On the second floor, Striker led Felicia down the threadbare carpet, in between the flaking walls of paint. On a blue-painted door at the end of a long, dark corridor was a white wooden sign
with red block lettering:
G
ANG
C
RIME
U
NIT
.
The door was electronically locked, and the keypad was coded for GCU members only.
‘You got clearance?’ Felicia asked.
‘Yeah, this,’ Striker said, and raised his fist.
He rapped hard on the wood, three times, and moments later the door was opened by the very man they were looking for – Delbert Ibarra.
Inspector Delbert Ibarra was one of the few Mexican members of the department and an old friend of Striker’s. The two men sometimes went camping together. Once the inspector in charge of
Strike Force – the city’s best surveillance team – Ibarra was now in charge of the entire Gang Crime Unit. The men and women working under Ibarra said good things about him, and
that didn’t surprise Striker in the least.
Ibarra was a good man. He put people first.
‘Shipwreck, Felicia,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. I hear you two are working on the bombing.’
‘Yeah, lucky us,’ Felicia said.
Striker stepped into the room, forcing Ibarra to move back. ‘We need your help on this one, Del. I got some nasty suspicions this could all relate back to one of the gangs you’ve
been monitoring – the Satan’s Prowlers.’
Ibarra raised an eye. ‘Vicenza Montalba?’
‘Not him specifically.’
Felicia nodded. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’
‘Come with me.’
Ibarra’s demeanour turned from relaxed to serious. He led them down the corridor, in between the rows of cubicles, to a small and secluded computer pod. There, he pulled over some chairs
and they all sat down in a half-circle.
‘Now what do you got?’ he asked.
Striker spent ten minutes filling the inspector in on everything they had discovered, starting with the torture scene in the orange-lit barn and finishing with the links to a Sergeant-at-Arms
with the Satan’s Prowlers – a man they believed to be Sleeves. He omitted his concerns about Harry and Koda. Once done, Striker leaned forward. ‘So why the gang name
Sleeves?’
‘When you find the prick, check out his forearms. Nothing but tattoos – women chained to women.’
Felicia nodded. ‘So you’re aware of the man.’
‘Oh, I’m
well
aware. In fact his name has come up quite a few times today.’
That got Striker’s attention. ‘Today? Why?’
‘Harry Eckhart’s been calling, asking a lot of questions about the man. You guys working the same file or something?’
‘What did he want?’ Striker asked.
‘An address. For Sleeves.’
‘Did you give him one?’ Felicia asked.
‘Don’t have one to give.’ Ibarra splayed his hands as he explained. ‘Sleeves has been in hiding for quite some time now. Word is he’s been ousted by the gang for
bringing them too much bad press, and for using his own product – though I hear he got himself under control again.’
‘What drug?’
‘Meth. For the pain.’
‘What pain?’
Ibarra splayed his hands as he spoke. ‘Sleeves blew himself up pretty badly a few years back. It’s a wonder he even survived.’
‘Where might we find him?’ Striker asked.
‘No one knows where he is. And from what I hear, that’s probably a good thing. The entire gang is looking for him – and they tend to deal with matters
internally
.’
Striker said nothing as he mulled this over. ‘Can you run two addresses through the GCU database for me?’ He gave Ibarra the addresses for Hing-Woo Enterprises on Semlin Drive and
Theresa Jameson’s house on Quebec Street.
Ibarra didn’t touch the keyboard. ‘Don’t have to run the first one,’ he said. ‘It’s a food warehouse now, but a few years back it used to be one of the chop
shops for the Satan’s Prowlers.’
‘Chop shop?’ Felicia asked. ‘You mean for high-end cars?’
‘For enemies,’ Ibarra replied. ‘Believe me, you didn’t want to be taken there. You always left slightly
shorter
.’ He grinned darkly. ‘As for the
house on Quebec Street . . .’ He typed the address into the computer, then waited for a response. When he got one, he nodded slowly. ‘Ah, there you go. Up until about three years ago,
Sleeves was suspected of living there. Rented the basement suite. But he’s been gone from there for a long time now. NFA.’
Striker sighed. NFA meant No Fixed Address, and it was about as much as he had expected.
