When they reached the first step of the stairs, Felicia tripped and almost fell, but Striker snagged her. He pulled her with him, up the stairs. When they got halfway, Felicia tugged at his jacket.
‘It’s too hot,’ she yelled above the noise. ‘We’re running right
towards
the fire – we have to turn back. Find another way.’
Images of the floor layout flashed through Striker’s head; the entire apartment was below ground level, and the only windows he had seen were small and barred.
‘There is no back,’ he yelled. ‘This is the only way out!’
Without waiting for a response, he pushed on up the stairway, pulling her with him. They reached the small alcove of the inside foyer. Here, the heat from the fire was immense, palpable through the front door. Without thinking, Striker reached out and grabbed the doorknob—
And yanked his hand back.
The knob was
blisteringly
hot. He quickly stripped off his jacket, wrapped it around the knob, turned it and pushed hard.
The door wouldn’t budge.
Felicia shone her flashlight on the door. With the thick smoke billowing all around them, it was almost impossible to see.
She pointed at the plate. ‘It’s a one-way lock!’
Striker said nothing. He just stepped back and gave the door a couple of solid kicks, once at the bottom and once in the middle. The door barely budged. He shoved hard at the top, then stepped back, coughing.
Smoke was flowing heavily through the cracks now. Like something liquid. Soon the air around them would be too thick to see anything, and they’d be scrambling in darkness.
Blind.
There was no time.
Striker aimed his gun. ‘The lock! Shoot out the lock!’
Felicia said nothing; she just raised her pistol and pulled the trigger.
Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang!
– rapid fire on the door. She shot all twelve bullets, until she had emptied her entire magazine. Then she reloaded.
Striker did the same, concentrating his fire on the lock and plate. By the time his clip was out of ammo, over twenty-four bullets had punched through the oak. Breaking it. Splintering it apart.
He stepped back and gave the door a few hard kicks. The lock and wooden frame surrounding it broke outwards, but the door remained strong. Intact.
‘Make the hole bigger!’ Striker yelled.
Felicia was already firing before he finished his sentence. She blasted eleven more rounds into the wood, then reloaded her last mag. Striker did the same, then gave the door a few more hard kicks.
This time the entire middle of the door broke outwards.
At first, Striker felt a sense of relief, and Felicia let out a cry. But then smoke billowed through the hole, and the cracking and popping sounds of the fire became amplified.
Flames curved inside the hole of the door.
‘Get back, get back!’ Striker yelled.
The smoke was hot with specks of burning ash. It burned his skin and throat. Made it difficult to see.
Striker grabbed Felicia, pulled her close. ‘The frame!’ he screamed. ‘Shoot six inches above the lock! One spot so we can kick it through.
Shoot!
’
Felicia opened fire with her last clip, the explosions of the rounds overpowering the roar of the fire. Striker followed suit, emptying his last magazine.
‘I’m out of ammo!’ Felicia yelled.
Striker said nothing. All in all, they’d put a total of sixty-eight rounds through the door. Trying to weaken one area enough to create a hole and expose the beams behind.
It had to be enough.
He leaped forward and kicked the door with everything he had. The entire structure rattled and something wooden let out a snapping noise.
Felicia began kicking the door, too.
They hit the door again and again and again. Eventually, after what could have been twenty or forty kicks – Striker would never know – something gave way. The door broke outwards and came toppling down with a loud shrieking
snap!
Striker saw smoke and ash and flame – and a glimpse of blue sky.
Felicia ran forward, but Striker hauled her back. Yanked off her jacket. Shoved it into her stomach.
‘Use this!’ he screamed. ‘Over your hair and face!’
She took it and held it over her head, and Striker pushed her forward. In one quick movement, she dived through the doorway and disappeared from view.
Striker did the same. Head down, he tightened his grip on his coat, held his breath, and searched for an inch of blue sky. He saw none, but took his chances anyway, for there was no other option.
