by Sean Slater
He needed every advantage he could get.
Out of habit, he ejected the magazine from his SIG and unloaded the bullets. He checked each round for irregularities. When he found none, he reloaded the SIG and shoved it back into its holster.
He thought of Courtney. And like he had done a hundred times this week, he took out his cell and dialled long distance to Ireland. The connection took so long he thought the line had been dropped, but then it rang. Once, twice, and then a third time. On the fourth ring, the call was picked up.
‘Dad!’ she said.
Her voice did something to him, choked him up a little, and he had to take in a deep breath. ‘Hey, Pumpkin. How’s the trip going?’
‘Freakin’ awesome . . . but I miss you though.’
‘I miss you too.’ He thought of her spinal injury, and frowned. ‘You keeping up your exercises?’
‘My Kegels? Yeah, I do them every day.’
‘Very funny.’
She laughed out loud. ‘What time is it there anyway?’
‘Two in the morning.’
‘You should be in bed. Are you eating well? Felicia better be taking good care of you.’
‘She feeds me bacon cheeseburgers twice a day and took out extra life insurance on me. So it must be love.’
‘I’m serious, Dad. Eat well. Food is medicine, right?’
Striker smiled at her concern. Ever since he had lost Amanda, Courtney had taken on opposing roles – half filled with teenage angst, half filled with motherly concern. She’d been through a lot these last few years – too much for a sixteen-year-old girl – and despite his grumblings, Striker was glad that she had met Tate. And glad that Tate and his parents had taken her away for a while.
The break would do Courtney good.
‘I tasted real Guinness for the first time,’ she said. ‘And I loved it.’
So did your mother, he thought. It was her favourite drink.
‘You’re underage, Pumpkin.’
‘Not here – so long as I order it with food.’
‘Just don’t go crazy.’
Courtney prattled on about how she was enjoying the trip. Striker listened to every word. She told him about the Cliffs of Moher, the Lakes of Killarney, and Dublin city. And all the while, Striker wished he could reach out across the distance and hug her through the phone.
Feeling a little more cheery, Striker stole another beer from the fridge as Courtney filled him in on the famed O’Connell Street. Bottle in hand, he exited the kitchen and wandered onto the back porch. Three steps later, he stopped hard.
The motion detector light did not activate.
Striker waved his hand in front of the sensor. When nothing happened, he reached over, grabbed the light bulb and turned it. The connection was secure, but the bulb did not light up. He ran his finger along the motion sensor and felt a thin strip of something. He pulled it off and found himself holding a black piece of electrician’s tape.
‘. . . and then we went to St Patrick’s Cathedral!’ Courtney said.
‘Gotta go, Pumpkin,’ he said softly. ‘I love you.’
He abruptly ended the phone call and put his beer down on the porch railing. He drew his pistol, scanned the backyard, saw nothing. He dialled Dispatch and asked them to raise the rear guard of his protection team. Ten seconds later, the response chilled him:
‘He’s not answering.’
‘What about the rest of the team?’
‘They’re still accounted for.’
Striker thought of their positions. None were near the backyard. ‘Keep trying on the rear guard. Tell the others to be on high alert. Something’s wrong here.’
When the Dispatcher said she would, Striker shoved the cell back into his pocket. For a moment he considered retreating inside and waiting for cover. But the thought of losing the bombers again was too much. He started down the porch steps and heard Felicia’s voice behind him. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Motion detector’s been deactivated – you got your piece?’
‘Of course. I got you covered.’
Striker nodded, never taking his eyes off the yard. He moved down the back steps onto the concrete patio and stopped at the edge of the house. Using the corner for cover, he looked down the walkway between the houses and saw no one there.
‘Clear,’ he whispered. ‘Watch back and left; I got front and right.’
‘Copy, I got back and left.’
Striker moved forward along the cement path that led across the backyard, all the way to the fence and garage. As he went, he strained his ears for any indicating sounds, but aside from the gentle hush of the warm summer wind, the night was quiet and still.
He reached the garage. Stopped. Looked in through the glass.
Everything was black because a shade had been pulled down over the window.
He reached out. Gently wrapped his fingers around the doorknob. Turned. And slowly opened the door.
Inside the garage, everything was dark. But one thing became immediately obvious. The front hood of the Cougar was up.
Striker held up a hand to get Felicia’s attention. Then he readied his pistol and turned on his flashlight.
In a quick burst of illumination, the centre of the garage was suddenly lit up and exposed. The air was oily and musty, and the window on the far side of the room had also been covered with black plastic. The Cougar, sitting with its hood lifted, was parked ass-end in. As a result, it occupied both parking stalls.
On the ground, by the front tyre, was an array of tools – a wrench, a screwdriver, a pair of vice grips, and some wire-cutters. Also there was a small handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie.
But all that was background to what sat in front of it – a small white doll dressed in a policeman’s uniform. It had a big red number 1 painted on its chest, and the sight of it told Striker all he needed to know:
The bomber was here.
‘Cover left!’ he ordered Felicia.
