The Survivor (49 page)

‘What do you want
from me
?’

‘I tell you what I want from you,
Gwailo
. I want you to feel the pain I felt, when you ended my mission, when you killed Tran. And Father.’

‘I never killed your—’

‘Yes, you did!’ Shen Sun snapped. ‘The man was here because of you –
only
because of you. You destroyed my future. My life. Everything! And now you have same pain I have – and you must choose.’

Striker raised his hands in the air, purposely to distract the gunman, and inched his way a little more to the left. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

‘Then I speak simple. I have gun against daughter’s spine.’

Striker moved a little more left.

‘And here is Kwan child,’ Shen Sun continued. ‘The one we both search for.’

A little more left . . .

‘I give you choice,
Gwailo
. Simple. Choose Kwan child and she live. But I shoot daughter in spine, and you watch for rest of life knowing your fault.’

‘Shen Sun—’

‘Or choose your daughter – but Kwan child dies.’

‘That’s no option at all.’

‘It’s all you have.’

‘It’s nothing
.
’

Shen Sun cocked his head, spoke softly. ‘Family, or honour?’

‘I can’t—’

‘
Family – or honour!
’

Ninety-Nine

Shen Sun watched the gwailo’s hopeless expression with a sense of euphoria. He was exhausted; his shoulder seared with pain. And there was no chance of him escaping this situation alive.

None of that mattered.

All that existed in the moment was the terror of the girls before him, and the heavenly desperation of the cop ahead. And he laughed out loud, for he could not help himself. All his life he had strived to be 14K – to be with Shan Chu, the King Daddy himself, the Dragon Head – and before the mission had started, he had been promised a swift trip back to Macau if things at St Patrick’s High had gone well.

But things had not gone well. The whole mission had been disastrous. All because of Detective Jacob Striker. Shen Sun had been forced to improvise. To alter the plan. It had been the only way to keep his dream alive. The only way to reach the place he called home.

And to find the Perfect Harmony.

How odd it was. Here at the end of his life – for that was surely what this was – he had found it. And unexpectedly so. Not in a place, or an object, or even through some achievement. No, he had found it through a state of mind. And that was what it was, wasn’t it? The Perfect Harmony. Finding whatever it was that you were missing inside, that one lost piece that would make a man truly whole. Well, he had found it. At long last, he had found it.

And it was
power
.

‘This isn’t necessary,’ the cop said.

‘Make choice,
Gwailo
.’

‘We can find another way.’

‘
Make choice, I say
.’

To Shen Sun’s lower left, Riku Kwan let out a sob. He pressed his foot down harder on her ankle, making certain she remained seated. Not that she would attempt escape. He had made it quite clear: any attempt to escape would result in a quick death for both of the girls.

‘Shen Sun,’ Striker said. ‘I’ll do anything—’

‘Choose!’

To Shen Sun’s right, Courtney squirmed. He clutched the hood of her Little Red Riding Hood costume, twisting his fingers deep into the material. She let out a cry as his fingernails dug into her back, but he held her tight.

‘I won’t make that choice,’ the cop finally said.

The words hit Shen Sun like the end of a whip. And for the first time since the gwailo had set foot into the headlights, he felt his euphoria seeping away. The pain in his shoulder became sharper, the throbbing of his head more violent. His body was sweating and shivering, and the weakness of his legs had returned, keeping him off-balance.

‘You will not . . .’ he began. Then Shen Sun Soone felt the world fading on him. He looked up at the cop, standing in the circular glare of the fog-veiled headlights, and suddenly he could see him for what he was – for what he had always known Jacob Striker to be – ever since their first encounter back at the school.

An evil spirit in human form. An earthbound demon.

It made no difference.

‘Make choice!’ he demanded for the last time.

And the cop did.

He reached down, drew his pistol, and ran forward. And just like the evil spirit he was, he fell out of the light into the darkness, and vanished from sight.

One Hundred

The seconds felt like hours.

Striker burst forward, cleared the glare of the headlights and took quick aim the moment the two girls and the gunman came into view. Raine was grounded, on her knees, sobbing but out of the line of fire.

