The survivor

Ninety

Striker waded into the sea of masks. They were all around him. Ninjas covered with head-to-toe blackness. Clowns with sad and angry faces. Superheroes complete with capes and masks. Everywhere he looked it was nothing but hidden face after hidden face. And he knew that Shen Sun could be one of them.

Hiding somewhere amongst the crowd.

The situation couldn’t have been worse. Shen Sun had seen his face twice now, at the Kwan residence and at St Paul’s Hospital. If that wasn’t enough to etch it into the gunman’s memory, Striker’s face had been plastered on every TV screen around the city, twenty-four hours a day, for two straight days. In the end it meant one thing:

If Shen Sun was here in costume, he had the advantage.

‘Just keep moving,’ Felicia said, her voice sounding far away in the din of the crowd, even though she was just a few steps behind.

He nodded and pushed the bad thoughts from his mind. He marched slowly but determinedly through the crowd, focused on the immediacy of their situation.

The air stank — of pot, beer and body odour. Firework smoke saturated everything. And despite the October chill, it was hot and stuffy. Too many bodies were around him, tripping over and banging into each other. The crowds were like little whirlpools, turning this way and that.

‘Courtney!’ he called out. ‘Raine!’ But his voice was barely audible above the constant roar of the crowd. People were yelling and laughing, some dancing in the streets. A half block down, someone set off a series of firecrackers, and the explosions had Striker reaching for his pistol before he realised what they were.

‘Easy, Big Guy,’ Felicia said, and she put her hand against his back to let him know she was there.

When he made it to Grandview Park, he was blocked by an enormous stage, and had to circle round the band as they set up their gear. He grabbed the bass guitarist, a guy dressed up like a modern-day vampire, and asked him if the microphone was working yet.

It wasn’t.

Striker cursed. He left the vampire guitarist and pushed on through the thickening crowd. When he reached the end of the park, he stopped on the corner of Charles Street and turned to wait for Felicia. Her face was tinted by the blue glare of neon stage lighting and her skin was damp with perspiration.

‘This is no good,’ he told her. ‘We got to split up.’

She agreed. ‘They’re probably together.’

‘If you find them, just get them out of here,’ Striker stressed. ‘Away from the crowd. Immediately. Get them down to the station.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Put your cell to vibrate — you’ll never hear it in this crowd.’

Striker did so, then pointed back at Grandview Park. ‘You take north of the stage, all the way down to Venables; I’ll take south and go to First. And if you see them…’

‘Just get them out of here.’

‘Right.’ Striker touched Felicia’s arm, pulled her close so she could hear better. ‘And remember, Raine probably doesn’t know about her mother yet, otherwise she would’ve gone home.’

A sad look crossed Felicia’s face. She loosened her dress jacket so she could access her firearm more quickly. When she looked back up at Striker, there was concern in her eyes. And she gave a quick look at the crowd around them before speaking.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘If this prick wants to attack us, there’s no better place.’

Striker forced a grin. ‘He’s already struck out three times.’

Felicia moved forward. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, pulled him close, and gave him a long, hard kiss.

‘What are you-’

‘Just be careful out here. We have unfinished business, you and I.’ She winked, turned around and set off through the crowd once more.

Three steps later she was swallowed by the masses, and Striker was alone again. He didn’t delay. He spun around and pressed southward along the Drive. Into the endless flow of roaming smoke and angry masks and undulating bodies.

Into chaos.