He needed every advantage he could get.
Out of habit, he ejected the magazine from his SIG and unloaded the bullets. He checked each round for irregularities. When he found none, he reloaded the SIG and shoved it back into its holster.
He thought of Courtney. And like he had done a hundred times this week, he took out his cell and dialled long distance to Ireland. The connection took so long he thought the line had been dropped, but then it rang. Once, twice, and then a third time. On the fourth ring, the call was picked up.
‘Dad!’ she said.
Her voice did something to him, choked him up a little, and he had to take in a deep breath. ‘Hey, Pumpkin. How’s the trip going?’
‘Freakin’ awesome . . . but I miss you though.’
‘I miss you too.’ He thought of her spinal injury, and frowned. ‘You keeping up your exercises?’
‘My Kegels? Yeah, I do them every day.’
‘Very funny.’
She laughed out loud. ‘What time is it there anyway?’
‘Two in the morning.’
‘You should be in bed. Are you eating well? Felicia better be taking good care of you.’
‘She feeds me bacon cheeseburgers twice a day and took out extra life insurance on me. So it must be love.’
‘I’m serious, Dad. Eat well. Food is medicine, right?’
Striker smiled at her concern. Ever since he had lost Amanda, Courtney had taken on opposing roles – half filled with teenage angst, half filled with motherly concern. She’d been through a lot these last few years – too much for a sixteen-year-old girl – and despite his grumblings, Striker was glad that she had met Tate. And glad that Tate and his parents had taken her away for a while.
The break would do Courtney good.
‘I tasted real Guinness for the first time,’ she said. ‘And I loved it.’
So did your mother, he thought. It was her favourite drink.
‘You’re underage, Pumpkin.’
‘Not here – so long as I order it with food.’
‘Just don’t go crazy.’
Courtney prattled on about how she was enjoying the trip. Striker listened to every word. She told him about the Cliffs of Moher, the Lakes of Killarney, and Dublin city. And all the while, Striker wished he could reach out across the distance and hug her through the phone.
Feeling a little more cheery, Striker stole another beer from the fridge as Courtney filled him in on the famed O’Connell Street. Bottle in hand, he exited the kitchen and wandered onto the back porch. Three steps later, he stopped hard.
The motion detector light did not activate.
Striker waved his hand in front of the sensor. When nothing happened, he reached over, grabbed the light bulb and turned it. The connection was secure, but the bulb did not light up. He ran his finger along the motion sensor and felt a thin strip of something. He pulled it off and found himself holding a black piece of electrician’s tape.
‘. . . and then we went to St Patrick’s Cathedral!’ Courtney said.
‘Gotta go, Pumpkin,’ he said softly. ‘I love you.’
He abruptly ended the phone call and put his beer down on the porch railing. He drew his pistol, scanned the backyard, saw nothing. He dialled Dispatch and asked them to raise the rear guard of his protection team. Ten seconds later, the response chilled him:
‘He’s not answering.’
‘What about the rest of the team?’
‘They’re still accounted for.’
Striker thought of their positions. None were near the backyard. ‘Keep trying on the rear guard. Tell the others to be on high alert. Something’s wrong here.’
When the Dispatcher said she would, Striker shoved the cell back into his pocket. For a moment he considered retreating inside and waiting for cover. But the thought of losing the bombers again was too much. He started down the porch steps and heard Felicia’s voice behind him. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Motion detector’s been deactivated – you got your piece?’
‘Of course. I got you covered.’
Striker nodded, never taking his eyes off the yard. He moved down the back steps onto the concrete patio and stopped at the edge of the house. Using the corner for cover, he looked down the walkway between the houses and saw no one there.
‘Clear,’ he whispered. ‘Watch back and left; I got front and right.’
‘Copy, I got back and left.’
Striker moved forward along the cement path that led across the backyard, all the way to the fence and garage. As he went, he strained his ears for any indicating sounds, but aside from the gentle hush of the warm summer wind, the night was quiet and still.
He reached the garage. Stopped. Looked in through the glass.
Everything was black because a shade had been pulled down over the window.
He reached out. Gently wrapped his fingers around the doorknob. Turned. And slowly opened the door.
Inside the garage, everything was dark. But one thing became immediately obvious. The front hood of the Cougar was up.
Striker held up a hand to get Felicia’s attention. Then he readied his pistol and turned on his flashlight.
In a quick burst of illumination, the centre of the garage was suddenly lit up and exposed. The air was oily and musty, and the window on the far side of the room had also been covered with black plastic. The Cougar, sitting with its hood lifted, was parked ass-end in. As a result, it occupied both parking stalls.
On the ground, by the front tyre, was an array of tools – a wrench, a screwdriver, a pair of vice grips, and some wire-cutters. Also there was a small handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie.
But all that was background to what sat in front of it – a small white doll dressed in a policeman’s uniform. It had a big red number 1 painted on its chest, and the sight of it told Striker all he needed to know:
The bomber was here.
‘Cover left!’ he ordered Felicia.
Striker swung right, taking quick aim, and within seconds saw the shape of a woman scampering on the ground. She was wearing a pair of dark overalls and had her hair pulled back into a short ponytail. When Striker saw her face, there was no doubt in his mind. This was the woman he had been searching for – the same one who’d been shooting at him back in the A&W parking lot.
Bomber number 2.
Molly Howell.
He took aim. ‘Vancouver Police – don’t move!’
The woman said nothing. She gave no response, verbal or otherwise. She simply looked up at him, her face filled not only with shock, but cold calculation. Her eyes flitted from Striker to the area behind the car – as if searching for Felicia. When they turned back again, they dipped down and left.
‘It’s over,’ Striker started to say.
But before he could finish, Molly dove across the pavement.
Striker darted to the side, avoiding her attack. But then, in one horrific moment, he realized that she wasn’t jumping at him – she was jumping beside him.
For the detonator.
He levelled the gun, took aim, and opened fire. Three shots. All direct hits.
Two to the body, one to the face.
And Molly Howell – criminal to some; decorated war hero to all – collapsed. She flopped over sideways and landed in a tangled position with both legs twisted beneath her body. Her dull brown eyes remained open and lifeless.
It was over for her.
Molly Howell was dead.
One Hundred and Twenty-Seven
Oliver lay on the cot and felt sweat dripping off his body. An ache ran through him like a hot liquid in his bones, radiating from his neck all the way down to his tailbone.
He was in the dark greyness of the command room. He knew this. But he kept finding himself back there again. In the Green Zone. And it was happening – it was happening all over again.