The Survivor (14 page)

‘You wearing?’

She rapped her knuckles over the centre of her chest, and it made a hard
thunk
! ‘Momma didn’t raise no fools.’

‘Good.’ Striker reached into the back seat and grabbed the shotgun. He racked it once, chambering a round, and gave Felicia a grave look.

‘Time for some people to face the Reaper.’

When backup was in place – all of them plainclothes units – Striker gave Felicia a nod and she drew her pistol. His palm felt wet, almost slippery now, and he tried to convince himself it was just the rain wetting his skin. But he knew better. And all at once, it felt like he was heading back into the cafeteria again to battle the three gunmen.

Tactically, the situation was a nightmare. Two cops with forty cals and one shotgun. They had no distraction or dark-light devices, just a couple of Maglites and the flashlights attached to their guns. On that note Felicia had been right. The Emergency Response Team could handle this takedown better, especially if machine guns and shotguns became the weapons of choice.

But ERT needed time, and that was the one luxury they couldn’t afford. As far as Striker was concerned, time didn’t even exist any more. Not in a normal state. Everything was just one big rush before the next shooting.

He snuck down the sidewalk, shotgun in hand. It was loaded with ten gauge – enough power to stop a black bear – and he rejoiced at the feel of the stock against his inner arm. It wasn’t just any old shotgun, it was a combat shotgun. Benelli. A tiny piece of lightning in his hands.

Without looking back, he asked Felicia, ‘You got me covered?’

She came up behind him and gave his shoulder a squeeze, indicating she was not only there, but on full alert. Striker readied the shotgun and moved forward.

Approaching the house from the front was bad tactics, even under the best of circumstances. To the west, the neighbour’s exterior lights were turned off, and Striker saw no motion detectors. He opted to use the yard as cover. As he led Felicia through it, straddling the fence and searching for dogs, the thought of booby traps filtered through his mind. IEDs – Improvised Explosive Devices – were common with these nut-jobs, starting back with the Columbine kids who had planned on blowing up the entire library.

Because of this, he stopped when they crested Que Wong’s backyard, he turned to face Felicia and whispered, ‘Eyes up for IEDs. Wires. Bottles. Containers – whatever. High and low. Watch every step.’

She nodded. Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were steady, determined. As much as a part of him begrudged her this ability to turn her emotions to ice, he also loved it. She was a rock in the field, always standing next to him when the worst of the shit hit.

That couldn’t be said about all the other cops he’d worked with.

A long hedge of manicured bush, five feet high, separated the two yards. In the rain and darkness, it looked like a solid row of blackness. As Striker flanked the hedge, searching for a break in the bush, a sliver of light found his eyes. It was coming from Que Wong’s backyard.

From the
ground.

‘What the hell?’ Striker heard Felicia say.

He reached back and tapped Felicia, then pointed to the lit-up area of grass. Her long hair was wet, sticking to the edges of her face, and she shivered as she nodded. Striker felt the cold, too. The fall wind picked up, whistling through the greenery and blowing the rain into his face.

With Felicia covering his back, he crept along the bush-line until he found a small break in the greenery. It was narrow, but passable. He pressed between the two bushes and took in the full view of the yard.

It was ordinary, small. In the middle, near the house, was a small patio area, complete with a propane barbecue and an outdoor patio table with chairs. At the far end of that, an upright cement birdbath stood, nestled between two rows of barren shrubs. Striker let his eyes roam beyond the shrubs to a pile of old broken cinderblocks by the far fence.

The light was coming from the pile.

Striker made sure Felicia saw it. When she nodded, he moved forward and cleared the rest of the yard, finishing up with the patio. From this new vantage, he could see that the cinder blocks weren’t in a pile, but were arranged in a small square design. And in the very centre of them was a hatch, coming right out of the earth. A square of dirty light spilled out around the edges.

‘Well water?’ Felicia guessed.

He shook his head. ‘Bunker.’

‘Bunker?’

