Completely unprotected.

‘I’ll do it myself,’ he finally said.

Felicia shook her head. ‘What? No way – you need cover.’

‘You can cover me from down here.’

‘And what if he comes barging out up there?’

‘Then he’ll have two targets to shoot at instead of one. If we’re all bunched up together he can mow us down with a single shot.’

Felicia still didn’t like the idea. ‘Let’s wait for a dog,’ she said.

But Striker shook his head. ‘They’re both out tracking him now.’

‘Then let’s get more units here.’

Striker felt his frustration growing. ‘There are no units, Feleesh. They’re already all taken up with containment and the crime scene and transport. The only other units are the ones coming from South Burnaby, and I’m not waiting for them to arrive. The longer this takes, the more chance we have of losing him. Billy’s too dangerous for that. We can’t let him escape again.’

‘Jacob—’

‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Cover me – from down here.’

He purposely avoided her stare and left his position of concealment.

The parking lot was empty for the most; just a single fourdoor Toyota Tercel in the first stall and a plain white van in the far one. Both were older models. Late eighties or early nineties. Junk.

Keeping the shotgun at the low-ready, Striker moved up to the Toyota. All the windows were clear, and there didn’t appear to be anyone inside. He tried to lift the trunk, failed, then moved on to the white van. When he got near it, he slowed his pace. There were no rear windows in the van. Just a pair of solid rear doors and one sliding side door, which faced the building. Striker tried them all, found them locked, and moved on.

When he reached the bottom of the stairway, he climbed up to the first turn and scanned the yards to the right and left. They were barren. Just empty slabs of patio concrete.

Seeing they were clear, he moved up to the next level. The stairs were old, made of wood, and they creaked loudly beneath his feet. Each groan of wood felt like someone screaming out a warning to those above, and it made Striker’s guts tighten.

Still he continued. He’d turned the next bend, made it to the second floor of the building, and started for the third. He’d barely put his foot on the next step when the shot rang out – a sharp, hard crrAACK! in the cold winter air. But it wasn’t coming from the apartment above, it was coming from street level.

The garages behind them.

‘Gun! Gun! GUN!’ Felicia screamed.

Striker spun around and raised the shotgun. In one fleeting moment, he saw it all:

From the garage directly across the lane, Billy Mercury came sprinting out of the darkness. His face was twisted. His mouth open and screaming. And he was firing as he came: Ka-POW! Ka-POW! Ka-POW!

But not at him.

At Felicia.

The first shot flew past her and slammed into the fence, sending splinters of one-by-six cedar flying in all directions. The second bullet hit the cement by her feet, sending chunks of concrete exploding into the parking lot.

Dr Ostermann screamed out in horror and dropped to the ground, covering his head with his hands; Felicia got moving. She got into a twenty-foot gun battle with the man—

And she lost.

The third bullet Billy Mercury shot took her square on. It knocked her back off her feet. Sent her reeling on to the pavement behind her. Left her helpless.

‘BILLY!’ Striker screamed.

Without aiming, Striker fired from the hip – a diversionary shot to distract Billy from Felicia. He then raced back down the steps, racking and firing as he went.

Billy Mercury didn’t so much as move. He stood there, out in the open, and returned fire. Bullets rained through the staircase above and below Striker, some of them shredding the wood, others plunking heavily into the stucco walls behind him.

Striker reached the first turn of the stairway. Stopped. Took quick aim.

And blasted off a shot.

A loud thunderous BOOM! filled the air, and double-odd buck exploded across the lane. Part of the spray took Billy Mercury in the legs. He spun around like a yanked puppet. The gun flew from his fingers, and he dropped forward on to the pavement.

Striker leaped off the staircase and landed on the concrete below. Gun still aimed, he raced across the parking lot to the far corner, where he used the white van for cover.

Already Billy had crawled to the gun. Reached it.

Striker took aim on the man. ‘DON’T DO IT, BILLY!’

But it was too late.

‘Fucking demons!’ the man screamed. He raised the gun—

And Striker pulled the trigger. He blasted off another round of buckshot, then racked and fired another. The first one took Billy in the shoulder; the second one tore through his chest and came out of his back.

The gun fell from his hands and landed with a soft click on the asphalt. His head dropped, then he fell. His body shuddered for a moment, then became still.

Striker raced forward and kicked the handgun far across the road, away from Billy. It was a black pistol. Not police issue. With the gun out of the way, Striker dropped one knee on top of Billy’s back, pinning him to the ground. He searched for more weapons.

All he found was a constant flow of blood.

‘. . . daemons . . .’ the man said one last time, but his voice was soft and faraway.

He was dying.

Striker jumped back to his feet and searched out Felicia. She was lying half on her stomach, half on her side, trying to get up. Her hair was draped across her face and her gun was two feet ahead of her.

She was crawling for it.

‘I got you!’ Striker yelled.

He raced over to her side. Grabbed her by the shoulders. Pulled her on to her back. And readied himself to stop the flow of blood.

But none came.

‘My ribs,’ she breathed. ‘My fucking ribs.’

He looked down at her chest, at the torn fabric of the Kevlar. He saw the twisted steel of the trauma plate, and let out a sigh of relief.

‘He tagged me,’ Felicia said in disbelief. ‘The fucker actually tagged me.’

Striker said nothing for a long moment, he just stared at her with a horrible sense of desperation flooding his chest. With Dr Ostermann proned out on the ground and sobbing, and Billy Mercury lying dead behind them, Striker pulled Felicia close and held her tight.

‘I thought I lost you,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, I thought I fucking lost you.’

It was all he could think of to say.

Fifty-Five

Twenty minutes later, Felicia sat in the back of an ambulance with two paramedics and Dr Ostermann. The initial assessment was not as bad as Striker had feared it was going to be: her ribs didn’t appear to be broken, but without an X-ray, there was no true way of knowing. Without a doubt they were bruised. Deeply.

As one of the paramedics palpated Felicia’s ribs, Dr Ostermann leaned back in the seat beside her. His eyes were closed and his breathing was still far too fast and uneven. He wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. ‘I feel . . . ill,’ he said softly, then vomited into the bag the medic had given him.

Striker assessed the man. He appeared so different to how he had looked before. Weaker. Older. Fragile.

‘It’s over,’ Striker told him.

When Dr Ostermann did not respond, Striker turned to Felicia. She winced as the medic touched her ribs, but still managed to smile at him.

‘Are you okay?’ Striker asked. It was the tenth time he had asked her this.

She frowned. ‘Go check out the crime scene or something.’

‘I will when you’re—’

‘Really, Jacob. Please. Just go check out the crime scene.’

He didn’t move at first. He just stood there and looked at her.