The Survivor (38 page)

‘Jacob, you’re bleeding!’

He reached up with his free hand, touched his brow and felt the warm stickiness of fresh blood. He pulled his hand away, saw red.

‘He’s here. In a hospital gown. Red Mask.’ Striker looked around. Felicia had come from the south, and he had followed from the west, so there were only two ways the gunman could have fled. He ordered Felicia to take the north while he searched east.

At the end of the hall, the door to the outside fire escape was ajar. Striker kicked it open and stepped outside. He looked down and found a discarded pale green gown and janitor clothing. But the rest of the staircase was empty. As was the alley below.

Red Mask was gone.

Striker reached for his cell phone to call for units to Burrard Street, then realised he’d lost it somewhere in the mayhem. No radio either. And with the time already passed and Red Mask nowhere in sight, Striker knew they had lost him.

Again.

He scanned the streets below and the buildings all around him. Across the way, on the rooftop of the next building, a tall Asian man stood looking at him. He was thin, with overly long legs and arms, and his face looked tight and angled wrong, as if his skull was too big for his skin. He stared back at Striker, offering nothing. Not a wave, not a smile, not anything.

Striker called out to him. ‘You see a guy run down these stairs?’

The man looked back, said nothing.

‘You see him?’ Striker asked again.

‘No.’

Striker stepped back inside and slammed the fire-escape door closed. Dizziness overtook him. He leaned against the wall, felt a moment away from collapsing. He fought through the weakness, returned to the hallway and spotted Felicia. She gave him the thumbs-down gesture.

‘No luck.’

‘He went that way,’ Striker said, and passed her by. She asked him something he couldn’t make out, but he ignored her and hurried back down the hallway to Patricia Kwan’s room. As he marched through the blown-apart doorway, he heard agonised sounds coming from the bed.

What he saw took his breath away.

Felicia entered the room just behind him. She saw Patricia Kwan, stopped hard and put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear
Christ
.’

‘Just get a fucking doctor.’

Striker ran to Patricia Kwan and reefed her out of the bed, so hard he tore the IVs from her arms. He dragged her limp body into the washroom, turned on the water and began flushing her face.

He prayed to God he wasn’t too late.

Seventy-Two

Half an hour later, Striker sat on the examination table with his shirt off and an Intern assessing his head wound. His head was ringing and all sounds were dull, but what bothered him most was how weak he felt. Despite the lean muscle that covered his body, he felt thin, exposed. Had he not already been in such good shape, he would have broken down by now.

He wanted sleep.

The Intern was a young blonde girl. Striker allowed her to do her thing, all the while letting his own mind wander to the Critical Care Room, where Patricia Kwan was being treated. The thought of her made his head hurt – almost as much as his hands. He turned them over, studied his palms, and assessed the redness. When he made a fist, the skin felt swollen, like it might tear if he tightened his fingers too much.

The Intern took notice. ‘Doctor Hart is the Specialist. He’ll look at that. Should be here any minute.’

A knock came on the door, and Felicia entered the room. ‘Hey.’

Striker looked at her, not wanting to know but having to ask. ‘She okay?’

‘Patricia?’ Felicia shrugged. ‘Gonna take some time to know.’

‘What about her daughter?’

‘No news on Riku Kwan either.’ Felicia moved around the Intern, sat down on the only chair the room offered, and pulled a Cadbury chocolate bar from her coat pocket. She caught Striker’s stare and held it up for him to see. ‘Hazelnut. Got it from the vending machine in the staff lounge.’ She broke off a piece, leaned forward and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘For the pain.’

Striker chewed. The chocolate tasted wonderful, and he realised how hungry he was.

The Intern tutted as she assessed the gash that ran horizontally across Striker’s upper left brow. She wiped away some blood and said, ‘This is going to require stitches. But first we’ll have to get you in for some scans.’

Striker looked at her. ‘Scans? What kinda scans?’

‘CT. X-ray for sure.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘A few hours.’

‘Absolutely not. Just stitch me up.’

‘You hit your head pretty hard, Detective Striker,’ the young woman began. ‘I would really recommend—’

‘Just stitch the goddam thing.’

