But it changed nothing.

‘Everything went according to plan,’ Molly said softly. ‘This time.’

He offered no reaction, he only spoke. ‘With Target 5 dead, we can go back to dealing with Target 6 – the way we intended. Get back on track.’

‘The sooner the better.’ Molly let out a sound of concern. ‘My God, if she escaped—’

‘She’s going nowhere – not unless she can uncuff herself and navigate her way out of that maze.’

For a long moment, only silence filled the cab of the van. When Molly spoke again, her voice was low and soft.

‘I just want this to be done.’

‘It will be,’ he said. ‘Already, one target is down and one is our prisoner. That leaves only four more to go.’

Molly made an uncomfortable sound. ‘We need to use less explosive from now on.’

Her words stirred something within him. ‘Less?’

‘Yes, less. Or we’ll end up killing someone innocent.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Innocent.’

‘Less than a half-kilogram,’ she pressed. ‘It’s enough – these are high-grade explosives, after all . . . Are we in agreement? Are we?’

He opened his eyes. ‘Will it make you feel better, Molly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

Twenty-Five

Normal procedure at any fatality is for the coroner to pronounce death before the body is removed. In most situations, this is gospel. In this case, however, that procedure was overruled by Inspector Osaka.

For obvious reasons.

As Striker waited for the Body Removal Team to arrive, he gave the victim a cursory look. The blast had all but destroyed the head and neck regions. As for the body, it had suffered extreme trauma from the percussive force. And the flesh had been exposed to high levels of heat and flame, which had burned away the fat and turned the muscle tissue black. As a result, the remaining limbs had contracted into something of a foetal position.

But one arm was missing.

Striker examined this. From the yellow line, news media – digging for a front-page storyline – kept taking pictures from every accessible angle. Their usual lack of sensitivity made Striker angry, and that anger disrupted his thought process. He wanted the body moved to protect the family.

And he got his way.

When the Body Removal Team arrived, they found the victim hidden beneath a blue police tarp. The three orderlies, all dressed in civilian clothing, donned latex gloves and loaded the body into a generic white van. Body in possession, they drove through the frenetic cluster of reporters and headed for the basement of Vancouver General Hospital.

That was where the morgue was located.

Striker watched them go. When the patrol cops sealed off the road with more yellow police tape, Striker and Felicia assisted in a secondary sweep of the area. This time, they weren’t looking only for bomb components, but for body parts too.

It didn’t take long.

‘Over here,’ Striker called.

He pulled back a square-shaped chunk of support beam and pointed. Wedged between chunks of wood and concrete was a twisted fleshy mass. Perhaps the remaining limb. It was hard to tell.

Striker got forensics to bag and tag the tissue for the Chief Medical Examiner.

‘Good work,’ Felicia said.

Striker didn’t respond. A deep concern filled his belly. There were too many unanswered questions here. About the case and about the person in the rubble. Not much was known about the victim so far: the body was that of a female, and – from the few lower-limb parts that weren’t completely burned – the female appeared to be of non-Caucasian ethnicity.

African-American was a possibility.

Felicia touched his arm. ‘Hey, you okay?’

He turned to face her. ‘A black woman is kidnapped and tortured this morning down by the river. Now there’s a black woman killed in the explosion here . . . I hope to God they’re not related.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’ve been talking to some of the people in the area. The owner of the Toy Hut is a woman by the name of Keisha Williams. She’s black.’

Striker listened, but the information somehow didn’t connect. He was tired. The day felt long, yet it was only four-fifteen. He looked at the different pods of forensic and search crews, and tried to keep track of everything. There were so many divisions. Multiple departments. It was an inter-agency nightmare.

‘Come on,’ he finally said. ‘We need to round everyone up and make sure we’re all on the same page here.’

Felicia agreed.

Striker gathered together all their counterparts. Once everyone was listening, he began listing the tasks of all the associated units. He ended the speech by discussing the role of Victim Services. They would be escorted by Patrol to the Williams residence for two reasons: One, to verify that Keisha Williams was not, in fact, safe at home and alive. And two, to prepare the family for the worst case scenario. The thought of telling the family left Striker ill – it always did – but he fought to suppress his emotions.

There was work to do.

With the primary and secondary scenes now contained, Striker gave Felicia the nod to get going, and they headed back for the car. He wanted to attend the morgue, not only to inspect the body, but to ensure that extra tests were conducted – complete swabs of all body tissues for explosives residue, and full-body X-rays to determine what kinds of shrapnel were lodged inside those same tissues. Grim though it seemed, it was an absolute necessity.

Striker looked at Felicia and spoke the words they had both been thinking but wanting to avoid. ‘We may just have a bomber on our hands.’

Twenty-Six

Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia reached Vancouver General Hospital. They took the freight elevator down to the sub-levels, feeling the booth chug and jerk with every foot descended. Felicia made a nervous sound when the booth stopped for a moment, her claustrophobia kicking in. She switched the portable laptop from her left hand to her right, and looked at Striker. ‘Hopefully, the ME will find something to connect the explosion to the torture scene at the concrete plant.’

Striker nodded. ‘Maybe there’ll be some explosives residue on the body. Otherwise, we’ll be waiting on word from Kami.’

Felicia cast him a cool glance. ‘Kami, is it?’

‘What?’

‘Forget it, just you and your ego again.’

‘My what?’

‘Oh please, Jacob. Like you don’t know, with all the cheesy lines you threw out there.’

‘What lines?’

‘“I’m Striker – with an S.” “I like to dabble.”’ She shook her head. ‘You’re an obsessive-compulsive flirt.’

‘I wasn’t flirting—’

She held up a hand. ‘Spare me.’

Before Striker could say more, the booth jolted, descended to the next level, and the doors opened. In silence, they walked on with the only sound being the clicking of their heels against the floor. They reached Examination Room 3. Before Striker could so much as knock, the large grey door opened, revealing Kirstin Dunsmuir, the Chief Medical Examiner.

Kirstin Dunsmuir looked as artificial as she always did. An overabundance of injected collagen caused her chiselled lips to perpetually purse, and the muscles between her eyes had been Botoxed so many times that her face showed little emotion, even on those rare occasions when she actually expressed any.

Striker forced a weak smile. ‘Hello, Kirstin. Still the life and the death of the party?’