The Guilty (54 page)

By the time Harry had reached 41st Avenue and started westward, the icon was flashing.

Striker and Felicia were on the move.

He pulled over for a moment and watched the red icon move past the school and down Imperial Drive. Soon the car was racing west, out towards the university grounds, at speeds of one hundred and
forty K.

Three times
the speed limit.

Harry watched the icon race into the centre of the campus and stop in the middle of the Thunderbird thoroughfare. Speed equalled zero. He sat there anxiously, waiting for them to move again;
when they did not, he put the car in Drive and headed for UBC.

Something important was happening.

The steam tunnels of UBC had long been a place of urban legend among the campus populace. Tales of students making it into the secret entrance were abundant, as were the horror
stories of those who had entered and never come out again. Some writings even claimed that there was a serial killer lurking below the streets.

Most of it was gobbledygook, but the fact was the tunnels
did
exist. The University of British Columbia, being one of the few remaining steam networks left in North America, still used
the terribly inefficient system to pipe in heat from the steam plant to all the old dorm buildings and the administrative offices the university owned.

For anyone who had access to Google – and the knowledge of where to look – the main entrance was no secret.

While Striker waited for UBC maintenance staff to answer his call, Felicia found the information they needed on the Internet. She lowered her phone and stopped walking down Thunderbird Avenue.
She turned to talk to him.

‘Okay, there’s a few entrances,’ she said. ‘Three are somewhat hidden and off the track, but the main one is just ahead.’ She pointed to what appeared to be a
rather large manhole cover that sat less than twenty feet off the main drive, in a square recess of concrete. ‘That’s it right there.’

Striker grabbed a tyre iron from the cruiser and neared the manhole. He looked down. The lid was seated properly, fitting snugly into its receptacle, and there were no signs of tampering. He
jammed the tyre iron in between the rim of the cover and the manhole receptacle and applied some pressure. The round plate of steel gave a little and, seconds later, lifted altogether.

Striker removed it.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Where they went.’

‘There are other entry points,’ Felicia started, but Striker cut her off.

‘No. You don’t understand. These covers are normally
locked
. We should never have even been able to get in here . . . Someone went in before us, and it sure as hell
wasn’t a maintenance man.’

Felicia looked into the hole. Everything below was a sea of darkness. ‘Maybe we should call in the Emergency Response Team.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They show up and this entire thing is over.’

‘He might have
bombs
down there, Jacob.’

‘Might nothing – you can damn well bet on it. And he’ll set them off the moment he sees ERT.’ Striker drew his pistol and double-checked that the magazine was secure.
‘I’ll go in alone.’

‘Don’t be an ass.’ Felicia drew her own piece.

Striker didn’t respond. He just swung his leg into the hole, stepped on the first rung of the ladder, and climbed down into the murky darkness below. Seconds later, Felicia followed
him.

They were in.

Having no access to night-vision goggles, Striker and Felicia were left peering through a crimson darkness. The underground was a series of long cement tubes, running north and
south and east from their location. All along the top of the tunnels, a series of red lights dimly illuminated the way.

Striker took out his flashlight and shone it in all three directions. Within twenty feet, the way south led to a gated door that was locked. That left them with two options. He shone his
flashlight on the ground, scanning the area for footprints in the dust. As he did so, Felicia let out an excited sound.

‘Look here,’ she said.

Striker did. Mounted on the wall was a strange-looking sensor, obviously new. It was blinking every so often – a deep red light.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said.

‘Looks like part of a relay system,’ Felicia said. She looked down the tunnel and then above them. ‘We’re underground and this is thick cement. Oliver probably
can’t get a signal down here without one. He’d need it for any type of radio communications or Internet devices.’

‘Or to trigger a bomb,’ Striker said.

He looked around further.

