‘And if I find her, then what? Take her down right there?’

Striker thought it over. ‘No. Don’t let her see you. Call me on the cell, and let me approach her on my own. If she runs, then take her down. We have to. It’s for her own good.’

Felicia nodded. Without a word, she spun about and hurried for the escalator. When she reached the top and disappeared from view, entering the first floor of the mall, Striker turned around and ran for the north-side elevators.

He hoped they weren’t too late.

Despite the fact that Christmas and Boxing Day sales were long over, and all the New Year’s Day sales had ended three weeks ago, the mall was jam-packed with people. Gangs of teenagers with their baggy pants and skateboards hung out near the McDonald’s alcove, and adults with their children flooded the Gamespot counter. Everyone was making exchanges and new purchases. It being seven o’clock and dinner time for the late crowd, the Food Court was jammed.

Striker took a moment to scan the area.

Larisa Logan was Caucasian. At five foot seven and one hundred and forty pounds, she blended in well with most crowds. The last time he saw her her dark brown hair had been shoulder length and straight though it could be worn many ways. As if to make spotting her even more difficult, she also wore glasses and, sometimes, he recalled, coloured contacts.

She was a hard target.

Striker saw no sign of her in the Food Court, so he made his way down the east–west walkway. He found the mall doors, exited the building, and began rounding the building along the Kingsway boulevard.

Outside, the night was as dark as a day-old bruise. The sidewalk was frosted over. Only the street and walkway lamps illuminated the area, turning everyone more than twenty feet away into silhouettes.

Striker passed a few clusters, making sure he saw the face of each person and paying even closer attention to any lone individuals that sneaked off the path. When he rounded the bend and came within sight of the coffee shop, Arabic Beans, his heart clenched and his hopes evaporated.

Sitting outside Arabic Beans was an unmarked Crown Victoria sedan. A Vancouver Police car. Its red and blue lights were flashing and its spotlight was turned on.

‘What the fuck?’ escaped his lips.

Before Striker knew it, he was running. Racing down the long strip of corridor towards the coffee shop. He passed the Happy Gate Sushi shop and the Muffin Inn, and finally the Save-on-Foods store.

When he came to within fifty feet of Arabic Beans, he spotted Felicia coming the other way. The hard look on her face told him that she felt the same confusion. What the hell was going on? And just as importantly, who the hell was in Arabic Beans?

Striker got his answer less than ten steps later.

The tinted glass door to the coffee shop slowly opened and two figures emerged. The first one was a short Asian woman Striker recognized but could not place. The second figure was easily distinguishable, and the sight of the man made Striker’s blood hot. With his long ponytail hanging down from his balding head, and wearing a bright red dress shirt with matching tie, was Bernard Hamilton of Car 87. The Mental Health Team.

They were here for the warrant.

Striker ran right up to the man. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.

Bernard Hamilton smiled. Smiled like he wasn’t surprised in the least to see them. ‘We’re looking for Larisa.’ He winked. ‘Got a tip she might be here.’

‘A tip? From who?’

Bernard just kept smiling. ‘Never identify a source,’ was all he said.

Striker looked around for Larisa, did not see her.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘Not here,’ Bernard said. ‘I checked out the entire place. She left long before we got here.’

Striker looked at Felicia, whose face appeared as tight as his chest. ‘Watch the front,’ he told her, and headed into the coffee shop.

The place was small and dark with a mirror behind the front bar that reflected back the blue lights of the Arabic Beans neon sign in the window. Behind the bar stood a tall thin black man. He was washing mugs.

Striker approached him and got his attention. ‘You see a white woman in here? Five foot seven. A hundred and forty pounds. Brown hair?’

The man put down the mug and frowned. ‘I see lots dem people in here,’ he said. His voice was deep and smooth, and he spoke the words slowly, with all the patience in the world. His accent reminded Striker of the Hondurans he’d dealt with in the skids so many times during his time in Patrol. ‘Dis is Metrotown, man. Always real busy.’

Striker fished out his iPhone and opened up his photos folder. He scanned through the pictures, found the one of Larisa and showed it to the man. The barista took a long look, then shook his head.

‘Never seen da girl.’

‘You got video surveillance?’

‘Naw, the owner’s too cheap for dat, man. We’s lucky to have lights on in dis place.’

Striker cursed. Without another word, he left the front counter and began searching through the shop. He started in the rear, checking both washrooms and finding them empty. Then he began making his way among the patrons. There were fewer than ten in total, and only four of them were women. Two Asian, one black, and one white woman. She was over six foot.

Striker tried to contain his temper.

Larisa was gone; they had missed her.

Again.

He was about to leave Arabic Beans when his eye caught the row of monitors along the far wall. There were five in total, and the first four all faced towards him, each displaying a stark white Google screen from the Firefox web browser.

The last terminal was turned to face the wall.

Striker walked over to the area. He searched the chair and floor for anything that might have been dropped. A purse. Some ID. Anything to show that Larisa had been here. Anything to lead them to a new location.

But he found nothing.

He reached out, grasped hold of the monitor, and turned it so he could see the screen. What he saw was alarming. The screen was white, just like the others, but the application running wasn’t Firefox, but Microsoft Word. Typed across the screen was one brief message. When Striker read it, his heart plummeted:

Car 87?

Betrayed me again!

I can’t believe it.

You were my only hope, Jacob.

My only hope.

Sixty-Six

When the reward was over, and after the Girl had left him, the Adder left the soft comfort of the bed and approached the bar. From it, he took a bottle of sparkling mineral water – Sémillante, from France – and uncapped it. As he drank some down, the bubbly fluid tingling the back of his throat, the Adder thought of the Girl. He could still feel her warmth against his body. Her wetness all around him. Her tender sweet taste on his lips. Now that she was gone, he felt like something was missing.

It was very, very odd. He could not understand it.

He got dressed and exited the Special Room. He found the hatch in the floor, opened it, and started down the rungs of the ladder. He’d made it less than a quarter of the way down when he heard the Doctor and the Girl, speaking somewhere above him.

‘Did you please him?’ the Doctor asked.

‘I think so.’

‘You think?’

‘Well . . . yes, he seemed pleased.’

‘Did he ejaculate?’

Pause.

‘Answer the question, girl.’

‘He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t always—’

Slap!

Then . . . crying.

‘Come here,’ the Doctor ordered.

‘Please . . .’

‘Lift up your skirt.’

There was another moment of silence, and then the Girl let out an uncomfortable sound. ‘Please, you’re hurting me—’