The survivor

Forty-Eight

Red Mask felt sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades as he lurked amidst the maple trees of 2301 Trafalgar Street — the Kwan house. It was not a part of the original plan, but here he was nonetheless, trying to manifest order out of chaos. Again.

A light was on inside the living room. He had been watching it for ten minutes. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything. But so far nothing came.

He started for the backyard, then stopped hard when a flicker of movement caught his eye. Inside, a tall woman turned on a television set. She looked part-Asian. Late thirties. Slender in face and toned in body.

Red Mask recognised her. It was Patricia Kwan. Mother of Riku Aiyana.

With his shoulder aching like a bad tooth, he drew his pistol from his waistband and rounded the house. Out back, he cut between a pair of plum trees that flanked the deck, then hiked up the stairs. The porch was old. It screamed of his coming. When he made it to the back door, it was locked. Through the pane he could see that the news was on. Using the noise as cover, he broke the window with the butt of his Glock, then reached through the opening and unlocked the deadbolt.

The door swung open and Red Mask stepped into the kitchen area. He closed the door. Heard the click. Locked the deadbolt.

There would be no escape for those inside.

The kitchen light was off. From the darkness, he spotted Patricia Kwan in the living room. She was watching the TV and stretching. The black spandex she wore clung hungrily to her body; she was more muscular than he had thought.

As Red Mask moved nearer, the broken glass crunched beneath his runners. For a moment, the woman remained oblivious. Then her eyes caught his reflection and she gasped. Spun about. Screamed and raised her arms And Red Mask slammed the butt of his pistol across her face.

Patricia Kwan dropped awkwardly to the ground, colliding with the bureau. She turned over, her eyes unfocused with shock, her face smeared with blood. On the hardwood were three of her teeth. She fought to speak.

‘What — please — what do you want from me?’

‘Where is daughter?’

‘What?’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

Patricia Kwan’s eyes widened, her face paled, and she scrambled backwards.

Red Mask walked after her, controlling her with his presence. Then the room suddenly tilted. A hotness flooded him, and his head was floating, lifting right off his neck.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘You must stop. Escape is forbidden.’

Patricia Kwan dove for the table, and Red Mask finally understood her intentions. She was not trying to escape, she was going for the phone. He reached out to grab her, but was too late; she smacked the emergency dial.

The call went through.

He let out a scream and ripped the phone from the wall.

‘It dialled,’ she said. ‘I got it through.’

He moved closer. ‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan?’

The woman reared, and Red Mask reached for her. His feet bumped into something and he toppled forward. When the gun went off — the thunderous blast of a 40 cal filling the room — he was barely aware that he had shot her.

The room echoed with the explosion.

And there was screaming. She was screaming.

He climbed to his feet. He stepped forward, grabbed Patricia Kwan’s long black ponytail and dragged her into a seated position.

‘Please…’

‘Where is Riku Aiyana Kwan? Tell me where daughter is and she will not suffer; refuse this information and she will have much pain.’

Patricia Kwan started to cry. ‘Please, oh God, please, I’ll do anything — ’

‘Discussion is not permitted.’

He used his arm to wipe the sweat from his eyes, felt the room moving on him again. The infection was bad. Time was running out. He grabbed Patricia’s right hand, slammed it hard on the living room table and splayed her fingers. Then he placed the barrel of the gun in the centre of her palm, grinding the steel muzzle into her flesh. He met her eyes.

‘I ask you one time now, Patricia Kwan.’

‘No — please!’

‘Where — is — Riku — Kwan?’