The Intern frowned. ‘Very well. Hold this against the wound.’ She then turned and headed out of the room, presumably to get supplies.

As she left, the Specialist walked in. Dr Hart was a tall man, terribly thin, with a face so long and gaunt it made Ich look tanned and square-jawed. He offered only the briefest introduction to Striker and did not so much as look at Felicia. He turned Striker’s hands over, asked him to make a fist, then nodded sagely.

‘Minor burns,’ he finally said. ‘Chemical. Not quite second degree. You’re lucky.’

‘Don’t feel so lucky,’ Striker told him.

‘Have you seen Ms Kwan?’ The doctor spoke the words without emotion. ‘Trust me, you’re lucky.’ He pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled on it. ‘Get this cream, apply it several times a day for two weeks. It will help with the skin elasticity. The scarring will fade over months.’

Striker nodded. ‘What the hell was it – battery acid?’

‘No, much worse. It was nitric acid, and in a highly concentrated form. Corrosive on human flesh and extremely disfiguring.’

Felicia interrupted. ‘Nitric acid? I’ve never heard of it.’

The doctor cast her a sideways glance, as if her comment was an annoyance. He finished working on Striker, then turned around and without another word, headed for the exit. When he reached the doorway, Striker called out to him.

‘Hey, Doc, tell me . . . Patricia Kwan – is she going to make it?’

Dr Hart stopped in the doorway. He gave Striker a long, hard look and raised his hands in a
who-knows
gesture.

‘Keep the stitches clean,’ he said, and left the room.

After the Intern stitched the gash on Striker’s brow, Striker and Felicia left the treatment room. Felicia walked slowly, and Striker loved her for it. Every muscle in his back felt bruised, deep down into his bones.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

‘Attached.’

‘The doctor said you have a concussion.’ She held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Tuesday,’ he said, and smiled.

‘You’re such a shit.’

They continued on. Striker steered Felicia away from the east hallway, where Patricia Kwan’s room was located, and where there were now an entire slew of cops guarding and taping off the scene. No doubt Noodles would be there, or at least on his way. And Deputy Chief Laroche, too.

Striker was in no mood to talk to him.

They took the east elevator down to the first floor, then went outside through the north side exit. The sun was out, fighting through the cloud. The moment the hospital door closed behind them, Striker spotted the very people he was trying to avoid – Inspector Beasley and his diminutive leader, Deputy Chief Laroche.

They were parked out front.

Striker studied him through the windshield. The Deputy Chief’s face looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten his full ten hours’ sleep last night, and there was plenty of agitation in his tight facial muscles. The sight should have made Striker smile, but he didn’t. Oddly, he felt for the man.

Much as Striker hated to admit it, Laroche had his own stresses, too.

Laroche exited the White Whale, which was parked at the kerb. As he slammed the passenger door, he spotted Striker. Instantly, his dark eyes narrowed and his white face turned red.

‘What the hell have you done now, Striker?’ he asked.

Striker stopped walking. ‘What have
I
done?’

‘You’re damn right,
you
. Everywhere you go I have to follow with more men and more crime scenes. We got six of them now, and that’s just the primaries, set up from here to Dunbar. Department’s running out of goddam crime-scene tape, and I’m out of men. You’ve effectively killed our budget for the entire year.’

Striker looked back, deadpan. ‘Yes, I know you’re very concerned about your budget, sir. And I’m sure Constable Kwan will be too –
if
she survives her injuries.’

Laroche’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not the one who put her in that position.’

‘Of course not, because you don’t do anything. Only thing you do well is your hair. You got one out of place, by the way.’

‘Striker—’

‘You know, Kwan might care about your budget, too.
If
she survives her injuries. And
if
we can find her daughter.’

‘Don’t be so—’

‘Riku Kwan is still missing, by the way, in case you weren’t aware of that. I know she’s just a young girl and her safety doesn’t rank up there with your fiscal matters, but I thought you should know.’

Laroche pointed a finger. ‘I’m writing you up, Striker. And I’ll be forwarding this to Internal. Today.’

