He tried not to think about the what-ifs.
To the east, the sun was already rising. The roadway was lightening, the blackness being replaced by murky blue tones. At both ends of the street, red and blue police lights flashed, and in
between them, a second dogman – Police Constable Hooch with his dog Lancer – was running the tree-line leading into Pacific Spirit Park.
Striker stared at all this as he dialled Rothschild’s number. The call was picked up on the first ring, and Rothschild sounded upset: ‘Jesus Christ, Shipwreck, what the hell is going
on out there?’
‘I’m not sure yet, Mike.’
‘Well get sure. It’s five in the goddam morning, and I got some pre-pubescent patrol cop banging on my door, telling me we need protection. That
my kids
need protection. And
Cody overheard him, and now he’s all freaking out . . . I mean, really, what the fuck?’
‘It might have something to do with the bomber.’
Rothschild’s voice grew quieter. ‘The
bomber
?’
‘He’s been in your old house, Mike.’
‘What? But . . .’ Rothschild sounded confused. ‘That makes no sense.’
Striker didn’t have the answer. ‘Just get your kids together into the centre of your house. In the basement. Away from all the windows. Keep your gun on you and stay alert.
We’ll talk when I get there.’
‘Then get here fast, Shipwreck.’
‘As soon as I can.’
Striker had no sooner hung up the phone when the dogman called out from one of the trails leading into the park: ‘I got something here!’ His dog suddenly darted deeper into the
trail.
It gave Striker a bad feeling. The notion of the suspect escaping through the park had already crossed his mind; but any thoughts of catching him were dim at best. The Pacific Spirit Park was
700 acres big – essentially, a forest. It was too large for containment and it had endless places to hide. All they could do was track and hope for the best, and tracking a man like the
bomber through the woods was dangerous.
Who knew what he had set up for them?
‘Hold up!’ Striker called out to Hooch. He drew his pistol and crossed the road. ‘You’re gonna need cover if you’re tracking through there.’
He’d no sooner finished the sentence when a bright flash exploded in the trail, punctuated by a percussive boom that echoed hollowly in the woods. Lancer let out a high-pitched yelp, and
Hooch reeled backwards as if hit. He screamed out in alarm. Dropped to his knees. Grabbed his face.
‘. . . it burns! I’m on fire – on
fire
!’
Striker raced into the trail and, almost immediately, a strange red smoke began billowing out from between the trees. It stung his face, burned his eyes. He grabbed the dog handler by the back
of his uniform and pulled hard.
Hooch let out a cry.
‘I got you,’ Striker said. ‘I got you, Hooch.’
He pulled him out of the woods, back to safety. But the dog handler was panicking now. Screaming. Thrashing. Holding his face.
He was burning up.
A hundred metres into the woods, from his observation point, the bomber used his binoculars to watch the pandemonium taking place below. The dog had tripped the wire, causing
the red phosphorous incendiaries to flash and initiating the ultrasonic noisemaker. The device had been set to maximum frequency – undetectable to humans but painful to dogs.
Judging from the yelp of the police dog and the animal’s retreat from the woods, the device was working fine. The dog handler’s scream indicated that the oleoresin in the smoke bomb
had suffused well into the air. Even now, that red smoke unfurled from the woods in enormous puffs, looking like giant swells of pink cotton candy in the morning twilight. The sight was actually
quite beautiful and should have pleased him, but it did not.
The intel Molly had given him was bad. As such, all his recon and planning was for naught.
Rothschild had moved.
But when? And why? Molly had been here not seven days ago, scouting the area, drawing up the plans. It was yet one more strike of bad luck against them. One more unnecessary complication.
Like Chad Koda surviving the blast.
He closed his eyes. Picked at the wound of his left cheek. Struggled to find that calm. Struggled to believe. Moments like this were the difference, he knew. They were what had made them strong.
What had kept them alive these past eleven years – their ability to improvise on any mission, no matter what they faced and regardless of the odds.
He and Molly were
survivors.
Far below the hill from which he watched, in the mouth of the trail, the dog handler was still wailing. More fear than pain. The bomber adjusted the binoculars and zoomed in through the
expanding cloud of pink mist. He focused on the big detective who was helping the dogman.
