‘Yes.’
‘There is no longer an alternative.’
‘No.’
‘Do what must be done.’
‘Yes.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine snapped the cell phone shut and put it away. He looked across the road into the Raymur projects and saw the townhouse address of 533. The man who lived here was Lien Vok Soone — the father of Tran Sang Soone and Shen Sun Soone. Judging by the photographs, he was an old man, short, thin and frail, and from the history in the package, he was the owner of a small convenience store. A simple but honourable man. Another survivor.
It changed nothing.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine was going to kill him first.
And then he would find Shen Sun.
Eighty
Once Striker had identified Red Mask as Shen Sun Soone, the information was sent to every district in every department. His name was flagged on CPIC, meaning the information would be shared not only in Canada, but the rest of the world. Everyone from border patrol to the coast guard was notified, and no less than fifty units were searching possible hideout locations. But so far the search had come up negative.
It made Striker take a different path.
It was five-thirty p.m. with no end in sight when he got on his cell and called up an old acquaintance — the Hall Eleven Fire Chief, Brady Marshall. Years ago, Brady had started his career as a cop before switching to Fire three years in. The hours were better, he had said, and the pay and benefits similar enough. Striker got along well with the man.
Brady answered on the third ring and Striker gave him a quick rundown on the situation, emphasising the Suspicious Circumstance call that had been linked to an Arson call on Pandora Street.
‘You gonna be there a while?’ Striker asked.
‘For this, of course.’
‘Be there in fifteen.’
Striker hung up, and Felicia looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. He offered her nothing and kept thinking over the events that had transpired. Moments later, he pulled out his cell and dialled Courtney’s number.
It went straight to voicemail.
‘She screens her calls one more goddam time, I’m gonna take away her cell.’
Felicia said nothing. It was for the best.
They sped down Hastings Street into the 1700 Block where a McDonald’s was located on the north side. Striker’s stomach growled at the sight, and he detoured. He cut through the Drive-Thru, ordered them a couple of Big Macs, fries and coffees. Five minutes later, they were back on the road, heading for the Fire Department.
Felicia sorted through the bag of fast food, handed Striker a burger. ‘Why Hall Eleven?’
He accepted it, tore off the wrapper. ‘I know the Chief there. Brady Marshall. He’s a good man, and he owes me one.’
Felicia removed her own burger from the bag. ‘How can he help us?’
‘He can give us paper on the Pandora call — the house fire. God knows, we can’t find any reports at the Vancouver Police Department, so we’ll get them from him.’
‘They’ll be different. Less detail. You know how Fire writes things up.’
‘If they have anything, I’ll be happy. They’re all we got.’
Striker ate while driving, careful not to spill anything on his suit. They turned left on Victoria Drive and drove south.
Felicia swallowed a mouthful of burger, grumbling, ‘We should be out there looking for Shen Sun, not visiting Fire Halls.’
Striker put his coffee into the cup-holder. ‘Fifty units are already doing that. What we need now is a good, solid motive. If we can find that, then we’ll be one step closer to solving this thing. All we’ve got right now is a mishmash of theories, none of which come together very well.’ He gave her a questioning look. ‘Unless you can connect it all.’
Felicia shook her head and pulled out her cell phone. She ate her burger and went through her emails; Striker was grateful for the silence. He used the time to down his own food and go over all they had done, making sure they had all their bases covered.
He thought they had. He’d been precise.
Damn near everyone in Operations had been called out. Mandatorily. Both Strike Force Teams were set up on the fly — Team One on a possible location for the Shadow Dragons’ Headquarters, way down in the 4800 block of East Pender; Team Two on the suspected 14K Triad Headquarters up on Kingsway and Kerr. All four Emergency Response Teams were on scene as welclass="underline" Team Blue on Shen Sun’s apartment on Hastings, Team Green at St Patrick’s High School, Team Grey at the Kwan residence, and Team Red at the only other known associated address.
Shen Sun’s father’s place on Raymur Street in the Strathcona Projects.
And that was to say nothing of the Investigative Units. Detectives had been pilfered from every section — Robbery, Assault, even DVACH, the Domestic Violence and Criminal Harassment section. They were sent to assist the gang squads with anything required, no matter how important or trivial the task.
The entire Department was on high alert, as were all the surrounding areas — New Westminster, West Van, Port Moody, Abbotsford and the RCMP. All were geared towards the same goaclass="underline" finding Shen Sun Soone. He was arrestable for murder on multiple counts, and considered the highest level of threat. Flagged as a possible suicide-by-cop, because there was little doubt he intended to have police kill him in a gunfight.
Like leaves caught in a whirlpool, the thoughts circulated in Striker’s head. He drove past First Avenue and the Fire Hall came into view.
Fire Hall Eleven was located on Victoria Drive, just east of Commercial. Situated north of McSpadden Park, it was shrouded by the darkness of the forest overhang. When Striker pulled into the driveway, at just before six o’clock, the only light chasing away the charcoal greyness was that of the car’s headlights and the hall itself.
Striker parked in front of Bay Three and walked inside.
Fire Chief Brady Marshall was dressed in a creased white shirt. He looked like an average guy, five foot ten and maybe two hundred pounds. A bit of a belly. Harsh blue eyes that were partly hidden behind bushy grey eyebrows. He sat behind a large desk that was so clean it looked polished with wax. A half-empty bottle of apricot brandy sat on the desk in front of him.
Striker pointed at it. ‘I thought rum was your drink of choice.’
Brady smiled behind his walrus moustache. ‘It is, and it’s gone.’
‘We’d get fired for that,’ Felicia said.
‘So would we — if anyone knew.’
Brady let out a boisterous laugh and waved Striker and Felicia closer. His cheeks were ruddy, as if he’d been out shovelling snow all day.
‘I got the folder you wanted,’ he said. ‘Though I’ll tell you, it was a bit of work. Thing got filed in the wrong place.’ Brady reached into the drawer, pulled out a thick green file. He met Striker’s eyes, looked truly concerned. ‘Any luck out there?’
‘Yeah, all bad,’ Striker said tiredly. ‘We know the gunman’s identity, but we can’t locate him.’ He stopped talking for a second and looked at Felicia. She was standing there, playing with her phone. She flipped it closed, looked up.
‘This is my partner,’ Striker said. ‘Detective Santos.’
‘My pleasure,’ Brady said. He didn’t stand, but he did reach out and shake her hand.
‘Likewise,’ was all Felicia said.
Then Striker got down to business. ‘So what can you tell me about this Pandora Street fire?’ he asked.
Brady shrugged. ‘Kind of what you’d expect. Typical Suspicious Circumstance call that turned into an Arson. I’ve given the report a quick read. It’s not overly detailed, but it’s not lacking either.’ He flipped through the pages. ‘Why you so interested in this anyway?’
‘I think it’s somehow related.’ Striker circled the desk, looked over Brady’s rounded shoulders. ‘What are the specifics?’
Brady ran his finger down the page. ‘Accelerants were used, which is typical. White gas, most likely.’