The young cop said nothing; he just nodded and stared back through large, wide eyes. The quick debrief was over. With the dog leading the way, the three of them made entry through the basement window.

Immediately, the darkness deepened, and Striker shone his flashlight around the room, lighting up all four corners. When everything was clear, he nodded, and they progressed, searching through the basement, and then the upstairs level – living room, dining room, and kitchen. They cleared the bedrooms and bathrooms last of all, and found them to be empty.

Not even a few packing boxes were left.

Faust fed the dog more leash. ‘So far so good.’

Striker said nothing back; he just kept scanning the way ahead as Nitro steered them to the garage entrance. Once there, the dog let out a whine. Striker reached out and touched the door. Leaned close to it. Listened.

‘Hear anything?’ the rookie asked.

Striker held up a hand demanding silence.

He gently wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and slowly turned it. Once it clicked, he gently, slowly, edged the door open. Just a quarter-inch. Then he shone his flashlight through the space between the door and frame, looking for the existence of any pull-wires and switches.

He found none.

‘Garage looks clear from this angle,’ he said. ‘But be ready.’

He opened the door the rest of the way, and Nitro went inside. Panting hard, the German Shepherd walked less than ten steps, then came to a hard stop. He raised his tail high in the air.

‘We got a positive,’ Faust said.

The rookie stepped back. ‘Positive? What does that mean? A bomb? Is there a bomb in here?’

‘Be quiet and cover us,’ Striker told him.

‘I need some light,’ Faust said.

The young constable reached out to hit the light switch, but Striker snatched his hand away. ‘If that switch is rigged to a detonator, it’ll be the last one you ever throw, kid.’

‘I . . . I . . .’

‘Just watch our backs and don’t touch anything.’

Striker shone his flashlight across the room – first hitting each of the four corners, then doing a thorough sweep of the floor, and last of all, highlighting the beams of the garage.

He saw nothing, so he turned to Faust. ‘The dog is sure?’

Faust looked insulted. ‘There’s no room for error in this business.’

‘So there’s definitely a bomb in here?’

Faust shook his head. ‘The dog detects explosives, not bombs.’

Striker considered this. ‘Can he pick up trace elements?’

‘He can pick up damn near anything, if the vapour pressure isn’t too low.’

Striker had no idea what that meant but took it as good. ‘So explosives could have been in this garage, but aren’t necessarily here any more. Like with the drug dogs, it can pick up the lingering traces.’

Faust nodded. ‘I’m gonna run him round the room a few times, see if he hits on any of the walls.’

Striker held his tongue and let the dog search. As he waited, his cell vibrated against his side. He grabbed it, looked down at the screen, and saw the name ‘Mike Rothschild’ across the display. He didn’t answer for fear of triggering a detonation. Instead, he turned to Faust.

‘You okay here?’ he asked.

‘We’ll be fine.’

Satisfied, Striker told the rookie to maintain cover and then made his way back through the house. As he exited the front door, thoughts of his godchildren flashed through his head, images of Shana and Cody – two little kids who had already lost their mother to cancer. For them to lose Rothschild too was unthinkable, and the notion filled Striker with a dark, vacuous feeling.

He tried not to think about the what-ifs.

To the east, the sun was already rising. The roadway was lightening, the blackness being replaced by murky blue tones. At both ends of the street, red and blue police lights flashed, and in between them, a second dogman – Police Constable Hooch with his dog Lancer – was running the tree-line leading into Pacific Spirit Park.

Striker stared at all this as he dialled Rothschild’s number. The call was picked up on the first ring, and Rothschild sounded upset: ‘Jesus Christ, Shipwreck, what the hell is going on out there?’

‘I’m not sure yet, Mike.’

‘Well get sure. It’s five in the goddam morning, and I got some pre-pubescent patrol cop banging on my door, telling me we need protection. That my kids need protection. And Cody overheard him, and now he’s all freaking out . . . I mean, really, what the fuck?’

‘It might have something to do with the bomber.’

Rothschild’s voice grew quieter. ‘The bomber?’

‘He’s been in your old house, Mike.’

‘What? But . . .’ Rothschild sounded confused. ‘That makes no sense.’

Striker didn’t have the answer. ‘Just get your kids together into the centre of your house. In the basement. Away from all the windows. Keep your gun on you and stay alert. We’ll talk when I get there.’

‘Then get here fast, Shipwreck.’

‘As soon as I can.’

Striker had no sooner hung up the phone when the dogman called out from one of the trails leading into the park: ‘I got something here!’ His dog suddenly darted deeper into the trail.

It gave Striker a bad feeling. The notion of the suspect escaping through the park had already crossed his mind; but any thoughts of catching him were dim at best. The Pacific Spirit Park was 700 acres big – essentially, a forest. It was too large for containment and it had endless places to hide. All they could do was track and hope for the best, and tracking a man like the bomber through the woods was dangerous.

Who knew what he had set up for them?

‘Hold up!’ Striker called out to Hooch. He drew his pistol and crossed the road. ‘You’re gonna need cover if you’re tracking through there.’

He’d no sooner finished the sentence when a bright flash exploded in the trail, punctuated by a percussive boom that echoed hollowly in the woods. Lancer let out a high-pitched yelp, and Hooch reeled backwards as if hit. He screamed out in alarm. Dropped to his knees. Grabbed his face.

‘. . . it burns! I’m on fire – on fire!’

Striker raced into the trail and, almost immediately, a strange red smoke began billowing out from between the trees. It stung his face, burned his eyes. He grabbed the dog handler by the back of his uniform and pulled hard.

Hooch let out a cry.

‘I got you,’ Striker said. ‘I got you, Hooch.’

He pulled him out of the woods, back to safety. But the dog handler was panicking now. Screaming. Thrashing. Holding his face.

He was burning up.

Forty-Five

A hundred metres into the woods, from his observation point, the bomber used his binoculars to watch the pandemonium taking place below. The dog had tripped the wire, causing the red phosphorous incendiaries to flash and initiating the ultrasonic noisemaker. The device had been set to maximum frequency – undetectable to humans but painful to dogs.

Judging from the yelp of the police dog and the animal’s retreat from the woods, the device was working fine. The dog handler’s scream indicated that the oleoresin in the smoke bomb had suffused well into the air. Even now, that red smoke unfurled from the woods in enormous puffs, looking like giant swells of pink cotton candy in the morning twilight. The sight was actually quite beautiful and should have pleased him, but it did not.

The intel Molly had given him was bad. As such, all his recon and planning was for naught.

Rothschild had moved.

But when? And why? Molly had been here not seven days ago, scouting the area, drawing up the plans. It was yet one more strike of bad luck against them. One more unnecessary complication.