The Survivor (46 page)

Striker stood up with a jolt.

‘You stupid sons-of-bitches,’ he said. ‘It’s not him.’

Eighty-Eight

Shen Sun crept out of the bushes and turned away from the police. He moved steadily into the adjoining cul-de-sac and began trying the door handles of the parked cars. He tried four of them before finding one that was unlocked – a grey, older model Honda Civic.

His favourite type.

He jumped inside, searched for a hidden key, found none. Taking his gun, he unloaded the clip and chamber, then used the butt end to break the ignition. Once the console was split open, he hotwired the car. Seconds later, he reloaded his pistol with the few bullets he had left, then drove south down Glen Street until he found a clearing.

He turned off the headlights, left the car running. From this vantage point he could see the group of cops on Raymur Street below. They were still standing out front of Father’s apartment. Before, they had been calm – now they were arguing. And in the centre of them all was the Homicide Detective. Jacob Striker.

Something bad was happening. Shen Sun could see it in the cop’s face.

He waited with great patience until the gwailo signalled for the woman cop to join him and they both jumped into the car. They did a quick U-turn, tires skidding on the road, then accelerated north on Raymur before turning east.

The lane was one that Shen Sun knew. It rounded back onto East Hastings Street. Sure enough, thirty seconds later, the cruiser breached the roadside, turned east, and sped down Hastings at a high rate of speed.

Shen Sun put the Civic in drive and followed them, flooring it to catch up. The road was busy with Friday-night traffic, made worse by the Halloween crowds. Shen Sun used this to his advantage. He followed the undercover police cruiser east. When the tail-lights lit up and the car came to an abrupt stop on the corner of Venables and Commercial, Shen Sun knew exactly where they were going.

The Parade of Lost Souls.

He pulled over not a half block away, and watched the two cops get out. He smiled when they both pointed at the crowd of costume-faced partygoers and hurried up the Drive. There was urgency on the gwailo’s face. More than Shen Sun had seen before.

The sight intrigued him. Jacob Striker had been the calmest adversary he had ever faced – back at the school, at the Kwan residence, at the hospital. He had been a man of ice.

So why this sudden urgency?

The answer came to him like flowers blossoming in his heart. Only two things would cause this emotional reaction from the hero cop: either he was going after Riku Kwan, or he was going after his daughter Courtney.

Shen Sun leaped from the Civic, stuffing his pistol down the back of his pants. A momentary euphoria flooded him as he hurried towards Commercial Drive. He was nearing the end of his journey; he could feel it. And it now seemed so long ago that Kim Pham had come to him with the promise of a place in Macau, sent down from Shan Chu himself. The question of why the Triads had chosen him for the St Patrick’s High mission never crossed Shen Sun’s mind. Not once. He
knew
why. It was because he was logical. He was ruthless. He was without emotion.

But more than all that, he was a
survivor
.

The Angkor had proven that.

The St Patrick’s High mission had been simple and straightforward: kill the firstborn of every individual who had disrespected the gang and dared to steal from the underground bank on Pandora Street. Almost thirty-eight million dollars had been lost. And all of it 14K property.

It was sacred.

The most frustrating part was that the plan had been perfect. The firstborns would have been killed, the parents made aware of the cost of their larceny, and then the issue of interest-owed repayments would have been addressed.

Unless they wanted to lose their other children, too.

Fall guys had all been put in place. Sherman Chan, Que Wong and Raymond Leung would have been labelled as teenage spree killers, thereby keeping the police and public anger contained. And when the police eventually did discover that there were other possible suspects – through times of death and blood testing – Shen Sun and Tran would be long gone.

Far, far away in Macau.

In the criminal realm, every gangster would have known the real reason for the killings – because no grapevine was stronger than that of the underworld. And word of mouth aside, everyone in that world already knew the rules of the business. This was the ultimate cost of Triad betrayal.

Your firstborn.

As it always had been, throughout the centuries.

Shen Sun had needed no motivation for the job. Not when the reward for such a mission was to be the White Paper Fan at Shan Chu’s side in the glorious city of Macau.

That was the Perfect Harmony.

