would be there, or at least on his way. And Deputy Chief Laroche, too.
Striker was in no mood to talk to him.
They took the east elevator down to the first floor, then went outside through the north side exit. The sun was out, fighting through the cloud. The moment the hospital door closed behind them, Striker spotted the very people he was trying to avoid — Inspector Beasley and his diminutive leader, Deputy Chief Laroche.
They were parked out front.
Striker studied him through the windshield. The Deputy Chief’s face looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten his full ten hours’ sleep last night, and there was plenty of agitation in his tight facial muscles. The sight should have made Striker smile, but he didn’t. Oddly, he felt for the man.
Much as Striker hated to admit it, Laroche had his own stresses, too.
Laroche exited the White Whale, which was parked at the kerb. As he slammed the passenger door, he spotted Striker. Instantly, his dark eyes narrowed and his white face turned red.
‘What the hell have you done now, Striker?’ he asked.
Striker stopped walking. ‘What have I done?’
‘You’re damn right, you. Everywhere you go I have to follow with more men and more crime scenes. We got six of them now, and that’s just the primaries, set up from here to Dunbar. Department’s running out of goddam crime-scene tape, and I’m out of men. You’ve effectively killed our budget for the entire year.’
Striker looked back, deadpan. ‘Yes, I know you’re very concerned about your budget, sir. And I’m sure Constable Kwan will be too — if she survives her injuries.’
Laroche’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not the one who put her in that position.’
‘Of course not, because you don’t do anything. Only thing you do well is your hair. You got one out of place, by the way.’
‘Striker-’
‘You know, Kwan might care about your budget, too. If she survives her injuries. And if we can find her daughter.’
‘Don’t be so-’
‘Riku Kwan is still missing, by the way, in case you weren’t aware of that. I know she’s just a young girl and her safety doesn’t rank up there with your fiscal matters, but I thought you should know.’
Laroche pointed a finger. ‘I’m writing you up, Striker. And I’ll be forwarding this to Internal. Today.’
The Deputy Chief turned away from Striker, towards Inspector Beasley, and began giving the man shit about something. Striker ignored them both. There were more important things to focus on right now. In order to learn Red Mask’s identity, they were going to have to learn more about the Shadow Dragons.
And that meant using every resource Striker had.
He got on his cell and called up Meathead, the man who had the most connections to experts on Asian gangs. Meathead answered on the second ring, and Striker filled him in on what kind of expert they needed.
‘So?’ Striker asked. ‘You know of any?’
Meathead’s reply was quick and definitive. ‘Yeah, just one. The Lamb. ’
Seventy-Three
Red Mask cut down the south lane of East Hastings Street. Pain and confusion ruled his mind. He had no idea why he was taking this route, only that it was away from St Paul’s Hospital, where he had completed the first step of his mission. Patricia Kwan had been fortunate to survive the first attack in her home; she would not survive this second one at the hospital.
The thought brought him no happiness. No contentment either. Just one step closer to mission completion.
To the Perfect Harmony.
Huddled in an alcove at the left side of the alley were three women. Crack whores. One of them — a blonde with pockmarked skin — gave him a wary look. He ignored her, and at the next alcove took shelter from the afternoon winds. They blustered through him with enough force to hamper his speed.
The smell of piss and shit hit him. The Downtown East Side. This festering place. The sickness of the city was bested only by the sickness of his body. With every step, the weight of his shoulder bones tore open his wound a little further.
Not that it mattered.
He reached inside his pocket and took out the vial of pills. White and yellow ones. He couldn’t remember what the old herbalist had said, how many to take, so he dumped a few of each in his mouth and chewed them into paste. He had just finished swallowing when he spotted the man. Around fifty, and six feet tall — large for an Asian — he wore a baggy coat that offered perfect cover for weapons holstered beneath. The man entered the lane, casually looked in Red Mask’s direction, then disappeared between the apartment complexes on the south side.
Red Mask felt his jaw clench. This was not the first time he had seen him. The man stuck out. His walk was distinctive, as if he had something wrong with his back. As if his spine was made not from bone and ligament, but wooden rods. When he walked, he took long stork-like strides.
Red Mask recognised this walk. He’d seen it back home in Cambodia. This was the result of disease. Some villagers called it ‘Tree Spine’ or ‘the sickness from the North’, but Red Mask knew the real reason for it. It was punishment.
Bad karma.
The first time he had seen this man was just after leaving Sheung Fa’s office. And that thought weighed heavy in his chest because it meant only one thing.
This man was an assassin.
Red Mask returned to the main drag of East Hastings. At the corner, he entered the Jin Ho Cafe. The waitress hurried over and offered him a seat, but he ignored her, going immediately to the narrow hallway that led down to the washrooms, and turning to spy out of the glass front window.
Within a minute, the strange man reappeared on the sidewalk out front, his stiff legs plodding him along with surprising speed and grace.
One look from this closer distance and Red Mask felt a coldness sweep through his belly. The man’s face was angular, like those from the north, with high, thick cheekbones and narrow hard eyes. Red Mask recognised him. It was the Man with the Bamboo Spine. A man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
He was here to kill him.
Seventy-Four
It was almost three in the afternoon by the time Striker and Felicia made it to Simon Fraser University. The campus was located high atop Burnaby Mountain, a good half-hour drive from the downtown core. Rush hour had been bad.
After they parked in the top lot, Striker walked with Felicia by his side through the outdoor breezeway of the convocation mall that was flanked by cafeterias, coffee shops and bookstores. It was cold and windy out. Even the rays of sun, breaking through the red and yellow foliage of the trees, seemed cold.
Winter was slowly edging out the fall.
As they passed a small sitting area where the crowd thickened, Striker studied the students around him. He was struck by how much older they seemed than the high-school kids. The majority were in their late teens and early twenties. Adults. Most noticeably, a lot of them were dressed in costumes. Today was Halloween after all, Friday, and the crowd was littered with everything from nurses to ninjas. The masquerade gave the campus a dark but exciting aura, and it made Striker feel like he was back at St Patrick’s High School.
The thought turned his palms sweaty.
