slowly crept into the city, smothering it like a giant slate cover.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine did not notice the sky. He marched along Raymur Street, staying close to the railroad tracks that ran on the east side of the road. The tracks were set slightly off the main path, on depressed land — decent cover if shooting started. And it probably would. For though he had not seen Shen Sun Soone in over two decades, he knew the kind of man he was. A survivor.

Much like himself.

The phone call he was waiting for finally came. It was inevitable, and had been ever since Shen Sun Soone’s face had been plastered on every TV set in every window. The Man with the Bamboo Spine picked up.

‘Yes,’ he said.

The voice on the phone was Sheung Fa, and his tone was unusually low, distant. There was regret in his words, and grief, so much it was palpable. ‘The situation has changed for the worse.’

‘Yes.’

‘There is no longer an alternative.’

‘No.’

‘Do what must be done.’

‘Yes.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine snapped the cell phone shut and put it away. He looked across the road into the Raymur projects and saw the townhouse address of 533. The man who lived here was Lien Vok Soone — the father of Tran Sang Soone and Shen Sun Soone. Judging by the photographs, he was an old man, short, thin and frail, and from the history in the package, he was the owner of a small convenience store. A simple but honourable man. Another survivor.

It changed nothing.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was going to kill him first.

And then he would find Shen Sun.

Once Striker had identified Red Mask as Shen Sun Soone, the information was sent to every district in every department. His name was flagged on CPIC, meaning the information would be shared not only in Canada, but the rest of the world. Everyone from border patrol to the coast guard was notified, and no less than fifty units were searching possible hideout locations. But so far the search had come up negative.

It made Striker take a different path.

It was five-thirty p.m. with no end in sight when he got on his cell and called up an old acquaintance — the Hall Eleven Fire Chief, Brady Marshall. Years ago, Brady had started his career as a cop before switching to Fire three years in. The hours were better, he had said, and the pay and benefits similar enough. Striker got along well with the man.

Brady answered on the third ring and Striker gave him a quick rundown on the situation, emphasising the Suspicious Circumstance call that had been linked to an Arson call on Pandora Street.

‘You gonna be there a while?’ Striker asked.

‘For this, of course.’

‘Be there in fifteen.’

Striker hung up, and Felicia looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. He offered her nothing and kept thinking over the events that had transpired. Moments later, he pulled out his cell and dialled Courtney’s number.

It went straight to voicemail.

‘She screens her calls one more goddam time, I’m gonna take away her cell.’

Felicia said nothing. It was for the best.

They sped down Hastings Street into the 1700 Block where a McDonald’s was located on the north side. Striker’s stomach growled at the sight, and he detoured. He cut through the Drive-Thru, ordered them a couple of Big Macs, fries and coffees. Five minutes later, they were back on the road, heading for the Fire Department.