by Sean Slater
Striker paced the room, tried to think.
In here. In my house . . .
He took the children from my own house . . .
He stopped pacing, scanned his surroundings, looked for any evidence left behind. When he saw nothing, he walked back outside and looked there. On the welcome mat, trapped in the rough wool-like tendrils, was another dusting of that same whitish powdery substance he had seen in the mud by the docks and again on the window ledge at Rothschild’s former home.
Striker knelt down, studied it.
Once again, it looked like concrete. But greyer. With tiny bits of white in it. He reached down, picked some of it up, rubbed it between his fingers. It looked and felt like nothing more than dirt and dust.
He took out his cell phone and called Noodles.
‘Did you get an answer yet – from the lab?’
The man was lost. ‘Huh? On what?’
‘That goddam white substance!’
‘The powder, oh yeah, we got the results.’
‘Well, why the hell didn’t you call then?’
‘Because it was nothing.’ Noodles made an exasperated sound. ‘Jesus Christ, Shipwreck, it’s just fucking dust. Dust. That’s it. What the hell is up your ass today?’
‘It’s not like any dust I’ve ever seen before. What else did they tell you?’
‘Nothing, that’s it – just dust.’
Striker hung up on Noodles and dialled the lab himself. Being Saturday, they were still open, but the technician who had done the actual testing was not available. Striker managed to get hold of the head boss. He explained the direness of the situation, and within sixty seconds, received a phone call back from the primary technician. The woman seemed perplexed by the severity of the situation.
‘It was just ordinary dust,’ she explained.
‘Then why the strange white-grey colour?’
‘Well, that’s because it’s been exposed to quite a high heat, and for a long time, I would say – it’s all in the report we forwarded yesterday.’
‘We don’t have that report yet,’ Striker said. ‘And minutes are critical. Now what kind of heat and what kind of times?’
The woman made an uncomfortable sound. ‘That, I can’t really tell you with any certainty. But it would have to be quite hot.’
‘How hot? Like as hot as a foundry or something like that?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Some of those foundries can reach sixteen hundred degrees Celsius. That would be exceedingly hot. Plus, you would then find contaminants within the dust – bronze or magnesium, copper or tin, steel or—’
‘I get it,’ Striker said. ‘Then where?’
The tech made a frustrated sound. ‘Well, any factory setting where industrial machines are hard at work, especially ones that have boilers or an ongoing distillation process – oil refineries; garbage incinerators; recycling plants; heck, even some food processing plants. The list is really endless.’
Striker felt his hopes deflating, felt the seconds ticking away. ‘I’ll call you back – stay by the phone.’ He hung up and turned to Felicia. ‘Location-wise, if you had to make a guess, where would you think this guy would be hiding out?’
‘Geographically speaking?’ She turned silent for a moment. ‘It would have to be somewhere relatively close by. He’s hurt. He’s got two little kids with him. And his sole focus lies here in Vancouver.’
Striker nodded. ‘I agree completely.’
Felicia flipped back through her notebook pages. ‘That Alpha unit had a white van take off on them just ten minutes after the Osaka bombing, remember? It was racing west on Southwest Marine Drive. From Collingwood Street.’
Striker mapped out the area in his head. ‘There’s nothing west of there but the Shaughnessy Golf Club, the Musqueam Reserve, and the university grounds. After that, it’s all ocean.’
‘And I don’t recall there being any factories on the reserve,’ Felicia said. ‘Same thing goes for the golf club.’
Striker nodded. ‘But there are some on the university grounds.’
Felicia continued flipping back through her notes. ‘And wasn’t that the way the bomber fled from Rothschild’s house? On Thursday morning? He ran into Pacific Spirit – that park is how big?’
‘Seven hundred acres,’ Striker said. ‘And he did so without a getaway vehicle.’
‘So either he hid in the woods and waited us out – which seems highly unlikely given that we had police dogs tracking him – or . . .’
‘He’s hiding out somewhere on the university grounds.’
