The Guilty

Factory smoke roamed the black waterways of the Fraser River like lost souls. Where the winds were strong enough, that same smoke spilled back through the pulp mill and concrete plant, blurring out a series of industrial lights so that they looked like distant dim halos.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Roll down your window so we can hear – the girl’s got to be close now.’

The words had barely left his lips when a small, awkward figure stumbled out into the centre of the gravel road. Striker hammered on the brakes to avoid hitting her, and the cruiser slid to a stop with the sound of crunching gravel.

He jumped out into the clouds of swirling dust and drew his SIG Sauer. Only when the hard rubber grip of the pistol melded with the firm flesh of his palm did a sense of reassurance filter through him.

They’d found her.

‘Check her out,’ he told Felicia. ‘I’ll cover us.’

The girl was crumpled on the road now, in front of their car. The bright halogen glare of the headlights made her face appear ghostly white and highlighted her long dishevelled hair. She was missing one high-heeled pump, and her short miniskirt and halter top were both torn.

The left side of her face was covered in blood.

‘Jesus,’ Felicia gasped.

She dropped to one knee in front of the girl.

Striker moved in front of them, shielding both with his body as he sca

‘Are you okay?’ Felicia asked.

‘He’s after me! He’s after me!’

‘Who’s after you?’

The girl started to cry. She looked back over her shoulder. At the other end of the lot was a small steel barn with an orange exterior lamp. The light looked u

‘He’s got her in there! In the steel barn!’

Striker’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and a coldness spilt through him. He turned around and met the girl’s stare.

‘Got who in there?’

‘Some woman. A black woman – she’s tied to a chair.’ The girl let out a sob. ‘He’s going to kill her.’

Four

The girl’s words ended any hope of waiting for backup.

‘I’m checking it out,’ Striker said. ‘Stay here with the girl.’

Felicia frowned. ‘Forget that – I’m coming with you.’

‘You can’t.’ He gestured to the bloodied girl. ‘You need to protect her until Patrol arrives. She can’t be left alone and she can’t come with me.’

‘Then wait, Jacob. You need cover.’

‘No manpower, no time.’

Before Felicia could fight him on the issue, Striker wheeled about.

As he crossed the lot, the air grew thicker. Loose cement powder and gravel dust floated in the air and stuck to his face. Everywhere he looked, there was only darkness, blurred by the desperate light of industrial lamps.

He rounded a row of cement trucks and the steel barn came back into view. Now at this closer distance, Striker could see that the building was on a separate lot, nestled in between the concrete plant and the Fraser River. Thick blackberry bushes covered the perimeter, and surrounding the lot was a tall chain-link fence.

An odd spot.

Wasting no time, Striker climbed the fence, landed on the other side, and kept moving. When he reached the entrance to the barn, he stopped hard.

The door was half open.

He reached out. Pushed it open. And the hinges squeaked loudly. He looked inside.

The place looked old, long since deserted. All the windows were lined with rusted iron bars and covered with a fine layer of dust. From somewhere up high, a strange white light flickered.

Striker took out his flashlight. Readied his pistol.

‘Vancouver Police!’ he called.

No reply.

‘Is anyone in there?’

When no one answered a second time, Striker made entry. The moment he was inside the barn and out of the doorway, the soft rolling hush of the river faded and was replaced by a heavy silence. There was the strong smell of fuel and oil in the air.

Diesel.

Striker kept moving. He worked his way past several stacks of old tyres and some piles of broken cement bags until he reached a narrow wooden staircase leading to a second level.

He aimed his forty-cal at the top of the stairs and moved slowly up them. The old wood groaned with every step, screaming out a warning to anyone above that he was coming.

Once at the top, the narrow beam of Striker’s flashlight revealed a small square loft with four windows – one on each side. A quick sweep of the flashlight showed that all four corners were empty of threats.

No one was there.

Sitting dead centre in the loft was one empty chair. Striker moved towards it and a bucket of water came into view. There was also a yellow sponge. And an old forklift battery, sitting three feet behind the chair.

As Striker stared at the battery, the wind blew in through the open windows; the wires extending from the terminals touched. The current arced and a quick spark of light flashed through the room.

In the brief illumination, Striker noticed that the wood under the chair was discoloured. At first he thought it was blood, but a closer look suggested it was probably water. Lying in the centre of the stain was a crescent-shaped piece of rubber with one long wire extending from the flatter end.

Oh Jesus.

A darkness washed over Striker as he co

He was standing in the middle of a torture chamber.

Five

Striker whipped out his cell phone. He was about to call Felicia when a flicker of something caught his eye.

Movement.

He swivelled left and looked out the south-facing window. There, down by the river shore, were the vague outlines of two figures. They were marching eastward through the thin wisps of factory smoke, one ahead of the other.

Striker moved flush with the window for a better look. He aimed his flashlight and pistol at the silhouettes, and called out.

‘Vancouver Police! Don’t move!’

For one brief moment, the two figures stopped. Then the second one turned around. Though faceless in the darkness and fog, this one was taller than the first, and thicker in build.

Definitely a man.

For a moment, the man seemed to be complying. Then he raised his arm and the sharp hard crack of gunfire ripped through the night.

The window shattered.

Instinctively, Striker dove backwards, landing hard on the wooden floor. Shards of glass rained down around him. Bullets punched through the old boards and ricocheted off the iron support beams.

He kept low on his belly. He covered his head, rolled for the stairs, and crawled down to the first level. By the time he hit the concrete, the angry sounds of gunfire had stopped and were replaced by a distant, undulating wail.

Police sirens.

Striker scrambled to his feet and raced outside. By the time he’d made it across the small lot, everything north of Kent Avenue was aglow. Police lights tinted the skyline red and blue.

Striker headed down the trail that led to the river. Along the way, he used his cell to call Felicia. She answered on the first ring.