The Guilty

‘But—’

‘There’s no choice. We’re out of time.’

Felicia said nothing for a moment. She swore, then gave him a quick hug and a kiss.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’

Then she turned and hurried back down the tu

Striker watched her turn the bend and disappear from sight. Alone and sweating from the growing heat, he tightened his grip on the SIG and headed deeper into the crimson darkness of the tu

One Hundred and Forty-Six

Five minutes later, Striker hiked down a long sloping corridor. As he went, he passed by a couple of iron-barred gates that owned locks so old they appeared rusted. The heat and humidity grew, and so did the darkness. When he turned the bend, there were no more red lights overhead.

Everything was pitch-black.

He stopped. Took one cautious step forward. And suddenly a series of red lasers shot all over the tu

They’re just laser trips, he recalled the bomb expert saying.

But were they now? And were they designed to stop someone from entering the room – or to prevent them from leaving? At the very least they would slow down someone’s escape.

He aimed his flashlight down the pathway, sca

Beside him, the sound of the steam-pressurized pipes grew louder, moaning like a trapped beast desperate to break free. The heat coming off them was immense.

Thoughts of Oliver setting off a bomb in the tu

Striker cut a final corner and found himself facing a steel door. There, he paused, unsure of what to do. Opening it could not only warn Oliver that he was coming, but trigger a detonation.

Yet what choice did he have?

He reached out and placed his flashlight hand against the steel. Then he readied his pistol and gently pushed open the door. What he saw caused his heart to constrict.

He was standing at the entrance to a control room. Everything was tinted dark red from the overhead lights, and the air was so hot it was suffocating. To his far left, slumped with his back to the concrete wall, was Mike Rothschild. His hands were cuffed to a large steel pipe and blood trickled down the left side of his skull.

His head hung low, his eyes were dazed.

To Striker’s far right was another closed door. Steel, with a deadbolt across the facing. It looked heavy. Across the front was one word:

Maintenance.

‘Welcome to the command room,’ a weary voice said.

Striker turned and looked directly across the room. There, half in the shadows, was Oliver Howell. The man sat on a long steel table, next to a static-filled television monitor and what looked like a green-lighted router. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, complete with a radio, gun and flashlight – but where his bulletproof vest should have been, Oliver had made some modifications. Strapped across his chest were not Kevlar and trauma plates, but long cylindrical columns.

Explosives.

Striker counted six on the front alone.

‘Oliver—’ Striker started.

‘Finally, we’re all here.’ Oliver spoke the words softly, weakly. He looked over at Rothschild. ‘The man who murdered my father’ – he looked back at Striker – ’and the man who murdered my sister.’

‘I murdered no one.’

Oliver made no reply. He just sat there, the slick flesh of his face looking like broken-in red leather in the strange tint of the safety lights. Striker deftly sca

A detonator.

Oliver caught his stare.

‘It’s a pressure release,’ he explained. ‘Just like the ones I used to disarm in the Green Zone . . . though I gave this one a ten-second delay.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Just enough time to let you think about what you did before it goes off and we’re all bathed in blistering hot steam.’

‘Where are the children?’ Striker asked.

But Oliver only smiled. He opened his arms wide, and the exertion made his arms and shoulders tremble. ‘Go ahead, Detective. Take your shot. All it takes is one single trigger pull – and then we can end this. Redemption for all.’

One Hundred and Forty-Seven

Striker did not react.

Time . . .

He needed to give Felicia time . . .

He stood there in the entrance to the control room and took in all of his surroundings. In the far corner of the room sat an opened crate. Inside it were supplies, most of which appeared to be technological gear and ammunitions. Next to it sat a small red cooler that had a medical emblem on the front. At the right end of the room was the closed steel door:

Maintenance.

Striker studied it and thought of Cody and Shana.

He turned back to Howell and met the man’s stare. ‘Are the children in there?’ When the bomber said nothing, Striker added, ‘They’re not a part of this, they’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Nothing wrong?’ Oliver laughed oddly. ‘What wrong did my father do?’

Striker looked back at the man. ‘Your father did nothing wrong. We both know that. You, on the other hand, have committed murder.’

‘Retribution—’

‘Murder, Oliver. Because what you think happened is all wrong.’ Striker took a small slow step into the room, and Oliver’s fingers tightened on the release pad. ‘I know it all,’ Striker continued. ‘You think the Emergency Response Team betrayed your father. That Koda was the lead, and Rothschild was the shooter. You think Archer was shot in the back and blown up in the process, and you also think that Osaka covered up the shooting.’

Oliver’s eyes narrowed at the words, but he said nothing.

Striker continued:

‘You think that Dr Owens falsified her reports to hide the murder and that her cousin, Keisha Williams, was money-laundering the funds. And you believe that everyone is culpable, no matter how small or indirect their role in this mess.’

Still, Oliver said nothing.

‘I also know you derived this belief from inconsistencies in the police and medical reports, along with the audio tapes.’ Striker edged his way a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘That’s why you kidnapped Dr Owens – not to torture her, but to interrogate her. To corroborate what you already believed. And you think you got that from her.’

Oliver’s expression remained unreadable. After a short moment, he nodded slowly. ‘You’re good at your job, Detective.’

‘Better than you. I found the truth.’

A quick burst of anger flashed through Oliver’s eyes. ‘I know the truth.’

‘You know nothing.’ Striker took another step closer to the maintenance door. ‘The fact is, you’re right and you’re wrong.’

Oliver’s expression communicated nothing.

‘Koda did cover up the shooting,’ Striker said. ‘And Owens did falsify the report . . . but that’s as far as it goes. When your father was shot, Oliver, it wasn’t because everyone betrayed him. It was because the entire scene down there was chaos. Rothschild didn’t purposely shoot Archer in the back, it was an accident.’