The Guilty (24 page)

Harry and Koda were flying.

When Striker and Felicia reached Victoria Street, there was no sign of Harry and Koda whatsoever. Knowing they didn’t come south, Felicia turned north and raced down the
street. Three blocks later, the Crown Victoria was still nowhere to be seen.

They had lost them.

Striker got on his cell and called up Dispatch. ‘I need you to check the GPS again, Sue. Where are they now?’

The Central Dispatcher let out a frustrated sound. ‘Oh,
lame.
You don’t seriously want me to use the system again, do you? You’re gonna get me fired, dude.’

‘I’ll take the heat, Sue. Just tell the brass I ordered you to do it. Told you it was a life or death situation.’

The CD said nothing, and Striker could hear the clicks of the keyboard. After a moment, there was only silence.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘This is odd,’ she finally said. ‘Harry’s car was there a moment ago . . . but now it’s gone.’

Striker narrowed his eyes. ‘Gone, as in a weak signal?’

‘No, gone like Milli Vanilli – there’s
no
signal.’

Striker closed his eyes, swore under his breath. He said goodbye to Sue and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘They saw us.’

‘Impossible.’

‘They saw us.’

Felicia’s face coloured.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Striker said. ‘Harry’s good.’

‘But how do you know—’

‘They’ve disconnected the GPS system in the car.’ When Striker saw the confused look on Felicia’s face, he explained. ‘It’s not difficult. All you got to do
is open the glove box and the wire’s right there.’

Felicia slumped back in the driver’s seat. ‘Great. So now what?’

Striker looked down at the laptop and thought of the warehouse Harry and Koda had visited. He’d run the address and found the attached entity, but he hadn’t done the reverse –
and that was often a necessary step when using PRIME.

The system didn’t always mesh.

In PRIME, it was not uncommon for more than one name to be created for a single entity. Hing-Woo Enterprises could also be called the Hing-Woo Corporation, or simply Hing-Woo. It was a
user-based system.

Crap in, crap out.

Instead of running addresses, Striker searched for a name. He typed in every variation he could think of for Hing-Woo Enterprises. Then he hit send and waited for the responses. This time, a
second entity came up. Hing-Woo Wholesalers. Like before, the two prowler calls came up – but this time there was also a
third
file listed.

For an Insecure Premises call.

Striker read through it. The details were basic. An alarm had gone off. Police had attended to find the door insecure. And the property representative had been called to attend. It was all very
ordinary. Except for one big thing – the name of the property rep: Brice Burns.

‘Look at this,’ Striker said.

Felicia did. ‘Son-of-a-bitch –
Sleeves
?’

‘Yep. The biker Kolt mentioned.’

‘There’s our connection then.’

Striker flipped back through his notebook and tried to connect the dots of information. ‘Owens and Williams are killed in two separate bomb blasts, but both women are connected to Chad
Koda. And Koda is connected to Harry. Now we know that Koda and Harry are being blackmailed, so it’s all one continuous chain.’

‘And you’re thinking the blackmailer might be this biker, Sleeves?’

He nodded. ‘Fits the MO. The guy has organized crime connections. Kolt said he’d done electrical torture before, back east during the biker wars. And now we have him connected to
this business Harry and Koda are checking out . . . It fits the bill.’

Felicia clucked her tongue as she thought. ‘He is a member of the Satan’s Prowlers,’ she noted.

Striker read through the computer details. Most of it was typical information – affiliations with other criminal organizations; associations with other known criminals; and a long list of
charges and suspected involvements in various other crimes.

But when Striker clicked on the man’s entity tab, something else stole his attention. Under the Remarks section, in big red capital letters was a warning:

Satan’s Prowlers Enforcer – Sergeant-at-Arms.

‘Hey, Feleesh, look at this. He’s the Sergeant-at-Arms.’

She looked at the screen, and her voice took on an excited note. ‘He’s the one Harry and Koda were talking about.’

