The Survivor (48 page)

He had failed her.

Ninety-Five

Courtney felt the van tilt as it turned hard somewhere on the road. The unexpected motion made her stumble and almost fall onto her side. Instead she hung on desperately to the inside edge of the rear door of the van, and tried to clear her head of her drunkenness and terror.

The movement made her head spin, and she vomited in the darkness. But that was okay. She felt better from it.

And maybe it would help her sober up a little.

There was no light in the back of the van, and only the whimpering sounds of Raine, who was somewhere deeper towards the back of the compartment. She felt around the walls and ceiling for a switch, found one, flicked it, and a small light came on.

The first thing Courtney saw was Raine. The girl was sprawled out on the cold floor of the van, on her stomach, head tilted to the side, in between the boxes of meat. Her lips were split, and blood trailed down her chin, onto the white surface of the van floor.

‘You okay?’ Courtney asked.

Nothing.

‘Raine, you okay?’

The girl just laid there, a look of shock on her face.

‘He has a gun,’ she finally said.

Courtney remembered it well. She’d seen the gunman slam it into Felicia’s head before turning it on them. It was a pistol; she knew that much. But what type or calibre, she had no idea. It was a big gun, and he would kill them with it.

The gunman had taken her cell, so she looked to Raine. ‘You got your phone?’

‘I dropped it . . . in the crowd somewhere.’ Raine started to cry.

Courtney made her way over to the girl. All around them were boxes. Courtney opened the nearest one. It was full of steaks: thick, frozen slabs of meat. She grabbed the frozen slabs and started tucking them into Raine’s costume.

Raine gasped with shock as Courtney shoved package after package down her top, sliding them down to her stomach and lower back area, then adding more. Courtney had no idea if the frozen meat was strong enough to stop a bullet, but it couldn’t hurt. When she had Raine completely layered with frozen meat beneath her costume, she looked down at herself.

Grabbing a few packages of frozen steak, she shoved them down the front and back of her costume, padding the waist as best she could. It was so cold, it froze her skin, and she felt nauseous from the booze and fear.

The van tilted hard again, to the left, and she tumbled into Raine. The girl let out a sharp cry, as if the contact had finally woken her. She looked up at Courtney.

‘It’s the same guy from the school,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘The one who killed all the others.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s going to kill us, too.’

Courtney saw the fear and desperation on Raine’s face, which mirrored her own emotions. And she said nothing, because there were no words of comfort. She simply put her arm around Raine and felt the van turn and tilt at every corner, as they were driven further and further away to an unknown location.

Ninety-Six

Striker had no idea how many minutes had passed by the time he’d made it back to Commercial Drive. His head felt clouded; his senses distorted. Already there were police cars everywhere. One cop guarded the dead van driver who had been dumped on the west side of Grandview Park. Another cop took custody of a deceased girl Shen Sun had shot near the front of the stage. And one was parked in front of Turk’s Coffee Shop, where a paramedic was patching up Felicia.

Striker hurried up the Drive, red and blue flashes of police lights reflecting off the lingering smoke. The strip was now deserted. As he neared Felicia’s side, she pushed past the paramedic and stumbled up to him. She stopped at an arm’s length, a question in her eyes.

‘He got away,’ Striker said. ‘With the girls.’

‘Did you see what he was—’

‘A white
Hobbes Meats
truck. Already broadcast it.’ The words fell oddly from his lips, sounding hollow, forced. He felt like a dam full of holes, ready to crumble at any second. When he spoke again, he fought to maintain control of his emotions. ‘They could be anywhere.’

‘Let’s go back to the car – we’ll find them.’

Striker looked at her face, saw the dried blood on her chin and neck, the swollenness of her jaw. He nodded, and they turned north on Commercial. They’d barely gone ten steps when his BlackBerry vibrated against his hip. He lifted it so he could read the call display, and felt a stab of electric fear and hope in his heart when he read the name: Courtney.

He picked up fast. ‘Hello?’

The voice that replied was masculine, clipped, and brief: ‘Ironworkers Bridge. Halfway.’

‘Shen Sun?’

