And they waited.
Not five minutes later, the door to the suite opened and the target emerged. Sleeves looked identical to the description listed in the police database: 175 centimetres and a wiry 80 kilos. With blue eyes and short black hair. He wore torn-up blue jeans and a filthy white hoodie with red blocky script that spelled one word:
SNAFU.
Striker recognized it. It was sarcastic military slang for Situation Normaclass="underline" All Fucked Up. He keyed the radio.
‘Target’s out,’ he said.
Sleeves crept slowly up the back steps, his head snapping left and right like a weasel watching for snakes. With one hand tucked deep under the front of his hoodie, he beelined across the overgrown lawn towards the rear lane. When he stepped past the threshold of the carport, Felicia swung into his path, gun out.
‘Vancouver Police! Don’t move.’
Sleeves startled. Stepped back. Spun about.
Raced for his suite.
Striker cut him off at the door. With all his might, he threw a solid right into the man’s cheek. Felt the snap of the punch all the way into his shoulder. Felt the follow-through. Ended up slamming his fist into the porch post.
Sleeves made no noise. He just jerked left, then collapsed onto his stomach. He tried to roll left, but Striker dropped one knee on the man’s back, pinning him to the ground. The ex-Prowler started to slide his hand down near his waist, and Felicia stuck her gun in his face.
‘Bad move, asshole.’
Sleeves stopped moving. Glared up at her with his hollow blue eyes. ‘Your badge isn’t a shield.’
‘Be quiet,’ Striker said as he cuffed him.
He drove the man’s face into the grass and searched around his waist and torso. After a long moment, he frowned. There was nothing on the man. No baggie filled with paper flaps of meth. No gun, no knife. Not even a canister of pepper spray.
He stood up. Told Sleeves not to move. And neared Felicia.
‘Lucky Eddie screwed us,’ he whispered.
She gave him a questioning look.
‘There’s no way this guy was leaving without a weapon, not when the entire Prowlers gang is after him.’ He thought it over. ‘That triple-eight code we punched in . . . it was the wrong one, I’ll bet. A fucking warning.’
Felicia scowled and looked at Sleeves. The ex-Prowler was looking right back up at her. But his stare looked somehow detached, as if he were not really there. His face was drawn and gaunt. Then he blinked, and it was as if his mind had returned to his body.
‘Take off these cuffs,’ he said.
Striker said nothing. He just walked over, leaned down, and grabbed the man’s arm. When he lifted Sleeves up, the man went easily. He was surprisingly light. But when Striker spun him around for a better look, he could also see that the man had corded muscle on him – thin and taut like guitar strings.
‘Release these cuffs,’ he said again. ‘Or charge me.’
‘I’ll decide when and who I charge,’ Striker replied. He took a long look at the ex-Prowler and saw small cut marks on his face. The one on his right cheek was from where Striker had punched him, but the one on the left looked relatively fresh. Thoughts of the exploding glass from the toy store flooded Striker’s mind.
‘Nice cuts,’ Striker said. ‘You new to shaving or something?’
Sleeves said nothing for a long moment, and when he looked back, his eyes were alert. Full of assessment. ‘You almost broke my jaw,’ he said. ‘I’ll remember this.’
Striker wrote down the time and acted like he didn’t much care.
‘You have nothing,’ Sleeves said.
Felicia spoke next: ‘You got a bench warrant.’
A look of dark amusement flickered on the man’s face, there for a second and then instantly replaced by that distant emptiness. ‘You assaulted me over a traffic ticket? Sounds like a reportable breach of the Police Act to me.’
Striker looked up from his notebook and spoke plainly. ‘There won’t be any reports made to anyone, Sleeves. What’s going to happen is this: you and I are going to cooperate. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. And then, maybe, I won’t throw your ass in jail.’
‘You’re gonna lodge me in jail? For what? Unpaid parking tickets? Go ahead. I’ll pay the fines.’
Striker smiled at the man. ‘It’s not the money you should be worried about, Sleeves, it’s the time.’
‘What time? I’ll be out in an hour.’
‘Exactly. And that gives me plenty of time to call Vicenza Montalba, and for him to then contact some of his business associates. I mean, think about it: they’ll know where you’ll be released, and they’ll know when . . . Suddenly, you’re not too hard to find any more. And from what I hear, Montalba’s not too happy with you.’
Sleeves said nothing. His face remained expressionless, his eyes once again giving a strange detached stare, as if he was no longer there with them, but somewhere else.
Striker leaned closer, looked at the numerous scars on the man’s face and neck. ‘I heard you were using your own product, Sleeves. Probably to cover up the pain. I heard you blew yourself up good a few years back. That true?’
The man said nothing.
Striker made a tsk-tsk sound. ‘Using. That’s a Prowlers no-no, ain’t it, Feleesh?’
She grinned. ‘Almost as much as selling meth after being excommunicated.’
Striker raised a hand in deference. ‘I forgot about that one. That’s an even bigger no-no.’ He turned back to Sleeves. ‘Man, you really like to push the envelope, don’t you? Are you trying to die young?’
For the first time since being taken down, the ex-Prowler met Striker’s stare, and he spoke plainly.
‘I’m not afraid to die.’
He spoke the words so calmly and assuredly that Striker believed the man.
‘Just because you don’t fear death, doesn’t mean you’re stupid enough to throw your life away. So what’s it going to be, Sleeves? Cooperation or a Prowler phone call?’
For a long moment, Sleeves said nothing. He just stood there and stared back, his hollow blue eyes pointed in Striker’s direction, but his thoughts clearly a million miles away. He moved his jaw back and forth, as if trying to get the joint back in place. It made soft clicking sounds.
‘What do you want from me?’ he finally asked.
‘Information,’ Striker replied. ‘Like, what is your connection to Sharise Owens and Keisha Williams?’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Let me refresh your mind. Owens was a doctor. Williams was a toymaker and an accountant. They were both women in their forties. Black.’
‘Never heard of them.’
Striker changed his line of questioning. ‘Harry Eckhart and Chad Koda.’
This time, Sleeves’ eyes filled with recognition – or was it wariness? His jaw tightened and a dark wild look filled his eyes. ‘So that’s what this is about – the explosion at Koda’s house.’
‘So you know about it?’
‘The whole city knows.’
Felicia stepped closer. ‘The whole city may know about it, Sleeves, but you’re the one with a history of bombs.’
‘Wasn’t me.’
‘Like it wasn’t you who set the bomb that killed that little boy back east?’
Sleeves glared back at Felicia and his shoulders bulged as he strained against the handcuffs.
‘Better be calm there,’ Striker warned. ‘And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to tell us where you’ve been the last twenty-four hours. You can start by giving us a list of places and times, then start working on some witnesses who can verify your story.’
Sleeves glanced back towards the house. ‘I was here.’
‘With who?’
For a long moment, Sleeves said nothing. He just stood there with his cold blue eyes focused on nothing. When he finally spoke again, there was an edge to his voice. A controlled anger. ‘Harry and Koda send you?’ he asked.
Striker shook his head. ‘No one sends me.’