The Survivor

Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tu

Down, down, down they went.

And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light – a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.

Twelve

Striker hurried out of the boys’ changing room and headed down the hall. As he went, he sca

That was not good news.

Striker followed Ich and Felicia on their way towards the security room. Up ahead, he heard Laroche’s nasally tone, so he cut away through the assembly hall. Inside, the elevated stage was empty and looming, and the room had a haunted feel.

The scene before Striker shocked him. Drying smears of blood coloured the stage’s front, and a yellow Star Trek costume had been left behind. Its fabric was splattered with red and torn. The sight made Striker realise he had gotten it wrong: the shootings hadn’t started in the cafeteria, but somewhere down here – in the hall or auditorium. It had all been such a panic, the exact details were hard to pull from his memory.

He looked around.

High above, Striker saw another camera. This one was silver and grey. Smaller. A newer model than the ones in the hall. He needed to know what its eye had seen.

As he cut through the opposite doorway into the next hall, before the door had even swung closed, he felt someone bump into his chest. He didn’t have to look down to see the person’s face to know who it was. He noted the small stature of the man’s frame, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a glimmer of that u

Deputy Chief Laroche.

‘Striker!’ he said.

Striker stopped walking and faced the man he had moments earlier tried to avoid.

The DC was five and a half feet tall and less than one hundred and fifty pounds. Small in comparison to the normal population; puny by police standards, where the average cop was five foot ten and an even two hundred pounds.

‘Sir,’ Striker acknowledged.

‘I’ve been looking for you – have you turned in your clothes?’

‘Of course.’

‘And your gun?’

Striker forced a grim smile. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks for asking.’

The Deputy Chief furrowed his brow. ‘What?’

‘Just informing you of my well-being. I’m sure that was your primary concern. I mean, one of your officers being in a shootout and all.’ When the Deputy Chief didn’t respond, but just stood there, hands on his hips, chest pushed out for dramatic effect, Striker added, ‘I didn’t want the worry weighing too heavily on your mind right now, when you’ve got so many press conferences to attend. God knows, those have to be stressful.’

The Deputy Chief’s lips compressed into a straight line. He looked around, as if to see who else was present. Striker looked too. He saw a few Global TV cameras just outside the front entrance, where a smear of yellow police tape blocked access.

The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, Striker, it’s good. Good you’re unharmed. That was my first concern.’

‘Of course it was.’

When the Deputy Chief said no more, Striker looked back at Felicia, who stood beside the assembly-hall door. Her face was more strained now than it had been during the shootout.

‘Felicia is okay, too. In case you were wondering.’

The Deputy Chief stood there silently, letting the words digest.

‘Your gun, Striker,’ he finally said.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s being seized.’

‘That’s understood, sir. And you’ll have it once this incident is over.’

For a moment, the Deputy Chief said nothing. His eyes narrowed. Then: ‘It’s not a request, Detective Striker, it’s an order.’

Striker leaned forward, so that he was towering over the man. Leaned so close he could smell the oily sweetness of Laroche’s hair gel and the cigarette smoke on his breath.

‘Nice speech, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Now it’s my turn. First off, you’ve got my clothes, be happy with that. But you ain’t getting my gun – not until this incident is entirely over. And don’t bother spouting out any of that policy bullshit to me because safety supersedes policy – and what we have here is a legitimate safety concern.’

‘This is hardly—’

‘We don’t know where the gunman is, who he is, or even his motive – and I’ve already been involved in one shootout with him. For all we know he might come back. So the answer is no. No one gets my gun. Not till we got an in-custody or a dead body, preferably the latter.’

The Deputy Chief’s mouth twisted as if he’d eaten something sour. ‘We’ll get you another gun then, Detective Striker.’

‘Negative, sir. My gun is heavily modified. And I’m trained on this one.’

‘Striker—’

‘You’ll get my gun, don’t worry about that, but you’ll get it when the incident is over and not a second before.’ Striker paused. He looked back at Felicia, who stood looking uncomfortable next to Ich. ‘And don’t even think of pulling me off this case. I didn’t get shot at with a shotgun and an AK-47 so that you could come down here and play God. This file is mine. I’m the primary. I’ve had to kill over it, literally.’

The Deputy Chief shook his head. ‘You’re off, Striker. I have already made the decision.’

Striker leaned closer to the man, so close that when he whispered, no one but the two of them could hear. ‘I got video. Of you fixing your hair while the rest of us were hauling children out of the foyer.’

Laroche stared back at him. ‘Is that some form of threat?’

‘And eating sandwiches, too. What was it, anyway – Ham and Swiss? Tuna Delight?’

‘You want to end your career, Striker?’

Striker held up his BlackBerry. ‘Not the greatest video camera I ever had, but it sure gets the job done.’

The Deputy Chief opened his mouth, but no words came out. His neck stiffened. ‘This is insubordination, Striker. The Chief will hear about it. And the Police Board, as well.’

‘Good. Tell them to talk to my union rep. Directly.’ Striker forced his jaw to relax and let a smile break through. ‘I didn’t spend five years on the board for nothing, Laroche. I know my rights better than you know your policies. When you find out where the real authority stands – and ends – come find me. We’ll talk more then.’

Striker turned away and walked down the hall towards the security room. He had barely gotten ten steps when he heard the Deputy Chief barking orders at Felicia.

Striker ignored them. A sense of dark excitement flooded him as he wondered what evidence Ich had uncovered.

The security room was waiting.

Thirteen

Striker walked with Ich down to the school’s security room. As they passed one of the speakers from the PA system, a jittery voice made pleas for all students and teachers to gather in the gymnasium – the one place that had achieved lockdown.

The speaker crackled, then screeched with feedback. It irritated Striker. His hearing – all his senses – felt out of whack, one moment numbed, the next amplified. People’s voices were either too loud or muffled, the hall’s fluorescent bulbs were too bright or too dim, and everything around him smelled of fresh death.