The Guilty

‘I got him,’ he said again.

‘Harry, no, he’s holding a detonator—’

But it was too late.

The gun fired. Two loud explosions thundered through the room and the left side of Oliver’s chest burst open. He jerked, lilted, rolled off the steel table and landed on the ground. Even as he fell, Striker raced towards him. Reached out for the pressure-release pad. But there was too much distance to cover.

The detonator had been released.

One Hundred and Fifty

Ten seconds. It was all they had.

A dozen thoughts raced through Striker’s mind: the amount of explosives strapped to Oliver’s chest; the hot steam powering through the steel pipes around them; the tripwires set up in the tu

He grabbed the steel maintenance door. Slid open the latch.

Nine seconds.

Yanked open the door and felt his heart drop.

No children inside.

Just supply boxes. Stacks of pipes. Some chairs. A panel of levers at the end.

Eight seconds.

Striker spun around, raced back into the room.

Seven.

Rothschild was conscious now, screaming: ‘My kids – find my kids, Striker! Get my kids out of here!’

Six.

Striker ran over to Oliver. Grabbed him roughly. And suddenly Harry was there beside him.

Five.

They dragged the dead bomber into the maintenance room.

Four.

Dumped him behind the column of supply boxes and steel pipes.

Three.

Leaped from the room. Slammed the door behind them. Slid the latch.

Two.

They grabbed the steel table. Flipped it over.

One.

Yanked the table in front of Rothschild. Started to drop down behind it.

Zero.

The bomb went off – a vicious explosion raged through the room, sounding like a locomotive powering through a mountain tu

The pipes, he thought. The steam . . .

It was hissing all around them now.

They were going to cook to death.

One Hundred and Fifty-One

Hot. He was so unbelievably hot.

He was burning up. Couldn’t breathe. And there was blood. He could taste blood. In his mouth, in his throat. And the ringing in his ears was painful – a strange high-pitched whine.

Striker opened his eyes. Saw nothing but darkness.

Closed them again.

When he re-opened them sometime later, white lights were flashing. Hazy beams pierced through the mixture of mist and dust like light-sabres through smoke. The illumination came from the far end of the room, along with voices so soft and distant he could barely hear them.

‘Jacob,’ they sang. ‘. . . Jacob.’

Angels, calling his name.

‘. . . the children,’ he tried to say. ‘. . . find the children . . .’

But nothing would come out.

He felt hands take hold of him. Many hands. And suddenly he was suspended in the air. Floating, flying, his entire body lifting from the ground. He thought of Felicia, thought of Courtney, and how he needed to stay with them. But when the darkness came, fighting it was as useless as trying to stop time. It swallowed him whole, a tidal wave of warmth and blackness. And Striker felt himself go. He was fading into the nothingness now.

Dying.

Becoming dust and bones.

Just like Oliver . . .

Just like Oliver.

EPILOGUE

One

It was almost a full week later when Striker walked down the back alley of Trafalgar Street with a box of doughnuts and muffins in one hand and balancing two large coffees in the other – Timmy’s mediums, double-double.

Cops’ blend.

The sweltering heat wave had slowly soothed out into a softer, gentler balminess, and the soft blue colour of the sky made the mid-morning air feel fresher and brisker than it had been in a long while.

Striker relished the moment – it felt so good to be outdoors. Ever since he had been trapped in the dark depths of the steam tu

I’m turning into Felicia.

He spotted Rothschild’s house. As he neared, he heard the kids playing in the yard, and it filled him with a thankfulness he couldn’t explain. There was a certain grace about children’s laughter. Especially now, after he had been so terribly close to losing them.

He listened to Cody yell out, ‘Don’t touch that, it’s mine!’ and smiled. He stood there, behind the fence, eavesdropping on their conversation, and he knew if he stayed much longer he’d choke up. So he got his feet moving again.

Up ahead the garage door was open. Inside, the hood of the Cougar was up and there were chrome car parts lined up all along the work bench. Rothschild was leaning over the engine, looking down and pretending he had even a modicum of mechanical skill. When Striker was close enough, Rothschild spotted him and nodded.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker stepped inside the garage. It smelled of oil and kitty litter and solvent. He looked out the window at the children playing, yelled out ‘Doughnuts!’ and Cody and Shana came ru

‘Hi, Uncle Jacob!’ Shana said.

Cody was too fixated on the box of treats to speak.

Striker passed the coffees to Rothschild and opened the box. The children overlooked the muffins and went straight for the doughnuts – a Boston Cream for Cody and some god-awful sprinkle mess for Shana. Treats in hand, they bounded off for the backyard again, and Striker thought of how long it had been since Courtney was that age.

It seemed a lifetime ago, and he missed it.

‘Thanks for the brew,’ Rothschild said. He opened up the lid and sipped some.

Striker nodded. ‘I needed it today.’

‘No sleep?’

He nodded. ‘Not a bit – you been getting any ringing in your ears? It’s been coming and going for me ever since the explosion.’

Rothschild snorted. ‘Naw. No ringing. Just a new-found sense of claustrophobia. I can’t even work on the car with the garage door closed.’

Striker laughed because he fully understood the feeling. ‘When you going back to work?’

Rothschild looked out the garage door at the clear blue skyline. ‘I du

At first Striker thought the man was joking, but upon closer inspection he could see the seriousness on Rothschild’s face. All that had happened the previous week had taken a toll on the man. That much was clear.

‘You just need some time is all.’

Rothschild looked back at him. ‘I don’t think so. Not this time.’ He crossed the garage and again approached the window where he stared at Cody and Shana in the backyard. ‘When that nutcase kidnapped them, it took something outta me, Shipwreck. Something deep . . . And I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back again.’