The Survivor

Ninety-Seven

The Ironworkers’ Memorial Bridge was a 1200-metre, six-lane steel monstrosity that spa

Striker prayed it would take no more tonight.

It took him and Felicia less than four minutes to reach the south on-ramp. Already, a marked patrol car had blocked off the entrance, its red and blue emergency lights reflecting off the heavy fog that roamed the pavement like a crawling beast. Next to the police cruiser, a patrol cop dressed in orange and yellow reflective gear waved him over and said, ‘Park it there, Striker.’

He did.

When he climbed out, he recognised the man. It was Chris Mathews, from the Two-Eight squad. Striker walked towards him, his head feeling as fogged as the roadway. He’d barely gotten ten steps when a white unmarked cruiser came speeding up the on-ramp behind them. Its lights were flashing, the siren turned off. The cruiser slid across the wet asphalt, coming to a slow stop not five feet away. The driver’s door opened and a man in a white shirt hopped out.

One look at him and Striker stopped cold.

Laroche.

The Deputy Chief came stomping around the cruiser, his face pale and twisted in the harsh glare of the headlights. He was followed by Inspector Beasley.

‘Striker!’ he called, his voice cracking in the cold. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve already got ERT and a negotiator on route.’

Striker turned to face the man. ‘Did you pull the units from my house?’

‘That doesn’t concern you.’

Striker took a step closer, his hands balling into fists. ‘I asked you a question, Laroche. Did you or did you not have patrol guard removed from my house?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s face. ‘You’re damn right I did! My men aren’t your personal—’

Striker punched the man square in the face, sent him sprawling backwards. The Deputy Chief hit the pavement, landing hard on his ass. Stu

‘How dare you strike a commanding officer! I’ll have your badge for this—’

Striker stepped forward, grabbed the Deputy Chief by the scruff of his shirt.

‘Let go of me!’ Laroche screamed.

Striker ignored the order; he dragged the man back to the police cruiser, opened the rear door, and threw him inside. When he slammed the door closed, the Deputy Chief let out a frustrated howl and grabbed the door handle. He tried to open the door, reefed on it hard, but the safety lock engaged. He pounded his fist on the glass.

‘Striker! Striker! Open this door immediately! It’s an ORDER!’

As Inspector Beasley started for the car, Striker stepped in his way, fixed him with an icy stare.

‘My kid’s up there. I’m going up. No negotiator. No ERT. No Air One. No goddamn nothing.’ He stabbed a finger towards the Deputy Chief. ‘That little prick gets out and in any way endangers my daughter’s life, and I’ll shoot the fucker. I mean it, I’ll goddam shoot him and you can arrest me for it later.’

Inspector Beasley’s mouth dropped open.

Striker continued, ‘And if Laroche comes up there and any bad shit happens, I will hold you personally responsible, Beasley. Got it?’ Without waiting for a response, Striker turned away from the man and found Felicia. He came up in front of her, spoke softly. ‘Don’t let anyone up this road.’ He then took her pistol as a spare and tucked it in the back of his belt.

‘Be careful,’ she urged.

There was nothing to say, so he just nodded, then turned away.

It was time to face Shen Sun Soone.

Ninety-Eight

Striker marched quickly up the bridge deck. The asphalt was damp, and covered with metal and plastic fragments from an earlier accident. His boots slipped as he hurried on. With every step he took, the bridge inclined, becoming steeper and steeper, and he rose higher and higher into the fog. Until it felt like he was walking into the cloudbanks.

Up ahead, the headlights of the Hobbes Meats van came into view. The sight hit Striker like a physical force and he stopped. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the flashing red and blue gleam of the police lights. From this distance, saturated by the heavy blanket of fog, they looked small and faint, like tiny bulbs on a Christmas tree.

He was alone on this one.

And the girls’ lives depended on him.

The Sig Sauer sat snugly in its holster – and he dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun for comfort as he marched on. The rubber grip was cold, harder than usual in this freezing weather, almost slippery from the icy moisture. Striker wrapped his fingers around the grip, squeezed tight, moulding it to the flesh of his palm.

The wind kicked up, strong and fierce, blowing his hair in all directions and sending the flaps of his suit jacket whipping to the sides, exposing his gun. And though he knew undoubtedly that Shen Sun would expect him to be armed, there was no point showboating it. He pi

The bridge lamps, weak against the heavy fog, shed a minimal light. Striker could barely make out the vague shape of the van as he closed in, just the halogens. He strained his eyes for any sign of Shen Sun or the girls – for any sign of movement at all – but saw none.

From far below, he heard the rushing sound of water as the Fraser River slammed into the bridge foundation. Striker was well over the waterway now, had been for the last fifty metres.

He marched on. After another twenty feet, the van lights mutated from a single globular glow into two clearly distinct headlights. And soon Striker could hear the heavy rumble of the engine, and smell the dirty diesel in the air. Ten steps later, the outline of the vehicle became sharper. Ten more steps, and he could make out the blurry lettering on its side.

‘You stop now.’ The voice was quick, hard, angry.

Striker did as instructed. He looked ahead, tried to figure out where the voice had come from. But all he could see was the bright piercing glow of halogen headlights. And he realised that the van had been parked this way to blind him.

He stared into the piercing light, raised a hand to ward off the glare.

‘I’m here, Shen Sun. You got what you wanted. Now let the girls go.’

‘What I want?’ The voice was mechanical, numb, spoken more like a statement than a question. ‘Never do I have what I want.’

‘Where are the girls?’

‘Your daughter? She is here. I give proof.’ There was a brief pause, and suddenly a scream filled the air.

‘You twisted little fuck.’ Striker started forward.

‘Come, and they die.’

He stopped cold. Said nothing. Just waited. Listened. Tried to focus and calm the panic. Think. Judging by the direction of Shen Sun’s voice, Striker figured he was near the tail end of the van. Left side. A tactically sound position.

One Striker would have chosen himself.

Striker took a small step to the left, inching his way out of the worst of the glare. And for the first time, he spotted a vague outline behind the lights. A wide blur – three bodies, crammed together – between the rear of the van and the bridge railing.