Felicia wrinkled her nose. ‘It always smells like bleach in here.’

Striker nodded. ‘Cologne of the sick.’

He approached the bed. Lying on his back was Chad Koda. The man’s eyes were closed and didn’t look like they were moving beneath the lids. A line of stitches ran up the bridge of the man’s nose and continued right up his forehead well into his shaved hairline.

It looked like a purple-red zipper.

Striker moved out of the man’s earshot, pointed at the scar, and whispered to Felicia. ‘Still think he was trying to stage an attack on himself?’ When Felicia said nothing, he added, ‘An inch more to the right or left, and the metal would have taken his eye out.’

Felicia also kept her voice low. ‘If it was a murder-suicide, he wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it was just a theory, Jacob. Something to consider and rule out.’

‘Well consider it ruled out. This bomber’s started a countdown. We don’t have time to entertain other theories.’

Felicia shot him a look of daggers, and Striker turned away. He was being a dick, he knew, and not because of the case but because Felicia hadn’t stayed the night. It was unfair. He got that. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go.

He assessed the man. On Koda’s face, surrounding the line of stitches, was a mottling of abrasions that were already turned a bruised-banana colour at the edges. Bruises also marred his right cheek and right chin. Yet the other side of him was completely untouched.

‘Two-Face,’ Felicia said dryly.

‘In more ways than one.’

Striker stepped right up to the bed, until his hip touched the tubular steel railing. Lines were hooked from Koda’s left arm and chest; they ran to a trio of machines that sat bedside. One machine was designed to regulate pulse and blood pressure; one was for fluids; and one was for something Striker didn’t know.

‘Koda,’ he said softly, then a little louder. ‘Koda.’

There was no response. Not even a blip on the machine.

Felicia frowned. ‘He’s really out of it.’

‘Koda,’ Striker said again, and gently squeezed his forearm.

‘Please, you do not touch this man.’ The voice came from the doorway, and was heavily accented. Eastern European maybe.

Striker craned his neck and spotted a doctor he did not recognize from any of his previous visits. The man was tall with a thick rug of silver hair and eyes so dark they appeared black.

‘I am Dr Varga,’ the man offered.

‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ Striker flashed him the badge. ‘Vancouver Police. We need to speak to this man.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘That will not be possible. We sedate this man very much last night. He will not communicate for several hours.’

‘Can’t you wake him? Just for a few minutes? Time is crucial here.’

Dr Varga shook his head. ‘The body of this man does require much rest.’

‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t completely necessary. But right now, we have a bomber out there in the city, and this man might be our only key to stopping him.’

The doctor’s expression turned from defiance to concern. ‘This is an unfortunate thing, I know. But to administer further medications would be negligent. There is too much risk.’

Felicia humphed. ‘Tell that to the next victim who gets blown up.’

When Dr Varga offered no response, but merely stood there, looking uncomfortable, Striker pulled out one of his business cards and shoved it in the man’s hand. ‘Call me the second he wakes up, Doctor.’

‘I will do this. Anything else I can do?’

Striker gave the man a hard, unforgiving look. ‘Yes. Pray to God no one else is dead by then.’

Forty-Eight

The bomber stood between the two houses on the east side of Trafalgar Street, under the shadows of the roof overhang, and struggled with the tremors inside of him. Deep pulsations racked his head. Bounced around in his skull. It had been this way ever since the explosion at Chad Koda’s house – an invisible tide lapping the shores of his mind.

He killed the thought and got back to recon. To planning. He focused on Rothschild’s new home. The place had been easy to find – just one single tail of Detective Striker’s Saab along the winding, empty roadways of Dunbar.

Right now, security there was omnipresent. A minimum of three cops were on scene at all times – one out front, one in the rear, and one on the upper floor somewhere. He suspected there was one more downstairs, but had not yet confirmed that suspicion. And the more he tried to sort out the information, the more his brain throbbed. A constant, steady thud-thud-thud.

It was maddening, the price he had to pay for sanity.

At his side, the cell phone vibrated. It was the black model – he always carried two.

For personal reasons.

The ringer and LCD display had been deactivated, so as to not attract unwanted attention. But display or no display, he knew the caller. There was only one person who knew this number: Molly. And he was not happy with her.

He answered.

‘Bombs-R-Us,’ he said dryly.

There was a slight pause. ‘Oh bugger, that’s not funny – what if someone overheard you?’

He made no reply.

‘Do you have a good VP?’ she asked.

‘Vantage Point is good,’ he said. ‘Wait – hold on.’

Across the street, a uniformed cop exited the house and walked down the sidewalk. Seconds later, another police cruiser pulled up. The driver handed the other cop a tray of coffees. Two cups. Then the first cop returned inside the house, and the cruiser drove away.

Two cops inside the house, he thought.

Now he knew.

‘Are you still there?’ Molly asked. ‘What’s going on?’

His head was pounding, like there was a bass drum set up behind his eyes. ‘The vantage point is fine,’ he got out. ‘The situation is not. It’s a tactical nightmare . . . We need to reassess and replan.’

Molly made an unhappy sound. ‘Sounds a bit dodgy. Our timeline’s already way off.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

She hesitated. ‘I beg pardon?’

‘Intel and acquisitions is your job.’

‘What exactly are you implying?’

‘That if you were less worried about how I set off the bombs and how much explosives I used, you might have realized that Rothschild was moving.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair. All I know is we used less explosives, and now Chad Koda is still alive.’

Molly hung up on him.

A half-minute later, the cell phone vibrated again – not with a phone call but an email message. He opened it up. The header was from: HMPSC – The Hazardous Materials Product Safety Commission.

He read the email:

Notice: Recall

Product: Pentaerythritol tetranitrate. Also known as PETN, PENTA and Nitropenta.

The details that followed focused on distance time-progression and linear burn rates. The news release had been issued by the company’s media relations unit only seventeen minutes ago. It told him one important thing: their execution had been fine; the materials were faulty.

It was not Molly’s fault.

His cell buzzed again, and he picked up.

‘Well?’ Molly asked.

‘I was wrong.’

‘So now what do we do?’

He said nothing, he just thought everything over. Given the timeline they were on, there were few remaining choices. Obtaining more PETN would take time they didn’t have and require more risk. Buying other explosives through the black market was even more dangerous. The more he assessed their situation, the more he realized there was no choice in the matter.

‘Pick me up,’ he finally said. ‘It’s time to cook.’