Striker said nothing. He just stepped back and gave the door a couple of solid kicks, once at the bottom and once in the middle. The door barely budged. He shoved hard at the top, then stepped back, coughing.
Smoke was flowing heavily through the cracks now. Like something liquid. Soon the air around them would be too thick to see anything, and they’d be scrambling in darkness.
Blind.
There was no time.
Striker aimed his gun. ‘The lock! Shoot out the lock!’
Felicia said nothing; she just raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! – rapid fire on the door. She shot all twelve bullets, until she had emptied her entire magazine. Then she reloaded.
Striker did the same, concentrating his fire on the lock and plate. By the time his clip was out of ammo, over twenty-four bullets had punched through the oak. Breaking it. Splintering it apart.
He stepped back and gave the door a few hard kicks. The lock and wooden frame surrounding it broke outwards, but the door remained strong. Intact.
‘Make the hole bigger!’ Striker yelled.
Felicia was already firing before he finished his sentence. She blasted eleven more rounds into the wood, then reloaded her last mag. Striker did the same, then gave the door a few more hard kicks.
This time the entire middle of the door broke outwards.
At first, Striker felt a sense of relief, and Felicia let out a cry. But then smoke billowed through the hole, and the cracking and popping sounds of the fire became amplified.
Flames curved inside the hole of the door.
‘Get back, get back!’ Striker yelled.
The smoke was hot with specks of burning ash. It burned his skin and throat. Made it difficult to see.
Striker grabbed Felicia, pulled her close. ‘The frame!’ he screamed. ‘Shoot six inches above the lock! One spot so we can kick it through. Shoot! ’
Felicia opened fire with her last clip, the explosions of the rounds overpowering the roar of the fire. Striker followed suit, emptying his last magazine.
‘I’m out of ammo!’ Felicia yelled.
Striker said nothing. All in all, they’d put a total of sixty-eight rounds through the door. Trying to weaken one area enough to create a hole and expose the beams behind.
It had to be enough.
He leaped forward and kicked the door with everything he had. The entire structure rattled and something wooden let out a snapping noise.
Felicia began kicking the door, too.
They hit the door again and again and again. Eventually, after what could have been twenty or forty kicks – Striker would never know – something gave way. The door broke outwards and came toppling down with a loud shrieking snap! Striker saw smoke and ash and flame – and a glimpse of blue sky.
Felicia ran forward, but Striker hauled her back. Yanked off her jacket. Shoved it into her stomach.
‘Use this!’ he screamed. ‘Over your hair and face!’
She took it and held it over her head, and Striker pushed her forward. In one quick movement, she dived through the doorway and disappeared from view.
Striker did the same. Head down, he tightened his grip on his coat, held his breath, and searched for an inch of blue sky. He saw none, but took his chances anyway, for there was no other option.
He plunged forward into the fiery blackness of the blaze.
Forty-Eight
By the time Striker escaped through the hole in the door and made it past the lawn to the safety of the sidewalk, Felicia was already on the cell, calling for assistance.
Striker turned his eyes from her to the building; the entire front of Sarah Rose’s complex was engulfed. Bright orange flames crawled all over the west side of the building, up the roof, and were now spreading northward towards the next unit.
‘We got to get everyone out of there!’ he said to Felicia.
He raced across the lawn to the next unit and kicked in the door with one try. Felicia ran to the next home and did the same. Once done, he ran around the rest of the building, clearing all the units. By the time he was finished and had returned to the front lawn, the sky above the complex was a mass of black angry churls.
The sting of his hand stole his attention. He looked down and saw red swollen skin. When he tried to contract his fingers, it hurt like hell. It hurt to do nothing. Somehow, somewhere he’d burned it in the fire. Maybe when he’d tried to turn the doorknob.
His gun was empty, and that was never good. So Striker returned to their cruiser, opened the trunk, and got some more ammo from the munitions box. He loaded up all three mags, then gave one to Felicia on the way back.
‘Load up,’ he said.
Off in the distance, the high-pitched wail of fire trucks could be heard, coming from the south. Someone had called in the fire, and Striker was thankful for it.
He looked back and studied the blazing fire, then focused his stare down at the iron-barred window. No hope in hell of reaching the camera now. The entire building was aflame and the camera would undoubtedly be incinerated.
Striker studied the fire. The roof and sides were a bright reddish-yellow hue. But the doorway where he and Felicia had escaped was different from the rest – it was a bright yellowwhite. And the smoke from there was darker than the rest, an oily black colour.
An accelerant had been used. There was no doubt about it.
He took a moment to examine the area. In less than a minute, he found an empty can in the bushes flanking the front walkway. He gloved up, knelt down, and picked it up. Read the label.
Steinman’s Wood Varnish.
The warning label showed a bright red flame and a caption that read: Flammable.
‘Collect this,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘It’s evidence.’
With his hand stinging, he took out his notebook and scribbled down the time and where the can had been found. As he looked back up, he spotted several pods of looky-loos coming out from the projects. Some of them were brave enough to creep out on to the sidewalk, but most of them stayed inside the safety of their own yards to watch the show. The sight of them reminded Striker of the figure he’d seen watching them when they’d first arrived.
He looked across the road to the suite where he had seen the mysterious figure; the drapes were now closed. Odd, since everyone else had come out to see what was going on.
He put away his notebook and started back across the street.
Felicia walked over and looked at him. ‘Where you going?’ she asked.
He barely glanced back. ‘I’m checking something out.’
‘Jacob—’
‘Just stay there, Feleesh. We need to let the bucket-heads know we cleared the other townhomes. Otherwise they’ll head into the fire themselves.’
She looked ready to say more, but Striker didn’t give her the chance. He hightailed it across Hermon Drive towards the apartment where he’d seen the person watching them. At the time, he had deemed him one of the neighbourhood busybodies.
Now he wondered.
Striker drew his pistol and hiked up the small crest of hill, keeping to the side of the suite, out of the line of fire. When he reached the window, he took out his flashlight and shone it through the glass. It was difficult to see. The only area visible was between the hanging drapes, and there were still sheers blocking his view.
He was about to circle the building and try the front door, when he noticed something. The window was open a crack. He reached out, pulled on it, and the window opened fully.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he called. ‘Is anyone inside?’
No answer.
He tried again: ‘Vancouver Police! Is anyone home?’
Again, nothing.
He drew the curtains and sheers aside, and shone the flashlight inside the apartment. Everything there was quiet, and still. The place appeared as vacant as the townhome unit across the road. Keeping his gun aimed into the darkness ahead, Striker climbed inside the window, felt his feet touch the vinyl surface of the floor, and looked around the area.