Striker swung right, taking quick aim, and within seconds saw the shape of a woman scampering on the ground. She was wearing a pair of dark overalls and had her hair pulled back into a short ponytail. When Striker saw her face, there was no doubt in his mind. This was the woman he had been searching for – the same one who’d been shooting at him back in the A&W parking lot.
Bomber number 2.
Molly Howell.
He took aim. ‘Vancouver Police – don’t move!’
The woman said nothing. She gave no response, verbal or otherwise. She simply looked up at him, her face filled not only with shock, but cold calculation. Her eyes flitted from Striker to the area behind the car – as if searching for Felicia. When they turned back again, they dipped down and left.
‘It’s over,’ Striker started to say.
But before he could finish, Molly dove across the pavement.
Striker darted to the side, avoiding her attack. But then, in one horrific moment, he realized that she wasn’t jumping at him – she was jumping beside him.
For the detonator.
He levelled the gun, took aim, and opened fire. Three shots. All direct hits.
Two to the body, one to the face.
And Molly Howell – criminal to some; decorated war hero to all – collapsed. She flopped over sideways and landed in a tangled position with both legs twisted beneath her body. Her dull brown eyes remained open and lifeless.
It was over for her.
Molly Howell was dead.
One Hundred and Twenty-Seven
Oliver lay on the cot and felt sweat dripping off his body. An ache ran through him like a hot liquid in his bones, radiating from his neck all the way down to his tailbone.
He was in the dark greyness of the command room. He knew this. But he kept finding himself back there again. In the Green Zone. And it was happening – it was happening all over again.
His squad was being led to their doom.
It all started with the Afghan cop – that tall, burly, blac
k sergeant from the Afghan National Police. Smoking his Egyptian cigarettes, he led them all across the Helmand plain. He was eager, nervous.
Excited even.
‘Dis way, dis way,’ he said several times. ‘On da plain. You see. On da plain.’
Oliver followed. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform as they went. Early still, a chilly dew covered the tall grass of the fields, but soon it would be stolen by the arid heat of the day.
‘Hold up,’ he commanded.
They had neared their destination.
At the end of the trail was the bomb the cop had found – an Improvised Explosive Device buried deep within the rocky sand. It seemed to be a standard IED – one pound of HME, a pressure-plate release pad, and tied to a dummy bomb beside it.
But looks could be deceiving. Especially when dealing with the Taliban.
Oliver assessed the scene and didn’t like it. The work area was narrow, less than four feet wide, and flanked by drainage canals. Beyond that, tall sweeping hills backed the plains. It was an enemy haven – concealment below and cover above.
‘I don’t like it,’ Oliver said. ‘And I don’t like this man.’
‘He’s a cop,’ the point man said. ‘He’s ANP.’
‘Means nothing. They got sleepers everywhere.’
Oliver frowned. The situation was bad. He wanted nothing more than to retreat. But orders were orders in the Green Zone, and if he didn’t deal with the IED now, it would end up taking out another soldier later on.
It always did.
Reality dictated. There was no choice.
‘Cover me,’ he told his men.
Then he started the long walk.
Voices from the past haunted him.
The cop, the cop, shoot the goddam cop!
The words blasted through Oliver’s head, a desperate scream no one else could hear. He sat up with a jolt, and suddenly, he was back in the command room. On the cot. In the stark hotness of the dark grey room.
Out of one nightmare, into another.
For as the haze dissipated, the soft sounds of the monitor filled his ears. A jumble of words that caught his attention:
. . . bomber . . .
. . . shootout . . .
. . . hero cop . . .
And then the most horrible words he had ever heard in his life:
. . . believed to be Royal Logistic Corps Warrant Officer Molly Howell.
Oliver forced his stiff neck left and gaped at the monitor. One look at the image was all it took. Standing there in the camera feed was the cop – the big Homicide detective, Jacob Striker. And next to him were two large men in jumpsuits, loading a body hidden beneath a white sheet into a van.
The Body Removal Team.
‘Molly,’ Oliver said. His voice was soft and weak and tiny. ‘Molly.’
A sob filled his throat. Choked him mute. And like a slow pressing tide, Oliver felt himself slipping further and further away, into that dark fog of pain and medications, with only the image of his sister in his head. This time, he did not fight the feeling. This time he allowed himself to be enveloped by the thick, churning darkness. Within seconds, it overpowered him completely.
It was done.
He had passed the point of no return.
Part 4:
Shockwave
Saturday
One Hundred and Twenty-Eight
Police had located the rear guard of the protection team by the time that Mike Rothschild arrived on scene at his own home; the guard had been knocked over the head and rendered unconscious, but – aside from some bruises to his skull and to his ego – he was no worse for wear.
Striker found the situation odd. Why had Molly Howell not just killed the man? Why take a chance like that when a bullet to the head or a blade to the throat would have been so much more effective? After all, dead men didn’t return to consciousness and call in alerts.
Clearly, there was a difference in beliefs between the two bombers.
And it appeared as if he was left with the more dangerous of the two.