‘Block traffic at both ends of bridge. And come alone,
Gwailo
. Otherwise, both die.’ The line went dead.

Striker stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, then turned to look at Felicia, who had heard every word.

‘He wants you alone on the bridge? What, does he think you’re out of your mind?’

‘I’m going.’

‘Jacob, you can’t—’

‘I have to, Felicia. Why do you think he called? He could have escaped by now, but he didn’t. It’s no longer about the theft or the murders or the position he was promised – it’s about him and me now.
I’m
what he wants.’

‘Just stop for a second. Slow down. Think about this. It’s what
he
wants, Jacob. Jesus, at least wait for a sharpshooter.’

‘There’s no time.’

She grabbed his arm, got in his face. ‘Jacob, it’s
suicide
.’

Striker pulled away. ‘He’s got Courtney, Felicia. He’s got my little girl.’

Before she could respond, he marched back to the police car, thinking over the words Shen Sun had spoken. The orders were clear. Meet halfway across the bridge. Shut down the bridge at both ends. Those two sentences alone told Striker everything he needed to know about the situation. A negotiator would be of no use.

Nothing would be.

Shen Sun wasn’t planning on surviving the night.

Ninety-Seven

The Ironworkers’ Memorial Bridge was a 1200-metre, six-lane steel monstrosity that spanned the Burrard Inlet, connecting the city of Vancouver to the Northern Shore. It was built up high, on concrete pillars that rose from the foaming, turbulent waters below like a series of grey gnarled fingers. A perpetual fog brooded around the structure, one so thick it made the paved lanes seem more like a witch’s cauldron than a roadway. The bridge had been built in 1957, and in the process of construction had cost 136 workers their lives.

Striker prayed it would take no more tonight.

It took him and Felicia less than four minutes to reach the south on-ramp. Already, a marked patrol car had blocked off the entrance, its red and blue emergency lights reflecting off the heavy fog that roamed the pavement like a crawling beast. Next to the police cruiser, a patrol cop dressed in orange and yellow reflective gear waved him over and said, ‘Park it there, Striker.’

He did.

When he climbed out, he recognised the man. It was Chris Mathews, from the Two-Eight squad. Striker walked towards him, his head feeling as fogged as the roadway. He’d barely gotten ten steps when a white unmarked cruiser came speeding up the on-ramp behind them. Its lights were flashing, the siren turned off. The cruiser slid across the wet asphalt, coming to a slow stop not five feet away. The driver’s door opened and a man in a white shirt hopped out.

One look at him and Striker stopped cold.

Laroche.

The Deputy Chief came stomping around the cruiser, his face pale and twisted in the harsh glare of the headlights. He was followed by Inspector Beasley.

‘Striker!’ he called, his voice cracking in the cold. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve already got ERT and a negotiator on route.’

Striker turned to face the man. ‘Did you pull the units from my house?’

‘That doesn’t concern you.’

Striker took a step closer, his hands balling into fists. ‘I asked you a question, Laroche. Did you or did you not have patrol guard removed from my house?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s face. ‘You’re damn right I did! My men aren’t your personal—’

Striker punched the man square in the face, sent him sprawling backwards. The Deputy Chief hit the pavement, landing hard on his ass. Stunned, he sat up, touched his lip, then looked at the blood on his fingers. Disbelief coloured his face, quickly replaced by anger.

‘How
dare
you strike a commanding officer! I’ll have your badge for this—’

Striker stepped forward, grabbed the Deputy Chief by the scruff of his shirt.

‘Let go of me!’ Laroche screamed.

Striker ignored the order; he dragged the man back to the police cruiser, opened the rear door, and threw him inside. When he slammed the door closed, the Deputy Chief let out a frustrated howl and grabbed the door handle. He tried to open the door, reefed on it hard, but the safety lock engaged. He pounded his fist on the glass.

‘Striker! Striker! Open this door immediately! It’s an ORDER!’

As Inspector Beasley started for the car, Striker stepped in his way, fixed him with an icy stare.

