The Survivor (41 page)

‘Then who knows what his real age is. Cambodia doesn’t exactly keep good records.’ The thought of Cambodia was disturbing to Striker. ‘That date and location correspond perfectly with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. What else is in there?’

She read on. ‘He’s got an extensive criminal history. Christ, there’s everything in here! Charges for Assault, Trafficking, Running a Common Bawdy House, Running a Gambling Den, Uttering Threats – the list just goes on and on.’

‘Any of the charges go through?’

‘Nope. All stayed, every single one of them. Must have one helluva lawyer. He’s listed as a Person of Interest in a dozen murders from Vancouver to Toronto. Even one back in Hong Kong. But he’s never done time for any of them. Never done time for
anything
.’

‘He’s doing time now,’ Striker said. ‘And hopefully the furnace is cranked. He got a list of associates in there?’

She shook her head. ‘Not in this folder. But there are lists of other Shadow Dragons.’

Striker logged onto CABS – the Criminal Automated Booking System – and brought up the query box.

‘Let’s go through them,’ he said. ‘One by one.’

Felicia read the first name out, Striker typed it in the box and hit send. Seconds later, the photo popped up. It wasn’t Red Mask, and Striker deleted it. Then they started all over again.

Twenty minutes and twenty-nine associates later, Striker brought up the last image, found it didn’t match, and cleared the search bar.

‘Next one,’ he said.

‘That’s it, we’re done.’

‘Done?’ Striker made a frustrated sound, then thought things over. ‘Okay, what other gangs was White Mask – Tran Sang Soone – connected to? We’ll start with the most likely, then fan out from there.’

‘The Golden Lotus,’ Ibarra said, stepping back into the room.

Striker wrote the name down in his notebook. ‘I’ve heard of the Lotus before, but never the Golden Lotus.’

‘That’s because they’re from Toronto.’

‘Toronto?’

‘Yeah, I got bad news for you,’ Ibarra said. ‘My team followed these guys around for the better part of a year – the gang brings in a lot of off-shore help. China. Singapore. Macau. There were so many faces we could hardly keep up, even with twenty-four-hour surveillance on them. Much as I hate to burst your bubble, this guy might be from overseas – a FOB-K.’

Felicia looked at Striker, then at Ibarra. ‘FOB-K?’

‘Fresh off the boat killer.’

Striker said nothing. It was a thought he didn’t want to entertain. Having an overseas gunman would mean more time, more agencies – Interpol, FBI, the Feds – and the list went on. In the end, an overseas gunman would mean less chance of identification, and it would keep them stuck in this constant cat and mouse chase, where the only way to catch Red Mask was to wait for his next attack.

And who knew how many more deaths that would mean.

Ibarra held up a thin folder. It was beige and dusty, and the corners were turned over from being compressed. ‘This is all I got on Tran Sang Soone.’

Felicia took the folder from Ibarra and opened it on the desk. As she went through it, Striker continued scanning through the surveillance photos of 14K Triad members and suspected associates. He reached the end and was about to put them away when something made him pause. In one of the surveillance photos, Tran Sang Soone was seated at a banquet table. He was laughing heartily while talking to another gang member. Behind him, the waitress was bringing more platters out from the kitchen.

‘Where was this taken?’

Ibarra leaned forward. ‘That photo was taken over a year ago, at the Chongmin Banquet Hall. Used to be a big splashy place. Closed down now though. Got caught running a gambling den and a common bawdy house out of the back.’

Striker looked at the photo, stared at it for a long time, and spotted a tall man in a white apron in the doorway. He pulled the photo closer. The background was grainy, hard to make out, but something clicked in Striker’s mind.

‘Who is this guy?’ he asked, and pointed to the man in the apron.

Ibarra looked over his shoulder. ‘The cook.’

‘You run him?’

Ibarra nodded. ‘We ran everyone who so much as farted in their direction. Believe me, anyone who’s got any known criminal involvement is listed under the associates.’

‘So who is he?’ Striker pressed.

Ibarra took another look at the photo. ‘Don’t know the name. I remember him though. Real oddball. Just stood there staring off into space half the time. Most the guys thought he was on the nod, or something. We checked him out though, and he was completely negative. Nothing criminal in his past, nothing even remotely suspect. Shit, I don’t think he even had a speeding ticket.’

‘That means nothing,’ Striker commented. ‘Seung-Hui Choi had no criminal history either, but that didn’t stop him from killing thirty-two people at Virginia Tech. What’s the cook’s name?’

Ibarra couldn’t remember, so he took the image number from Striker and started flipping through the pages of the
Project Pacific
folder.

While waiting, Striker searched through the rest of the restaurant photos, scanning each one with deliberation. It was on the eleventh photograph that he found the cook again, in a strange pose. He was out in a laneway with his shirt removed. His body was tattoo-free with beige skin; his build was lean and wiry. Striker studied the man’s physique, then his face. And then he knew.

It was the eyes. That cold, vacuous stare.

Felicia, reading over the
Tran Sang Soone
folder, made an excited sound and looked up. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s got a brother!’

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.’

Seventy-Eight

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 Café 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.

Seventy-Nine

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.

Eighty

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.

Felicia sorted through the bag of fast food, handed Striker a burger. ‘Why Hall Eleven?’

He accepted it, tore off the wrapper. ‘I know the Chief there. Brady Marshall. He’s a good man, and he owes me one.’

Felicia removed her own burger from the bag. ‘How can he help us?’

‘He can give us paper on the Pandora call – the house fire. God knows, we can’t find any reports at the Vancouver Police Department, so we’ll get them from him.’

‘They’ll be different. Less detail. You know how Fire writes things up.’

‘If they have anything, I’ll be happy. They’re all we got.’