‘Any suggestions?’ he asked.
Ibarra nodded. ‘Yeah, just one. Be careful with this guy. He’s a real weasel, Shipwreck. And a former nailer to boot.’
Felicia didn’t know the word.
‘
Nailer?’
she asked.
‘A Prowler hitman. And he’s damn good at it. Almost single-handedly took on the Renegades during the biker wars back east.’
‘In Toronto?’ she asked. The shootings and bombings had made headlines all across the country.
Ibarra nodded. ‘That’s the one. It’s also the reason why the Prowlers transferred him out west – the heat got to be too much. Sleeves became a liability to the gang,
especially after that little kid got killed.’
Striker remembered the incident. The little blond boy’s image was ingrained in everyone’s mind. The wailing mother. The following funeral procession. It was bad. ‘Car bomb,
right?’
‘Two pounds of PETN. Under the driver’s seat. The boy was playing on the sidewalk at the time. Never had a chance.’
Striker tried to recall all the details.
‘I don’t remember them tying the bomb to anyone specifically,’ he said.
‘They didn’t,’ Ibarra replied. ‘The evidence was never there. But everyone knew who did it – the Satan’s Prowlers. Who else would it be? They were the only
ones fighting with the Renegades back then. And the Prowlers had just the guy to do it –
Sleeves
.’
‘But why him?’ Felicia asked.
Ibarra looked at her like she was nuts.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘Sleeves is an explosives expert.’
It was the bomber’s suggestion they split up.
He and Molly needed certain ingredients to begin the cooking process, and buying too large a quantity of these particular products would bring unwanted attention. As a result, he decided to hit
the sporting goods stores and camping supply warehouses while Molly went to the local hardware shops and pharmacies.
Now, as he walked down the aisle of Henan’s Sporting Goods store, the PA system droned on through static-filled speakers:
. . . and please be sure to take notice of our centre aisle today, Shoppers, where we have many reduced prices on all your sporting necessities . . .
The clerk on the microphone had a strong guttural sound to his voice. It washed over the bomber insidiously and submerged him in the past. And suddenly he was back there in the war again. In
Afghanistan. And it was no longer the store manager on the PA system, but one of his men, yelling for him to
take cover, Goddammit, TAKE COVER!
His heart raced, his mouth went dry.
How long had it been?
Ten years? Ten months?
Time meant nothing any more.
He stopped walking and closed his eyes. Forced it all out. Focused on the mission, for that was where sanity existed. Peace was hell, and hell was peace. It had been that way for him. Ever since
the incident.
Half in this world, half fighting through the past, he floated through the store. Aisle six had the stove supplies, which meant hexamine. And aisle four had a large number of wet-weather
fire-starters, which meant magnesium. He loaded up on both, then proceeded to the checkouts.
As he stood there, waiting for his turn at the till, he picked up one of the packages of hexamine. Even though it was wrapped in plastic, the gritty smell always leaked out – that gassy,
waxy stink.
He brought it to his nose and sniffed.
At the same time, someone in the lumber section started up a circular saw. Its high-pitched screech of steel slicing through wood filled the air, and a bone-numbing coldness splashed through his
body.
Against his wishes, he mind-rioted. Flashed back in time. And suddenly, the doctor was there again. Looking down on him. That tall stork-like figure, telling him
There were some unforeseen
issues, young man . . . Complications.
And then the nurse with the dark eyes and the paper hat was there too, sticking him with her needles, yelling for the orderlies to
Hold him down, Goddammit, HOLD HIM DOWN!
And he was begging for them to stop.
Screaming for them to stop.
No more surgeries!
Please, no more surgeries!
‘NO MORE SURGERIES!’
And suddenly, the image – the recollection – was gone, vanished like his hope had vanished all those years ago. And there was just a young cashier standing there, looking back at him
through wide, timid eyes.
‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’
He looked around in bewilderment. The checkout . . . He was standing at the checkout . . .
The checkout.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ he tried. But his throat was tight and dry and felt like it was bleeding. All that came out was a croak.
He opened his wallet. ‘How . . . how much?’
‘Uh, one hundred and seventy-nine dollars. Even.’