The Deputy Chief turned away from Striker, towards Inspector Beasley, and began giving the man shit about something. Striker ignored them both. There were more important things to focus on right now. In order to learn Red Mask’s identity, they were going to have to learn more about the Shadow Dragons.

And that meant using every resource Striker had.

He got on his cell and called up Meathead, the man who had the most connections to experts on Asian gangs. Meathead answered on the second ring, and Striker filled him in on what kind of expert they needed.

‘So?’ Striker asked. ‘You know of any?’

Meathead’s reply was quick and definitive. ‘Yeah, just one.
The Lamb.
’

Seventy-Three

Red Mask cut down the south lane of East Hastings Street. Pain and confusion ruled his mind. He had no idea why he was taking this route, only that it was away from St Paul’s Hospital, where he had completed the first step of his mission. Patricia Kwan had been fortunate to survive the first attack in her home; she would not survive this second one at the hospital.

The thought brought him no happiness. No contentment either. Just one step closer to mission completion.

To the Perfect Harmony.

Huddled in an alcove at the left side of the alley were three women. Crack whores. One of them – a blonde with pockmarked skin – gave him a wary look. He ignored her, and at the next alcove took shelter from the afternoon winds. They blustered through him with enough force to hamper his speed.

The smell of piss and shit hit him. The Downtown East Side. This festering place. The sickness of the city was bested only by the sickness of his body. With every step, the weight of his shoulder bones tore open his wound a little further.

Not that it mattered.

He reached inside his pocket and took out the vial of pills. White and yellow ones. He couldn’t remember what the old herbalist had said, how many to take, so he dumped a few of each in his mouth and chewed them into paste. He had just finished swallowing when he spotted the man. Around fifty, and six feet tall – large for an Asian – he wore a baggy coat that offered perfect cover for weapons holstered beneath. The man entered the lane, casually looked in Red Mask’s direction, then disappeared between the apartment complexes on the south side.

Red Mask felt his jaw clench. This was not the first time he had seen him. The man stuck out. His walk was distinctive, as if he had something wrong with his back. As if his spine was made not from bone and ligament, but wooden rods. When he walked, he took long stork-like strides.

Red Mask recognised this walk. He’d seen it back home in Cambodia. This was the result of disease. Some villagers called it ‘Tree Spine’ or ‘the sickness from the North’, but Red Mask knew the real reason for it. It was punishment.

Bad karma.

The first time he had seen this man was just after leaving Sheung Fa’s office. And that thought weighed heavy in his chest because it meant only one thing.

This man was an assassin.

Red Mask returned to the main drag of East Hastings. At the corner, he entered the Jin Ho Café. The waitress hurried over and offered him a seat, but he ignored her, going immediately to the narrow hallway that led down to the washrooms, and turning to spy out of the glass front window.

Within a minute, the strange man reappeared on the sidewalk out front, his stiff legs plodding him along with surprising speed and grace.

One look from this closer distance and Red Mask felt a coldness sweep through his belly. The man’s face was angular, like those from the north, with high, thick cheekbones and narrow hard eyes. Red Mask recognised him. It was the Man with the Bamboo Spine. A man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.

He was here to kill him.

Seventy-Four

It was almost three in the afternoon by the time Striker and Felicia made it to Simon Fraser University. The campus was located high atop Burnaby Mountain, a good half-hour drive from the downtown core. Rush hour had been bad.

After they parked in the top lot, Striker walked with Felicia by his side through the outdoor breezeway of the convocation mall that was flanked by cafeterias, coffee shops and bookstores. It was cold and windy out. Even the rays of sun, breaking through the red and yellow foliage of the trees, seemed cold.

Winter was slowly edging out the fall.

As they passed a small sitting area where the crowd thickened, Striker studied the students around him. He was struck by how much older they seemed than the high-school kids. The majority were in their late teens and early twenties. Adults. Most noticeably, a lot of them were dressed in costumes. Today was Halloween after all, Friday, and the crowd was littered with everything from nurses to ninjas. The masquerade gave the campus a dark but exciting aura, and it made Striker feel like he was back at St Patrick’s High School.