Striker decided she was right about that. Full metal jacket would over-penetrate, ricochet, strike more targets. Cause more casualties. But the gunmen had been careful to use the Hydra-Shok ammo on Tina Chow and Conrad Macmillan and Chantelle O’Riley. Which was part of the reason why these kids seemed targeted. So why Hydra-Shok?
A signature?
Meathead interjected, ‘Semantics, man. Doesn’t really matter. You got a person at your mercy and shoot enough rounds of any kind through them, they’re Swiss cheese. Plus I hear these guys had shotguns and an AK-47. They want to go for fatalities, that’s more than enough firepower to take down a bear.’
As Meathead finished speaking, Felicia’s cell went off. She answered it, but had difficulty getting a strong signal in the underground. She lost the call. After cussing, she turned to Striker and handed him the bullet.
‘It’s Caroline,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna walk up a level and call her back.’
Striker was glad to see her leave. She’d been acting strange all morning. Distant, almost hostile at times. And Meathead’s banter wasn’t helping the mood. With her out of the way, there was less pressure.
Meathead watched her go and grunted. ‘Man, I’d like to tap that.’
‘ Tap that?’
‘Like a keg, baby.’
‘You ever hear of harassment?’
‘Yeah, and I been trying to get me some, Boss. But so far no luck.’
Meathead barked out another hyena laugh, and Striker sighed. He said nothing to encourage the man, because Meathead was like that; he fed off of other people’s attention, and the more praise he got, the wilder and more crude he became. Striker focused their attention back on the investigation.
‘I found all this ammo in the stolen Civic.’
‘For real?’
‘Hidden compartment.’
‘No shit. Floorboards?’
‘Dashboard. Which is why I’m here.’ Striker moved over to the table and sat down. ‘I’ve been out of the loop on this stuff for a few years now. You’re the one in Gangs, you deal with these rejects all the time. So tell me, where do they get this work done?’
Meathead walked across the room to the fridge and opened the door. He pulled out a couple of Gatorades and threw the orange one to Striker. He kept the Berry Blue for himself. Held it up. Grinned.
‘Blue — to match my balls.’
‘If you’re matching, it should be smaller. The shot-glass version. Now back to the hidden compartment.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Meathead uncapped the Gatorade, drank some, cleared his throat. ‘How long did they have to make these modifications?’
‘Car was stolen nine days before the attack.’
Meathead made an interested sound. ‘Well, that rules out the Blaine Brothers.’
‘Why?’
‘They work out east. Ontario. But they’re the best. Both guys are in their fifties now, former soldiers — real ones, saw Desert Storm. Then they came home and turned private.’ He chugged back some sports drink, wiped his mouth with his forearm. ‘They got a whole modification business going on down there, making cars bullet-proof and adding hidden compartments. But they usually work on Escalades or Hummers, maybe even the odd Beamer. Not Civics though. And it takes time to do this stuff. A full month for anything good.’
Striker commented, ‘It would take them half the nine days just to drive the car out east and back.’
‘Exactly, so it would have to be local. What kind of monkey work they do to the dashboard?’
‘Solid stuff,’ Striker said. ‘Professional. No one would know anything was there unless they removed the dash. Fresh-install, too. New ignition, new radio, and a magnetic circuit to boot. Barely a mark on the dashboard, or anywhere for that matter.’
Meathead dragged his finger through the air as if writing or counting. ‘Five names come to mind,’ he finally said. He told them to Striker, who wrote them down in his notebook.
‘All local?’ Striker asked.
‘Yep. Two are in the Valley, one on the North Shore, far as I can remember. Don’t know where the other two are, but they were always rounders, so probably East Side — at least, that’s where they were a few years back.’
Striker read the names silently. They weren’t familiar. He looked back up and met Meathead’s stare. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Some of these guys are bad dudes, man. Pop a cop no problem. So be careful.’
Striker nodded. At that moment, Felicia swung open the door and came marching back into the room. Her pretty face looked preoccupied.
‘Everything okay?’ Striker asked.
‘No. That was Caroline. She’s gone Chernobyl on us — total meltdown.’
‘Can you blame her?’
‘She says the parents of some of the dead have called. They won’t leave her alone. They want answers to a lot of things she doesn’t know answers to.’
The notion bothered Striker. He felt for these people. And he couldn’t imagine their grief. Losing a loved one was hard enough, but losing a child — well, that was life-destroying. Soon, he and Felicia would have to talk to the parents of the deceased, not only for the good of the investigation, but out of simple decency and respect. First on that list were the Chows, the MacMillans, and the O’Rileys.
But before he could do that, he needed to do their background checks.
He gave Meathead a final glance, saying, ‘Keep your cell on, I might need you.’
‘Will do, Boss.’
Then Striker and Felicia went back to the car, drove out of the underground parkade. They headed for Main and Hastings. To their home base.
Major Crimes.
Thirty-Three
The morning sun broke through the dirty yellow drapes and formed a thin gold line across Red Mask’s eyes. He lay flat on a small wooden mat. The pain told him he was still alive. It moved through his shoulder like a worm eating his tissue.
From somewhere down below, he could hear the angry words of a couple arguing. Someone had stolen something from someone, and someone was gonna pay. Through violence or sex or maybe both. The argument was nothing unusual for this place. After all, this was the Aster, one of the worst slums in Strathcona. Anyone living here was a junkie, a whore, or one of the endless crazies littering the Skids.
And anyone that mattered never set foot in this place.
Red Mask was unconcerned. The police would never locate him. His only known living quarters was his mailing address, and that was 533 Raymur Street. In the projects underneath the overpass. Down by the train tracks.
Where Father lives.
The thought came from nowhere. Left him empty.
He could not see Father again. Not after all that had happened. How could he ever tell him about Tran? He couldn’t. It was but one of the many sacrifices required to reach the Perfect Harmony.
A sad smile broke his lips. Harmony. It now seemed such an empty word.
He rolled off the mat and felt the jagged shrapnel of the bullet tear through his shoulder. He vomited, bringing up nothing but transparent fluid. When the spasms stopped, he forced himself to stand in the tilting, shifting room. With his good arm, he reached behind his back and felt the rubberised grip of the Glock.
He was armed. He was prepared.
Pain or no pain, infection or no infection, living or dying, he had to go. It was time to complete his orders. It
