Felicia ran forward, but Striker hauled her back. Yanked off her jacket. Shoved it into her stomach.

‘Use this!’ he screamed. ‘Over your hair and face!’

She took it and held it over her head, and Striker pushed her forward. In one quick movement, she dived through the doorway and disappeared from view.

Striker did the same. Head down, he tightened his grip on his coat, held his breath, and searched for an inch of blue sky. He saw none, but took his chances anyway, for there was no other option.

He plunged forward into the fiery blackness of the blaze.

Forty-Eight

By the time Striker escaped through the hole in the door and made it past the lawn to the safety of the sidewalk, Felicia was already on the cell, calling for assistance.

Striker turned his eyes from her to the building; the entire front of Sarah Rose’s complex was engulfed. Bright orange flames crawled all over the west side of the building, up the roof, and were now spreading northward towards the next unit.

‘We got to get everyone out of there!’ he said to Felicia.

He raced across the lawn to the next unit and kicked in the door with one try. Felicia ran to the next home and did the same. Once done, he ran around the rest of the building, clearing all the units. By the time he was finished and had returned to the front lawn, the sky above the complex was a mass of black angry churls.

The sting of his hand stole his attention. He looked down and saw red swollen skin. When he tried to contract his fingers, it hurt like hell. It hurt to do nothing. Somehow, somewhere he’d burned it in the fire. Maybe when he’d tried to turn the doorknob.

His gun was empty, and that was never good. So Striker returned to their cruiser, opened the trunk, and got some more ammo from the munitions box. He loaded up all three mags, then gave one to Felicia on the way back.

‘Load up,’ he said.

Off in the distance, the high-pitched wail of fire trucks could be heard, coming from the south. Someone had called in the fire, and Striker was thankful for it.

He looked back and studied the blazing fire, then focused his stare down at the iron-barred window. No hope in hell of reaching the camera now. The entire building was aflame and the camera would undoubtedly be incinerated.

Striker studied the fire. The roof and sides were a bright reddish-yellow hue. But the doorway where he and Felicia had escaped was different from the rest – it was a bright yellowwhite. And the smoke from there was darker than the rest, an oily black colour.

An accelerant had been used. There was no doubt about it.

He took a moment to examine the area. In less than a minute, he found an empty can in the bushes flanking the front walkway. He gloved up, knelt down, and picked it up. Read the label.

Steinman’s Wood Varnish.

The warning label showed a bright red flame and a caption that read: Flammable.

‘Collect this,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘It’s evidence.’

With his hand stinging, he took out his notebook and scribbled down the time and where the can had been found. As he looked back up, he spotted several pods of looky-loos coming out from the projects. Some of them were brave enough to creep out on to the sidewalk, but most of them stayed inside the safety of their own yards to watch the show. The sight of them reminded Striker of the figure he’d seen watching them when they’d first arrived.

He looked across the road to the suite where he had seen the mysterious figure; the drapes were now closed. Odd, since everyone else had come out to see what was going on.

He put away his notebook and started back across the street.

Felicia walked over and looked at him. ‘Where you going?’ she asked.

He barely glanced back. ‘I’m checking something out.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Just stay there, Feleesh. We need to let the bucket-heads know we cleared the other townhomes. Otherwise they’ll head into the fire themselves.’

She looked ready to say more, but Striker didn’t give her the chance. He hightailed it across Hermon Drive towards the apartment where he’d seen the person watching them. At the time, he had deemed him one of the neighbourhood busybodies.

Now he wondered.

Striker drew his pistol and hiked up the small crest of hill, keeping to the side of the suite, out of the line of fire. When he reached the window, he took out his flashlight and shone it through the glass. It was difficult to see. The only area visible was between the hanging drapes, and there were still sheers blocking his view.

He was about to circle the building and try the front door, when he noticed something. The window was open a crack. He reached out, pulled on it, and the window opened fully.

‘Vancouver Police!’ he called. ‘Is anyone inside?’

No answer.

He tried again: ‘Vancouver Police! Is anyone home?’

Again, nothing.

He drew the curtains and sheers aside, and shone the flashlight inside the apartment. Everything there was quiet, and still. The place appeared as vacant as the townhome unit across the road. Keeping his gun aimed into the darkness ahead, Striker climbed inside the window, felt his feet touch the vinyl surface of the floor, and looked around the area.

On the floor by the window was the female end of a long electrical cord. Striker swept the flashlight along it to find the other end. The cord ran all the way to the entrance of the apartment, then under the door into the communal hall. Striker reached out for the light switch. He flicked it on, and nothing happened.

The apartment had no power.

Keeping his gun at the low-ready and his flashlight aimed ahead, he searched the entire apartment, starting with the main room he was in and then finishing with the lone bathroom and bedroom. Both were empty. Anyone who might have been here was now long gone.

Striker opened the front door and peered into the hall. At his feet, the extension cord ran down the wall to an electrical outlet, where it was plugged in. He nodded absently. The room had had no power, and whoever had been in there had obviously needed some.

Why, he wondered.

Thoughts of the camera relay system he had seen flashed through his mind, and made his fingers tighten on the gun. He returned inside the apartment and shone his flashlight all around the front window looking for prints. What he found was a plastic package. He picked it up and read the label.

Wood screws. Ten inchers.

Perfect for mounting steel brackets and beams to a front door.

‘He was right here all along,’ Striker found himself saying. ‘Fuck!’

He looked out of the window and studied the scene across the road. Out there on Hermon Drive, the entire row of townhomes was a mass of flame. Two fire trucks now occupied the block, their red flashing lights as bright as the fire. Felicia was down there, speaking to the Fire Captain and pointing to the series of units they had already cleared.

The captain seemed relieved by this.

Striker turned his eyes past them to the front of Sarah Rose’s apartment. This window was the perfect vantage point. The perfect spot for recon. And Striker began to wonder how the Adder had come across it. Was it by chance? Or was the whole thing planned?

He hoped the former.

But experience told him otherwise.

He looked at the window where he had seen the video camera, tucked down in the lower left corner of the window. That area was now completely engulfed in flame, with two firemen hosing down the wall to no avail.

With his hand stinging and his frustration growing, Striker left the apartment through the window he had come in. Mandy Gill was dead. Sarah Rose was dead. And any evidence inside the townhome was likely lost in the flames.