jumped out and raced north.
Three blocks later, he saw something that made him pause.
Parked on the roadside, three houses down from the Kwan residence, was a blue Toyota Camry. The manufacturer and model of the car did not warrant his attention so much as did the condition of the driver’s side door. The lock had been punched, and when Striker drew closer, he saw wires hanging from the ignition. There were dark stains on the beige interior.
Blood.
Striker stood back from the vehicle and analysed his surroundings. The Kwan house was just three lots down. He studied it — a one-storey Kitsilano special, plastered in dark green that matched the heavy wall of bushes flanking the yard. Everything was still and quiet, and it gave Striker a bad feeling. He drew his pistol and headed for the lot. As he was nearing, a voice startled him.
‘You here about the noise?’ a woman asked.
He looked over and saw an old lady, dressed in nothing but an orange cotton robe and oversized fluffy slippers. In her hands was a steaming cup, and at her feet was an old Basset Hound.
‘What noise?’
She jerked her head towards the Kwan house. ‘I dunno, a loud one, that’s for sure. Sounded like something damn well exploded in there. Took you guys long enough, I called it in over five minutes ago.’
‘Get inside,’ was all Striker said.
He crouched low, sprinted down the sidewalk that flanked the frontyard bushes, and raced up the front porch steps. At the door, he stopped. He leaned around the porch railing and tried to peer through the bay window, but the curtain was drawn. The flickering glimmer of a television set caught his eye, and seconds later, a harsh sound startled him — feminine, desperate, pained. It was followed by a man’s voice, neutral in tone, but direct and authoritative.
In control.
‘Where is she?’ the man asked. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’
Striker stepped back from the front door, assessed the structure. It was made of oak, solid as hell, and locked by a steel deadbolt. If he attempted to kick it in, he’d have to do it with one strike; otherwise, the element of surprise would be lost and he’d be an easy target when he broke through.
No time. There was no time.
No other option.
He readied his gun and leaped forward, kicking out his right leg and driving the heel of his boot onto the inner portion of the deadbolt. The steel was strong; the lock remained secure. But the frame busted inwards with a loud wooden snap!
‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker yelled.
He used his momentum to push forward through the opening, getting out of the fatal funnel as quickly as possible. He collided heavily with the wall, balanced himself, and got his first true look at the shooter.
Red Mask was standing to Striker’s right. In the living room.
Without the mask on.
The sight was almost startling. He was an Asian male, with narrow hard eyes and a face much older than Striker had expected. Definitely not a student from St Patrick’s High. Instantly Striker knew he had been right.
He was dealing with a trained killer.
The expression Red Mask wore was not one of surprise or fear or even anger, but one of acceptance. His body was in a semi-crouched position, ready to bound. In his hand, he held a glistening black pistol. It blended in with the darkness of his kangaroo jacket.
‘Red Mask,’ Striker said, the words falling unexpectedly from his lips. He raised his Sig to open fire, but before he could get a shot off, the gunman spun away from the slumped woman and leaped into the adjoining dining room.
He was quick, Striker thought. So goddam quick.
Before Striker could reposition, shots rang out. Loud, rapid-fire: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! Bullets rained through the walls, spraying chunks of wallpaper and gypsum into the air.
The years of training took over; Striker dropped low and spun left. More gunfire thundered through the room and the front-room window cracked. One of the rounds tore through the mirror to his left, shattering it into hundreds of shiny splinters. Another bullet hit the metal frame of the door and let out a sharp ziiiing as it ricocheted somewhere down the hall. Others punched into the floorboards, the loud thunk-thunk-thunk of the breaking oak filling the air.
Striker remained low, weathered the storm.
In the living room, the woman was clambering to her feet. ‘Help! Someone help me!’
‘Down!’ he yelled to her. ‘Down! Stay down!’
But she wasn’t listening. She climbed to her feet, turned around as if in a daze, and Striker saw the patches of red that splattered her neck and arm. She’d been hit. And by the looks of it, she was bleeding out bad. She spun around as if she didn’t know where she was, ran left, bumped into the ottoman and toppled forward.
‘Stay DOWN!’ Striker yelled again. He kept a low stance, edged forward and peered into the room.
There was no sign of Red Mask.
The gunman had vanished.
Striker inched out further, until he could see around the bend of the wall, into the dining room. Through the back window, he caught a glimpse of the gunman. Red Mask was outside, running down the back porch steps.
Escaping again.
Striker raced across the room, up to the window, and spotted the man running between a giant pair of maple trees at the far end of the lot. He took quick aim and opened fire, shooting right through the living room window until his mag ran out of bullets.
Through the cracks of glass, Striker could see he had failed. Red Mask had already reached the lane.
Striker reloaded while running through the kitchen. The door to the backyard was open and rocking from the incoming wind. He ran up to it and scanned the narrow trail where the gunman had fled towards the lane.
It was empty.
Striker swore. The gun felt heavy in his hand, and hot. He kept it aimed ahead, his finger alongside the trigger as he made his way down the back porch steps, onto the wet grass of the lawn. He circled the garage, cutting past the small vegetable garden. By the time he reached the lane, the weak wail of faraway police sirens filled the night. Their long undulating cries were heaven to his ears.
Help was near.
Thoughts of Patricia Kwan flooded Striker’s mind, the splatters of blood that painted her arms and chest and neck. Her clothes had been damn near saturated with blood. An arterial bleed, for sure, the most serious kind. He tried to push the thought from his mind and focus on the lane, on all possible escape routes Red Mask might have taken. But three steps later, the image of Patricia Kwan returned to him.
Only he could save her.
He took another hard look around the alley, saw dozens of places the gunman could have fled, and knew he was out of options. A woman’s life was at stake. He turned around and raced back inside the house. Hopefully, the coming patrol units would set up containment, get a dog track, and find Red Mask.
Before he killed again.
Fifty
By the time Courtney had gotten over the shock of what had happened and come to terms with the fact that some of her friends had been killed, her head was full of depressing thoughts and she was fighting to get herself back into that wonderful state of denial — the same one she had made use of when Mom had died. She made the decision to never think about the shootings again, if it were possible. And to divert her mind, she did what she always did.
She looked through all of Bobby Ryan’s pics.
