‘I won’t hold my breath.’

Striker thanked Rothschild and said goodbye. He then told Felicia what had happened. As she listened, her expression became one of disbelief. ‘Electrical torture devices, breathing apparatus, and a guy who can swim to Mitchell Island . . . This file is getting weirder by the second.’

Striker couldn’t have agreed more. Any single one of those oddities would have been unusual on its own; but collectively, it was downright peculiar. Unnerving, even. More than ever, it made him wonder what they were up against.

Just what kind of people were they dealing with here?

Eighteen

The bomber stood cloaked in the shadows of the bridge overpass on the Granville Island docks and waited for the toymaker to arrive. She would be there soon. Keisha Williams was always on time. Like clockwork.

Today it would be her undoing.

The thought of it made the bomber shiver with anticipation. Despite the growing heat of the day, a coldness filled him – one that came from somewhere deep within. He understood why he felt this way, even if he could not put it into words. The past had made it this way. Made him this way. Killed any warmth left inside of him and scrambled his mind like a grey-matter omelette.

Like always, he tried not to think of it. He closed his eyes. Felt the humid wind sweep in off the False Creek waterways. Smelled the reek sourness of the salt water and seaweed and—

The radio crackled at his side:

‘The target’s en route. Five minutes until arrival.’

He opened his eyes, squinting against the pale white sun. He pressed his radio mike. ‘Copy. Five minutes until arrival.’

Five minutes. It seemed an eternity.

Dressed in a workman’s suit, he slid the radio into the inner pouch of his orange utility vest. He then lifted the binoculars from his chest and used them to examine the toy shop.

Inside the store, all the toys had been removed from the far shelf and replaced by one wooden duck. It stood there now, a twelve-inch bird, dressed in a blue policeman’s suit with a big red number 5 painted on its chest. In behind it was the bomb; just a small cardboard box containing miscellaneous cell phone parts, a steel pipe, aluminium wiring, explosives, and a power source consisting of nothing more than D-Cell batteries.

It was armed and ready for detonation.

The bomber checked his watch.

Three minutes to go.

The wooden boards of the dock bobbed beneath his boots, making him shift his weight to maintain balance. The action caused the screws in his leg bones to burn – burn like the tension inside of him. There was an anxiety there, an inner swelling difficult to control. More than anything, he wanted some Skoal. Wintergreen. Spearmint. Hell, even Regular would do.

But this was not possible. People noticed a man chewing tobacco.

It would have to wait until after the mission.

He focused in on the Toy Hut. It was a quaint little place. Just a small Swiss-style cottage that sat beside a duck pond and an adjoining playground, one which would be filled with children by noon.

Next door, in the same building but separated by a wall, was a coffee shop. The Ol’ Bean, its wooden sign read. There were people inside. Three of them. And a woman in a patio chair outside with her dog tied up nearby.

Collateral damage.

He watched with a sense of numb acceptance as the toymaker finally came walking down Anderson. She was a big woman, rotund, and black as night. She was dressed in a fuchsia shawl with purple tights – easy to spot.

Target Number 5.

In the bomber’s pocket was the remote detonator. The first button armed the fusing system, and it had already been pressed. The second button triggered the igniter. He kept his finger alongside the trigger as the toymaker approached from the south. She walked past the Ol’ Bean coffee shop, singing a song only she knew.

The moment the target went inside, the bomber left the docks and walked quickly up to Anderson Street. Staring through the toy shop window from across the street, he saw the woman milling about. Preparing for the day like it was just another ordinary Wednesday in July. When she spotted the toy duck in the policeman’s uniform, she paused, and a bewildered look crossed her face. She moved towards it.

And he knew the time had come.

He stepped forward, moving into the middle of the road, and stopped in front of the Toy Hut. Immediately, the radio crackled at his side and Molly’s digitized voice came across the air: ‘What are you doing? You’re too close. You need more distance.’

He ignored the command.

‘Get back.’

He pressed the mike. ‘I need this.’

‘No! You’re too close! Too close—’

The bomber reached down and turned off his radio. Detonator in hand, he took one step closer to the toy shop, swept both his arms out to the sides, tilted back his head, and closed his eyes.

Then he pressed the button.

Click – spark – combustion.

And the entire south side of the toy store exploded in a ball of light and flame and smoke, engulfing him in the process.

Nineteen

Dr Sharise Owens did not show up for work and was still not answering her cell phone. Aside from flagging the woman as a Missing Person, there was little else Striker and Felicia could do on the matter. So they headed for Cambie Street Headquarters to locate the department’s weapons expert Jay Kolt.

Striker was driving over the Granville Street Bridge, passing over the market, when a horrific thrashing sound filled the air and the entire bridge shook. Automatically, he hammered on the brakes and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles blanched.

Beside him, Felicia jolted in the passenger seat. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Sounded like something exploded right below us.’

Striker hit the gas and cut down the off-ramp that circled onto the Granville Island Market. By the time he made the sharp turn onto Anderson Street, the screams had already started.

And what he saw shocked him.

On the south side of the street, the front section of one of the buildings had been completely destroyed. Thick white smoke poured from a large gaping hole, and flames climbed all along the building walls. In the street out front, shattered glass, splintered two-by-fours, and metal fragments littered the pavement. And covering everything was a thick layer of grey-white dust; it floated through the air like a poisonous pollen, dissipating slowly into the harbour beyond.

‘Looks like a gas main went off,’ Felicia said.

Striker was unsure. He cranked the wheel, turned the car sideways, and blocked access to the area. ‘Call it in. We need ambulance, fire, and every patrol unit that’s not already on a Priority 1. Notify the gas and electric companies too. And get Rothschild down here – we’re gonna need a good sergeant to set up containment.’

Felicia got to work.

While she called Dispatch, Striker climbed out to look for casualties. Immediately, his ears were hit with the harsh roar of the fire and the strident cries of numerous car alarms.

On the opposite side of the road, a group of paramedics – perhaps already on scene when the explosion had occurred – were tending to a small group of people who had obviously been injured by the blast. Most of them looked stunned and bloodied, but conscious and aware.