On the side of the wall, running down the entire stretch of tunnel, were two large red pipes and two large blue pipes. They were
hot
– Striker could feel heat radiating off them
– and they were covered in a thin film of dust. In the dimness of the tunnel, it was difficult to tell if it was the same kind of dust found at the crime scenes, but as Striker analysed it,
something else caught his eye.

A long scratch mark ran down the entire length of pipe. It had been ground right into the red paint and gave off a silver gleam from the metal below.

‘Check it out. Looks fresh. Rothschild’s police knife maybe.’

Felicia noticed the scratch. ‘Or Oliver leading the way. Believe me, he knows we’re coming, Jacob.’

‘I know that. But what choice do we have?’

Striker began following the scratch down the eastern tunnel. Within thirty feet, the passage angled left, then after another ten feet, left again. Before Striker knew it, he had no idea which
way they were heading. The place was a giant underground labyrinth, and it was getting progressively hotter with every step. When they turned another corner, Striker lost his balance and put out
his hand. It touched the red pipe next to them, and he pulled it away fast.

‘Fucking
hot
,’ he said.

Felicia said nothing; she just listened. There was a rushing sound in the tunnel. A soft but constant rumble.

‘That’s the steam in the pipes,’ she said. ‘You can imagine the pressure.’

Striker looked at the pipes for a long moment. ‘If Oliver sets off a bomb down here, we’re gonna be like lobsters in a pot.’ He took out his cell phone and tried to get a
signal. When it failed, he cursed. ‘I thought he had relays down here?’

Felicia just shrugged like she had no idea.

Striker turned to face her. ‘You have to go back.’

‘What?’ She gave him a stunned look. ‘Without you? No way.’

‘There’s no choice. If Oliver blows us up down here, we’ll cook to death, Feleesh. You, me, Rothschild – the kids. You got to get that steam turned off, and as fast as
you can.’

‘But—’

‘There’s no choice. We’re out of time.’

Felicia said nothing for a moment. She swore, then gave him a quick hug and a kiss.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’

Then she turned and hurried back down the tunnel.

Striker watched her turn the bend and disappear from sight. Alone and sweating from the growing heat, he tightened his grip on the SIG and headed deeper into the crimson darkness of the
tunnel.

Five minutes later, Striker hiked down a long sloping corridor. As he went, he passed by a couple of iron-barred gates that owned locks so old they appeared rusted. The heat
and humidity grew, and so did the darkness. When he turned the bend, there were no more red lights overhead.

Everything was pitch-black.

He stopped. Took one cautious step forward. And suddenly a series of red lasers shot all over the tunnel – red crimson beams slicing through the blackness. Striker’s first thought
was of the laser tripwires he’d triggered in the sewer systems behind the A&W parking lot.

They’re just laser trips
, he recalled the bomb expert saying.

But were they now? And were they designed to stop someone from entering the room – or to prevent them from leaving? At the very least they would slow down someone’s escape.

He aimed his flashlight down the pathway, scanning the floor for tripwires or pressure pads. When he saw none, he slowly, cautiously, made his way down the corridor, stepping over and ducking
under each crimson beam in his path.

Beside him, the sound of the steam-pressurized pipes grew louder, moaning like a trapped beast desperate to break free. The heat coming off them was immense.

Thoughts of Oliver setting off a bomb in the tunnels brought a sick feeling to Striker’s stomach. With the combination of darkness, locked doors, laser tripwires, and the never-ending
maze, escape from the steam tunnels would be impossible.

Striker cut a final corner and found himself facing a steel door. There, he paused, unsure of what to do. Opening it could not only warn Oliver that he was coming, but trigger a detonation.

Yet what choice did he have?

He reached out and placed his flashlight hand against the steel. Then he readied his pistol and gently pushed open the door. What he saw caused his heart to constrict.

He was standing at the entrance to a control room. Everything was tinted dark red from the overhead lights, and the air was so hot it was suffocating. To his far left, slumped with his back to
the concrete wall, was Mike Rothschild. His hands were cuffed to a large steel pipe and blood trickled down the left side of his skull.

