The Survivor

When steam rose from the basin, Striker put his hands under the hot water and watched the white enamel turn pink. For the first few teenagers, he had worn latex, but soon the gloves had become so slippery, he’d abandoned them. Now, his hands dripped with redness. It was everywhere.

He sniffed softly, winced. The coppery smell of old, dried blood was all around him now, overpowering, and no matter how viciously he scrubbed his skin, more blood seemed to wash off of his hands.

Felicia cleared her throat. She dropped the bundle of clothes on one of the change-room benches, shifted from foot to foot. ‘Got these from Holmes. He’s your size, more or less. Either way, it’s some new clothes.’

He kept scrubbing. ‘Don’t need them.’

‘Your shirt is soaked, Jacob. In blood.’

‘I’ll change later. At home.’

She let out a heavy breath, as if debating something, then made eye-contact with him in the mirror’s reflection. ‘Look, they’re seizing your clothes.’

He stopped scrubbing.

‘Because of the shooting,’ she said. ‘It’s an order. From Deputy Chief Laroche.’

‘Laroche.’ Striker almost spat the word. ‘That spindly little fuck. Spent half the morning in front of the camera while we were looking for kids.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Christ, he even realise we got dead kids out there, or he too busy getting his hair to look just right?’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Is it?’ Striker held out his arms, showing the blood. ‘Look at me, Felicia. Look at me. You see that? It’s blood. Children’s blood. You see Laroche? He’s been on scene for damn near two hours, and his shirt is still white and pristine. Not a friggin’ splatter on his shirt, not a wrinkle in his slacks.’

‘It’s not his job—’

‘His job? His job? He took an oath to save lives, first and foremost. End of discussion.’ Striker gave her a sideways look. ‘You should stop and listen to yourself once in a while. Ever since you worked under that guy, you act like he’s the goddam Pope or something. I don’t know if he’s going to retire at year’s end or ascend to the heavens.’

Felicia’s lips tightened at the comment.

‘I just hope he doesn’t hurt himself when he falls off his pedestal. It’s a long way down, baby.’

‘That’s enough.’

‘Damn right it is.’ He unbuttoned the shirt and stripped it from his body. He saw Felicia looking at him, and threw her the shirt. ‘He go

Felicia said nothing, she just bagged the shirt. When she met his eyes again, he gave her a defiant look.

‘What else?’

‘He wants your gun.’

Striker recoiled. ‘Over my dead body,’ he started. Then he lost the words and zoned out.

Something bugged him. Something was wrong here. As much as he hated to admit it, especially with Laroche being involved, seizing his clothes was normal procedure – who knew what trace elements he’d picked up from the kids he’d been trying to save? – but seizing his gun before the incident was over, now that was another matter entirely. He stopped washing the blood off his hands and arms, and turned around. Saw nervousness in Felicia’s eyes.

‘What the hell is going on, Feleesh?’

‘There’s a lot going on, Jacob, I’m not privy to every—’

‘Don’t mess with me. Not now.’ He stepped towards her and spoke with slow deliberation. ‘What – is – going – on?’

Her lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to speak. Her eyes took on a thousand-yard gaze.

‘The first kid you shot . . .’

‘What kid?’

‘The kid, the gunman – Black Mask. He might . . . he might not have been involved, we think.’

‘We?’

‘Well, the Deputy Chief. Laroche.’

Something spasmed inside Striker’s chest, tightened like a steel band across his heart ‘The kid had a hockey mask on.’

‘It’s Halloween week.’

‘And he was holding a gun – a fucking machine gun.’

Felicia raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Jacob, I’m just relaying the message.’

He let out a shocked laugh. ‘“Relaying the message”? Jesus Christ.’ He leaned on the sink and replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. Black Mask had held a gun, there was no doubt about it.

A friggin’ machine gun.

Right?

The exact details eluded him now; the entire morning was a blur. And after a long moment, he gave up trying to recall it. He snapped out of the memory. Made the water colder, then splashed some on his face. Dried himself off with a paper towel.

Felicia opened another paper bag for his trousers. He pulled them off, handed them to her and put on the new ones Holmes had lent him. When he attached the gun holster to his belt, Felicia gave him a hard look.

‘Jacob—’

‘Laroche ain’t getting my gun.’

‘It’s an order.’

‘Fuck him and fuck his orders. This isn’t over, Felicia. That prick’s still out there somewhere, and he’s go

Felicia looked up at him, her pretty face tense and her Spanish eyes dark as black coals. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘No, I’m trying to put one out.’

‘Jacob—’

Before their argument could continue, one of the suits from the Tech Division poked his head into the room. The man had an extremely thin frame, a hooked nose, and an enormous Adam’s apple. It was Ich – Ichabod, as everyone called him. As in Ichabod Crane, from Sleepy Hollow. Perspiration sheened on his face, and he was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon.

‘God, finally I found you guys,’ he said.

Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’

‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really . . . strange.’

Eleven

Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.

He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.

He could not afford for this to happen again.

The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.

Number 426. This was very important.

Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.

Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one – not the chef, not the waitresses – so much as flinched or made eye-contact.

It was as if he were a ghost.

At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.

Red Mask sca

When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He grabbed two of his men. ‘Get him downstairs – and call the doctor. Be quick!’