Red Mask cranked the wheel hard, his left shoulder tearing, and felt the Civic shudder when its rear-end collided with a row of garbage bins. Despite the coldness of late fall, perspiration dampened his brow. Not far away, sirens wailed.
They would be here.
Soon.
Red Mask drove on down the lane. Halfway along it, he found a wider stretch of road that sat beneath the high overhang of a willow tree. He glanced at the tree. Backed by an ice-blue sky, the bark looked black.
The tree was dying.
Red Mask killed the thought. He forced his eyes away from the horrible tree, and backed the Honda up until the rear bumper banged into the tree trunk. His mind felt hot, overcooked, and a low hum buzzed in his ears — the leftover echoes of the shotgun blasts. Even his heartbeat sounded too loud, pulsing through his temples like a hammer on steel. He tried to think, but a mechanical grinding noise tore him from his thoughts.
At the next yard, a garage door was rising.
With his right hand, Red Mask snatched his Glock off the passenger seat. Pistol ready, he fought open the driver’s door and rolled awkwardly out of the Civic. He slipped in behind the willow tree.
Watched.
Waited.
An engine started inside the garage, then a black Lexus backed out. An expensive model. Golden chrome, shaded rear windows, glistening black paint. The driver, a small old man, seemed oblivious of Red Mask’s presence. He was fidgeting with his mirrors as he reversed.
Red Mask stepped into the centre of the road, shouting, ‘Do not move!’
The old man looked up. Confusion filled his eyes.
Red Mask gave him no chance to think; he moved forward and pointed the pistol. In response, the old man raised his hands, slowly, cautiously, keeping his trembling palms facing forward. The bright gold of his wristwatch shimmered against his tanned and wrinkly skin.
‘Now just be easy there, son-’
‘Remove yourself from vehicle!’
The old man bit his lip, then the sternness in his face crumpled away and he did as ordered. Once outside the Lexus, in the middle of the lane, the smallness of his frame became apparent. Dressed in a dark green tailored suit, his body was thin and frail. His breath came in fast and shallow gasps.
‘Now just… just be calm there, son, don’t go-’
‘Discussion is not permitted.’ Red Mask ordered him into the Honda Civic, then made him park the car inside the garage. Once done, Red Mask flicked the gun. ‘Turn off engine.’
The old man obeyed.
‘Give me keys.’
The old man did as ordered, with shaky hands, and Red Mask grabbed the keys. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket — Player’s Filter Lights — and leaned into the car, tucking them between the seat and console. Then he stepped back and raised his pistol.
The old man gave him a pleading look, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded very soft and very far away.
‘I’ve got money, son, I’ve got lots and lots of money…’
Red Mask shot him once in the face.
‘Not about money,’ he said.
Five
‘We should have stayed at the school,’ Felicia said to Striker as they raced north on Imperial Road. It was the third time she’d made the statement in the past five minutes, and her words were grinding into him.
‘We have to pursue.’
‘But kids are dying back there, Jacob — they need us.’
He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles blanched.
‘This prick gets away, he’ll kill even more kids. Another school, another place. Who knows how many he’ll hit before the cops can get him?’ He gave her a hard look. ‘Make no mistake about it, Feleesh, it was a fluke we were on scene when it happened, and that fluke probably saved fifty more lives.’
‘We don’t know if he’ll kill more — but we do know there are wounded kids back there. Shot, dying. We can save them, Jacob.’
‘Other units are already on scene.’
‘But not enough of them.’
Striker’s jaw tightened. She was right; he knew that. By leaving St Patrick’s High and pursuing Red Mask, they had guaranteed some kids an early grave. But if Red Mask got away, there was no telling how many more children might die. He had to be stopped. At all costs.
Either decision was the wrong one. A no-win situation. And no matter what choice he made, the consequences would be dire. His actions would be questioned by all. The sickeningly sweet odour of Felicia’s perfume was making his headache worse. He powered down the window, let air bluster through the car.
‘Jacob,’ Felicia started again.
‘We’re looking for the gunman.’
‘Fine. Target Three it is.’
‘Call him Red Mask. We’re looking for Red Mask.’
Felicia frowned at the words, but nodded her agreement.
Striker followed the same route Red Mask was most likely to have taken. It wasn’t easy. Fall’s frosty moisture slickened the roads, and the wheels of the undercover police cruiser skipped on the asphalt as they rounded the bend of Imperial Road.
Directly ahead, in the faraway distance, were the North Shore Mountains — blackish peaks of uneven rock, covered with white patches of snow. Above them was pale blue sky. The image suggested a calm that didn’t exist.
A storm was coming.
Striker could feel it in the air like a static charge.
Slowly, methodically, he drove on. He scanned the next alley to his left, saw the wideness of the road, the lack of open garages, and the minimal number of areas of possible concealment. Not the best place to dump the vehicle. So he continued north.
‘Clear left,’ he said at the next lane.
‘Clear right,’ Felicia responded.
And so they went. It had been less than ten minutes since Red Mask had escaped, and already the memory felt surreal. The adrenalin from the shootout was thinning in Striker’s blood, and the shakes were hitting him hard. His palms sweated. His mouth was dry. And his chest felt hollowed out. He stared at the GPS, studying the map.
‘Where are the quadrants set?’
Felicia was on the radio with Dispatch, ordering more emergency units to the school — Ambulance, Fire, Ident, the whole gamut — and broadcasting the last known direction of travel of the suspect. When done, she hung up the mike and rotated the terminal to face him.
‘We got a weak box. Just six units in all. From Sixteenth to Thirty-third Ave, and from Blanca Street all the way to Dunbar.’
‘That’s a lot of land. Any mobiles?’
‘Just two.’
‘ Two? But that makes only eight goddam cars.’
Felicia shrugged helplessly. ‘All units not in containment have been ordered back to the school. The Emergency Response Team is doing a full clear.’
‘How many units there?’
‘Four.’
That still made for only twelve units in total. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’
Felicia brought up the unit status, frowned. ‘Most are coming from way down south.’
‘Why so far?’
‘They had a gun call in Oakridge not an hour ago. Couldn’t be any further out. Real bad timing.’
Striker cursed. The timing of the gun call was too convenient, and he wondered if it was a diversion tactic. He looked down at the computer map. The box they’d set up was too large, and there were too many holes in it. To make matters worse, many of the roads serpentined through and around the forest of the nature reserve — which was another problem in itself. Even if they had the proper number of units — which they didn’t — visual continuity would be a bitch.
‘We need more units.’
‘They’re making requests from Burnaby North.’
That was RCMP territory. Mounties. Any help was welcome, but they were still too far away.
Up ahead was a blockade. Striker hit the brakes and they came to an abrupt stop. He looked both ways. Scowled. Sixteenth Avenue was a long line of gridlock in each direction. In the middle of the traffic, city engineers were tearing up the median.