Like a flag-person.
The man raced across the lot, firing at Striker as he came. Quick double-taps.
Striker dropped down and hit the ground as the shots rang out. One-two, three-four. They ricocheted throughout the foyer. Clattered off tile and steel. Shattered more glass. And caused the remaining customers to wail and scream in terror.
In the parking lot, Harry returned fire.
Striker needed cover. He rolled onto his belly. Tried to lift his head above the window partition and engage the enemy. But it was impossible – bullets continued to spear through the restaurant in a constant stream of suppressive fire.
Five-six, seven-eight.
He was pinned down. Unable to reposition.
Couldn’t get a shot off.
And then he spotted Felicia. He had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been there. But suddenly she was at the broken remains of the northeast window, using the wall as cover and emptying her clip on their enemies.
Her unexpected presence changed the firefight, forcing the enemy to reposition. They slid in behind one of the lot’s cement parking barriers and returned fire – though now on Felicia. Two streams of bullets punched through the window like sideways rain.
‘Down!’ Striker yelled. ‘Everyone stay DOWN!’ Felicia dropped low and rolled for cover as more glass shattered all around her; Striker seized the moment. He rolled out. Extended his arms. Took aim. And returned fire.
Two shots, one hit.
And the man in the orange work vest let out a surprised cry. He stumbled backwards. Fell. Landed on his ass. And still, he kept firing – one constant, steady rhythm of gunfire, with each bullet plunking into the wall behind Striker.
Again, Striker rolled for cover.
And then, as quickly as the gun battle had started, it ended.
And there was only silence.
Striker looked at Felicia. Saw blood on her hand.
‘You hit?’ he asked.
‘Just glass. Go.’
Striker clambered to his feet. Peered out from cover. Scanned the parking lot.
Out there, the police cruiser was in flames, and Harry was on his hands and knees, struggling to cross the lot. Disoriented, Harry took aim and tried to get a shot off. But before he could so much as pull the trigger, one of the shooters lined him up and fired.
The bullet hit him square on.
Harry let out a cry and crumpled to the ground.
Striker ran to assist him.
He took hold of Harry, saw that the kevlar vest had saved him by taking the round, and dragged him back to the paltry cover of the A&W restaurant while Felicia provided cover. Once inside, Striker spotted his portable in the debris. He snatched the radio up, stuffed it into his jacket, and raced back outside. With his equilibrium slowly returning, he made it to the far end of the parking lot where there was a five-foot-high concrete wall.
Felicia caught up and they both looked over the wall.
Below, the laneway was empty. Straight ahead to the north, the lot that had once been the used car dealership also appeared vacant. So was the road to the east. When Striker looked west – towards the crime scene where the dead body of Sleeves still lay behind the Hing-Woo – all he saw was the red and blue gleam of police lights. As quickly as the gun battle had begun, it was now over.
Their enemies had vanished.
Eighty-Four
‘Where the hell did they go?’ Felicia asked.
Striker grabbed his radio, keyed the mike. ‘We got another bomb explosion,’ he said. ‘And shots fired. Two shooters – male and female. Caucasians. Dressed like city workers in reflective vests and overalls. Last seen running south from the A&W parking lot on Hastings.’
He took a moment to get his breath.
‘Should I call in ERT?’ the Dispatcher asked.
‘Yes,’ Striker replied. ‘And a dog. And some ambulances to the restaurant, Code 3. Casualties unknown.’
Striker let go of the mike and scanned the area to the south one more time. There was nothing. The two shooters had just plain disappeared. It made no sense. Pistol in hand, he walked down the off-ramp into the rear lane with Felicia paralleling him. Once his feet touched the pavement, he spotted what he was looking for and pointed:
‘Right there. Blood droplets.’
Felicia nodded. ‘Heading east.’
They followed the trail. Twenty steps later, Striker and Felicia stopped when the blood droplets ended abruptly. Suddenly the suspects’ vanishing act made sense. Striker pressed his mike:
‘They’re using the sewer systems.’
At Striker’s feet was a manhole cover, partially unseated. When he crouched down to look at it, he saw more blood. He looked up at Felicia.
‘Stand back.’
When she got out of the way, he grabbed hold of the rim. He readied his gun. Yanked open the manhole cover. And they both stuck their pistols down into the hole.
Leading down from street level was a series of metal rungs embedded in the cement tube. At the bottom, there was only darkness. Striker broadcast the find and stared into the void below. Images of the two shooters escaping flashed through his mind, and it ate away at him.
He took out his flashlight and readied his pistol.
Felicia saw this and let out a startled sound. ‘Whoa-whoa-whoa – you’re not going down there.’
‘I need to see where they’re going.’
‘Send in a dog first.’
‘The dog’s ten minutes out, they’ll be long gone by then.’
‘So let them go.’
‘I’m not losing them again.’
Before Felicia could object a third time, Striker stepped down on the rung. The metal felt thin and weak under his shoe and the contact made a hollow scuffing sound in the cement tube.
He dropped lower and lower into the darkness.
When his feet touched the bottom, he immediately crouched down low and shone the flashlight in both directions. To the immediate west was a steel door that was padlocked. To the east was a long, narrow passageway that darkened quickly but seemed to turn south at the end.
Striker took one step that way.
Suddenly, a loud whistling sound filled the tunnel. High in pitch. So sharp it hurt his ears. Then a series of red lines shot out all across the path. Some of them were vertical, some horizontal, and some crisscrossed. One look at them and Striker knew exactly what they were:
Laser tripwires.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said and stepped back.
Going down that way would be suicide.
Up above him, Felicia called out a warning. ‘I’m coming down to back you up!’ She stepped on the first rung, but Striker waved her away.
‘No! Don’t come down! Get out – get out now!’
Eighty-Five
Cradling his left arm, not allowing the shoulder joint to move, the bomber stumbled down the long, winding corridors of the sewer system with Molly by his side. The bullet had tagged him. Torn through the upper-left shoulder. And something inside that joint had broken.
He could feel the bones grinding.
‘We got them,’ he said through the haze. ‘We got them both.’
‘Keep moving,’ Molly said.
‘. . . them both . . .’
‘Come on. Leg it. We have to keep moving.’
He looked left at her, and suddenly, she was no longer Molly, but one of his squadmates dragging him across the Green Valley plains. And he was watching his body bleed out.
From somewhere high above him, he could hear the sharp zings of the bullets flying by, and he could feel every ounce of the lead and steel and copper that had torn through his body from the exploding bomb. It was hot – the metal was so goddam hot. He was on fire.