Courtney was not.

She was held tight by the madman, pulled close, a human shield. There was little room – definitely not enough room for a shot. And yet Striker knew he had no choice. If he didn’t act now, Shen Sun would kill her. He squeezed the trigger, heard the blast shake the entire area around them . . .

And then heard Courtney’s agonised scream.

She collapsed onto the wet concrete of the sidewalk, then rolled off the kerb into the lane. Even in the poor light, the dark, glistening splatter that covered her belly was obvious. And Striker realised it hadn’t been him who had fired the shot.

Shen Sun stepped forward. Into the light. Raised his pistol.

Striker saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. He darted left, took aim again, and heard three shots blast off. He felt bone-breaking pain as his chest and ribs cracked from the impacts. The force sent him reeling. He landed hard on his back, in the middle of the road, fighting to breathe, but still managing to pull the trigger in rapid fire.

Bang-bang-bang-BANG!
The shots rang out, too many to count.

And then there was more screaming. The girls were screaming.

Striker rolled left, propped himself up on one arm, and scanned the sidewalk. He spotted Shen Sun, hobbling like an old, crippled man across the sidewalk. Towards Raine. His left arm hung limply and his right leg didn’t work right.

Striker raised his gun and drew down on the man. But he couldn’t get the shot off – not without hitting Raine. The girl screamed out in terror as Shen Sun grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, and pulled her into him.

‘Please!’ she screamed. ‘PLEASE!’

Shen Sun ignored her. He reared up to the bridge railing, wrapped his arms around her, and then found Striker with his eyes.

‘History is circle,
Gwailo
. Past is also future.’

There was no time left. Striker kept his aim tight, the sights lined up on the centre of Shen Sun’s face, and he pulled the trigger. All he heard was the god awful
click-click-click
of an empty chamber.

Shen Sun smiled. Smiled as if all the pain and rage and fear had left him and he had found peace. For a moment, he looked calm, serene . . . harmonious. Then he threw his body backwards.

In one quick, horrible moment, Shen Sun and Raine slipped over the railing and were swallowed up by the greyness beyond. Nothing was left behind in their wake, except a young girl’s cry that would forever be embedded in Jacob Striker’s mind.

Epilogue

One Hundred and One

Three weeks later, early in the morning, Striker pulled into the visitors’ parking lot of the G.F. Strong Rehab Centre and felt his BlackBerry vibrate on the side of his belt. The caller was Sergeant Ronald Stone from Internal. He didn’t answer, but punched the ignore button instead. There was enough on his plate today without having to deal with Professional Standards.

He locked the car and headed for the main building. The sun was out and the sky was blue, but the air was crisp and cold. Snow had fallen the previous morning, testament to the fact that winter had definitely arrived. The cedar bushes that flanked the walkway were clean and white, and decorated in Christmas lights.

Red and blue.

The snow from Striker’s boots turned the hard tiles of the hospital floor slippery, and he walked carefully as he made his way from the admitting area down to Rehab. Once in the wing, he stopped by the Christmas tree planted beside the nursing station and smelled the strong scent of pine in the air. He scanned the area and spotted the Occupational Therapist, a middle-aged East Indian lady. She was only five feet tall but built like an aircraft carrier.

‘Mr Striker,’ she said at the sight of him, and offered a wide smile.

‘Janeeta,’ he said. He took a long hard look down the hallway, in the direction of Courtney’s room. His nerves felt on fire. ‘How’s she coming?’

‘She’s coming well, Mr Striker.’

‘But will she walk normal again?’

Janeeta looked at the chart she was holding, flipped through the pages, then looked back at Striker and gave his arm a soft rub. ‘Why don’t you go talk to your daughter, Mr Striker?’

He nodded, then walked down the hall to Room 14.

‘Hey, Pumpkin,’ he said as he stepped through the door.

Courtney was seated on the bed, looking out the window. She wore a burgundy pair of track pants from
Roots
, complete with a matching sweat top. At the sound of his voice, she looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was unreadable.

