Striker ignored the man. He took out the shotgun and slammed the trunk of the car. The heavy black steel and rubberized grip felt good in his hands. Like a little piece of heaven. He racked a round, then gave them both a nod.
‘Game on.’
The alleyway was narrow and long.
Striker led them down it, creeping westward slowly. He went first, with Felicia at the rear, bracketing the doctor between them.
Lining the right side of the lane were the back entrances to the numerous small shops that opened up on to East Hastings Street – Bridal Dreams wedding gown and dress shop; Dario’s Italian meats; and the Italian Bakery. Above these shops, along the top floor, were more rented suites. Their extended balconies were perfect spots for a sniper.
‘Watch the balconies,’ Striker told Felicia.
‘Copy,’ she said. ‘I got the balconies.’
They moved on.
To the left, the backsides of houses lined the lane – all the homes from East Pender Street. Each one was a carbon copy of the next. Standard lot. Square back yard. Small unattached garage.
Another perfect place for an ambush.
Striker relaxed his fingers on the shotgun. The black steel of the trigger guard was cold against his skin, but it felt good. Felt like reassurance. Like protection.
They reached the parking lot to Safe Haven Suites.
Striker stopped at the beginning of the fence and used it as concealment. He took the moment to slow down their pace – which was always a good thing in moments like this – and reassess how things might unfold if they got into a gunfight in this area. The key was to never lose control over yourself.
Calmness equalled precision; and smoothness equalled speed.
‘You see his suite?’ Felicia asked from behind.
‘Hold on,’ he said.
Striker leaned around the edge of the fence and studied the parking lot and rear of the building. The lot was small, barely able to hold five or six cars, and the pavement was sloped. Immediately behind the parking lot was a tall wooden fence, the paint chipped and muddied. Rising up out of the fence, dead centre, was an old wooden staircase that led to the upper floors.
Striker pointed to the top, west side.
‘That should be Billy’s unit.’
‘But he’s unit 103,’ Felicia said. ‘Shouldn’t that be the ground floor?’
Striker nodded. ‘Should be, but it isn’t here. This entire place is ass-backwards.’ He glanced at Dr Ostermann. The man’s face was white, tense. His breathing was too fast. ‘You ever been here for a home visit?’
Dr Ostermann shook his head. ‘No, never. I always saw Billy at the clinic. And, of course, at Riverglen.’
Striker frowned. He had been hoping for a layout of the suite. Not knowing was never good. For a moment he considered looking at one of the other suites – this was always good practice in apartment blocks where, floor after floor, the layout was the same – but he soon killed that idea. Safe Haven Suites was too much of a mishmash. It wouldn’t help.
Like it or not, they’d be going in blind.
Before moving in, Striker took one last look at the buildings flanking Safe Haven – at the empty balconies and then at the open garages. He saw no signs of threat, but that didn’t alleviate his concern. He didn’t like the idea of climbing the staircase before clearing the yards – it left them clustered together and in the open.
Completely unprotected.
‘I’ll do it myself,’ he finally said.
Felicia shook her head. ‘What? No way – you need cover.’
‘You can cover me from down here.’
‘And what if he comes barging out up there?’
‘Then he’ll have two targets to shoot at instead of one. If we’re all bunched up together he can mow us down with a single shot.’
Felicia still didn’t like the idea. ‘Let’s wait for a dog,’ she said.
But Striker shook his head. ‘They’re both out tracking him now.’
‘Then let’s get more units here.’
Striker felt his frustration growing. ‘There are no units, Feleesh. They’re already all taken up with containment and the crime scene and transport. The only other units are the ones coming from South Burnaby, and I’m not waiting for them to arrive. The longer this takes, the more chance we have of losing him. Billy’s too dangerous for that. We can’t let him escape again.’
‘Jacob—’
‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Cover me – from down here.’
He purposely avoided her stare and left his position of concealment.
The parking lot was empty for the most; just a single fourdoor Toyota Tercel in the first stall and a plain white van in the far one. Both were older models. Late eighties or early nineties. Junk.
Keeping the shotgun at the low-ready, Striker moved up to the Toyota. All the windows were clear, and there didn’t appear to be anyone inside. He tried to lift the trunk, failed, then moved on to the white van. When he got near it, he slowed his pace. There were no rear windows in the van. Just a pair of solid rear doors and one sliding side door, which faced the building. Striker tried them all, found them locked, and moved on.
When he reached the bottom of the stairway, he climbed up to the first turn and scanned the yards to the right and left. They were barren. Just empty slabs of patio concrete.
Seeing they were clear, he moved up to the next level. The stairs were old, made of wood, and they creaked loudly beneath his feet. Each groan of wood felt like someone screaming out a warning to those above, and it made Striker’s guts tighten.
Still he continued. He’d turned the next bend, made it to the second floor of the building, and started for the third. He’d barely put his foot on the next step when the shot rang out – a sharp, hard crrAACK! in the cold winter air. But it wasn’t coming from the apartment above, it was coming from street level.
The garages behind them.
‘Gun! Gun! GUN!’ Felicia screamed.
Striker spun around and raised the shotgun. In one fleeting moment, he saw it alclass="underline"
From the garage directly across the lane, Billy Mercury came sprinting out of the darkness. His face was twisted. His mouth open and screaming. And he was firing as he came: Ka-POW! Ka-POW! Ka-POW!
But not at him.
At Felicia.
The first shot flew past her and slammed into the fence, sending splinters of one-by-six cedar flying in all directions. The second bullet hit the cement by her feet, sending chunks of concrete exploding into the parking lot.
Dr Ostermann screamed out in horror and dropped to the ground, covering his head with his hands; Felicia got moving. She got into a twenty-foot gun battle with the man—
And she lost.
The third bullet Billy Mercury shot took her square on. It knocked her back off her feet. Sent her reeling on to the pavement behind her. Left her helpless.
‘BILLY!’ Striker screamed.
Without aiming, Striker fired from the hip – a diversionary shot to distract Billy from Felicia. He then raced back down the steps, racking and firing as he went.
Billy Mercury didn’t so much as move. He stood there, out in the open, and returned fire. Bullets rained through the staircase above and below Striker, some of them shredding the wood, others plunking heavily into the stucco walls behind him.
Striker reached the first turn of the stairway. Stopped. Took quick aim.
And blasted off a shot.
A loud thunderous BOOM! filled the air, and double-odd buck exploded across the lane. Part of the spray took Billy Mercury in the legs. He spun around like a yanked puppet. The gun flew from his fingers, and he dropped forward on to the pavement.
Striker leaped off the staircase and landed on the concrete below. Gun still aimed, he raced across the parking lot to the far corner, where he used the white van for cover.
Already Billy had crawled to the gun. Reached it.
Striker took aim on the man. ‘DON’T DO IT, BILLY!’
But it was too late.