‘Any ideas where we can find him?’ Striker asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘I never heard of the guy again. Not once. And we’re talking years here.’

Felicia spoke next. ‘Harry, you’re the only one here who’s ever dealt with Solomon. He was a prick, for sure – we all know that – but was he capable of this level of violence?’

Harry said nothing. He just looked away from them and stared down the drive where a white van had entered the underground parkade. A bunch of the ERT guys – the Emergency Response Team – jumped out and started unloading their gear, most of which was long guns and heavy ceramic vests.

‘Harry?’ Felicia asked again.

The older detective met her stare and his eyes were hard.

‘Anyone is capable of anything,’ he finally said. ‘If they’re pushed hard enough.’

Striker found the comment odd, and he was about to ask Harry to clarify the remark when his cell phone rang. He put the phone to his ear, said, ‘Striker,’ and began crossing the underground in an effort to locate a better signal. When he finally found one, he recognized the caller.

Their weapons expert, Jay Kolt.

‘Where the hell you been?’ Striker asked. ‘Jesus, court ends at four and it’s going on seven-thirty.’

The man sounded drained: ‘Special meeting in Judge Reinhold’s chambers. You don’t wanna know.’

Striker understood that. Special meetings were always dreaded, and Judge Reinhold was a prima donna prick who was hated by every man and woman who had ever worn a blue uniform. He had made life hell for many a member.

‘I know the day you’ve had, Jay, believe me, I do, but lives are at stake here. I need to see you. And I need to see you now.’

Kolt sounded less than pleased. ‘I’m flying out of here in two hours.’

‘Fine. Where are you now?’

‘Triple 2 Main.’

Striker nodded; Triple 2 Main was the address for the District 2 Courthouse. ‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not leave.’ He hung up the phone and signalled to Felicia that it was time to go.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said to Harry.

They climbed inside the undercover cruiser and wheeled about. As they rounded the first turn of the parkade, Striker glanced in the rear view mirror and stared at Harry. The man was still standing there, completely still, watching them go. He hadn’t so much as budged from the spot.

Felicia caught his stare.

‘I get a weird feeling from that guy,’ she said.

Striker nodded in agreement. ‘He’s holding something back.’

Thirty-Five

Still wearing the grey workman’s suit and a pair of white latex-free surgical gloves, the bomber stood in the kitchen area of Chad Koda’s house and finished taping the entire bay window with thick transparent duct tape. It was a necessary step if he was going to remove the pane and take his place in the preplanned observation point. Now all he had to do was break the outer edges and knock the entire square out onto the rear deck. But before he could begin the process, Molly’s tight voice flooded the radio waves once more:

‘Target approaching from the south. One block out.’

He closed his eyes. One block? He pressed the plunger. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘Follow radio command.’

He sighed. ‘Copy. One block out.’

‘Exit,’ came the reply.

The bomber said nothing. He just stood there going over things in his head. This was too soon. He wasn’t ready yet. And still Molly persisted:

‘You need to exit. Now.’

He said nothing.

‘Now!’

He turned down the volume. Grabbed the crowbar. Began smashing out the glass edges of the pane. When he was near completion and the entire window started to tilt and buckle outwards, he gave it one solid push and the whole structure fell on the deck with a loud, hard, flat sound.

Breathing heavier now – as much from anticipation as exertion – he took the crowbar and raked it all around the windowsill, ridding the frame of any remaining glass shards. It was critical. Even one of those shards could kill him if directed the right way from the bomb’s percussive force; each one was like a glass arrowhead.

Experience had taught him well.

Sweating, shivering, he stopped. And then he smiled.

Done.

It was done.

He turned around and took one final look at the setup before him. The doctor was strapped to the chair, in just the right viewing angle from the front entranceway; the ducks were perfectly positioned on the kitchen island beside her; and, if he moved out to the back patio, he’d be able to discreetly watch the moment unfold from his observation point, then escape in the utility van.

Everything was set.

Almost.

As a final step, he removed a second remote – the one intended for the police to find – from his workman’s suit and placed it in the doctor’s lap.

Molly’s voice came across the radio once more – a barely audible yell:

‘You must exit the building! Now, now, NOW!’

From the front alcove, he heard the excited sound of Koda’s dog barking. It was a young, spritely golden retriever. Oddly, this was the one part of the task that bothered him. He didn’t want the animal to get hurt. He never liked it when animals got hurt.

Koda’s voice penetrated the front door. ‘Down, Jake, down!’

The dog scratched at the wood and barked again; keys jingled.

Out of time.

He grabbed his toolbox, the crowbar, and the remote activator, and quickly made his way across the hard stone tiles of the kitchen floor. He opened the back door and stepped outside. As he closed the kitchen door, he heard the rattle of the front door as it opened and banged into the wall behind it. Then, the scuffling sound of claws on wood.

The dog was coming.

He hurried across the yard until he reached the laneway where the utility van was parked. He obtained his position directly beside the telephone pole, then waited and watched for the moment to come.

It happened quickly.

In one magical moment, the look on Chad Koda’s face turned from relaxed weariness to shocked disbelief. He came to a full stop halfway between the foyer and kitchen, stared at the woman tied to the chair, and then dropped all his mail.

To the bomber, the moment was all-encompassing. No happiness filled him, just a deep sense of satisfaction out of the knowledge that they would be one step closer to the completion of this horrible job.

He gently thumbed the activator and remotely armed the bomb. When Koda hurried forward and removed the duct tape from the doctor’s mouth, she began screaming something – fast, garbled words. And Koda’s head snapped from the woman in the chair to the two wooden ducks sitting on the kitchen island.

He knew.

He damn well fuckin’ knew.

The bomber wasted no time. He burst forth from his place of cover and raced down onto the back deck, until he was less than thirty feet from the open area where the window had been removed. Until he was staring inside the room at Koda and the woman and the ducks.

Once there, he breathed in deeply.

Closed his eyes.

And hit the switch.

The fusing system arced. And in one giant blast of light and smoke and swirling debris, Chad Koda, the doctor and the ducks were consumed by the explosion, and the bomber felt himself flailing backwards . . . backwards . . . backwards in the percussive blast of the bomb.

It was bliss.