‘An old bomb shelter, I think. Step back. Cover me.’ He dropped down to one knee and studied the door in the earth. It was small, barely two feet by two feet. Only one person could get through that space at a time, and that was if there was a ladder going down, not steps. He took out his flashlight, turned it on, and ran the beam all around the edges of the hatch.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Looking for wires. Igniters. Switches.’

‘You see any?’

‘No. But be ready.’

He put his flashlight away and with the shotgun in one hand, he grabbed hold of the latch, the steel feeling cold and wet against his skin, and heaved as fast and hard as he could.

The door was hinged at the top, and the joints screeched gratingly as the door opened, then slammed hard against the back row of cinderblocks.

Striker stared down into the hole and saw no movement inside. A dim light from an unseen source revealed a rickety-looking ladder descending into the earth. At the bottom, a murky passageway trailed north.

‘It goes towards the house,’ he told her. ‘Watch our backs.’

As he stepped down onto the first rung of the ladder, Felicia grabbed his shoulder.

‘You’re not going down there,’ she said.

He never took his eyes off the cavern below. ‘You got a better idea?’

‘Yeah. Get a dog.’

‘Forget that. No mangy mutt’s going down here to tear through all my evidence.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Just cover me,’ he said.

‘It could be a trap.’

‘Exactly, so don’t follow. Stay here and make sure no one locks me down there.’ And before she could protest more, he descended into the earth.

The ladder went down ten feet, then ended abruptly. Once on the ground level, he could see the source of the light: an exposed fluorescent tube that ran down the centre of the far room. From its light, he could see that the long corridor he was standing in ran straight towards the house, then ended in a large open room. From where he stood, there appeared to be no other doors in or out.

Just one big underground square of concrete.

Keeping the shotgun ready, he stepped forward. The room was cluttered with things. Stacks of small water tanks lined the far wall. Wooden shelves held canned goods, survival kits, batteries and toiletries. Sheets of white plastic covered the walls.

Striker stood still. Breathed as quietly as he could. Waited and watched for movement. There were no obvious signs of threat, but that meant nothing. Situations like this were explosive and often unpredictable.

He inched forwards into the open room. Almost immediately, he detected something in the air. Something beside dampness and old rotting wood. It was a distinct smell, a familiar smell.

Urine.

He took another step forward and scanned everything.

Old planks put together to form benches and a table took up the bulk of the room, sitting out of place and centre stage. It bothered him. They were mostly covered by an orange tarp. Striker looked around. Though the bunker was old, it was still unfinished. Fraying chunks of pink insulation poked out through the white plastic sheets that stretched from two-by-four to two-by-four. Here and there, homemade wooden shelves had been nailed up haphazardly. In the far corner of the room sat a new workbench, covered in metal parts.

Everything seemed normal.

Seemed
.

And then Striker took a closer look at the details. On the shelves, unlocked and out in the open, sat several copper pads, wire brushes, and dirty rags – cleaning tools for weaponry. On the far wall, overtop the fraying insulation hung a small piece of cardboard, containing handwritten directions on how to construct homemade grenades. And on the workbench, all the pieces of metal Striker had taken for scrap were actually filed-down splinters of metal filler for explosive devices.
Shrapnel.

He had walked into a weapons lair.

‘Got gun stuff down here,’ Striker called up to Felicia. ‘Be ready.’

He raised his shotgun, swung into the centre of the room, and stopped abruptly. Down to his right, directly beside the workbench, a leg stuck out near the front of the benches. The leg was covered by black pants and a black runner. The remainder of the body was obscured by the hanging orange tarp.

‘Got a body!’ he called.

He took a wide arc around the couch for a better view.

Lying there, face up on the dirty concrete, was a young Asian male. A teenager. His mouth was agape, his empty eyes wide open. The top of his head was blown away, as if he’d shot a bullet through the roof of his mouth. Clutched in his right hand was a 40-calibre pistol. A Glock. And lying beside him on the ground was a blood-red hockey mask.

Striker eased his finger off on the trigger, but kept the gun at the low ready. ‘You can come down,’ he called.

