‘Oliver—’
‘I believe in dust and bones.’
‘There’s still a way out of this, Oliver. A way to make things right.’
But Oliver shook his head. ‘You’re a good man, Detective. I can see that now. I’m glad I never killed you . . . But you’re wrong about everything.’
‘Oliver—’
‘You’re wrong.’
One Hundred and Forty-Nine
Striker studied the man sitting on the table across the room from him. Oliver was fading now. Spitting out gibberish. Swaying. Sagging. Ready to collapse.
Striker looked at the detonator in his hand.
Too far.
It was too far.
He tried to rouse the man: ‘The children, Oliver – where are the children?’
But Oliver offered no answer.
To Striker’s left, Rothschild let out a moan, and a grating sound filled the room as his handcuffs slid against the steel pipe. Striker turned his eyes from Rothschild to the steel maintenance door, then back to the pressure-release in Oliver’s hand. If he could reach Oliver in time, he could grab the man’s hands and maintain the pressure . . . but there was thirty feet of distance between the men.
A lot of ground to cover.
Striker watched Oliver swaying on the table. When the man closed his eyes, Striker edged closer.
‘I got him!’ a voice suddenly said.
Striker was startled by the sound; he looked back towards the entrance of the room and saw Harry. Even in the strange red hue of the command room, it was obvious that the man’s face was tight. His gun was drawn – aimed at Oliver.
‘I got him,’ he said again.
‘Harry, no, he’s holding a detonator—’
But it was too late.
The gun fired. Two loud explosions thundered through the room and the left side of Oliver’s chest burst open. He jerked, lilted, rolled off the steel table and landed on the ground. Even as he fell, Striker raced towards him. Reached out for the pressure-release pad. But there was too much distance to cover.
The detonator had been released.
One Hundred and Fifty
Ten seconds. It was all they had.
A dozen thoughts raced through Striker’s mind: the amount of explosives strapped to Oliver’s chest; the hot steam powering through the steel pipes around them; the tripwires set up in the tunnels beyond; Rothschild handcuffed to the pipes beside him; and the children – where were the children?
He grabbed the steel maintenance door. Slid open the latch.
Nine seconds.
Yanked open the door and felt his heart drop.
No children inside.
Just supply boxes. Stacks of pipes. Some chairs. A panel of levers at the end.
Eight seconds.
Striker spun around, raced back into the room.
Seven.
Rothschild was conscious now, screaming: ‘My kids – find my kids, Striker! Get my kids out of here!’
Six.
Striker ran over to Oliver. Grabbed him roughly. And suddenly Harry was there beside him.
Five.
They dragged the dead bomber into the maintenance room.
Four.
Dumped him behind the column of supply boxes and steel pipes.
Three.
Leaped from the room. Slammed the door behind them. Slid the latch.
Two.
They grabbed the steel table. Flipped it over.
One.
Yanked the table in front of Rothschild. Started to drop down behind it.
Zero.
The bomb went off – a vicious explosion raged through the room, sounding like a locomotive powering through a mountain tunnel. One moment, Striker could see and hear and think; the next there was only darkness and deafness and the air around them was wet and humid and suffocatingly hot.
The pipes, he thought. The steam . . .
It was hissing all around them now.
They were going to cook to death.
One Hundred and Fifty-One
Hot. He was so unbelievably hot.
He was burning up. Couldn’t breathe. And there was blood. He could taste blood. In his mouth, in his throat. And the ringing in his ears was painful – a strange high-pitched whine.
Striker opened his eyes. Saw nothing but darkness.
Closed them again.
When he re-opened them sometime later, white lights were flashing. Hazy beams pierced through the mixture of mist and dust like light-sabres through smoke. The illumination came from the far end of the room, along with voices so soft and distant he could barely hear them.
‘Jacob,’ they sang. ‘. . . Jacob.’
Angels, calling his name.
‘. . . the children,’ he tried to say. ‘. . . find the children . . .’
But nothing would come out.
He felt hands take hold of him. Many hands. And suddenly he was suspended in the air. Floating, flying, his entire body lifting from the ground. He thought of Felicia, thought of Courtney, and how he needed to stay with them. But when the darkness came, fighting it was as useless as trying to stop time. It swallowed him whole, a tidal wave of warmth and blackness. And Striker felt himself go. He was fading into the nothingness now.
Dying.
Becoming dust and bones.
Just like Oliver . . .
Just like Oliver.
EPILOGUE
One
It was almost a full week later when Striker walked down the back alley of Trafalgar Street with a box of doughnuts and muffins in one hand and balancing two large coffees in the other – Timmy’s mediums, double-double.
Cops’ blend.
The sweltering heat wave had slowly soothed out into a softer, gentler balminess, and the soft blue colour of the sky made the mid-morning air feel fresher and brisker than it had been in a long while.
Striker relished the moment – it felt so good to be outdoors. Ever since he had been trapped in the dark depths of the steam tunnels, confined areas bothered him. He’d even been avoiding elevator booths. And the thought of it made him chuckle with self-admonishing thoughts:
I’m turning into Felicia.
He spotted Rothschild’s house. As he neared, he heard the kids playing in the yard, and it filled him with a thankfulness he couldn’t explain. There was a certain grace about children’s laughter. Especially now, after he had been so terribly close to losing them.
He listened to Cody yell out, ‘Don’t touch that, it’s mine!’ and smiled. He stood there, behind the fence, eavesdropping on their conversation, and he knew if he stayed much longer he’d choke up. So he got his feet moving again.
Up ahead the garage door was open. Inside, the hood of the Cougar was up and there were chrome car parts lined up all along the work bench. Rothschild was leaning over the engine, looking down and pretending he had even a modicum of mechanical skill. When Striker was close enough, Rothschild spotted him and nodded.