‘Snow,’ was all she said.

‘Yeah, first time in two years. Christmas is coming.’ He pointed to her tracksuit. ‘Got your colours ready, I see. Very festive.’

Courtney didn’t smile. ‘It hasn’t snowed like this since Mom died.’

The words punched through Striker, took his breath away. Mainly because she was right. The last time it had snowed was the night Amanda had taken off, when she’d driven for her friend’s house on the North Shore and never made it back. The memory seemed like yesterday. And Striker wished he could forget it all.

He approached the bed, crested it, and rubbed his hand over the top of Courtney’s upper back – away from her healing scar – in his best attempt to show support. He stared outside at the snowy roadway, thought about what his daughter didn’t yet know, then sat down in the bedside chair and faced Courtney.

‘You know, we’ve never really talked about that night,’ he said softly.

‘You’ve never wanted to.’

He nodded. ‘There are reasons, Pumpkin. Ones not too nice.’

He spoke the words reluctantly. When he looked up and saw the seriousness of her stare, he considered letting the subject go, once again burying it with the rest of the past. But this time, he could not. Everything was different now. It was time for a clean start. Time for honesty.

He closed his eyes, trying to think how best to word it. ‘Things between your mom and I weren’t as good as you remember them, Courtney. Our marriage wasn’t perfect. To be honest, it wasn’t working all that well.’

‘I know, Dad.’

He blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I know about the affair.’

He twitched in his seat. ‘Affair? What affair?’

‘With you and Felicia.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘You think
that
?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to think?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’ve been acting the way you have.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed deeply. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault for not telling you.’ He leaned closer, took her hand and said, ‘Courtney, I never cheated on your mother. Me and Felicia never so much as dated until seven or eight months ago.’

Her face took on a confused look. ‘Then what—’

‘Your mother wasn’t well, Courtney. In fact she was quite sick. Clinically depressed. She wouldn’t even leave the house half the time. It was an issue – her bipolar diagnosis – and we always tried to hide that from you, but I guess . . . I guess it was wrong of us.’

‘Bipolar?’

‘She was on medication and seeing a specialist in Kerrisdale.’ He took in a deep breath, studied the shock on her face, then told her the worst of the truth. ‘The night she left home, I didn’t let her drink and drive, Courtney. In fact, she hadn’t drunk a drop.’

‘But then how . . .’

Striker said gently, ‘The Dinsmore Bridge . . . it’s straight and flat. And there was no traffic that night. When your mother drove off the bridge, Courtney, it wasn’t an accident. It was her own doing.’

The words made Courtney flinch, and she almost pulled her hand free from Striker’s grip. He watched her intently, expecting her to cry and crumble, or at least get angry and lash out. But she did neither. She just stared out the window, at the snowy hills outside, and her face took on a sad look.

‘You okay, Pumpkin?’

‘I think I always knew,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I just didn’t want to believe it.’

‘I’m sorry about your mother, Pumpkin. And about Raine.’

Courtney looked up at him and her expression was wretched. ‘It’s so strange. When Raine and I were in the back of that van, I thought we were going to die, I really did. And Raine was just out of it. Like in shock or something. So I stuck a bunch of frozen steaks down the front and back of her shirt. I thought that it would protect her if he started shooting, but now . . . now I wonder if that was what weighed her down. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t swim to shore. I killed her.’

Striker looked into her eyes. ‘The fall killed her. And the currents are strong. She never would’ve been able to swim out.’

‘I just feel—’

‘You did all you could. And thank God for those frozen steaks. They may have deflected the bullet a bit. The doctor says you’ll walk again.’

‘But how well?’

Striker held her hand. ‘I don’t know.’

Courtney didn’t reply. Moments later, a few tears slid down her cheeks.

Striker stood up and wrapped his arm around her, gave her a long hug, felt her warm breath under his chin, smelled the lemony scent of the laundry detergent on her clothes. She held him, too, and just as tight. When her arm finally relaxed a little, Striker pulled back and looked at her face.