Striker nodded, then performed another computer search. He ran Sleeves through the Canadian Police Information Centre, requesting a full search of his recorded criminal history and anything
connected in the Criminal Name Index. Within seconds, the system came back with a perfect hit:

Also listed was his 175-centimetre height, his 80-kilogram body weight, and a string of scars, marks and tattoos – his right arm had two dragons fighting over a golden
butterfly; his left arm had several naked women bound in chains.

‘Charming guy,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing and read on.

The man’s history was extensive. He had a file in the Federal Penitentiary System, a Known Offender number in the DNA database, and a list of crimes going back decades.

Striker searched for a known address, but there was none. In fact, only two addresses were listed – the PO Box for the Matsqui Federal Penitentiary, and the address of the Satan’s
Prowlers’ clubhouse, which was located on Charles Street.

Felicia sighed. ‘It’s always one step forward, two steps back.’

Striker had had enough of the delays.

‘Head out east,’ he said. ‘Just above Fellows Road.’

‘
Fellows?
But no one lives there but—’

‘Vicenza Montalba,’ Striker said.

The look on Felicia’s face was one of disbelief. Vicenza Montalba was the head of the East Van Chapter of the Satan’s Prowlers Motorcycle Club. He was a man who was hated by cops,
respected by criminals, and feared by his enemies. He was a man who had been damn near untouchable for thirty years. Vicenza Montalba was rich. Powerful. Menacing.

And well known for being anti-police.

Felicia let out a strangled laugh. ‘What are you gonna do? Just walk right up there and ring his bell?’

Striker smiled back at her.

‘That’s the plan.’

Vicenza Montalba’s house was a modern square structure, made entirely of white concrete and ten-foot-high tinted windows that were rumoured to be bulletproof for
everything up to and including a .300 Winchester Magnum round.

The residence was situated across the Vancouver border, just above Fellows Road on Edinburgh, a relatively unknown strip that overlooked the blackish waters of the Burrard Inlet, and beyond
that, the green hills of the North Shore mountains.

It was a beautiful view. A peaceful area.

Probably because Vicenza Montalba demanded it.

Striker parked out front and stared at the house. The rooftop patio, complete with green vegetation and an outdoor terrace with hot tub, was again shielded by a wall of clear bulletproof glass.
Atop the walls were numerous security cameras – set there more for the police than enemy gangs – and in the driveway were two Jaguar sedans, a Mercedes coupe, and two black Land Rovers.
Brand new.

Striker pointed at them. ‘Remember, crime doesn’t pay.’

Felicia just grinned back, and the two got out.

As they approached the front gate, the nearest security camera let out an audible whir and panned down on them. Striker took out his badge, held it up for the camera to see. He pressed the
intercom button. Seconds later, a man’s voice came through the speaker.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Montalba,’ Striker said.

‘And this is regarding?’

‘That’s between me and him.’

There was no response for a moment, but then the black steel gate clicked open and Striker and Felicia stepped inside the lot. Like the outer lands, the inner yard was immaculate. A Japanese
rock garden took up the bulk of the yard, with its circular designs running around a waterfall and a cherry blossom tree.

Striker and Felicia used the bridge to cross over the koi pond. When they reached the other side, the front door opened and a man stepped out to greet them.

Striker recognized him immediately.

Vicenza Montalba looked as far removed from the biker lifestyle as was Gandhi from an Outback steakhouse. Sporting a pair of pressed slacks, an off-white dress shirt, and a gold silk tie, he
looked more like a stockbroker ready for the Wall Street grind than the leader of an outlaw motorcycle club. His thick greying hair was kept short at the sides and was parted in the middle, and
when he smiled, he appeared more fatherly than fiendish.

Striker started the conversation low. He introduced himself and his partner, then got down to business.

‘Does the name Sleeves mean anything to you?’

For a brief moment, the fatherly look on Montalba’s face fell away and there was turbulence in his dark eyes. ‘I know the name well. Mr Burns was disassociated from our club quite
some time ago – as I’m sure you’re well aware.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Mind if we ask why?’

‘Let’s just say he wasn’t keeping up with club protocol.’

