Like Chad Koda surviving the blast.

He closed his eyes. Picked at the wound of his left cheek. Struggled to find that calm. Struggled to believe. Moments like this were the difference, he knew. They were what had made them strong. What had kept them alive these past eleven years – their ability to improvise on any mission, no matter what they faced and regardless of the odds.

He and Molly were survivors.

Far below the hill from which he watched, in the mouth of the trail, the dog handler was still wailing. More fear than pain. The bomber adjusted the binoculars and zoomed in through the expanding cloud of pink mist. He focused on the big detective who was helping the dogman.

Jacob Striker; the cop he had seen on every news channel.

The man seemed to be an omnipotent force out there, always everywhere you least expected him. The bomber watched him evacuate the fallen dogman, drag him to the front lawn of the Rothschild house, and hold his head under the tap, drenching the man with water to rid the oleoresin. Then, after tending to the dogman, he began flushing out his own eyes.

A soldier.

Had this been Tora Bora or Baghdad again, the bomber would have chosen Striker as one of the men for his squad. But this was not Afghanistan or Iraq.

So he turned away.

Time was wearing thin, and he needed to reposition south before Jacob Striker returned to his car. That was where he needed to be. Down the road, waiting. Jacob Striker required more surveillance. For he was not only a workmate, but a friend of one of their next targets.

He would lead them to Mike Rothschild.

Forty-Six

It was early still, dark and cold, by the time Striker made it to Mike Rothschild’s new home on Trafalgar Street. This house was smaller than his last one, and it was older too. Built in the 30s or 40s, Striker was sure. But it was nestled in the heart of Kerrisdale, close to Shana’s and Cody’s school. And moreover, it was the place of a new start.

Something the family direly needed.

After taking a quick scan of his surroundings and seeing no threats, Striker walked up the rear lane to the backyard. He opened the fence, passed under the sweeping boughs of the maple trees, and glanced inside the garage window.

Nothing seemed out of place. Inside the garage was Rothschild’s teenage dream – his prized possession 1963 vintage Ford Cougar II. Ruby red in colour.

A collector’s item.

When Mike had gotten it three years ago – a surprise gift from his beloved Rosie – he’d been like a sugar-loaded kid with a new Star Wars toy on Christmas morning. It was all he talked about. Now, ever since Rosalyn’s death, he spent even more time working on the car, cleaning and waxing and polishing, making sure that not even a trace amount of dust covered the paint. It was a daily obsession. Almost religious to him – as if the slightest bit of grime would not only tarnish the car, but Rosie’s memory as well.

And that was unforgivable.

‘She’s a beauty,’ Striker had told him once.

Rothschild’s eyes had watered at the comment. ‘She was,’ he’d said in return, and Striker had realized he was talking about Rosie.

Striker swallowed hard. The memory was not only fresh, but emotionally powerful, so he willed it away. He walked past the garage, triggered the motion detector, and was lit up by the backyard spotlight. Immediately, the kitchen blinds parted, and one of the patrol cops – a tall East Indian male with a turban – looked down at him.

Striker flashed him the badge, came up the porch stairs and walked inside. Before he could ask where Rothschild and the kids were waiting, Rothschild stepped from the living room into the kitchen. His face was tight, as was his posture. A strong-smelling cup of coffee was in his hand.

‘Where are the kids?’ Striker asked.

‘Downstairs. With the other half of Echo 15.’

‘They away from the windows?’

‘They’re safe.’ Rothschild scrutinized him. ‘What happened to your eyes? They’re red.’

Striker blinked as if just remembering the pain. ‘Oleoresin, or something similar. It got set off near your old house.’

‘By who?’

‘Our suspect.’

The notion turned Rothschild’s face hard and his eyes took on a distant gaze.

Striker navigated between the piles of moving boxes that littered the kitchen floor and poured himself a cup of coffee. Rothschild, meanwhile, stood there looking lost and confused, rubbing his thumb against the side of his cup.

‘What the fuck is going on, Shipwreck?’ he finally said.

Striker turned around. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You were my first sergeant, Mike. And you’re my best goddam friend. So tell me the truth: do you have any connection to Sharise Owens or Keisha Williams – the two women who were killed yesterday?’

Rothschild looked taken aback by the question. ‘I would have told you if I did. You know that.’

‘You never had any calls where a bomber was suspected?’

‘None. Not one in my entire career.’

‘What about gangs – one that might have used electrical torture? Specifically, a picana? Like the Satan’s Prowlers? Or the Renegades? Or the Basi Brothers?’

Rothschild let out a heavy breath. ‘I’ve arrested tons of gang members over the years – from all those groups. But a fucking picana?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done and seen a lot in my career . . . but nothing like this.’

‘What about Chad Koda?’

‘Koda?’ Rothschild raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and poured himself a second cup. ‘Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.’

‘So you do know him.’

‘Of course, I know him. He was my first sergeant. Hell, you weren’t even on the force yet. That was a good ten years before your time. Why’d you bring him up?’

‘Because he was blown sky-high last night.’

Rothschild’s face tightened. ‘Blown . . . blown up? Like . . . literally?’

‘Is there any other way?’

Rothschild kept blinking, as if something didn’t compute. ‘Why? I mean . . . why?’

‘We don’t know. He’s in St Paul’s right now. Has been all night. He’s unconscious. Blasted pretty good from what I understand, but still has all his limbs intact. He got lucky.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it. What time did this happen?’

‘Long after you’d left. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the explosion – it’s been on every damn news channel all night long.’

Rothschild gestured to the unpacked boxes all around the room. ‘Do I look like I’ve had time to watch the news?’

Rothschild crossed the room to the kitchen table where several photos were spread out. The one in the centre was a family photo, taken when Rosalyn was still alive. Not long before her diagnosis. Rothschild looked at it, and his face took on a lost look. ‘I came home last night, barbecued up some food for the kids, unpacked more stuff, and started going through these . . . When it got to be too much, I crashed down on a mattress on the floor. I slept there all night long – till Patrol started banging down my door.’

Striker turned his eyes away from the picture of Rosalyn, because every time he looked at it, painful memories returned. And not just ones of Rosalyn. Images – feelings – of what he had gone through with his own wife, Amanda, and with Courtney, following her mother’s death. Every day had been a struggle back then. And now Rothschild was going through the same hell.

Striker felt for his friend, but didn’t know what to do. So he tried to see through the memories and find some clarity. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.