Jacob Striker; the cop he had seen on every news channel.
The man seemed to be an omnipotent force out there, always everywhere you least expected him. The bomber watched him evacuate the fallen dogman, drag him to the front lawn of the Rothschild
house, and hold his head under the tap, drenching the man with water to rid the oleoresin. Then, after tending to the dogman, he began flushing out his own eyes.
A soldier.
Had this been Tora Bora or Baghdad again, the bomber would have chosen Striker as one of the men for his squad. But this was not Afghanistan or Iraq.
So he turned away.
Time was wearing thin, and he needed to reposition south before Jacob Striker returned to his car. That was where he needed to be. Down the road, waiting. Jacob Striker required more
surveillance. For he was not only a workmate, but a friend of one of their next targets.
He would lead them to Mike Rothschild.
It was early still, dark and cold, by the time Striker made it to Mike Rothschild’s new home on Trafalgar Street. This house was smaller than his last one, and it was
older too. Built in the 30s or 40s, Striker was sure. But it was nestled in the heart of Kerrisdale, close to Shana’s and Cody’s school. And moreover, it was the place of a new
start.
Something the family direly needed.
After taking a quick scan of his surroundings and seeing no threats, Striker walked up the rear lane to the backyard. He opened the fence, passed under the sweeping boughs of the maple trees,
and glanced inside the garage window.
Nothing seemed out of place. Inside the garage was Rothschild’s teenage dream – his prized possession 1963 vintage Ford Cougar II. Ruby red in colour.
A collector’s item.
When Mike had gotten it three years ago – a surprise gift from his beloved Rosie – he’d been like a sugar-loaded kid with a new
Star Wars
toy on Christmas morning. It
was all he talked about. Now, ever since Rosalyn’s death, he spent even more time working on the car, cleaning and waxing and polishing, making sure that not even a trace amount of dust
covered the paint. It was a daily obsession. Almost religious to him – as if the slightest bit of grime would not only tarnish the car, but Rosie’s memory as well.
And that was unforgivable.
‘She’s a beauty,’ Striker had told him once.
Rothschild’s eyes had watered at the comment. ‘She was,’ he’d said in return, and Striker had realized he was talking about Rosie.
Striker swallowed hard. The memory was not only fresh, but emotionally powerful, so he willed it away. He walked past the garage, triggered the motion detector, and was lit up by the backyard
spotlight. Immediately, the kitchen blinds parted, and one of the patrol cops – a tall East Indian male with a turban – looked down at him.
Striker flashed him the badge, came up the porch stairs and walked inside. Before he could ask where Rothschild and the kids were waiting, Rothschild stepped from the living room into the
kitchen. His face was tight, as was his posture. A strong-smelling cup of coffee was in his hand.
‘Where are the kids?’ Striker asked.
‘Downstairs. With the other half of Echo 15.’
‘They away from the windows?’
‘They’re safe.’ Rothschild scrutinized him. ‘What happened to your eyes? They’re red.’
Striker blinked as if just remembering the pain. ‘Oleoresin, or something similar. It got set off near your old house.’
‘By who?’
‘Our suspect.’
The notion turned Rothschild’s face hard and his eyes took on a distant gaze.
Striker navigated between the piles of moving boxes that littered the kitchen floor and poured himself a cup of coffee. Rothschild, meanwhile, stood there looking lost and confused, rubbing his
thumb against the side of his cup.
‘What the fuck is going on, Shipwreck?’ he finally said.
Striker turned around. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You were my first sergeant, Mike. And you’re my best goddam friend. So tell me the truth: do you have any connection to Sharise Owens or Keisha Williams – the two women who
were killed yesterday?’
Rothschild looked taken aback by the question. ‘I would have told you if I did. You know that.’
‘You never had any calls where a bomber was suspected?’
‘None. Not one in my entire career.’
‘What about gangs – one that might have used electrical torture? Specifically, a picana? Like the Satan’s Prowlers? Or the Renegades? Or the Basi Brothers?’
