The Guilty

Striker looked up and saw Felicia gri

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s co

‘Actually we do,’ Striker said. ‘They can request any report we have – so long as it hasn’t been stolen or misplaced or destroyed.’

‘Through the Freedom of Information Act.’

Striker nodded. ‘Exactly. Well, Oliver got them. And when he compared the police reports, the medical reports, and the medical tapes, he realized pretty quickly the same things we did – that everything didn’t mesh.’ Striker grabbed the slide and re-attached it to the base of the pistol. ‘From there on, everything snowballed.’

Felicia took back the gun oil. ‘So when Oliver kidnapped Sharise Owens down by the river, it wasn’t so much about torture as it was about information.’

Striker agreed. ‘It was an interrogation session – to corroborate what he already suspected. And what she told him only reinforced his belief that this was one massive cover-up.’ Striker racked the slide a few more times to get the oil moving.

Felicia went quiet for a long moment as Striker continued to rack the slide.

‘But why Osaka?’ she finally asked.

Striker stopped playing with the slide. ‘He was the Internal Investigator in charge of the shooting.’ Striker frowned. ‘Fact is, Archer was shot by one of our own men. And mistake or not, Osaka dropped the ball on that file. There were reasons for the mistake – this was at a time when Osaka was already dealing with the Stanley Park Six incident. The man was swamped.’

‘Stanley Park – what a hell file that was.’

Striker nodded. ‘The worst. But Osaka did an excellent job on it. And as a result, four months later, he got promoted – and not just to sergeant, he jumped two ranks to inspector. You know, that was only the second time in the department’s history that anyone has ever jumped two ranks.’ Striker grabbed the pistol one more time and starting doing a function test to be sure it wouldn’t misfire in a time of need.

Felicia looked at him. ‘You’re not implying that Osaka dropped Archer’s file in order to get promoted, are you?’

Striker shook his head. ‘God, no. Osaka was a man of the highest integrity. I don’t think he had any idea that Archer was shot by one of our own guys. I mean they had a coked-up biker with an AK-47 shooting at them. Archer got hit. It all seemed pretty straightforward.’

‘But Oliver thought the shooting was intentional.’

Striker nodded. ‘He still does. He thinks the squad murdered his father. He also thinks the department knew about this and covered it up to avoid public embarrassment. And he thinks that Rothschild was the worst of the lot because he was the man who pulled the trigger.’

Felicia continued writing down the information. After a long moment, she put down the pen, shook out her fingers, and sca

‘It all fits,’ she said.

‘It does.’

‘You don’t seem overly happy about it.’

Striker reloaded the magazine with bullets and frowned. ‘Why should I be? So many people have died over this file – and I’ve got a really bad feeling about what’s ahead.’

‘How so?’

‘Oliver Howell is a soldier, Feleesh. He’s been through hell. He’s seen war. And now he’s on a personal vendetta.’ Striker loaded the magazine into the pistol, held it with two hands, and looked down the sights.

They were good.

Felicia looked at him with concern. ‘You’re worried he won’t go down without a fight.’

Striker nodded slowly.

‘It’s a suicide mission,’ he said sadly. ‘It has been from the start.’

One Hundred and Forty

The sun beat down upon the graveyard, turning the green grass a dying yellow-brown colour and bleaching the tombstones white. Despite the brightness, the sweltering heat of the past week had suddenly evaporated and the air was oddly cool. When the wind hit Harry, he shivered.

In the northeast section, under the tall overhang of a dogwood tree, was the grave of his little boy – Joshua William Eckhart. The Boy Who Had Died.

Harry stood at the foot of the grave.

He had been standing there for a long time now. How long, he had no idea. But long enough that the joints of his knees ached. So far, all he’d done was stand there. Stand there and do nothing, say nothing, think nothing. He just listened to the cool wind ruffle the white flowers of the dogwood trees, like it was the ghost of his boy trying to tell him something.

The headstone had Joshua’s name on it with the words ‘Beloved Son’ beneath. It was surrounded by four sculptured angels. Each one faced a different direction – north, south, east and west – and each one brandished a sword.

The stone-and-granite artwork had been demanded by Kelly, Harry’s wife at the time – as if spending vast amounts of money they didn’t have would somehow diminish the grief and culpability they both felt.

Harry had given her everything she needed back then. And it had been a mistake. The money they spent had done nothing to assuage their loss. All it did was put them another twenty-eight thousand dollars into debt, and start the ball rolling on what had been their financial doom.

By the time everything was done – the funeral, the procession, the headstone, the flowers and the videos, and all the extra medical bills – Harry had found himself owing almost a hundred grand. With Kelly not working and barely communicating in her stark depression, there had been no hope of paying off the debt. At the time, Harry really hadn’t cared. All he’d known was a grief so overwhelming that suicide had been a daily thought.

It had been a dark time. Such a dark time.

Kind of like now.

He blinked, coming out of the sad reverie, and almost immediately the tears slipped from his eyes. He would have traded his life for Josh’s a thousand times over. Put a bullet through his own head, killed another person – hell, he would have done damn near anything to have him back.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you so much.’

Harry started to shake because he knew now what he had to do. For his other son. For Ethan. The Boy Who Still Lived. And that meant he would probably never be back here again.

This was the final goodbye.

Harry wiped his eyes. He knelt down. He kissed the headstone. And then he got up and left the graveyard.

He never looked back.

One Hundred and Forty-One

It was exactly twelve-thirty, and Striker and Felicia had just grabbed a couple of green apple & cheddar sandwiches from the Kit’s Coffee House on Broadway. He sat back in one of the outdoor patio chairs, unwrapped the cellophane and took a bite. The flavours were odd but good, and as he swallowed, his cell rang. He looked down at the screen and saw Rothschild’s name.

He answered. ‘What’s up, Mike?’

‘They’re gone, they’re fucking gone, he took my kids!’

Striker’s throat clenched and the world around him ceased to exist. He dropped the sandwich and jumped to his feet.

‘Where are you?’

‘Your house. My kids, Striker – he’s got my fucking kids!’

‘Just calm down, Mike, calm down. How do you know—’

‘I went out for a smoke. Ten minutes – just ten fucking minutes.’

Striker tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Mike, listen to me. There’s a patrol cop out front. Go out there and talk to—’