‘They didn’t,’ Ibarra replied. ‘The evidence was never there. But everyone knew who did it – the Satan’s Prowlers. Who else would it be? They were the only ones fighting with the Renegades back then. And the Prowlers had just the guy to do it – Sleeves.’
‘But why him?’ Felicia asked.
Ibarra looked at her like she was nuts.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘Sleeves is an explosives expert.’
Sixty-Six
It was the bomber’s suggestion they split up.
He and Molly needed certain ingredients to begin the cooking process, and buying too large a quantity of these particular products would bring unwanted attention. As a result, he decided to hit the sporting goods stores and camping supply warehouses while Molly went to the local hardware shops and pharmacies.
Now, as he walked down the aisle of Henan’s Sporting Goods store, the PA system droned on through static-filled speakers:
. . . and please be sure to take notice of our centre aisle today, Shoppers, where we have many reduced prices on all your sporting necessities . . .
The clerk on the microphone had a strong guttural sound to his voice. It washed over the bomber insidiously and submerged him in the past. And suddenly he was back there in the war again. In Afghanistan. And it was no longer the store manager on the PA system, but one of his men, yelling for him to take cover, Goddammit, TAKE COVER!
His heart raced, his mouth went dry.
How long had it been?
Ten years? Ten months?
Time meant nothing any more.
He stopped walking and closed his eyes. Forced it all out. Focused on the mission, for that was where sanity existed. Peace was hell, and hell was peace. It had been that way for him. Ever since the incident.
Half in this world, half fighting through the past, he floated through the store. Aisle six had the stove supplies, which meant hexamine. And aisle four had a large number of wet-weather fire-starters, which meant magnesium. He loaded up on both, then proceeded to the checkouts.
As he stood there, waiting for his turn at the till, he picked up one of the packages of hexamine. Even though it was wrapped in plastic, the gritty smell always leaked out – that gassy, waxy stink.
He brought it to his nose and sniffed.
At the same time, someone in the lumber section started up a circular saw. Its high-pitched screech of steel slicing through wood filled the air, and a bone-numbing coldness splashed through his body.
Against his wishes, he mind-rioted. Flashed back in time. And suddenly, the doctor was there again. Looking down on him. That tall stork-like figure, telling him There were some unforeseen issues, young man . . . Complications.
And then the nurse with the dark eyes and the paper hat was there too, sticking him with her needles, yelling for the orderlies to Hold him down, Goddammit, HOLD HIM DOWN!
And he was begging for them to stop.
Screaming for them to stop.
No more surgeries!
Please, no more surgeries!
‘NO MORE SURGERIES!’
And suddenly, the image – the recollection – was gone, vanished like his hope had vanished all those years ago. And there was just a young cashier standing there, looking back at him through wide, timid eyes.
‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’
He looked around in bewilderment. The checkout . . . He was standing at the checkout . . .
The checkout.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ he tried. But his throat was tight and dry and felt like it was bleeding. All that came out was a croak.
He opened his wallet. ‘How . . . how much?’
‘Uh, one hundred and seventy-nine dollars. Even.’
He dropped four fifties on the counter – cash, always cash – grabbed his bag of supplies and retreated from the store. In behind him, that god-awful scream of the circular saw continued. Sawing, grinding, chunking through the wood like it was bone.
‘Your change, sir. Your change.’
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t care.
Wasn’t listening.
He just needed to get away from there as quickly as possible. Before the past returned once more.
Before another memory swallowed him whole.
Sixty-Seven
Striker amended the CPIC flag they’d put out earlier to include new warnings:
Threat to Police.
And Explosives Expert.
Once done, he sat back and looked at Felicia. They were at a crossroads now. They had a decision to make – return to performing surveillance on Harry and Koda, or go their own way in locating Sleeves.
Striker spoke his opinion first. ‘I’m getting tired of the cat and mouse game with Harry.’
‘Me too,’ Felicia admitted. ‘But they know this guy better than we do.’
‘That may be true,’ Striker said. ‘But, like us, they have no idea where he’s hiding. I mean, think about it – they were calling Ibarra themselves looking for an address. They’re in the same position we are. Besides, we have them tracked, so we can always follow the GPS’s history later – it’s recorded.’
Felicia remained uncertain, and Striker pressed her:
‘If Harry and Koda find Sleeves before us, we’ll go after them. But right now, this feels like a case of the blind leading the blind.’
Felicia only shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind leaving them so much if we had an idea where we could find Sleeves. But we don’t.’
‘Actually we do.’
Felicia gave Striker a wary look. ‘We do?’
He smiled knowingly.
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
They drove from Cambie Street HQ to the Grandview-Woodlands area, with Striker telling Felicia of his plan. Once there, they parked at the corner of Lakewood and Dundas, in a partially hidden lane. From here, the car was almost invisible from the main drive, and yet the entrance to Roebuck’s Convenience Store was in plain view. Striker knew the store well; it had been robbed a dozen times over the years, and it was a common area for low-end drug deals to occur.
Which was why they were there.
‘So we’re looking for Lucky Eddie,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘Today, he will be Unlucky Eddie.’
She let out a small laugh. ‘Why him?’
‘He’ll lead us to Sleeves.’
‘I still don’t see how.’
Striker explained: ‘Because District 2 is almost entirely crack cocaine based. Not many dealers here sell meth. And the few who do sure as hell can’t afford to buy it in large quantities. But Lucky Eddie can.’
Felicia followed the logic. ‘And you’re thinking Eddie’s wholesaler will be Sleeves?’
‘I’m betting on it.’
Felicia nodded. ‘One problem though. Meth may not be the drug of choice in District 2, but it’s rampant in the downtown core. I can list dozens of dealers who are able to buy large quantities down there. So maybe Sleeves is selling there too.’
Striker shook his head. ‘No way. Anyone selling meth in District 1 has to buy their drugs off one of the groups affiliated with the Satan’s Prowlers – and that can’t happen here. Sleeves has been cut loose by the gang. And even he’s not stupid enough to be selling in Prowler territory. It would expedite his death sentence. And besides that, he doesn’t need to. He can lie low here and still make a profit.’
Felicia continued poking holes in the theory. ‘Granted. But they also sell tons of meth in District 3.’
Striker nodded. ‘An area which is controlled by the Seven Nations Gang, the Chinese Scorpions and the Viets. Sure, Sleeves could be selling there too. But if he was, do you think the other gangs would put up with it? – some punk who’d been excommunicated from the Prowlers selling in their area?’