His head hung low, his eyes were dazed.

To Striker’s far right was another closed door. Steel, with a deadbolt across the facing. It looked heavy. Across the front was one word:

Maintenance.

‘Welcome to the command room,’ a weary voice said.

Striker turned and looked directly across the room. There, half in the shadows, was Oliver Howell. The man sat on a long steel table, next to a static-filled television monitor and what looked
like a green-lighted router. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, complete with a radio, gun and flashlight – but where his bulletproof vest should have been, Oliver had made some
modifications. Strapped across his chest were not Kevlar and trauma plates, but long cylindrical columns.

Explosives.

Striker counted six on the front alone.

‘Oliver—’ Striker started.

‘Finally, we’re all here.’ Oliver spoke the words softly, weakly. He looked over at Rothschild. ‘The man who murdered my father’ – he looked back at Striker
– ’and the man who murdered my sister.’

‘I murdered no one.’

Oliver made no reply. He just sat there, the slick flesh of his face looking like broken-in red leather in the strange tint of the safety lights. Striker deftly scanned the man up and down.
Oliver’s right fist was closed tight. In it was a small rectangular clip of some kind.

A detonator.

Oliver caught his stare.

‘It’s a pressure release,’ he explained. ‘Just like the ones I used to disarm in the Green Zone . . . though I gave this one a ten-second delay.’ He smiled weakly.
‘Just enough time to let you think about what you did before it goes off and we’re all bathed in blistering hot steam.’

‘Where are the children?’ Striker asked.

But Oliver only smiled. He opened his arms wide, and the exertion made his arms and shoulders tremble. ‘Go ahead, Detective. Take your shot. All it takes is one single trigger pull –
and then we can end this. Redemption for all.’

Striker did not react.

Time . . .

He needed to give Felicia time
. . .

He stood there in the entrance to the control room and took in all of his surroundings. In the far corner of the room sat an opened crate. Inside it were supplies, most of which appeared to be
technological gear and ammunitions. Next to it sat a small red cooler that had a medical emblem on the front. At the right end of the room was the closed steel door:

Maintenance
.

Striker studied it and thought of Cody and Shana.

He turned back to Howell and met the man’s stare. ‘Are the children in there?’ When the bomber said nothing, Striker added, ‘They’re not a part of this,
they’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Nothing wrong?’ Oliver laughed oddly. ‘What
wrong
did my father do?’

Striker looked back at the man. ‘Your father did nothing wrong. We both know that. You, on the other hand, have committed murder.’

‘Retribution—’

‘
Murder
, Oliver. Because what you think happened is all wrong.’ Striker took a small slow step into the room, and Oliver’s fingers tightened on the release pad.
‘I know it all,’ Striker continued. ‘You think the Emergency Response Team betrayed your father. That Koda was the lead, and Rothschild was the shooter. You think Archer was shot
in the back and blown up in the process, and you also think that Osaka covered up the shooting.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed at the words, but he said nothing.

Striker continued:

‘You think that Dr Owens falsified her reports to hide the murder and that her cousin, Keisha Williams, was money-laundering the funds. And you believe that
everyone
is culpable,
no matter how small or indirect their role in this mess.’

Still, Oliver said nothing.

‘I also know you derived this belief from inconsistencies in the police and medical reports, along with the audio tapes.’ Striker edged his way a little closer to the maintenance
door. ‘That’s why you kidnapped Dr Owens – not to torture her, but to interrogate her. To corroborate what you already believed. And you think you got that from her.’

Oliver’s expression remained unreadable. After a short moment, he nodded slowly. ‘You’re good at your job, Detective.’

‘Better than you. I found the
truth
.’

A quick burst of anger flashed through Oliver’s eyes. ‘I know the truth.’

‘You know nothing.’ Striker took another step closer to the maintenance door. ‘The fact is, you’re right
and
you’re wrong.’