The CD said nothing, and Striker could hear the clicks of the keyboard. After a moment, there was only silence.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘This is odd,’ she finally said. ‘Harry’s car was there a moment ago . . . but now it’s gone.’

Striker narrowed his eyes. ‘Gone, as in a weak signal?’

‘No, gone like Milli Vanilli – there’s no signal.’

Striker closed his eyes, swore under his breath. He said goodbye to Sue and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘They saw us.’

‘Impossible.’

‘They saw us.’

Felicia’s face coloured.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Striker said. ‘Harry’s good.’

‘But how do you know—’

‘They’ve disconnected the GPS system in the car.’ When Striker saw the confused look on Felicia’s face, he explained. ‘It’s not difficult. All you got to do is open the glove box and the wire’s right there.’

Felicia slumped back in the driver’s seat. ‘Great. So now what?’

Striker looked down at the laptop and thought of the warehouse Harry and Koda had visited. He’d run the address and found the attached entity, but he hadn’t done the reverse – and that was often a necessary step when using PRIME.

The system didn’t always mesh.

In PRIME, it was not uncommon for more than one name to be created for a single entity. Hing-Woo Enterprises could also be called the Hing-Woo Corporation, or simply Hing-Woo. It was a user-based system.

Crap in, crap out.

Instead of running addresses, Striker searched for a name. He typed in every variation he could think of for Hing-Woo Enterprises. Then he hit send and waited for the responses. This time, a second entity came up. Hing-Woo Wholesalers. Like before, the two prowler calls came up – but this time there was also a third file listed.

For an Insecure Premises call.

Striker read through it. The details were basic. An alarm had gone off. Police had attended to find the door insecure. And the property representative had been called to attend. It was all very ordinary. Except for one big thing – the name of the property rep: Brice Burns.

‘Look at this,’ Striker said.

Felicia did. ‘Son-of-a-bitch – Sleeves?’

‘Yep. The biker Kolt mentioned.’

‘There’s our connection then.’

Striker flipped back through his notebook and tried to connect the dots of information. ‘Owens and Williams are killed in two separate bomb blasts, but both women are connected to Chad Koda. And Koda is connected to Harry. Now we know that Koda and Harry are being blackmailed, so it’s all one continuous chain.’

‘And you’re thinking the blackmailer might be this biker, Sleeves?’

He nodded. ‘Fits the MO. The guy has organized crime connections. Kolt said he’d done electrical torture before, back east during the biker wars. And now we have him connected to this business Harry and Koda are checking out . . . It fits the bill.’

Felicia clucked her tongue as she thought. ‘He is a member of the Satan’s Prowlers,’ she noted.

Striker read through the computer details. Most of it was typical information – affiliations with other criminal organizations; associations with other known criminals; and a long list of charges and suspected involvements in various other crimes.

But when Striker clicked on the man’s entity tab, something else stole his attention. Under the Remarks section, in big red capital letters was a warning:

Satan’s Prowlers Enforcer – Sergeant-at-Arms.

‘Hey, Feleesh, look at this. He’s the Sergeant-at-Arms.’

She looked at the screen, and her voice took on an excited note. ‘He’s the one Harry and Koda were talking about.’

Striker nodded, then performed another computer search. He ran Sleeves through the Canadian Police Information Centre, requesting a full search of his recorded criminal history and anything connected in the Criminal Name Index. Within seconds, the system came back with a perfect hit:

Brice Burns.

Alias: Sleeves

Violent, Armed and Dangerous, Escape Risk.

Also listed was his 175-centimetre height, his 80-kilogram body weight, and a string of scars, marks and tattoos – his right arm had two dragons fighting over a golden butterfly; his left arm had several naked women bound in chains.

‘Charming guy,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing and read on.

The man’s history was extensive. He had a file in the Federal Penitentiary System, a Known Offender number in the DNA database, and a list of crimes going back decades.

Striker searched for a known address, but there was none. In fact, only two addresses were listed – the PO Box for the Matsqui Federal Penitentiary, and the address of the Satan’s Prowlers’ clubhouse, which was located on Charles Street.

Felicia sighed. ‘It’s always one step forward, two steps back.’

Striker had had enough of the delays.

‘Head out east,’ he said. ‘Just above Fellows Road.’

‘Fellows? But no one lives there but—’

‘Vicenza Montalba,’ Striker said.

The look on Felicia’s face was one of disbelief. Vicenza Montalba was the head of the East Van Chapter of the Satan’s Prowlers Motorcycle Club. He was a man who was hated by cops, respected by criminals, and feared by his enemies. He was a man who had been damn near untouchable for thirty years. Vicenza Montalba was rich. Powerful. Menacing.

And well known for being anti-police.

Felicia let out a strangled laugh. ‘What are you gonna do? Just walk right up there and ring his bell?’

Striker smiled back at her.

‘That’s the plan.’

Fifty-Seven

Vicenza Montalba’s house was a modern square structure, made entirely of white concrete and ten-foot-high tinted windows that were rumoured to be bulletproof for everything up to and including a .300 Winchester Magnum round.

The residence was situated across the Vancouver border, just above Fellows Road on Edinburgh, a relatively unknown strip that overlooked the blackish waters of the Burrard Inlet, and beyond that, the green hills of the North Shore mountains.

It was a beautiful view. A peaceful area.

Probably because Vicenza Montalba demanded it.

Striker parked out front and stared at the house. The rooftop patio, complete with green vegetation and an outdoor terrace with hot tub, was again shielded by a wall of clear bulletproof glass. Atop the walls were numerous security cameras – set there more for the police than enemy gangs – and in the driveway were two Jaguar sedans, a Mercedes coupe, and two black Land Rovers. Brand new.

Striker pointed at them. ‘Remember, crime doesn’t pay.’

Felicia just grinned back, and the two got out.

As they approached the front gate, the nearest security camera let out an audible whir and panned down on them. Striker took out his badge, held it up for the camera to see. He pressed the intercom button. Seconds later, a man’s voice came through the speaker.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Montalba,’ Striker said.

‘And this is regarding?’

‘That’s between me and him.’

There was no response for a moment, but then the black steel gate clicked open and Striker and Felicia stepped inside the lot. Like the outer lands, the inner yard was immaculate. A Japanese rock garden took up the bulk of the yard, with its circular designs running around a waterfall and a cherry blossom tree.

Striker and Felicia used the bridge to cross over the koi pond. When they reached the other side, the front door opened and a man stepped out to greet them.

Striker recognized him immediately.

Vicenza Montalba looked as far removed from the biker lifestyle as was Gandhi from an Outback steakhouse. Sporting a pair of pressed slacks, an off-white dress shirt, and a gold silk tie, he looked more like a stockbroker ready for the Wall Street grind than the leader of an outlaw motorcycle club. His thick greying hair was kept short at the sides and was parted in the middle, and when he smiled, he appeared more fatherly than fiendish.