He’d barely yelled the words and Felicia was beside him. She saw the damage to the gunman’s head and the wetness of his crotch. She wrinkled her nose.

‘Jesus Christ, another one,’ she said.

‘Good things come in threes.’

Striker studied the ceiling and saw a dirty spray of redness against the old brown wood. In the centre of the stain was a small hole, where the bullet had penetrated. Surrounding the hole were splinters of bone and splatters of skin and hair, and a mess of other dark things he could not define.

‘Keep us covered,’ he said.

When Felicia nodded, he handed her the shotgun and gloved up. He snapped the latex and leaned down over the dead kid. He took out the photocopied picture of Raymond Leung, the one Principal Myers had given him from last year’s yearbook. Comparing the picture with the dead boy on the cement floor left little doubt.

This was Raymond Leung.

Striker folded up the paper, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He reached down, grasped the gunman’s pistol with his thumb and index finger, and hit the mag release. He slid out the clip and took close inspection of the bullets, examining the casings.

‘Hydra-Shok rounds.’

Felicia let out a relieved sound. ‘Just like the ones in White Mask’s pistol.’

‘The ones he used on the targeted kids,’ Striker clarified. He pocketed the clip, expelled the last round in the pistol and gently laid it back down on the floor. He then searched through Raymond Leung’s pockets and found a crumpled-up piece of computer paper. He smoothed it out and looked over the page.

Felicia peered over his shoulder. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Striker nodded. ‘Suicide note. “Fuck you and fuck the world”.’

‘Not much of a linguist.’

‘Yeah. He wouldn’t have made it past Deputy Chief in our Department.’

Felicia let out a strange laugh, one that resonated with relief more than humour. She took out her cell, flipped it open. ‘I’ll call it in.’

Striker nodded. He returned the note to the same pocket. When Felicia agreed to guard the body, Striker called for the plainclothes units to assist him in clearing the house. As he waited for them, he went over the case in his head. Everything had fallen into place: they had Raymond Leung’s body. Here, in his own residence. With his red mask beside him. And his gun. Which was filled with Hydra-Shok rounds.

All the pieces of the puzzle fitted perfectly. This should have filled Striker with elation. Or at the very least, an overpowering sense of relief. But it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it left him with a gnawing sense of worry. This was a homicide investigation. Nothing
ever
fitted together that easily.

Something was wrong.

Twenty-Four

It took over an hour, but when the clock struck seven, the Wong house was cleared. No one was home. The parents, Anson and May Wong, were apparently away on vacation, visiting family in China. They would have to be contacted as soon as possible. In the meantime, the entire house and yard needed to be guarded as a crime scene, and Felicia had already started taping off the area.

Striker thanked the plainclothes units for their assistance, then walked back towards the bunker where Red Mask – now known as seventeen-year-old Raymond Leung – lay dead. He had barely set foot in the backyard when he spotted the unmarked white cruiser parked in the lane.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

Striker scanned the yard and quickly located Inspector Beasley – the biggest brownnoser in the Department. He stood near the patio. The Deputy Chief was standing beside him, just in front of the hatchway leading into the ground. He was holding a white handkerchief to his thin lips, and when he caught sight of Striker, his face tightened and he took the handkerchief away.

‘I want a word with you, Detective.’ He marched over to Striker, and in a flash, Inspector Beasley was at his side.

Striker glanced at Beasley. ‘Brought the cheerleader, huh?’

The Deputy Chief wasn’t distracted. ‘Why wasn’t I notified of this address before you came here? And why wasn’t the Emergency Response Team called in? Jesus Christ, Striker, you didn’t even go over the air with it.’

Striker nodded. ‘That’s what you wanted to say to me?’

‘What the hell else would it be?’

‘How about “Good job – you found the killer”.’

‘How can I commend you when your results are based on luck?’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Luck?’

‘You didn’t follow even one proper procedure on this one – not one.’

‘I located the goddam gunman.’

‘And jeopardised your life in the process. And the life of your partner, too. And those of however many other cops might have had to come after you if things had gone poorly. Your recklessness will be documented.’