Daniel’s. Rum. Vodka. In the far corner, a group of Asian girls were hanging out in a closed-off circle, a few of them constantly looking over their shoulders at her and Raine. They looked mean and tough. It gave Courtney an awkward feeling, and she covered herself up by folding her arms across her chest, then moved in behind the bend of the hall to get out of their line of sight.
‘We’re the only ones wearing costumes,’ she suddenly noticed.
Raine shrugged. ‘So? We’re hot.’
‘Who are all these people?’
Raine opened the fridge door, looked around. ‘I dunno, they just showed up.’
‘Showed up?’
Raine handed her a peach cooler. ‘Yeah. They’re friends of Mr Creepy. Said the party was planned for weeks. Said that everyone knew. They just walked right in like they owned the place. What was I gonna do, not let them in? I just got the ice outta his fridge and loaded up the sink. Next thing I know it was filled with booze. Everyone’s bringing something, and I’ve just been helping myself.’
Courtney didn’t drink her cooler right away. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have let them in.’
Raine gave her an impatient look. ‘You’re not gonna go all nerdy on me again, are you?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Good. ’Cause I just got off the phone with Bobby Ryan and he’s already on his way over.’
Courtney felt her insides explode with butterflies. ‘Now? He’s coming now?’
‘Actually, that was over a half hour ago. He should be here any minute.’
‘Oh GOD.’ Courtney’s fingers suddenly felt clumsy on the bottle. She leaned against the wall, looked down at herself and started fussing with her costume.
Raine grabbed her hand, stopped her from playing with the dress. ‘You look hot, Court. Super hot. So chill.’
‘You think?’
‘They do,’ she said with a laugh, and pointed at a group of guys hanging out in the den where the Vancouver Canucks were battling the Washington Capitals on the big screen. That Russian superstar guy was centrescreen.
Courtney let her eyes fall from the game to the group of guys.
A few of them — all way too old, like, ten years too old for her — had turned around from the game and were staring at her and Raine. The nearest one, a long-haired white guy with a few days’ growth on his face, had on a black sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his heavily muscled arms, both of which were covered with tattoos. She met his stare, hoping he would look away. When he didn’t — and offered her a dirty grin — she pretended not to see and looked down from him.
‘They’re gross.’
Raine laughed. ‘You just need to chill, Court.’ She grabbed the bottle of peach cooler in Courtney’s hand and lifted it to her friend’s mouth.
Courtney took a long gulp, hiccuped, and laughed.
‘Better?’ Raine asked.
‘I dunno. Maybe. A little.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because Bobby just walked through the door.’
Courtney didn’t reply. She froze to the spot, couldn’t move. A part of her wanted to turn around and face Bobby boldly, but she couldn’t. Another part of her wanted to avoid him and run away from the party, but she couldn’t do that either. So instead she just stood there like a statue and drank down her entire cooler. When it was done Raine handed her another one, and she drank that, too.
It was too much, she knew. Too much for a girl who never drank.
But she couldn’t help herself. She finished it and started her third. The music blasted all around her and people started making out in the corners. She spotted Bobby across the room, saw him looking back at her. He began to cross the room, and a small smile spread over Courtney’s lips.
Maybe Raine was right, after all.
It was gonna be one helluva night.
Seventy-Six
Striker and Felicia met Delbert Ibarra at Strike Force HQ. Ibarra, Vancouver’s only Mexican cop, was the Inspector in charge of Strike Force, the city’s best covert surveillance unit. For five years now, Strike Force had been massing up piles of information through Project Pacific — a joint task force initiated to identify the numerous unknown entities of the ongoing Asian gang warfare.
The information Striker and Felicia now had was straightforward. The gunmen were somehow linked to the Shadow Dragons, which was something of a feeder gang for the Triads. And the most likely division of the Triads they were dealing with here just so happened to be the most powerful faction — the 14K. So the goal here was simple: find some pictures of these guys. ID them. Then find the link to the school.
The photographs of Project Pacific were their best bet.
‘Haven’t looked at these for months,’ Delbert Ibarra said as he removed a thick folder of photographs from the cabinet.
Striker nodded. ‘Let’s just hope they got something we can use.’
He waited impatiently in the corner of the Strike Force projector room while Ibarra — Taco Del, to all those who knew him — went through the surveillance folder for Project Pacific. Felicia, the more reserved of the two, sat tilted back in one of the office chairs.
‘How long was Project Pacific?’ Striker asked.
Ibarra unconsciously patted down the sides of his handlebar moustache, grown for the undercover operation he was halfway through. He flipped through the folder, looking at the dates. ‘Sixteen months. Sixteen long friggin’ months.’
‘What exactly was this project?’ Felicia asked.
Ibarra continued picking at the handlebars of his moustache. ‘Multi-jurisdictional surveillance project, set up by a coalition of deputy chiefs. Goal was to gain information on the growing diversity of Asian youth gangs. We had the Strike Force working in two teams, twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week for almost a year and a half. Burned everyone out. Caused a lot of transfers when the gig was up.’
‘Fed money?’ Striker asked.
‘What else? God knows, we couldn’t afford that. Most of the information we got never went to charges. But it’s been a valuable resource for the IHIT and the IGTF.’
Striker nodded. The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team and the Integrated Gang Task Force were in the public eye a lot nowadays. He looked at the file, saw how thin it was. ‘That’s all you got?’
Ibarra laughed, his entire face lighting up. ‘These are just the reference numbers — the entire file is on the database.’
‘We’ll want to see that then.’
Ibarra started the nearest computer and initiated the log-in sequence. As he did so, Striker studied the man. At five foot ten and one hundred eighty pounds, Ibarra was of average height, average weight. He had brown eyes, shaggy brown hair, a bushy brown moustache, and a face people would forget after ten minutes — which was exactly why he had been known as the Surveillance God for the past ten years.
The computer booted up, and Felicia joined Striker and Ibarra at the row of terminals. ‘We need pictures,’ she said.
Striker clarified: ‘Of suspects only. No vehicles or institutions.’
Ibarra used the mouse to navigate through the subsystem. When he found the folder he was looking for — Project Pacific — he craned his neck and gave them both a quick look. ‘This is related to the Active Shooter at Saint Patrick’s?’
Felicia nodded. ‘We think so.’
‘How?’
