Striker started the conversation low. He introduced himself and his partner, then got down to business.

‘Does the name Sleeves mean anything to you?’

For a brief moment, the fatherly look on Montalba’s face fell away and there was turbulence in his dark eyes. ‘I know the name well. Mr Burns was disassociated from our club quite some time ago – as I’m sure you’re well aware.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Mind if we ask why?’

‘Let’s just say he wasn’t keeping up with club protocol.’

Striker nodded. ‘Meaning he was using his own product.’

Vicenza Montalba smiled. ‘I have no idea what product he was using, but I can tell you this, Detective. Mr Burns was nothing but a problem for our club. He had, shall we say, an addictive personality. He was extremely violent. And he brought our club a lot of negative press and unwanted attention. He was relieved from his position by me and removed from the club list. Does that answer your question?’

‘It does,’ Striker said. ‘This guy is of special interest to us right now on other unrelated matters.’

‘What kind of unrelated matters?’

‘Delicate matters – the kind you don’t want being tied to your motorcycle club. Believe me on this one. We’ve been trying to locate Sleeves, but aren’t having the greatest of luck. You got any idea where he is?’

Vicenza Montalba shook his head and let out a long breath. ‘We have no idea where Mr Burns currently resides.’ He fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to Striker. ‘If you get any information on the man, I would appreciate a phone call.’

Striker took the card, flipped it over in his hands, played with it. ‘Something tells me that would be unwise.’

Montalba offered no reaction. ‘Mr Burns has made an awful lot of enemies, Detective. A lot of people are very angry with him.’

‘How angry?’

Montalba only smiled.

‘Have a nice day, Detectives,’ he said. ‘I hope you find your man.’

Fifty-Eight

The bomber and Molly stood in the murky greyness of the control room and went over their list one more time. Cooking explosives was never an easy thing to do, and it would be made even more precarious by the fact they’d be using an open-flame method here in the small confines of the command room. Without a fume hood. Or even a proper filtration setup.

There was no choice. It had to be done.

Evaluate. Act. Reassess.

List of supplies in hand, the bomber moved slowly across the room. He sat down on top of the steel table, rolled up his overalls, and removed his leg. The prosthesis was the latest greatest thing – a carbon-fibre shell with an inner plastic mould.

He hated it.

He slid off the liner and let the appendage air. As good as the gel covering was, it always stunk like hot rubber and it made his skin raw. Even worse, the more he walked on the artificial leg, the more he felt every internal screw and rod and butterfly clip shred through his meat. All that steel, always grinding inside.

It was even worse when he tried to run.

‘Your leg okay?’ Molly asked.

‘It’s fine.’

She looked at him for a long moment, her round face anxious. ‘It doesn’t look fine. It’s awfully red.’

‘Everything’s brilliant, okay? Tickety-fuckin’-boo.’

Molly gave him a long furtive stare, as if she had seen this mood many times in their shared past, and said nothing. She looked back at their supply list. Cleared her throat. ‘Don’t forget the filters. No need to poison ourselves in the process.’

The bomber just nodded. He was about to ask if she preferred charcoal or carbon when he stopped. Something was vibrating in the pocket of his overalls. When he realized it was the phone – the red cell – a sick feeling came over him.

Only one person had that number, so he answered immediately.

‘Yes?’ he said.

He listened to the woman speak.

‘Yes,’ he said softly.

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I understand.’

He hung up the phone and the sickness in his belly intensified – into a feeling so bad it almost matched the darkness of his head. He looked at Molly, who was now frozen in place and staring back at him without expression.

‘We need to see him, Molly . . . You need to see him.’

‘I . . . I can’t.’

He looked back at her. Stared hard. Though her face remained frozen and without emotion, there was fear in her eyes. He could see it. And he found the moment so terribly odd. For all of Molly’s faith, and despite all her training, and regardless of all the dangers and horrors she had faced these last few years, it had changed nothing in the woman. There would always be the remnants of that scared little girl in there, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.

‘There’s not much time left,’ he told her.

‘I can’t.’

‘You owe it to him.’

‘I can’t!’

He just stared at her. Now there were tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving little faint trails on her skin.

‘Not like this,’ she said, ‘. . . not like this.’

He turned away from her. Stared ahead at nothing. And once again, he was hit by a series of memories that had happened somewhere, somehow, sometime in a past that was surely his own. The ball of yarn was fraying a little bit more with each passing day.

Molly looked at him through desperate eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the gel liner of his prosthesis and its outer casing.

It was time to put himself back together again.

Fifty-Nine

Striker and Felicia sat in the parked car with the engine running. With no other option available, they put an All Points Bulletin out for Sleeves, flagging him on every critical database, be it police, border, or other emergency personnel services. When Felicia was done, she leaned back in the seat.

‘Well, the wait begins.’

‘Wait nothing,’ Striker said. ‘We’re getting ourselves a BirdDog.’

They headed for Cambie Street Headquarters.

BirdDog was the nickname cops used for a variety of manual tracking devices. Unlike the modern GPS devices, which were often built right into the vehicle, the BirdDogs consisted of two parts – the main unit, which sent out a signal and could be attached anywhere, and the handheld tracker unit, which acted as a receiver.

The cost per unit was high, but what did that matter? Trackers were a necessary part of most investigations. The department needed them. In all, the VPD owned thirty BirdDogs, and the devices were available for anyone involved in a legitimate file. But there was one important catch – the use of one required a tracking warrant. Otherwise any information gained was inadmissible in court.

Striker and Felicia didn’t have a warrant, and for Felicia this was an issue. ‘I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to write up a warrant,’ she said as they stepped through the front doors of Cambie Street Headquarters.

It was the third time she’d brought it up.

Striker frowned. ‘And I’m just saying it’s a waste of time. We don’t have enough hard evidence to get one yet. And even if we did, I’m not wasting three hours writing one up when we can be out here investigating.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘They’re going to fry us in court on this one.’

‘Like a piece of bacon,’ Striker admitted. ‘But I’ll worry about it later.’

Before Felicia could say more, Striker moved on.