Rothschild let out a heavy breath. ‘I’ve arrested tons of gang members over the years – from all those groups. But a fucking
picana
?’ He shook his head.
‘I’ve done and seen a lot in my career . . . but nothing like this.’
‘What about Chad Koda?’
‘
Koda?’
Rothschild raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and poured himself a second cup. ‘Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.’
‘So you do know him.’
‘Of course, I know him. He was my first sergeant. Hell, you weren’t even on the force yet. That was a good ten years before your time. Why’d you bring him up?’
‘Because he was blown sky-high last night.’
Rothschild’s face tightened. ‘Blown . . . blown up? Like . . .
literally
?’
‘Is there any other way?’
Rothschild kept blinking, as if something didn’t compute. ‘Why? I mean . . .
why
?’
‘We don’t know. He’s in St Paul’s right now. Has been all night. He’s unconscious. Blasted pretty good from what I understand, but still has all his limbs intact.
He got lucky.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. What time did this happen?’
‘Long after you’d left. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the explosion – it’s been on every damn news channel all night long.’
Rothschild gestured to the unpacked boxes all around the room. ‘Do I look like I’ve had time to watch the news?’
Rothschild crossed the room to the kitchen table where several photos were spread out. The one in the centre was a family photo, taken when Rosalyn was still alive. Not long before her
diagnosis. Rothschild looked at it, and his face took on a lost look. ‘I came home last night, barbecued up some food for the kids, unpacked more stuff, and started going through
these
. . . When it got to be too much, I crashed down on a mattress on the floor. I slept there all night long – till Patrol started banging down my door.’
Striker turned his eyes away from the picture of Rosalyn, because every time he looked at it, painful memories returned. And not just ones of Rosalyn. Images – feelings – of what he
had gone through with his own wife, Amanda, and with Courtney, following her mother’s death. Every day had been a struggle back then. And now Rothschild was going through the same hell.
Striker felt for his friend, but didn’t know what to do. So he tried to see through the memories and find some clarity. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
‘What can you tell me about Chad Koda?’ he asked.
‘Chad? I dunno. He was a good guy. Good boss. And he was
smart.
Jaded, sure, but who the hell isn’t after all that time?’ Rothschild smiled grimly. ‘I remember
him bitching about the courts a million times a day. He really hated them. “It’s a legal system,” he used to say. “Not a justice system.” How’s that for
truth?’
‘And?’
Rothschild shrugged. ‘And what? Koda reached the mandatory minimum and took his leave. Got out of the VPD years ago. Went into real estate. And from what I hear, he does pretty good . . .
How is he connected in all this?’
Striker hedged the issue. ‘All I know is I got Koda in the hospital, and Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens are dead from two separate bomb blasts. And now, with the suspect being found at
your house, Koda is the only real connection I can see here. He knows all three of you.’
Rothschild looked like his mind was a million miles away. ‘I just can’t see why.’
‘He’s left a couple of dolls at the scene,’ Striker said. ‘They’ve obviously been broken up from the blast, but they might be policemen the way they were dressed.
And each one of them has had a number drawn on the chest. That mean anything to you?’
Rothschild just shook his head again. Looked lost.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
Striker was about to say more when the door to the basement opened and Shana walked into the room. She was dressed in a pair of long-sleeved pyjamas, pink in colour, with princesses and unicorns
on them – the perfect motif for any six-year-old girl. Upon seeing Striker, she smiled wide.
‘Uncle Jacob!’ she said.
She stumbled sleepily across the room and gave him a long, hard hug.
Striker squeezed her back. ‘How’s my little cupcake?’
‘You didn’t come over last night.’
‘I know. I tried to, but—’
‘You had to work.’
Striker smiled grimly. Pretty sad when even a six-year-old knows the same old song and dance.
‘Next time,’ he said.
‘You promise?’
‘How ’bout I don’t promise, but I bring you some ice cream later?’
The little girl smiled. ‘Okay.’
Seconds later, Shana’s brother shambled through the doorway. Though Cody was only twenty minutes younger, he had not yet shed some of his childhood insecurities. He clutched his light-blue
blankie and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the uniformed patrol cop who had been standing there completely silent the whole time, then at Striker.