‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Looking for wires. Igniters. Switches.’
‘You see any?’
‘No. But be ready.’
He put his flashlight away and with the shotgun in one hand, he grabbed hold of the latch, the steel feeling cold and wet against his skin, and heaved as fast and hard as he could.
The door was hinged at the top, and the joints screeched gratingly as the door opened, then slammed hard against the back row of cinderblocks.
Striker stared down into the hole and saw no movement inside. A dim light from an unseen source revealed a rickety-looking ladder descending into the earth. At the bottom, a murky passageway trailed north.
‘It goes towards the house,’ he told her. ‘Watch our backs.’
As he stepped down onto the first rung of the ladder, Felicia grabbed his shoulder.
‘You’re not going down there,’ she said.
He never took his eyes off the cavern below. ‘You got a better idea?’
‘Yeah. Get a dog.’
‘Forget that. No mangy mutt’s going down here to tear through all my evidence.’
‘Jacob-’
‘Just cover me,’ he said.
‘It could be a trap.’
‘Exactly, so don’t follow. Stay here and make sure no one locks me down there.’ And before she could protest more, he descended into the earth.
The ladder went down ten feet, then ended abruptly. Once on the ground level, he could see the source of the light: an exposed fluorescent tube that ran down the centre of the far room. From its light, he could see that the long corridor he was standing in ran straight towards the house, then ended in a large open room. From where he stood, there appeared to be no other doors in or out.
Just one big underground square of concrete.
Keeping the shotgun ready, he stepped forward. The room was cluttered with things. Stacks of small water tanks lined the far wall. Wooden shelves held canned goods, survival kits, batteries and toiletries. Sheets of white plastic covered the walls.
Striker stood still. Breathed as quietly as he could. Waited and watched for movement. There were no obvious signs of threat, but that meant nothing. Situations like this were explosive and often unpredictable.
He inched forwards into the open room. Almost immediately, he detected something in the air. Something beside dampness and old rotting wood. It was a distinct smell, a familiar smell.
Urine.
He took another step forward and scanned everything.
Old planks put together to form benches and a table took up the bulk of the room, sitting out of place and centre stage. It bothered him. They were mostly covered by an orange tarp. Striker looked around. Though the bunker was old, it was still unfinished. Fraying chunks of pink insulation poked out through the white plastic sheets that stretched from two-by-four to two-by-four. Here and there, homemade wooden shelves had been nailed up haphazardly. In the far corner of the room sat a new workbench, covered in metal parts.
Everything seemed normal.
Seemed.
And then Striker took a closer look at the details. On the shelves, unlocked and out in the open, sat several copper pads, wire brushes, and dirty rags — cleaning tools for weaponry. On the far wall, overtop the fraying insulation hung a small piece of cardboard, containing handwritten directions on how to construct homemade grenades. And on the workbench, all the pieces of metal Striker had taken for scrap were actually filed-down splinters of metal filler for explosive devices. Shrapnel.
He had walked into a weapons lair.
‘Got gun stuff down here,’ Striker called up to Felicia. ‘Be ready.’
He raised his shotgun, swung into the centre of the room, and stopped abruptly. Down to his right, directly beside the workbench, a leg stuck out near the front of the benches. The leg was covered by black pants and a black runner. The remainder of the body was obscured by the hanging orange tarp.
‘Got a body!’ he called.
He took a wide arc around the couch for a better view.
Lying there, face up on the dirty concrete, was a young Asian male. A teenager. His mouth was agape, his empty eyes wide open. The top of his head was blown away, as if he’d shot a bullet through the roof of his mouth. Clutched in his right hand was a 40-calibre pistol. A Glock. And lying beside him on the ground was a blood-red hockey mask.
Striker eased his finger off on the trigger, but kept the gun at the low ready. ‘You can come down,’ he called.
He’d barely yelled the words and Felicia was beside him. She saw the damage to the gunman’s head and the wetness of his crotch. She wrinkled her nose.
‘Jesus Christ, another one,’ she said.
‘Good things come in threes.’
Striker studied the ceiling and saw a dirty spray of redness against the old brown wood. In the centre of the stain was a small hole, where the bullet had penetrated. Surrounding the hole were splinters of bone and splatters of skin and hair, and a mess of other dark things he could not define.
‘Keep us covered,’ he said.
When Felicia nodded, he handed her the shotgun and gloved up. He snapped the latex and leaned down over the dead kid. He took out the photocopied picture of Raymond Leung, the one Principal Myers had given him from last year’s yearbook. Comparing the picture with the dead boy on the cement floor left little doubt.
This was Raymond Leung.
Striker folded up the paper, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He reached down, grasped the gunman’s pistol with his thumb and index finger, and hit the mag release. He slid out the clip and took close inspection of the bullets, examining the casings.
‘Hydra-Shok rounds.’
Felicia let out a relieved sound. ‘Just like the ones in White Mask’s pistol.’
‘The ones he used on the targeted kids,’ Striker clarified. He pocketed the clip, expelled the last round in the pistol and gently laid it back down on the floor. He then searched through Raymond Leung’s pockets and found a crumpled-up piece of computer paper. He smoothed it out and looked over the page.
Felicia peered over his shoulder. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Striker nodded. ‘Suicide note. “Fuck you and fuck the world”.’
‘Not much of a linguist.’
‘Yeah. He wouldn’t have made it past Deputy Chief in our Department.’
Felicia let out a strange laugh, one that resonated with relief more than humour. She took out her cell, flipped it open. ‘I’ll call it in.’
Striker nodded. He returned the note to the same pocket. When Felicia agreed to guard the body, Striker called for the plainclothes units to assist him in clearing the house. As he waited for them, he went over the case in his head. Everything had fallen into place: they had Raymond Leung’s body. Here, in his own residence. With his red mask beside him. And his gun. Which was filled with Hydra-Shok rounds.
All the pieces of the puzzle fitted perfectly. This should have filled Striker with elation. Or at the very least, an overpowering sense of relief. But it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it left him with a gnawing sense of worry. This was a homicide investigation. Nothing ever fitted together that easily.
Something was wrong.
Twenty-Four
It took over an hour, but when the clock struck seven, the Wong house was cleared. No one was home. The parents, Anson and May Wong, were apparently away on vacation, visiting family in China. They would have to be contacted as soon as possible. In the meantime, the entire house and yard needed to be guarded as a crime scene, and Felicia had already started taping off the area.
Striker thanked the plainclothes units for their assistance, then walked back towards the bunker where Red Mask — now known as seventeen-year-old Raymond Leung — lay dead. He had barely set foot in the backyard when he spotted the unmarked white cruiser parked in the lane.