That was
power.

Shen Sun stepped onto the Drive and gaped at the frenzy before him. The Parade of Lost Souls was an outdoor costume ball with more than ten thousand people in attendance. His employers had provided him with photographs of Riku Kwan and Courtney.

One of these girls was here in the crowd.

Shen Sun knew this undoubtedly. And this time, the night would be his. For Tran was with him, somewhere in the night, his spirit floating in the October winds. It gave Shen Sun the edge he needed. The confidence. This time he would be unstoppable. The gwailo would fall. And Shen Sun would take his rightful place in Macau. It was a goal he had been working towards for twenty long years. A goal that had cost him Father and Tran. A goal that would come to fruition.

All it would take was two more deaths.

Finale

Eighty-Nine

Grandview Park was packed by the time Courtney and Raine got there. They’d left the party at Que’s pad in full swing, and headed for the Parade of Lost Souls on Commercial Drive. Much to Courtney’s delight, Bobby came with them, and he brought a new friend of his, Tom or Shaun or John or whatever his name was. She couldn’t really remember – she’d had three coolers and two Cokes with cherry brandy – but he was tall and good-looking.

And good for Raine. Que had screwed her over again – but that was good anyway, because she seemed to like Bobby’s friend. The two were walking side by side and talking, Raine dressed in her naughty nurse uniform and him dressed up like that bad guy from that superhero movie.

Bobby looked at Courtney, grinned. ‘You look great, Court.’ It was the first thing he’d said for the last two blocks, and it made her more nervous than the uncomfortable silence.

‘Raine picked it for me.’ She gave him a quick glance, making eye-contact for a second then looking away. It was enough to send her heart into twitters. He was dressed all corny, in a Star Trek uniform. A yellow one, like he was Captain Kirk, or something.

‘Well, she did a good job,’ he replied. ‘You look amazing.’

She looked back at him again and smiled. When his eyes stayed on hers, intense and heavy, she felt her cheeks grow hot. She looked away from him, studied the crowd.

On the east end of Grandview Park, the band was setting up the stage. It was monstrous. There were a ton of lights, all red and white and blue and green, and some of them were already flashing. Loud explosions of firecrackers filled the air, sharp like gunfire, and a smoky haze floated through the crowd – firework and pot smoke, for the most part.

This was Commercial Drive, after all.

They all stopped a few feet from the stage and Bobby put down the backpack he was lugging around. It was a small dark blue thing, and it looked heavy the way he hoisted it. From it he took a two-litre bottle of Coke, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, one of cherry brandy and some plastic cups.

Courtney looked at the booze, shook her head. ‘I’m done, my head’s swimming.’

He acted like he didn’t hear her, filled the cup with Coke, then added a heavy dose of cherry brandy. He handed it to her.

‘Really, I’ve had—’

‘Come on, Court, enjoy yourself. The Parade only comes once a year.’

She looked back at him, at the cup in his hand, and was about to say no again when she caught Raine’s stare. She was giving her one of those
Don’t-be-nerdy
looks, and so was Bobby’s friend.

So she forced a smile, took the cup, and brought it to her lips. The cherry brandy smelled stronger than it had before, still good but really sweet, and her stomach quivered. She brought it to her lips, however, took a small sip. As she did so, Bobby reached out and lifted the bottom of the cup, forcing her to down more than she’d wanted. She almost choked, pulled the cup away from her lips, and stammered, ‘B-Bobby!’

He just laughed, and stared at her with those suck-me-in eyes of his. ‘You’re beautiful, Court,’ he said.

He grabbed her chin, tilted her head back and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm, and tasted of Jack Daniel’s and Coke. They felt oh-so good. Her entire body tingled and she didn’t want to stop. Even with Raine and Bobby’s friend right there watching them, she didn’t want to stop. She wanted him to keep kissing her forever.

Touching her. Feeling her.

He finally pulled away, and she felt a dizziness spill over her, fought to keep her balance.

‘I want to kiss you again later,’ he whispered. ‘When we’re alone.’

‘Okay,’ was all she got out. And before she knew it, he had refilled her cup with Coke and cherry brandy. ‘It’s enough,’ she said.