‘My kid’s up there.
I’m
going up. No negotiator. No ERT. No Air One. No goddamn nothing.’ He stabbed a finger towards the Deputy Chief. ‘That little prick gets out and in any way endangers my daughter’s life, and I’ll shoot the fucker. I mean it, I’ll goddam shoot him and you can arrest me for it later.’

Inspector Beasley’s mouth dropped open.

Striker continued, ‘And if Laroche comes up there and any bad shit happens, I will hold you personally responsible, Beasley. Got it?’ Without waiting for a response, Striker turned away from the man and found Felicia. He came up in front of her, spoke softly. ‘Don’t let
anyone
up this road.’ He then took her pistol as a spare and tucked it in the back of his belt.

‘Be careful,’ she urged.

There was nothing to say, so he just nodded, then turned away.

It was time to face Shen Sun Soone.

Ninety-Eight

Striker marched quickly up the bridge deck. The asphalt was damp, and covered with metal and plastic fragments from an earlier accident. His boots slipped as he hurried on. With every step he took, the bridge inclined, becoming steeper and steeper, and he rose higher and higher into the fog. Until it felt like he was walking into the cloudbanks.

Up ahead, the headlights of the
Hobbes Meats
van came into view. The sight hit Striker like a physical force and he stopped. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the flashing red and blue gleam of the police lights. From this distance, saturated by the heavy blanket of fog, they looked small and faint, like tiny bulbs on a Christmas tree.

He was alone on this one.

And the girls’ lives depended on him.

The Sig Sauer sat snugly in its holster – and he dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun for comfort as he marched on. The rubber grip was cold, harder than usual in this freezing weather, almost slippery from the icy moisture. Striker wrapped his fingers around the grip, squeezed tight, moulding it to the flesh of his palm.

The wind kicked up, strong and fierce, blowing his hair in all directions and sending the flaps of his suit jacket whipping to the sides, exposing his gun. And though he knew undoubtedly that Shen Sun would expect him to be armed, there was no point showboating it. He pinned the jacket down with his elbow, kept his fingers loose and ready.

The bridge lamps, weak against the heavy fog, shed a minimal light. Striker could barely make out the vague shape of the van as he closed in, just the halogens. He strained his eyes for any sign of Shen Sun or the girls – for any sign of movement at all – but saw none.

From far below, he heard the rushing sound of water as the Fraser River slammed into the bridge foundation. Striker was well over the waterway now, had been for the last fifty metres.

He marched on. After another twenty feet, the van lights mutated from a single globular glow into two clearly distinct headlights. And soon Striker could hear the heavy rumble of the engine, and smell the dirty diesel in the air. Ten steps later, the outline of the vehicle became sharper. Ten more steps, and he could make out the blurry lettering on its side.

‘You stop now.’ The voice was quick, hard, angry.

Striker did as instructed. He looked ahead, tried to figure out where the voice had come from. But all he could see was the bright piercing glow of halogen headlights. And he realised that the van had been parked this way to blind him.

He stared into the piercing light, raised a hand to ward off the glare.

‘I’m here, Shen Sun. You got what you wanted. Now let the girls go.’

‘What I want?’ The voice was mechanical, numb, spoken more like a statement than a question. ‘Never do I have what I want.’

‘Where are the girls?’

‘Your daughter? She is here. I give proof.’ There was a brief pause, and suddenly a scream filled the air.

‘You twisted little fuck.’ Striker started forward.

‘Come, and they die.’

He stopped cold. Said nothing. Just waited. Listened. Tried to focus and calm the panic.
Think
. Judging by the direction of Shen Sun’s voice, Striker figured he was near the tail end of the van. Left side. A tactically sound position.

One Striker would have chosen himself.

Striker took a small step to the left, inching his way out of the worst of the glare. And for the first time, he spotted a vague outline behind the lights. A wide blur – three bodies, crammed together – between the rear of the van and the bridge railing.

Two were standing. One was seated.

‘What do you want, Shen Sun?’ Striker asked. He took another small step out of the glare.

‘What do I want?’ His voice was hollow, eerie. ‘I want my brothers back. My sisters. Father. Mother. This is what I want.’

Striker listened carefully to the words. The man was making no sense. Striker inched over a little more, tried to give his eyes time to adapt.