Pondering all this, Striker sat on the back porch, staring intently at the toy seized from the crime scene and absently rubbing his thumb along the red number 1 painted on its torso. To his surprise, the doll was not an accurate depiction of a policeman, but the personification of a duck, complete with legs and arms, and dressed in a policeman’s uniform.
It was strange. Such an odd thing for the bomber to leave behind. A policeman made sense to Striker, because there were so many connections there.
But a duck?
It was just so . . . odd.
Striker heard an engine growl, looked up and spotted Rothschild’s Toyota minivan just outside the strewn-up police tape at the south end of the lane. The man parked, then came walking in with purpose. The lines of his face were deeper than normal this morning.
‘Up here, Mike,’ Striker called.
Rothschild looked over the fence and spotted him. ‘The whole world’s gone insane!’
Striker did not respond. He just watched Rothschild enter the yard, stop at the entrance to his garage – which was now taped off as the primary crime scene with a patrolman standing guard – and peer inside. After a long moment, Rothschild shook his head in disbelief, then walked up the back porch steps to Striker’s side.
‘So she was actually in there, huh?’
Striker nodded. ‘Planting a bomb under your hood.’
‘She pull on you?’
‘Went for the detonator.’
‘Son-of-a-bitch.’
Striker looked to the east, where the sun was breaking through the strange mist that had flooded the woods of the park. ‘The woman gave me no choice . . . I opened fire.’
‘You scratch my paint?’
Striker didn’t laugh. Black humour was usually the key to warding off depression, but today it didn’t feel so good.
Rothschild took a seat beside Striker in one of the patio chairs. ‘They take your piece?’
‘Yeah. Noodles seized it and brought me a new SIG. No flashlight attachment or grip though. Laroche wants me off the road till I meet up with the Trauma Team, but me and Felicia are fighting him on it.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They’re in there right now with Noodles and the coroner. It’s a nightmare.’
Rothschild said nothing. He just looked at all the golden streams of police tape stretching across the backyard, the laneway, and the garage. ‘I can tell you this much – next time I paint the house, it won’t be yellow.’
Striker smiled for the first time. ‘How about white and blue?’ he said, and held up the toy duck.
All at once, Rothschild’s face changed. ‘Where’d you get that?’
‘Crime scene. Molly Howell brought it with her. They’ve been leaving one of them for each victim, but we don’t know why. ’ Striker turned it over in his hands and examined the toy. Its body was wood, its beak plastic. The toy was solid. Well built. Striker stuck his finger through the metal O-ring and Rothschild stiffened.
‘You sure—’
‘It’s been checked already.’
Striker gave the O-ring a yank and the bills flapped open and the duck began speaking: ‘These criminals are making me quackers!’
Rothschild reached out and took the duck from Striker. He held it in his hands, stared at it in wonder and partial disbelief. ‘This is more than a toy, Shipwreck. It’s Chief Quackers.’
Striker looked hard at Rothschild. ‘You’ve seen this before?’
‘Of course, I have. It used to be our goddam mascot. In ERT.’
‘Mascot?’
Rothschild’s eyes took on a faraway look and he explained. ‘Was about ten years ago, I guess. I was on Red Team. That was when Chief Ackers was in charge. Guy was a self-righteous prick. Condescending. Arrogant as hell. He interfered with everything. No one liked the man, and we couldn’t wait to get rid of him.’
‘I heard about Ackers. He only lasted one term.’
‘Yeah, the
union stepped in on that one, thank God.’ Rothschild turned the duck over and over in his hands as he spoke. ‘Anyway, Ackers was always bitching about the team’s stats and saying how we weren’t keeping track of our calls, and how it was making him look bad at the meetings.’
‘CompStat?’ Striker asked. It was the monthly meeting where city-wide statistics were discussed in public forums.
‘Yeah, goddam CompStat,’ Rothschild replied. ‘Anyway, one day, Koda comes walking into the bunker – he was our sergeant back then – and he’s got this little white duck in his hands. Got it from someone he knew, his wife or something, I can’t really remember. But he pulls the string and it starts speaking about how these criminals are making him quackers. And one of the guys says, “Holy shit, it’s Chief Ackers.” Then someone else yells, “No, it’s Chief Quackers.” And before you knew it everyone was laughing because it was, like, a total slag on the chief and all. Next thing you know, it ended up being our team mascot . . . Chief Quackers . . . God, I never thought I’d see him again.’
Striker looked at the duck for a long moment and felt some of the pieces fall into place. ‘They’ve been leaving one of these ducks for each victim.’
‘Like a calling card?’
Striker nodded. ‘Calling card, signature, taunt – call it whatever you want. The point is they’re doing it to let the victim know why this is happening.’
Rothschild shook his head. ‘But I was part of that squad and I still don’t fucking know why.’
Striker took back the duck and stared at it for a long moment.
‘Doesn’t matter if you know why or not,’ he finally said. ‘Oliver Howell thinks you do.’
One Hundred and Twenty-Nine
The memory of losing his leg was so vivid to Oliver, like it had just happened yesterday – or to Oliver’s messed-up mind, like it had happened ten years ago, or ten minutes.