his fingers deep into the material. She let out a cry as his fingernails dug into her back, but he held her tight.
‘I won’t make that choice,’ the cop finally said.
The words hit Shen Sun like the end of a whip. And for the first time since the gwailo had set foot into the headlights, he felt his euphoria seeping away. The pain in his shoulder became sharper, the throbbing of his head more violent. His body was sweating and shivering, and the weakness of his legs had returned, keeping him off- balance.
‘You will not…’ he began. Then Shen Sun Soone felt the world fading on him. He looked up at the cop, standing in the circular glare of the fog-veiled headlights, and suddenly he could see him for what he was — for what he had always known Jacob Striker to be — ever since their first encounter back at the school.
An evil spirit in human form. An earthbound demon.
It made no difference.
‘Make choice!’ he demanded for the last time.
And the cop did.
He reached down, drew his pistol, and ran forward. And just like the evil spirit he was, he fell out of the light into the darkness, and vanished from sight.
One Hundred
The seconds felt like hours.
Striker burst forward, cleared the glare of the headlights and took quick aim the moment the two girls and the gunman came into view. Raine was grounded, on her knees, sobbing but out of the line of fire.
Courtney was not.
She was held tight by the madman, pulled close, a human shield. There was little room — definitely not enough room for a shot. And yet Striker knew he had no choice. If he didn’t act now, Shen Sun would kill her. He squeezed the trigger, heard the blast shake the entire area around them…
And then heard Courtney’s agonised scream.
She collapsed onto the wet concrete of the sidewalk, then rolled off the kerb into the lane. Even in the poor light, the dark, glistening splatter that covered her belly was obvious. And Striker realised it hadn’t been him who had fired the shot.
Shen Sun stepped forward. Into the light. Raised his pistol.
Striker saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. He darted left, took aim again, and heard three shots blast off. He felt bone-breaking pain as his chest and ribs cracked from the impacts. The force sent him reeling. He landed hard on his back, in the middle of the road, fighting to breathe, but still managing to pull the trigger in rapid fire.
Bang-bang-bang-BANG! The shots rang out, too many to count.
And then there was more screaming. The girls were screaming.
Striker rolled left, propped himself up on one arm, and scanned the sidewalk. He spotted Shen Sun, hobbling like an old, crippled man across the sidewalk. Towards Raine. His left arm hung limply and his right leg didn’t work right.
Striker raised his gun and drew down on the man. But he couldn’t get the shot off — not without hitting Raine. The girl screamed out in terror as Shen Sun grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, and pulled her into him.
‘Please!’ she screamed. ‘PLEASE!’
Shen Sun ignored her. He reared up to the bridge railing, wrapped his arms around her, and then found Striker with his eyes.
‘History is circle, Gwailo. Past is also future.’
There was no time left. Striker kept his aim tight, the sights lined up on the centre of Shen Sun’s face, and he pulled the trigger. All he heard was the god awful click-click-click of an empty chamber.
Shen Sun smiled. Smiled as if all the pain and rage and fear had left him and he had found peace. For a moment, he looked calm, serene … harmonious. Then he threw his body backwards.
In one quick, horrible moment, Shen Sun and Raine slipped over the railing and were swallowed up by the greyness beyond. Nothing was left behind in their wake, except a young girl’s cry that would forever be embedded in Jacob Striker’s mind.
Epilogue
One Hundred and One
Three weeks later, early in the morning, Striker pulled into the visitors’ parking lot of the G.F. Strong Rehab Centre and felt his BlackBerry vibrate on the side of his belt. The caller was Sergeant Ronald Stone from Internal. He didn’t answer, but punched the ignore button instead. There was enough on his plate today without having to deal with Professional Standards.
He locked the car and headed for the main building. The sun was out and the sky was blue, but the air was crisp and cold. Snow had fallen the previous morning, testament to the fact that winter had definitely arrived. The cedar bushes that flanked the walkway were clean and white, and decorated in Christmas lights.
Red and blue.
The snow from Striker’s boots turned the hard tiles of the hospital floor slippery, and he walked carefully as he made his way from the admitting area down to Rehab. Once in the wing, he stopped by the Christmas tree planted beside the nursing station and smelled the strong scent of pine in the air. He scanned the area and spotted the Occupational Therapist, a middle-aged East Indian lady. She was only five feet tall but built like an aircraft carrier.
‘Mr Striker,’ she said at the sight of him, and offered a wide smile.
‘Janeeta,’ he said. He took a long hard look down the hallway, in the direction of Courtney’s room. His nerves felt on fire. ‘How’s she coming?’
‘She’s coming well, Mr Striker.’
‘But will she walk normal again?’
Janeeta looked at the chart she was holding, flipped through the pages, then looked back at Striker and gave his arm a soft rub. ‘Why don’t you go talk to your daughter, Mr Striker?’
He nodded, then walked down the hall to Room 14.
‘Hey, Pumpkin,’ he said as he stepped through the door.
Courtney was seated on the bed, looking out the window. She wore a burgundy pair of track pants from Roots, complete with a matching sweat top. At the sound of his voice, she looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was unreadable.
‘Snow,’ was all she said.
‘Yeah, first time in two years. Christmas is coming.’ He pointed to her tracksuit. ‘Got your colours ready, I see. Very festive.’
Courtney didn’t smile. ‘It hasn’t snowed like this since Mom died.’
The words punched through Striker, took his breath away. Mainly because she was right. The last time it had snowed was the night Amanda had taken off, when she’d driven for her friend’s house on the North Shore and never made it back. The memory seemed like yesterday. And Striker wished he could forget it all.
He approached the bed, crested it, and rubbed his hand over the top of Courtney’s upper back — away from her healing scar — in his best attempt to show support. He stared outside at the snowy roadway, thought about what his daughter didn’t yet know, then sat down in the bedside chair and faced Courtney.
‘You know, we’ve never really talked about that night,’ he said softly.
‘You’ve never wanted to.’