Striker nodded. ‘Meaning he was using his own product.’

Vicenza Montalba smiled. ‘I have no idea what
product
he was using, but I can tell you this, Detective. Mr Burns was nothing but a problem for our club. He had, shall we say, an
addictive personality. He was extremely violent. And he brought our club a lot of negative press and unwanted attention. He was relieved from his position
by me
and removed from the club
list. Does that answer your question?’

‘It does,’ Striker said. ‘This guy is of special interest to us right now on other unrelated matters.’

‘What kind of unrelated matters?’

‘Delicate matters – the kind you don’t want being tied to your motorcycle club. Believe me on this one. We’ve been trying to locate Sleeves, but aren’t having the
greatest of luck. You got any idea where he is?’

Vicenza Montalba shook his head and let out a long breath. ‘We have no idea where Mr Burns currently resides.’ He fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to Striker.
‘If you get any information on the man, I would appreciate a phone call.’

Striker took the card, flipped it over in his hands, played with it. ‘Something tells me that would be unwise.’

Montalba offered no reaction. ‘Mr Burns has made an awful lot of enemies, Detective. A lot of people are very angry with him.’

‘How angry?’

Montalba only smiled.

‘Have a nice day, Detectives,’ he said. ‘I hope you find your man.’

The bomber and Molly stood in the murky greyness of the control room and went over their list one more time. Cooking explosives was never an easy thing to do, and it would be
made even more precarious by the fact they’d be using an open-flame method here in the small confines of the command room. Without a fume hood. Or even a proper filtration setup.

There was no choice. It had to be done.

Evaluate. Act. Reassess.

List of supplies in hand, the bomber moved slowly across the room. He sat down on top of the steel table, rolled up his overalls, and removed his leg. The prosthesis was the latest greatest
thing – a carbon-fibre shell with an inner plastic mould.

He hated it.

He slid off the liner and let the appendage air. As good as the gel covering was, it always stunk like hot rubber and it made his skin raw. Even worse, the more he walked on the artificial leg,
the more he felt every internal screw and rod and butterfly clip shred through his meat. All that steel, always grinding inside.

It was even worse when he tried to run.

‘Your leg okay?’ Molly asked.

‘It’s fine.’

She looked at him for a long moment, her round face anxious. ‘It doesn’t look fine. It’s awfully red.’

‘Everything’s brilliant, okay? Tickety-fuckin’-boo.’

Molly gave him a long furtive stare, as if she had seen this mood many times in their shared past, and said nothing. She looked back at their supply list. Cleared her throat. ‘Don’t
forget the filters. No need to poison ourselves in the process.’

The bomber just nodded. He was about to ask if she preferred charcoal or carbon when he stopped. Something was vibrating in the pocket of his overalls. When he realized it was the phone –
the
red
cell – a sick feeling came over him.

Only one person had that number, so he answered immediately.

‘Yes?’ he said.

He listened to the woman speak.

‘Yes,’ he said softly.

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I understand.’

He hung up the phone and the sickness in his belly intensified – into a feeling so bad it almost matched the darkness of his head. He looked at Molly, who was now frozen in place and
staring back at him without expression.

‘We need to see him, Molly . . .
You
need to see him.’

‘I . . . I can’t.’

He looked back at her. Stared hard. Though her face remained frozen and without emotion, there was fear in her eyes. He could see it. And he found the moment so terribly odd. For all of
Molly’s faith, and despite all her training, and regardless of all the dangers and horrors she had faced these last few years, it had changed nothing in the woman. There would always be the
remnants of that scared little girl in there, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.

‘There’s not much time left,’ he told her.

‘I can’t.’

‘You owe it to him.’

‘I
can’t
!’

He just stared at her. Now there were tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving little faint trails on her skin.

‘Not like this,’ she said, ‘. . . not like this.’

He turned away from her. Stared ahead at nothing. And once again, he was hit by a series of memories that had happened somewhere, somehow, sometime in a past that was surely his own. The ball of
yarn was fraying a little bit more with each passing day.