And that was why he had picked it.
Next to him on the centre console sat a small black Nokia cell phone. It was an old model by today’s standards. No camera. No touch-screen. Hell, no screen at all. No nothing. Just a plainJane model that was pre-paid through a 7-Eleven cash card. It was untraceable. And when the job was done, he would break it into pieces and discard them at the other end of town.
He was always overly careful. He had to be. The results of carelessness could be detrimental.
His legs jittered, and he began to fidget. The waiting was always the hardest part. Especially in a van that stank of old dampness and stale coffee. He looked at the paper cup of old Tim Horton’s decaf in the tray holder – the cup so old the writing had faded. He grabbed it, unrolled the window, and threw it outside.
Cold wind blew into the cab. Hit him like an invisible hand, slapping his skin. Far above, the sun shone almost white. All at once, it hit him, and he was slip . . . slip . . . slipping away. Back in time.
Back to then.
‘No, not now,’ he whispered. ‘Not again.’
His hands started to shake, and all at once he could hear the laughter all around him, as if it was happening right now, right here in the cab of the van. And then the sounds of the snapping started. Those terrible, thunderous crashing sounds.
He reached out, fiddled with the radio, and turned the knob to a station that didn’t exist. Cranked the volume and let the static sound fill his ears. That heavenly, heavenly noise . . .
It overpowered the old ghosts.
For now.
Still sweating, still shaking, he looked down at the cell again. As if sensing his desperation, it finally went off and relief flooded him. Only one person had this number. The Doctor. And so the Adder picked up on the first ring.
‘Yes.’ His voice was rough, weak.
‘He’s coming. There isn’t much time.’
The Adder nodded absently as if the Doctor could see him. ‘I am already here.’
‘Be careful, you can’t be seen.’
‘No one will know.’
The Doctor started to say more, but the Adder couldn’t listen. He hung up the cell and dropped it into the pocket of his black Kangaroo jacket. Zipped the pocket. Then pulled up the hoodie. Fighting the daemons of the past, he shouldered open the door and left the van.
The target suite was to the east, down the snaking, icy slope of Hermon Drive; the Adder knew this because he had already performed his recon of the area, and he had hauled all his gear inside the command room.
‘Those who plan will live; those who don’t life-give.’
An old soldiers’ rhyme. The cadence brought him some comfort. Made him feel an ounce of control in a world where no control existed.
When he reached the west side of the road, at the top of the hill, the Adder moved inside the nearest apartment complex. Hermon Heights was a standard project slum – a dilapidated building, screaming of neglect and falling down all around him. But it was no doubt cheap on rent and, even better, Hermon Heights had no onsite manager.
Inside the slum, the air was just as cold as out. The halls were dim and the walls felt uneven, giving the corridor a slanted feel. In fact, everything felt off-kilter, warped.
Or was that just him?
The Adder walked down the eastern hall of the main floor and opened the door to the last room. Unit 109 was unoccupied, and the residents of the other units were smart enough to leave each other alone.
One of the unwritten rules of the projects.
Once inside, he closed the door behind him, then turned to face the room. Straight ahead was his collection of electronic equipment, already set up and ready to go.
The computer with external drive and signal receptor.
The monitor all hooked up with a colour feed of the target suite.
And, of course, his supplies.
He grabbed the cans of varnish. Four for the job; one for the police. Then he snatched the can of Coke from the table, popped the cap and chugged some down. The sweet caustic liquid burned his throat wonderfully. Outside, the sky was so big and so clear and so icy pale blue. It made the sounds of laughter invade his head once more, and the Adder could feel tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He picked up the screw gun. Gave the trigger a squeeze. And listened to the soft steady whirr of the motor.
He closed his eyes and listened to it for a long moment. Until the laughter faded and he could think again.
It was time to get to work.
Forty-One
They were halfway to Sarah Rose’s address when Felicia gave him a jab.
‘We need to make a pit stop first,’ she said.
‘Where?’
‘Ladies room. Any place.’
Striker was concerned about getting there. ‘Can you hold it?’
‘I wouldn’t ask if I could.’
Striker just nodded. A few blocks later, at the corner of First Avenue and Rupert, he pulled into the Chevron lot. The owners of the gas station were police friendly and gave cops free coffee. More importantly, the bathrooms were normal – clean, tended, and free of black lighting and discarded needles.
Felicia hopped out and ran inside.
As Striker watched her go, he felt his cell buzz against his side. Hoping he was receiving another text or email from Larisa, he immediately pulled out the iPhone and read the screen.
It was an emaiclass="underline"
. . . I saw them first in Afghanistan and Kandahar. In human form. They came in rows, wave after wave of masks.
But I KNEW what they were. The other soldiers may have been blind, but not me. I saw through the shells. And I took them all down. A soldier. An emissary. The HAMMER OF GOD!!!
Then I was, as I am today.
There is only one way to kill a daemon. A goddam Succubus. And that is through the heart.
You’re moving downward. Into the mouth of hell, Hero. Can you kill your daemons?
I know I can mine . . .
The Adder
Striker frowned on reading it. More riddles, more gibberish. Though when compared to the last, more stable message, the sender seemed to be spiralling out of control.
He got on the phone and tried to trace the message. Within seconds, the tech provider told him exactly what he expected to hear – the email was untraceable, most likely sent through an offshore proxy server. Striker nodded absently as he listened to the man. He hung up, called Ich, and the VPD tech said he would look further into it.
Moments later, Felicia returned to the car. She brought with her a pair of gas station sandwiches – egg salad – and a couple of chocolate milks. She dropped a sandwich in Striker’s lap, gave him a quick look and knew something was up.
‘What now?’ she asked.
Striker showed her the message, and she read it through slowly as she tore the wrapper from the sandwich. Striker did the same.
‘Friggin’ creep . . . How did he get your number?’ she asked.
Striker shrugged. ‘Who knows? Probably through the work directory.’
‘But this is your personal phone.’
‘My work phone forwards to my personal one, and the work phone is listed.’
Felicia thought this over, then swore. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘The sooner we get Mercury, the sooner this entire nightmare can end,’ Striker said. ‘But first we have to make sure Sarah Rose is safe.’
He tore a bite out of his sandwich, put the car into Drive and hit the gas. He wanted to get to Sarah Rose’s place. Suddenly, it seemed like they were running out of time.