Striker grabbed the laptop and used Google to bring up a map of the University of British Columbia. He scanned the grounds for any possible locations where Oliver might be hiding. By the time he was done, he had narrowed it down to three possible areas – the Food Systems buildings, the Applied Sciences grounds, or the UBC Hospital. Each one of them had numerous boilers and areas of constant high heat temperatures.
He called back the technician. She answered on the first ring and Striker didn’t even say hello. ‘The university hospital, the Food Systems, or the Applied Sciences buildings – do any of those match?’
Her response was defeating. ‘There would be contaminants,’ she explained. ‘Especially in the dust from the Applied Sciences buildings and the hospital. As for the Food Systems, that would depend on where the dust came from – it’s quite a big facility.’ She turned silent for a moment as she thought it over. ‘Then again, because of the type of machinery involved and the health regulations required, I can’t see the dust coming from there either.’
Striker ground his teeth. There was also the issue of the heat being constant. He closed his eyes. Struggled to calm his thoughts. He felt like an overheated boiler, ready to explode from the growing pressure.
A boiler . . .
And then he realized where.
He snapped his eyes back to the map of the university grounds, but did not see what he was looking for. No icons, no writing.
But it was there. He knew it. That one place out west, on the university grounds, where heat was a constant factor. Where no one would ever find Oliver. And where the dust he tracked would have no telltale impurities within it.
A place where it was always hot and humid. A place where the pipes could reach a hundred and eight degrees Celsius.
He stood up and met Felicia’s stare.
‘He’s in the steam tunnels.’
One Hundred and Forty-Three
Harry drove towards the southwest section of Vancouver. The more he thought about his situation, the more he realized there was but one way out. In order for his family to have any hope of a peaceful future, it was going to require a violent present.
When he reached the Marpole district, the GPS icon on his tracking display was a steady red colour. It told him that Striker and Felicia were in the 4400 block of Camosun Street. Just across from St Patrick’s High School. They were stationary.
By the time Harry had reached 41st Avenue and started westward, the icon was flashing.
Striker and Felicia were on the move.
He pulled over for a moment and watched the red icon move past the school and down Imperial Drive. Soon the car was racing west, out towards the university grounds, at speeds of one hundred and forty K.
Three times the speed limit.
Harry watched the icon race into the centre of the campus and stop in the middle of the Thunderbird thoroughfare. Speed equalled zero. He sat there anxiously, waiting for them to move again; when they did not, he put the car in Drive and headed for UBC.
Something important was happening.
One Hundred and Forty-Four
The steam tunnels of UBC had long been a place of urban legend among the campus populace. Tales of students making it into the secret entrance were abundant, as were the horror stories of those who had entered and never come out again. Some writings even claimed that there was a serial killer lurking below the streets.
Most of it was g
obbledygook, but the fact was the tunnels did exist. The University of British Columbia, being one of the few remaining steam networks left in North America, still used the terribly inefficient system to pipe in heat from the steam plant to all the old dorm buildings and the administrative offices the university owned.
For anyone who had access to Google – and the knowledge of where to look – the main entrance was no secret.
While Striker waited for UBC maintenance staff to answer his call, Felicia found the information they needed on the Internet. She lowered her phone and stopped walking down Thunderbird Avenue. She turned to talk to him.
‘Okay, there’s a few entrances,’ she said. ‘Three are somewhat hidden and off the track, but the main one is just ahead.’ She pointed to what appeared to be a rather large manhole cover that sat less than twenty feet off the main drive, in a square recess of concrete. ‘That’s it right there.’
Striker grabbed a tyre iron from the cruiser and neared the manhole. He looked down. The lid was seated properly, fitting snugly into its receptacle, and there were no signs of tampering. He jammed the tyre iron in between the rim of the cover and the manhole receptacle and applied some pressure. The round plate of steel gave a little and, seconds later, lifted altogether.
Striker removed it.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Where they went.’
‘There are other entry points,’ Felicia started, but Striker cut her off.
‘No. You don’t understand. These covers are normally locked. We should never have even been able to get in here . . . Someone went in before us, and it sure as hell wasn’t a maintenance man.’
Felicia looked into the hole. Everything below was a sea of darkness. ‘Maybe we should call in the Emergency Response Team.’
