attack.’
Felicia gave him a pointed look. ‘Any other ideas you’re holding back?’
‘No. I don’t got a clue. But I know someone who will.’
‘Who?’
‘Just your favourite person in the whole entire world.’
A look of disgust crept across her face. ‘Please God, tell me you’re not talking about Hans Jager.’
Striker laughed out loud.
‘You got it, darlin. The one and only. Time to go see Meathead.’
Thirty-Two
Half an hour later, just after eight o’clock as the sun was finally coming up, Striker and Felicia pulled into the south lane of Tenth Avenue, then turned down the steep driveway that led into the underground police parkade. Striker swiped his card, keyed in his ID number and drove into the protected area of the building. The steel- reinforced gates automatically closed behind them.
Felicia grimaced at the low ceiling, which was covered with grey stalactites of fire-retardant foam. ‘Feels like a tomb down here.’
Striker agreed. ‘Welcome to the Bunker.’ It was the first time he’d been back here at Specialty Unit Headquarters since his stress leave, and it felt good.
He scanned the area. The lower levels of the complex contained electronically-secured lockers that housed the high-tech military weaponry required for the Emergency Response Team. This place was a favourite hangout for Meathead, who planned on making the move from the International Gang Task Force to the Emergency Response Team the moment his application was approved by the Inspector. So when he had suggested they all meet here to discuss matters, Striker hadn’t been surprised.
Striker drove down the ramp, around the corner, and saw Meathead at the next series of storage rooms. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, Meathead was an easy man to spot. A modern-day Viking. He had a giant head, which was covered with thick, wild curls of red hair, and a moustache and goatee to match. His arms were the size of most men’s calves and they were covered with so many tattoos they looked like sleeves — a Departmental rule-breaker, no doubt, but one that the white-shirts had wisely overlooked.
How could they not? Meathead was an asset. A force to be reckoned with. He was afraid of no man, and his military background and fighting arts gave him the skills to lead any operation the Department required. He was a specialist.
Striker pointed ahead. ‘There he is.’
Felicia made an ugh sound.
Striker parked the cruiser in the nearest stall, and they both climbed out.
‘Morning, Meathead,’ Striker called.
Meathead looked up and spotted them both. ‘Shipwreck. Fellatio.’
Felicia’s posture tightened. ‘In your dreams, pal.’
‘Oh, all the time, Beautiful.’ Meathead barked out a laugh. ‘Hell, give me a few minutes and I’ll whip something up for you right now.’ He closed his eyes, dropped his hand into his black sweatpants and started making perverted, grunting noises.
Felicia gave Striker one of her Can-we-leave? looks, and he ignored it. He stepped closer to Meathead, gave the man a swat on the shoulder.
‘Knock it off.’
‘Gimme a second, I’m almost there.’
‘ Meathead.’
‘Oh fine, ruin my fun.’ Meathead opened his eyes, offered a dirty smirk, then returned his attention to the black case he was securing. It was for the carbine, the latest long-range rifle the Department was investing in. Meathead snatched it up like it weighed five pounds, not fifty, and threw it in his locker. Once everything was secure, he walked away and motioned for Striker and Felicia to follow him.
They did, Striker with fast steps, Felicia purposely lagging behind.
They cut across the oil-stained pavement to a small doorway located behind a large concrete support pillar. Meathead opened the door to reveal a small briefing room, complete with large rectangular table and an overhead projector, which was turned off. In the far corner of the room was a row of filing cabinets. Cheap metal ones. Opposite them, a series of computers lined the wall. They were linked together, Striker noted, but almost certainly without connection to the outside world.
Meathead took note of Felicia’s expression and winked. ‘You look tired, Beautiful. You need to spend some time off your feet.’
‘I do. Every time I smell your breath.’
‘So it’s getting better then.’ When she didn’t respond, Meathead added, ‘I’ve been brushing more since our last meeting. Bought a Sonicare.’
Striker grinned and moved closer to Meathead. He smelled burned gunpowder. The air was strong with it. And gun oil, too. Obviously Meathead had been up at the range today, probably his third visit of the week.
Gun oil and gunpowder suited the man.
Before Striker could say anything, Meathead removed the T-shirt he was wearing and took another one from the corner of the room. The shirt looked a size too small against his massive arms. Striker took notice of the shirt. It was a grey-green colour and it had a red maple leaf on the top left, covered over by the numbers 499.
‘Four nine-nine?’
Meathead gave him a pissed look. ‘Larry Young, man — how could you forget?’
The moment Striker heard the name he was embarrassed. 499 was the badge number of Larry Young, the Emergency Response Team member killed during a drug raid. His name was gospel around the Department. And rightly so.
‘The shirts came out a few months back,’ Meathead said, ‘when you were on leave. Probably why you had the mental blip.’
‘Yeah, sure. Get me one, will you?’
‘Will do.’
Striker cleared his throat, then pulled the bullet he had found in the hidden compartment out from his jacket pocket. He thrust it at Meathead. ‘Here. Take a look at this.’
Meathead took the round, stared it over and whistled. The bullet was made of hard-tipped, shiny brass. ‘Is this the ammo they were using?’
Striker nodded. ‘One type. Tell me what it is.’
Meathead raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I want confirmation.’
‘Official warfare ammo, buddy. Full metal jacket.’
Striker thought it over. ‘That’s what they were shooting indiscriminately.’ He handed Meathead another bullet. ‘They also used this, but only on some of the kids — the ones I think were targeted.’
Meathead took the next bullet and examined that one, too. ‘Hollow tip, man. Hydra-Shok. Ultimate stopping power. They were taking no chances with these ones.’
Striker shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’
Felicia came over, took the bullet from Meathead’s hand and gave it the onceover. ‘What don’t you get?’ she asked Jacob.
‘Why use full metal jacket? I mean, these guys were there to kill, so why not go for a round that’s frangible — like a Hydra-Shok. Or, even better yet, some Federal HST? That shit leaves a two-inch spiral through a man. I know they didn’t need anything too fancy; these were just a bunch of high-school students, after all. No one was wearing body armour. But if you’re going for maximum fatalities, why not pick the proper ammunition?’
‘Maybe they weren’t going for maximum kills, maybe they were going for numbers,’ Felicia suggested. ‘Maximum casualties. Fear.’
