The inside of his body was aflame.
‘My leg,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them take my leg.’
‘No one’s taking your leg.’
‘The doctor . . . don’t let him take—’
Molly shook him. ‘You’re not back there, you’re here. Look at me, look at me!’
And then, suddenly, the world changed again. And the soldier looking back at him was gone. And in the man’s place was Molly. ‘Get up,’ she was saying. ‘You’ve got to get up! Get up! Let me help you. LET ME HELP YOU!’
He struggled back to one knee, then managed to stand. The world tilted on him. The tunnel seemed to be moving in impossible, unnatural circles. Like some demonic carnival ride. And the air was hot. Stuffy. Rank. His shoulder seared with pain. So much so that he feared he’d black out.
But instead of losing consciousness, the reverse happened – a sharp, distinct clarity swept into him. And he laughed out loud because everything was finally okay again.
He was moving.
Seeing action.
Operating.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt completely, undeniably, one hundred per cent wonderful.
He felt alive.
Eighty-Six
It was six-thirty p.m. by the time the bomb tech climbed back out of the manhole. He was a federal cop Striker had never seen before, and a smug look covered his olive-skinned face. In his fingers was an array of pen-like devices.
Striker studied them. ‘They real?’
‘They’re just trips,’ the technician said. ‘No actual explosives down there.’
‘None?’
‘Not a one.’
Striker cursed and closed his eyes in frustration. The thought of the two shooters escaping down the tunnel made his guts tighten.
‘I can’t believe this.’
‘It was a scare tactic. To prevent anyone from following them.’
‘Well, it worked.’
‘Of course, it did. You’d have been a fool to go down there. And don’t go assuming that, next time, the circumstances will be the same – next time they might really be rigged and ready to go.’
Striker tried to hide the bitterness from his voice. ‘Point taken.’
He turned away from the bomb tech for a breath of fresh air. With the tunnel now clear of explosives, the dogman was next to go inside, and behind him went two young constables Striker did not recognize. They started the dog track.
Striker turned away in frustration. It was useless, he knew.
The shooters were long gone.
He approached the bomb tech again and told the man to bag and tag the laser tripwires for forensics. Then he stared at the A&W parking lot, and then at the alley behind the warehouse. Everywhere he looked, it was barely controlled chaos. Two crime scenes. One with the dead body of Sleeves; the other with the dead body of Chad Koda.
Due to the high number of witnesses in the restaurant at the time of the explosion and subsequent gunfight, Inspector Osaka had commandeered a city bus to take them all down to police headquarters for proper interviewing and stress counselling. Over ten detectives had been called out to assist. Victim Services as well.
With the adrenalin fading, everyone was operating on fumes.
Witnesses aside, there were also seven victims of the blast. Each one had been injured by some form of flying shrapnel, and each had been taken to one of several hospitals. Fortunately, none of the wounds were considered critical. There had been no deaths here today.
Other than Sleeves and Koda.
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Inspector Osaka said. His dark eyes were underscored and his white wavy hair was out of place. He approached Striker and shook his head in frustration. ‘You got to get these guys. They’re blowing up the entire city!’
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’
‘Well it’s not good enough! Do better. I got three bomb blasts in my city, an unresolved kidnapping in District 4, and a media frenzy. The public is panicking and so is Laroche – he’s on my ass every second of the day and is threatening to pull me from the road!’
‘We’re doing our best, sir,’ Striker said one more time.
Inspector Osaka let out a long heavy breath. He closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Nodded slowly. ‘Just . . . keep me informed every step of the way.’
Before Striker could respond, the inspector turned away and marched up the road to face the ravenous media horde. Striker watched him go. Inspector Osaka was a good man. But no matter how this thing played out, he was in for a shit storm with his superiors. That was just the way life went in the VPD. All par for the course.
He turned around and got to work.
Ten minutes later, Striker was busy diagramming the scene and trying to figure out timelines when Felicia walked back from the other side of Semlin Drive. She held a bandage against her left hand, where she’d cut herself on the glass, and looked tired.
Striker examined her hand. ‘It gonna need stitches?’
She shook her head. ‘Nah. Sleeves’ body has been taken to the morgue for autopsy. Noodles is processing the scene right now. He’s none too happy.’
Striker didn’t much care if Noodles was happy or not. He was just glad Felicia wasn’t cut too bad. He looked at his diagram, then at the explosion scene, and made sure he had everything right.
In the parking lot, Corporal Summer was busy working on her third bomb in two days. Her young, pretty face looked older and harder than it had the previous day. With so much debris to sort through, she had sent tech requests to all other departments – New Westminster, West Vancouver, Delta, Abbotsford, Port Moody, and to her own Fed bosses with the RCMP. It was necessary. Yellow police tape cordoned off two entire city blocks.
This amount of work was staggering.
Behind the yellow tape of Semlin Drive, Inspector Osaka was busy debriefing the media. He still looked like a Japanese Colonel Sanders, but one that had just finished battle in World War Two. All around him, swarms of reporters and soundmen buzzed: newspaper, radio, TV – the works. As far as they were concerned, the city was under siege and every child’s life was in immediate danger.
Considering the magnitude of this nightmare, Striker thought Osaka was handling himself extremely well.
‘Are you okay, Jacob?’
He blinked. Looked back at Felicia. Saw her staring at him with concern.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re shaking.’
He looked down at himself. Saw it too. ‘Adrenalin dump.’
She touched the side of his face. Turned his chin. Scraped away some crusted blood with her fingernail.
‘Glass or shrapnel?’ she asked softly.
‘I’ll take glass for two hundred.’
He forced a smile, fought to keep it, couldn’t. Thoughts of Chad Koda’s charred body in the car kept resurfacing in his mind. He looked back at the parking lot and a dark sombre feeling overtook him. Whatever problems Koda had brought upon himself, it sure as hell didn’t warrant this.
He turned to Felicia. ‘We need to check out the car bomb.’
She nodded silently.
Together, they walked back to the parking lot. Once at the mouth of the lot, the smouldering mass of steel became more apparent. From it, a thin smoke rose into the air. Not white like before, but greyer in colour. Inside the burned-up shell, the blackened, unidentifiable body of Chad Koda had yet to be removed. A horrible meaty smell filled the air, and Striker wasn’t sure if it was from the burger stand or Chad Koda’s burned-up body.
Felicia covered her mouth.