He plunged forward into the fiery blackness of the blaze.
By the time Striker escaped through the hole in the door and made it past the lawn to the safety of the sidewalk, Felicia was already on the cell, calling for assistance.
Striker turned his eyes from her to the building; the entire front of Sarah Rose’s complex was
engulfed
. Bright orange flames crawled all over the west side of the building, up the roof, and were now spreading northward towards the next unit.
‘We got to get everyone out of there!’ he said to Felicia.
He raced across the lawn to the next unit and kicked in the door with one try. Felicia ran to the next home and did the same. Once done, he ran around the rest of the building, clearing all the units. By the time he was finished and had returned to the front lawn, the sky above the complex was a mass of black angry churls.
The sting of his hand stole his attention. He looked down and saw red swollen skin. When he tried to contract his fingers, it hurt like hell. It hurt to do nothing. Somehow, somewhere he’d burned it in the fire. Maybe when he’d tried to turn the doorknob.
His gun was empty, and that was never good. So Striker returned to their cruiser, opened the trunk, and got some more ammo from the munitions box. He loaded up all three mags, then gave one to Felicia on the way back.
‘Load up,’ he said.
Off in the distance, the high-pitched wail of fire trucks could be heard, coming from the south. Someone had called in the fire, and Striker was thankful for it.
He looked back and studied the blazing fire, then focused his stare down at the iron-barred window. No hope in hell of reaching the camera now. The entire building was aflame and the camera would undoubtedly be incinerated.
Striker studied the fire. The roof and sides were a bright reddish-yellow hue. But the doorway where he and Felicia had escaped was different from the rest – it was a bright yellowwhite. And the smoke from there was darker than the rest, an oily black colour.
An accelerant had been used. There was no doubt about it.
He took a moment to examine the area. In less than a minute, he found an empty can in the bushes flanking the front walkway. He gloved up, knelt down, and picked it up. Read the label.
Steinman’s Wood Varnish.
The warning label showed a bright red flame and a caption that read:
Flammable
.
‘Collect this,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘It’s evidence.’
With his hand stinging, he took out his notebook and scribbled down the time and where the can had been found. As he looked back up, he spotted several pods of looky-loos coming out from the projects. Some of them were brave enough to creep out on to the sidewalk, but most of them stayed inside the safety of their own yards to watch the show. The sight of them reminded Striker of the figure he’d seen watching them when they’d first arrived.
He looked across the road to the suite where he had seen the mysterious figure; the drapes were now closed. Odd, since everyone else had come out to see what was going on.
He put away his notebook and started back across the street.
Felicia walked over and looked at him. ‘Where you going?’ she asked.
He barely glanced back. ‘I’m checking something out.’
‘Jacob—’
‘Just stay there, Feleesh. We need to let the bucket-heads know we cleared the other townhomes. Otherwise they’ll head into the fire themselves.’
She looked ready to say more, but Striker didn’t give her the chance. He hightailed it across Hermon Drive towards the apartment where he’d seen the person watching them. At the time, he had deemed him one of the neighbourhood busybodies.
Now he wondered.
Striker drew his pistol and hiked up the small crest of hill, keeping to the side of the suite, out of the line of fire. When he reached the window, he took out his flashlight and shone it through the glass. It was difficult to see. The only area visible was between the hanging drapes, and there were still sheers blocking his view.
He was about to circle the building and try the front door, when he noticed something. The window was open a crack. He reached out, pulled on it, and the window opened fully.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he called. ‘Is anyone inside?’
No answer.
He tried again: ‘Vancouver Police! Is anyone home?’
Again, nothing.
He drew the curtains and sheers aside, and shone the flashlight inside the apartment. Everything there was quiet, and still. The place appeared as vacant as the townhome unit across the road. Keeping his gun aimed into the darkness ahead, Striker climbed inside the window, felt his feet touch the vinyl surface of the floor, and looked around the area.
