The survivor

Ninety-Six

Striker had no idea how many minutes had passed by the time he’d made it back to Commercial Drive. His head felt clouded; his senses distorted. Already there were police cars everywhere. One cop guarded the dead van driver who had been dumped on the west side of Grandview Park. Another cop took custody of a deceased girl Shen Sun had shot near the front of the stage. And one was parked in front of Turk’s Coffee Shop, where a paramedic was patching up Felicia.

Striker hurried up the Drive, red and blue flashes of police lights reflecting off the lingering smoke. The strip was now deserted. As he neared Felicia’s side, she pushed past the paramedic and stumbled up to him. She stopped at an arm’s length, a question in her eyes.

‘He got away,’ Striker said. ‘With the girls.’

‘Did you see what he was-’

‘A white Hobbes Meats truck. Already broadcast it.’ The words fell oddly from his lips, sounding hollow, forced. He felt like a dam full of holes, ready to crumble at any second. When he spoke again, he fought to maintain control of his emotions. ‘They could be anywhere.’

‘Let’s go back to the car — we’ll find them.’

Striker looked at her face, saw the dried blood on her chin and neck, the swollenness of her jaw. He nodded, and they turned north on Commercial. They’d barely gone ten steps when his BlackBerry vibrated against his hip. He lifted it so he could read the call display, and felt a stab of electric fear and hope in his heart when he read the name: Courtney.

He picked up fast. ‘Hello?’

The voice that replied was masculine, clipped, and brief: ‘Ironworkers Bridge. Halfway.’

‘Shen Sun?’

‘Block traffic at both ends of bridge. And come alone, Gwailo. Otherwise, both die.’ The line went dead.

Striker stood there, dumbfounded for a moment, then turned to look at Felicia, who had heard every word.

‘He wants you alone on the bridge? What, does he think you’re out of your mind?’

‘I’m going.’

‘Jacob, you can’t-’

‘I have to, Felicia. Why do you think he called? He could have escaped by now, but he didn’t. It’s no longer about the theft or the murders or the position he was promised — it’s about him and me now. I’m what he wants.’

‘Just stop for a second. Slow down. Think about this. It’s what he wants, Jacob. Jesus, at least wait for a sharpshooter.’

‘There’s no time.’

She grabbed his arm, got in his face. ‘Jacob, it’s suicide.’

Striker pulled away. ‘He’s got Courtney, Felicia. He’s got my little girl.’

Before she could respond, he marched back to the police car, thinking over the words Shen Sun had spoken. The orders were clear. Meet halfway across the bridge. Shut down the bridge at both ends. Those two sentences alone told Striker everything he needed to know about the situation. A negotiator would be of no use.

Nothing would be.

Shen Sun wasn’t planning on surviving the night.