‘He got away,’ Striker said. ‘With the girls.’
‘Did you see what he was-’
‘A white Hobbes Meats truck. Already broadcast it.’ The words fell oddly from his lips, sounding hollow, forced. He felt like a dam full of holes, ready to crumble at any second. When he spoke again, he fought to maintain control of his emotions. ‘They could be anywhere.’
‘Let’s go back to the car — we’ll find them.’
Striker looked at her face, saw the dried blood on her chin and neck, the swollenness of her jaw. He nodded, and they turned north on Commercial. They’d barely gone ten steps when his BlackBerry vibrated against his hip. He lifted it so he could read the call display, and felt a stab of electric fear and hope in his heart when he read the name: Courtney.
He picked up fast. ‘Hello?’
The voice that replied was masculine, clipped, and brief: ‘Ironworkers Bridge. Halfway.’
‘Shen Sun?’
‘Block traffic at both ends of bridge. And come alone, Gwailo. Otherwise, both die.’ The line went dead.
Striker stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, then turned to look at Felicia, who had heard every word.
‘He wants you alone on the bridge? What, does he think you’re out of your mind?’
‘I’m going.’
‘Jacob, you can’t-’
‘I have to, Felicia. Why do you think he called? He could have escaped by now, but he didn’t. It’s no longer about the theft or the murders or the position he was promised — it’s about him and me now. I’m what he wants.’
‘Just stop for a second. Slow down. Think about this. It’s what he wants, Jacob. Jesus, at least wait for a sharpshooter.’
‘There’s no time.’
She grabbed his arm, got in his face. ‘Jacob, it’s suicide.’
Striker pulled away. ‘He’s got Courtney, Felicia. He’s got my little girl.’
Before she could respond, he marched back to the police car, thinking over the words Shen Sun had spoken. The orders were clear. Meet halfway across the bridge. Shut down the bridge at both ends. Those two sentences alone told Striker everything he needed to know about the situation. A negotiator would be of no use.
Nothing would be.
Shen Sun wasn’t planning on surviving the night.
Ninety-Seven
The Ironworkers’ Memorial Bridge was a 1200-metre, six-lane steel monstrosity that spanned the Burrard Inlet, connecting the city of Vancouver to the Northern Shore. It was built up high, on concrete pillars that rose from the foaming, turbulent waters below like a series of grey gnarled fingers. A perpetual fog brooded around the structure, one so thick it made the paved lanes seem more like a witch’s cauldron than a roadway. The bridge had been built in 1957, and in the process of construction had cost 136 workers their lives.
Striker prayed it would take no more tonight.
It took him and Felicia less than four minutes to reach the south on-ramp. Already, a marked patrol car had blocked off the entrance, its red and blue emergency lights reflecting off the heavy fog that roamed the pavement like a crawling beast. Next to the police cruiser, a patrol cop dressed in orange and yellow reflective gear waved him over and said, ‘Park it there, Striker.’
He did.
When he climbed out, he recognised the man. It was Chris Mathews, from the Two-Eight squad. Striker walked towards him, his head feeling as fogged as the roadway. He’d barely gotten ten steps when a white unmarked cruiser came speeding up the on-ramp behind them. Its lights were flashing, the siren turned off. The cruiser slid across the wet asphalt, coming to a slow stop not five feet away. The driver’s door opened and a man in a white shirt hopped out.
One look at him and Striker stopped cold.
Laroche.
The Deputy Chief came stomping around the cruiser, his face pale and twisted in the harsh glare of the headlights. He was followed by Inspector Beasley.
‘Striker!’ he called, his voice cracking in the cold. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve already got ERT and a negotiator on route.’
Striker turned to face the man. ‘Did you pull the units from my house?’
‘That doesn’t concern you.’
Striker took a step closer, his hands balling into fists. ‘I asked you a question, Laroche. Did you or did you not have patrol guard removed from my house?’
Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s face. ‘You’re damn right I did! My men aren’t your personal-’
Striker punched the man square in the face, sent him sprawling backwards. The Deputy Chief hit the pavement, landing hard on his ass. Stunned, he sat up, touched his lip, then looked at the blood on his fingers. Disbelief coloured his face, quickly replaced by anger.
‘How dare you strike a commanding officer! I’ll have your badge for this-’
Striker stepped forward, grabbed the Deputy Chief by the scruff of his shirt.
‘Let go of me!’ Laroche screamed.
Striker ignored the order; he dragged the man back to the police cruiser, opened the rear door, and threw him inside. When he slammed the door closed, the Deputy Chief let out a frustrated howl and grabbed the door handle. He tried to open the door, reefed on it hard, but the safety lock engaged. He pounded his fist on the glass.
‘Striker! Striker! Open this door immediately! It’s an ORDER!’
As Inspector Beasley started for the car, Striker stepped in his way, fixed him with an icy stare.
‘My kid’s up there. I’m going up. No negotiator. No ERT. No Air One. No goddamn nothing.’ He stabbed a finger towards the Deputy Chief. ‘That little prick gets out and in any way endangers my daughter’s life, and I’ll shoot the fucker. I mean it, I’ll goddam shoot him and you can arrest me for it later.’
Inspector Beasley’s mouth dropped open.
Striker continued, ‘And if Laroche comes up there and any bad shit happens, I will hold you personally responsible, Beasley. Got it?’ Without waiting for a response, Striker turned away from the man and found Felicia. He came up in front of her, spoke softly. ‘Don’t let anyone up this road.’ He then took her pistol as a spare and tucked it in the back of his belt.
‘Be careful,’ she urged.
There was nothing to say, so he just nodded, then turned away.
It was time to face Shen Sun Soone.
Ninety-Eight
Striker marched quickly up the bridge deck. The asphalt was damp, and covered with metal and plastic fragments from an earlier accident. His boots slipped as he hurried on. With every step he took, the bridge inclined, becoming steeper and steeper, and he rose higher and higher into the fog. Until it felt like he was walking into the cloudbanks.
Up ahead, the headlights of the Hobbes Meats van came into view. The sight hit Striker like a physical force and he stopped. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the flashing red and blue gleam of the police lights.