But he just smiled and kept pouring.

Ninety

Striker waded into the sea of masks. They were all around him. Ninjas covered with head-to-toe blackness. Clowns with sad and angry faces. Superheroes complete with capes and masks. Everywhere he looked it was nothing but hidden face after hidden face. And he knew that Shen Sun could be one of them.

Hiding somewhere amongst the crowd.

The situation couldn’t have been worse. Shen Sun had seen his face twice now, at the Kwan residence and at St Paul’s Hospital. If that wasn’t enough to etch it into the gunman’s memory, Striker’s face had been plastered on every TV screen around the city, twenty-four hours a day, for two straight days. In the end it meant one thing:

If Shen Sun was here in costume, he had the advantage.

‘Just keep moving,’ Felicia said, her voice sounding far away in the din of the crowd, even though she was just a few steps behind.

He nodded and pushed the bad thoughts from his mind. He marched slowly but determinedly through the crowd, focused on the immediacy of their situation.

The air stank – of pot, beer and body odour. Firework smoke saturated everything. And despite the October chill, it was hot and stuffy. Too many bodies were around him, tripping over and banging into each other. The crowds were like little whirlpools, turning this way and that.

‘Courtney!’ he called out. ‘Raine!’ But his voice was barely audible above the constant roar of the crowd. People were yelling and laughing, some dancing in the streets. A half block down, someone set off a series of firecrackers, and the explosions had Striker reaching for his pistol before he realised what they were.

‘Easy, Big Guy,’ Felicia said, and she put her hand against his back to let him know she was there.

When he made it to Grandview Park, he was blocked by an enormous stage, and had to circle round the band as they set up their gear. He grabbed the bass guitarist, a guy dressed up like a modern-day vampire, and asked him if the microphone was working yet.

It wasn’t.

Striker cursed. He left the vampire guitarist and pushed on through the thickening crowd. When he reached the end of the park, he stopped on the corner of Charles Street and turned to wait for Felicia. Her face was tinted by the blue glare of neon stage lighting and her skin was damp with perspiration.

‘This is no good,’ he told her. ‘We got to split up.’

She agreed. ‘They’re probably together.’

‘If you find them, just get them out of here,’ Striker stressed. ‘Away from the crowd. Immediately. Get them down to the station.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Put your cell to vibrate – you’ll never hear it in this crowd.’

Striker did so, then pointed back at Grandview Park. ‘You take north of the stage, all the way down to Venables; I’ll take south and go to First. And if you see them . . .’

‘Just get them out of here.’

‘Right.’ Striker touched Felicia’s arm, pulled her close so she could hear better. ‘And remember, Raine probably doesn’t know about her mother yet, otherwise she would’ve gone home.’

A sad look crossed Felicia’s face. She loosened her dress jacket so she could access her firearm more quickly. When she looked back up at Striker, there was concern in her eyes. And she gave a quick look at the crowd around them before speaking.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘If this prick wants to attack us, there’s no better place.’

Striker forced a grin. ‘He’s already struck out three times.’

Felicia moved forward. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, pulled him close, and gave him a long, hard kiss.

‘What are you—’

‘Just be careful out here. We have unfinished business, you and I.’ She winked, turned around and set off through the crowd once more.

Three steps later she was swallowed by the masses, and Striker was alone again. He didn’t delay. He spun around and pressed southward along the Drive. Into the endless flow of roaming smoke and angry masks and undulating bodies.

Into chaos.

Ninety-One

Shen Sun had lost sight of the Detectives, and that frustrated him. He speared through the crowd, shoving a pair of drunken clowns out of his way. The crowd was packed worse than cows at an auction, and the air smelled as bad. Most of the people were taller than him, but young. Drunk, high, out of control. To his right, at the beginning of Grandview Park, he saw a girl dressed as a French maid. She sat half-propped up against a tall oak tree, her left breast hanging out for all to see. He watched her sitting there, dazed, off-balance, bringing the cider bottle to her lips. A few seconds later, someone tried to help her up. He was tall, skinny, dressed in a black outfit with a white hockey mask.