He dropped four fifties on the counter – cash, always cash – grabbed his bag of supplies and retreated from the store. In behind him, that god-awful scream of the circular saw
continued. Sawing, grinding, chunking through the wood like it was bone.
‘Your change, sir.
Your change
.’
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t care.
Wasn’t listening.
He just needed to get away from there as quickly as possible. Before the past returned once more.
Before another memory swallowed him whole.
Striker amended the CPIC flag they’d put out earlier to include new warnings:
Threat to Police.
And
Explosives Expert.
Once done, he sat back and looked at Felicia. They were at a crossroads now. They had a decision to make – return to performing surveillance on Harry and Koda, or go their own way in
locating Sleeves.
Striker spoke his opinion first. ‘I’m getting tired of the cat and mouse game with Harry.’
‘Me too,’ Felicia admitted. ‘But they know this guy better than we do.’
‘That may be true,’ Striker said. ‘But, like us, they have no idea where he’s hiding. I mean, think about it – they were calling Ibarra themselves looking for an
address. They’re in the same position we are. Besides, we have them tracked, so we can always follow the GPS’s history later – it’s recorded.’
Felicia remained uncertain, and Striker pressed her:
‘If Harry and Koda find Sleeves before us, we’ll go after them. But right now, this feels like a case of the blind leading the blind.’
Felicia only shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind leaving them so much if we had an idea where we could find Sleeves. But we don’t.’
‘Actually we do.’
Felicia gave Striker a wary look. ‘We do?’
He smiled knowingly.
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
They drove from Cambie Street HQ to the Grandview-Woodlands area, with Striker telling Felicia of his plan. Once there, they parked at the corner of Lakewood and Dundas, in a
partially hidden lane. From here, the car was almost invisible from the main drive, and yet the entrance to Roebuck’s Convenience Store was in plain view. Striker knew the store well; it had
been robbed a dozen times over the years, and it was a common area for low-end drug deals to occur.
Which was why they were there.
‘So we’re looking for Lucky Eddie,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘Today, he will be
Un
lucky Eddie.’
She let out a small laugh. ‘Why him?’
‘He’ll lead us to Sleeves.’
‘I still don’t see how.’
Striker explained: ‘Because District 2 is almost entirely crack cocaine based. Not many dealers here sell meth. And the few who do sure as hell can’t afford to buy it in large
quantities. But Lucky Eddie can.’
Felicia followed the logic. ‘And you’re thinking Eddie’s wholesaler will be Sleeves?’
‘I’m betting on it.’
Felicia nodded. ‘One problem though. Meth may not be the drug of choice in District 2, but it’s rampant in the downtown core. I can list dozens of dealers who are able to buy large
quantities down there. So maybe Sleeves is selling there too.’
Striker shook his head. ‘No way. Anyone selling meth in District 1 has to buy their drugs off one of the groups affiliated with the Satan’s Prowlers – and that can’t
happen here. Sleeves has been cut loose by the gang. And even he’s not stupid enough to be selling in Prowler territory. It would expedite his death sentence. And besides that, he
doesn’t need to. He can lie low here and still make a profit.’
Felicia continued poking holes in the theory. ‘Granted. But they also sell tons of meth in District 3.’
Striker nodded. ‘An area which is controlled by the Seven Nations Gang, the Chinese Scorpions and the Viets. Sure, Sleeves could be selling there too. But if he was, do you think the other
gangs would put up with it? – some punk who’d been excommunicated from the Prowlers selling in their area?’
‘Probably not.’
‘
Definitely
not. They’d have taken action against him immediately. And I’ve read nothing about that in the Overnights. Have you?’
‘No,’ she admitted.
Striker continued: ‘District 2 is the low end, the free-for-all, mainly because it’s a crack cocaine district. That’s what sells here, crack. The meth is just an afterthought
– but afterthought or not, Sleeves needs somewhere to sell his product. My bet is he’s doing it here.’
‘Which means he needs a legitimate street trafficker,’ Felicia said. ‘A guy who has the street cred to move decent amounts of product but isn’t a total junkie
himself.’
‘Which means Lucky Eddie.’
‘Who won’t be so lucky today.’