Striker shook his head. ‘They show up and this entire thing is over.’
‘He might have bombs down there, Jacob.’
‘Might nothing – you can damn well bet on it. And he’ll set them off the moment he sees ERT.’ Striker drew his pistol and double-checked that the magazine was secure. ‘I’ll go in alone.’
‘Don’t be an ass.’ Felicia drew her own piece.
Striker didn’t respond. He just swung his leg into the hole, stepped on the first rung of the ladder, and climbed down into the murky darkness below. Seconds later, Felicia followed him.
They were in.
One Hundred and Forty-Five
Having no access to night-vision goggles, Striker and Felicia were left peering through a crimson darkness. The underground was a series of long cement tubes, running north and south and east from their location. All along the top of the tunnels, a series of red lights dimly illuminated the way.
Striker took out his flashlight and shone it in all three directions. Within twenty feet, the way south led to a gated door that was locked. That left them with two options. He shone his flashlight on the ground, scanning the area for footprints in the dust. As he did so, Felicia let out an excited sound.
‘Look here,’ she said.
Striker did. Mounted on the wall was a strange-looking sensor, obviously new. It was blinking every so often – a deep red light.
‘What the hell is that?’ he said.
‘Looks like part of a relay system,’ Felicia said. She looked down the tunnel and then above them. ‘We’re underground and this is thick cement. Oliver probably can’t get a signal down here without one. He’d need it for any type of radio communications or Internet devices.’
‘Or to trigger a bomb,’ Striker said.
He looked around further.
On the side of the wall, running down the entire stretch of tunnel, were two large red pipes and two large blue pipes. They were hot – Striker could feel heat radiating off them – and they were covered in a thin film of dust. In the dimness of the tunnel, it was difficult to tell if it was the same kind of dust found at the crime scenes, but as Striker analysed it, something else caught his eye.
A long scratch mark ran down the entire length of pipe. It had been ground right into the red paint and gave off a silver gleam from the metal below.
‘Check it out. Looks fresh. Rothschild’s police knife maybe.’
Felicia noticed the scratch. ‘Or Oliver leading the way. Believe me, he knows we’re coming, Jacob.’
‘I know that. But what choice do we have?’
Striker began following the scratch down the eastern tunnel. Within thirty feet, the passage angled left, then after another ten feet, left again. Before Striker knew it, he had no idea which way they were heading. The place was a giant underground labyrinth, and it was getting progressively hotter with every step. When they turned another corner, Striker lost his balance and put out his hand. It touched the red pipe next to them, and he pulled it away fast.
‘Fucking hot,’ he said.
Felicia said nothing; she just listened. There was a rushing sound in the tunnel. A soft but constant rumble.
‘That’s the steam in the pipes,’ she said. ‘You can imagine the pressure.’
Striker looked at the pipes for a long moment. ‘If Oliver sets off a bomb down here, we’re gonna be like lobsters in a pot.’ He took out his cell phone and tried to get a signal. When it failed, he cursed. ‘I thought he had relays down here?’
Felicia just shrugged like she had no idea.
Striker turned to face her. ‘You have to go back.’
‘What?’ She gave him a stunned look. ‘Without you? No way.’
‘There’s no choice. If Oliver blows us up down here, we’ll cook to death, Feleesh. You, me, Rothschild – the kids. You got to get that steam turned off, and as fast as you can.’
‘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 tunnel.
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 tunnel.
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 tunnel – red crimson beams slicing through the blackness. Striker’s first thought was of the laser tripwires he’d triggered in the sewer systems behind the A&W parking lot.
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, scanning the floor for tripwires or pressure pads. When he saw none, he slowly, cautiously, made his way down the corridor, stepping over and ducking under each crimson beam in his path.
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 tunnels brought a sick feeling to Striker’s stomach. With the combination of darkness, locked doors, laser tripwires, and the never-ending maze, escape from the steam tunnels would be impossible.
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 scanned the man up and down. Oliver’s right fist was closed tight. In it was a small rectangular clip of some kind.
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.’