They were ERT. The Emergency Response Team.

Canada’s answer to SWAT.

The cluster of cops were Red Team, and Striker knew most of them: Reid Noble, who everyone called Jitters. Davey Combs, who was only five foot six but over two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. And Victor Santos, who was a crazy-ass bastard and – thank God – no relation to Felicia. Their sergeant, Zulu 51, was Tyrone Takuto, a top-notch Eurasian cop Striker had known and respected for years. He would be Chief one day. Striker knew it.

All the men looked tired from training, but happy to be going. It was Miller time.

Striker parked on Nelson and scanned the street both ways. ‘You see Meathead anywhere?’

‘Just in my nightmares,’ Felicia said.

Striker laughed at that. She had barely spoken the words when they looked up at the nearest skyscraper and spotted the man. Meathead was rappelling down the south side of the building. He was three storeys up and still looked massive. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with.

He saw Striker from the second storey level and gave a holler. When his eyes found Felicia, a large smile spread his lips and he yelled out, ‘Hey, honey-cakes, can I come down there and butter your muffin?’

‘Butter this!’ she called back.

Meathead let out a hoarse laugh, then rappelled down to ground level. He tried to lever down, did it a bit too fast, and accidentally unclipped before his feet were fully planted. He fell awkwardly, landing half on his ass, half on his hands.

‘Smooth,’ Felicia said.

Meathead looked up and grinned. ‘I always fall for the hotties.’

She made an ugh sound.

‘I was referring to Shipwreck.’

Meathead let out a hyena laugh and climbed to his feet. Striker was six foot one and two hundred and twenty pounds. No small man. And yet next to Meathead, he felt undersized. He moved up to the breacher, and the two bantered about their old partnership days for a few minutes. Then Meathead packed up his gear and started placing it in the transport van.

‘About the gear,’ Striker said.

Meathead nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. I got what you need right here, but you got to get it back to me tonight or Stark will have my balls in a sling.’

Striker nodded. James Stark was the inspector in charge of the Emergency Response Team. He was a by-the-book guy and would never have allowed Striker the gear he wanted without the proper paperwork – and even then, probably not. ERT was his baby, and he liked to keep it separate.

Meathead was sticking his neck out for them on this one, and Striker appreciated it.

‘Scout’s honour,’ he said.

Meathead just gave him a look like he didn’t fully believe him. Still he grabbed two pairs of night vision binoculars from his gear bag. He handed one to Striker, and Striker took it. When Felicia reached for hers, Meathead held them up to his eyes, looked at her chest, and said, ‘Yummy.’

‘Give me the goddam binocs,’ she said.

When Meathead held them out again, she snatched them away from him. She gave Striker a hard look and said, ‘I still think we should be getting SF for this.’

SF. Strike Force. The Vancouver Police Surveillance Team.

Striker frowned. Felicia had already brought up the topic in the car and, as usual, she was refusing to let the issue go.

‘We can do this ourselves,’ he said.

‘We’re not trained for it.’

‘Trained?’ He laughed. ‘We’re not going mobile, we’re just setting up a stake-out. Like a drug buy. God, how many of those have you done?’

Felicia just shrugged. She’d probably done over a hundred in her time.

‘We’re just making observations,’ Striker said.

‘SF is still the best way to go.’

‘And SF will take time,’ he argued. ‘Time to write up the forms. Time to make the requests. Time for them to be read over and approved. And you know as well as I do that Laroche does nothing out of policy.’

Felicia said nothing for a long moment, then looked at her watch.

‘It’s getting late,’ she said.

Striker agreed. He looked at Meathead. ‘I’ll put these back in your locker when we’re done.’

‘Be sure you do,’ he said. ‘This is my ass on the line.’

Striker said nothing more. He took the gear with him and stuffed it in the trunk. When Felicia returned to the car, they hopped inside and got going. It was going on for nine o’clock now, and there was no time to waste.

The Endowment Lands were only ten minutes away.

The Ostermann house was on Belmont Avenue.

Striker parked a few blocks out and they went in on foot, coming in from the west. When they reached the lot, Striker slowed down. Inside the gated entrance, the house sat with most of the lights turned off. Only a few were left on – the ones in the library and kitchen, most noticeably.

‘Looks like no one’s home,’ Felicia said.

Striker pointed to the Land Rover parked beside the house and the BMW in the drive. ‘Someone’s home.’

He assessed the house. The rooms that interested him the most – the master bedroom, the office and what appeared to be the study – were all located on the southwest side. That made the small grove of Japanese plum trees the best vantage point for surveillance. There was a small elevation there, near that corner of the yard, and the area was dark.

‘Over there,’ he suggested.

‘I already see it,’ Felicia said.

Striker looked at the neighbouring lot, the one to the east. There were no dogs. No sign of people. And all the lights in the house were off, as if the owners were away for the night.

It was the perfect place for entry.

Gear in hand, they made their way into the neighbouring lot. All down the yard, a stone-and-cement wall separated the two properties. When they were a third of the way down, in behind the tall, bony Japanese plum trees, Striker stopped. He checked his cell phone to be sure it was set on vibrate, then looked at Felicia.

‘Make sure your ringer is off.’

She did.

Satisfied, he assessed the wall. It was eight feet high, so he had to give Felicia a boost over. Once she was there, he took a running start, sprung up off the wall and pulled himself over behind her.

In the Ostermann yard everything was quiet and still. From the grassy elevation they knelt on, the entire south and east sides of the mansion could be seen. Between the trees to the north, Striker could see past the end of the floodlit yard to the cliffs beyond. Out in the strait, the moon shimmered off the waves and made the water look like smoked glass.

‘We can see the bedroom, den and study from here,’ Felicia noted. ‘But the library and kitchen are completely out of view.’

Striker nodded. ‘Then go around back. See if you can find a different vantage point for the kitchen and library. When you get one, call me. That way we’ll have the whole house covered.’

Felicia climbed to her feet and slowly made her way down the east side of the house. When she turned the corner, she was blocked from sight by the barbecue area. With her out of sight, Striker took out his binocs and used them to focus in on the front of the house.

In the driveway was Dr Ostermann’s BMW. Parked at the east side of the house was the Land Rover. Striker looked past it, past the stone-and-steel pillars of the driveway and the old-fashioned lanterns that lined the cobblestone walkways. He focused on the window to the doctor’s study.

The blind was drawn, the drapes pulled shut behind it.

His cell vibrated against his side, so he snatched it up and brought it to his ear.

‘I have a good position,’ Felicia said. ‘I can see the entire north and west sides of the house.’

‘Anything of interest?’

Felicia made an unhappy sound. ‘The place looks empty.’

‘Just keep watching. And be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’