‘Done?’ Striker made a frustrated sound, then thought things over. ‘Okay, what other gangs was White Mask — Tran Sang Soone — connected to? We’ll start with the most likely, then fan out from there.’
‘The Golden Lotus,’ Ibarra said, stepping back into the room.
Striker wrote the name down in his notebook. ‘I’ve heard of the Lotus before, but never the Golden Lotus.’
‘That’s because they’re from Toronto.’
‘Toronto?’
‘Yeah, I got bad news for you,’ Ibarra said. ‘My team followed these guys around for the better part of a year — the gang brings in a lot of off-shore help. China. Singapore. Macau. There were so many faces we could hardly keep up, even with twenty-four-hour surveillance on them. Much as I hate to burst your bubble, this guy might be from overseas — a FOB-K.’
Felicia looked at Striker, then at Ibarra. ‘FOB-K?’
‘Fresh off the boat killer.’
Striker said nothing. It was a thought he didn’t want to entertain. Having an overseas gunman would mean more time, more agencies — Interpol, FBI, the Feds — and the list went on. In the end, an overseas gunman would mean less chance of identification, and it would keep them stuck in this constant cat and mouse chase, where the only way to catch Red Mask was to wait for his next attack.
And who knew how many more deaths that would mean.
Ibarra held up a thin folder. It was beige and dusty, and the corners were turned over from being compressed. ‘This is all I got on Tran Sang Soone.’
Felicia took the folder from Ibarra and opened it on the desk. As she went through it, Striker continued scanning through the surveillance photos of 14K Triad members and suspected associates. He reached the end and was about to put them away when something made him pause. In one of the surveillance photos, Tran Sang Soone was seated at a banquet table. He was laughing heartily while talking to another gang member. Behind him, the waitress was bringing more platters out from the kitchen.
‘Where was this taken?’
Ibarra leaned forward. ‘That photo was taken over a year ago, at the Chongmin Banquet Hall. Used to be a big splashy place. Closed down now though. Got caught running a gambling den and a common bawdy house out of the back.’
Striker looked at the photo, stared at it for a long time, and spotted a tall man in a white apron in the doorway. He pulled the photo closer. The background was grainy, hard to make out, but something clicked in Striker’s mind.
‘Who is this guy?’ he asked, and pointed to the man in the apron.
Ibarra looked over his shoulder. ‘The cook.’
‘You run him?’
Ibarra nodded. ‘We ran everyone who so much as farted in their direction. Believe me, anyone who’s got any known criminal involvement is listed under the associates.’
‘So who is he?’ Striker pressed.
Ibarra took another look at the photo. ‘Don’t know the name. I remember him though. Real oddball. Just stood there staring off into space half the time. Most the guys thought he was on the nod, or something. We checked him out though, and he was completely negative. Nothing criminal in his past, nothing even remotely suspect. Shit, I don’t think he even had a speeding ticket.’
‘That means nothing,’ Striker commented. ‘Seung-Hui Choi had no criminal history either, but that didn’t stop him from killing thirty-two people at Virginia Tech. What’s the cook’s name?’
Ibarra couldn’t remember, so he took the image number from Striker and started flipping through the pages of the Project Pacific folder.
While waiting, Striker searched through the rest of the restaurant photos, scanning each one with deliberation. It was on the eleventh photograph that he found the cook again, in a strange pose. He was out in a laneway with his shirt removed. His body was tattoo-free with beige skin; his build was lean and wiry. Striker studied the man’s physique, then his face. And then he knew.
It was the eyes. That cold, vacuous stare.
Felicia, reading over the Tran Sang Soone folder, made an excited sound and looked up. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s got a brother!’
And before Striker could react to this, Ibarra found the name connected to the image of the cook. Striker snatched the paper from his hands and read it over. He turned to face Felicia.
‘Call Dispatch,’ he ordered. ‘Call the papers. Call every TV station you know.’
Felicia stood up from her chair. ‘Red Mask?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. ‘His name is Shen Sun Soone.’
Seventy-Eight
Shen Sun Soone stood rooted to the spot. The sweet aroma of Chinese pork buns filled the air around him, but it did not stir his hunger. All he thought of was the Man with the Bamboo Spine.
The 14K assassin.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine was Dai Huen Jai, a former Big Circle Boy — one of the Vietnamese National Liberation Army soldiers turned mercenary. These men had a willingness to resort to unnecessary torture. And they did so in horrifically creative ways. Death by slow boiling; death by skinning; death by disembowelment — all procedures conjured up to inspire fear in their enemies.
And it worked with great success.
‘Take seat,’ the waitress said to Shen Sun. ‘You take seat. You order food. Eat much.’
Shen Sun left the restaurant, feeling divided. A part of him longed for Macau, where Shan Chu was located. If only he could go there and hold tea with Shan Chu, then there might be hope. But that was impossible. Shan Chu was Dragon Head, above even Sheung Fa. He did what was necessary to protect the syndicate. And because of that, the order for Shen Sun’s death was understandable. The Triad need for secrecy superseded everything else. So when Shen Sun’s photo started popping up on every TV screen around the city, his fate was sealed.
The news media had ordered his death, every bit as much as Shan Chu.
The door to the Jin Ho Cafe slammed shut from the wind, the glass rattling. It tore him from his stupor. Woke him to the harsh truth. There was no future — not for him. Perhaps there never had been. Perhaps he had died that day in the camps, and now he was nothing more than a shadow wandering this earth.
He stood on the corner of East Hastings and Hawks and stared at the cold expanse of sky. Moments ago it had seemed sunny. Now it was grey.
He reached under his shirt, pulled the Glock from his waistband and placed the barrel flush against his temple. His finger rested heavy on the trigger. The steel was cold. But there was an easiness now. Peace. He gently squeezed the trigger.
And stopped.
Something had caught his eye. Something across the road. It was subtle at first, like the softest change of wind. But it was there. It was undeniably there.
And it was magnificent.
Across the road, on the north side of Hastings, was the Sunshine Market. The store awning was old and yellow with a dozen golden pennants hanging down. Each one boasted a symbol — Peace, Strength, Prosperity, Wisdom. The wind tilted them all towards the west.
All except one.
In the centre hung a single red pennant. Triangular. And on its face was the character for Perseverance. Unlike all the other ones, this pennant tilted towards the east. Against the wind. And Shen Sun could not believe his eyes.
It was a sign, he knew. A glorious rescue. He stared at that red triangular pennant tilting towards the east, and felt his eyes turn wet. Soon tears ran down his cheeks, tasting salty on his lips.