On the floor by the window was the female end of a long electrical cord. Striker swept the flashlight along it to find the other end. The cord ran all the way to the entrance of the apartment, then under the door into the communal hall. Striker reached out for the light switch. He flicked it on, and nothing happened.
The apartment had no power.
Keeping his gun at the low-ready and his flashlight aimed ahead, he searched the entire apartment, starting with the main room he was in and then finishing with the lone bathroom and bedroom. Both were empty. Anyone who might have been here was now long gone.
Striker opened the front door and peered into the hall. At his feet, the extension cord ran down the wall to an electrical outlet, where it was plugged in. He nodded absently. The room had had no power, and whoever had been in there had obviously needed some.
Why
, he wondered.
Thoughts of the camera relay system he had seen flashed through his mind, and made his fingers tighten on the gun. He returned inside the apartment and shone his flashlight all around the front window looking for prints. What he found was a plastic package. He picked it up and read the label.
Wood screws. Ten inchers.
Perfect for mounting steel brackets and beams to a front door.
‘He was right here all along,’ Striker found himself saying. ‘
Fuck!
’
He looked out of the window and studied the scene across the road. Out there on Hermon Drive, the entire row of townhomes was a mass of flame. Two fire trucks now occupied the block, their red flashing lights as bright as the fire. Felicia was down there, speaking to the Fire Captain and pointing to the series of units they had already cleared.
The captain seemed relieved by this.
Striker turned his eyes past them to the front of Sarah Rose’s apartment. This window was the perfect vantage point. The perfect spot for recon. And Striker began to wonder how the Adder had come across it. Was it by chance? Or was the whole thing planned?
He hoped the former.
But experience told him otherwise.
He looked at the window where he had seen the video camera, tucked down in the lower left corner of the window. That area was now completely engulfed in flame, with two firemen hosing down the wall to no avail.
With his hand stinging and his frustration growing, Striker left the apartment through the window he had come in. Mandy Gill was dead. Sarah Rose was dead. And any evidence inside the townhome was likely lost in the flames.
It doesn’t get much worse, Striker thought.
He thought wrong. A white unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up on scene and a short man in a pristine white dress shirt climbed out. It was Car 10. The Road Boss.
Inspector Laroche had arrived.
By the time Striker made his way back down the slope of lawn to street level, an ambulance and two patrol cars had arrived on scene. So had two news crews – a van from British Columbia TV News and one from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It was standard practice in the City of Vancouver. Word spread fast among the media. Nothing was sacred and no story was too small – so long as human lives were in jeopardy.
Striker watched them with disdain. One of the reporters was a short blonde woman he recognized from a previous nightmare call. She’d distorted every fact of the case and ended up jeopardizing his investigation. The memory of it was still raw. She stepped out of the van and began raking a brush through her long blonde hair in preparation for the shoot.
‘I want tape up
now
,’ Striker said to one of the patrol cops.
‘Don’t anyone say one word to them,’ a deep voice ordered.
Striker turned around and spotted the Road Boss. Inspector Laroche stood with his hands on his hips, assessing the carnage all around them. His deep voice seemed wrong for his diminutive body. As always, his uniform was impeccable. His pants were as black as his hair and pressed to equal perfection, and his white dress shirt was without wrinkle.
It was hard to believe he’d been sitting in the car.
The inspector saw Striker and marched over. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded.
‘It was the Adder,’ Striker said.
Felicia came over and joined the conversation. ‘Billy Mercury,’ she clarified.
Striker nodded. ‘It would
appear
so. We have to check his place right now. Get him on CPIC. Broadcast it on every channel.’ He made a fist as he thought this over and winced.
Felicia took notice. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Your hand . . . Jacob, it’s
burned
.’
Striker gave her an irritated glance. ‘It’s fine.’
Laroche shook his head. ‘An on-the-job injury? No, you need to go to the hospital for that. And make sure you fill out the Workers’ Compensation Board forms.’
‘It’s nothing. A light burn. First degree at best.’