‘Motherfucker,’ he said.

He panicked. Stuffed the GPS base into his pocket. Then spun away from the restaurant. Immediately, his eyes found Koda. The man was standing there with a stunned look on his wrecked face.

Harry quickly formulated a plan. He grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic and the snub-nose pistol he’d used to kill Sleeves and stuffed them into Koda’s hands. The man’s face filled with apprehension.

‘What the hell—’

‘Get out of here,’ Harry ordered.

‘But—’

‘Go now!’

Koda’s eyes flitted over Harry’s shoulder, then narrowed with understanding when he saw Jacob Striker coming through the restaurant. Gear in hand, he spun away from Harry and raced for the driver’s side of the car.

Seeing Koda go, Harry wheeled about. He beelined towards the restaurant door to intercept and delay Striker from reaching the Crown Vic. All the while, a hundred thoughts raced through Harry’s mind – all the standard questions he’d need answers to:

Why were you there?

Why did Koda take off?

Do you know Sleeves is dead in the alley?

Did you hear the gunshots?

The questions were endless. And halfway there, another idea surged to the forefront of his mind, one which would cover their tracks entirely.

Burn the car.

Harry stopped walking in the direction of the restaurant, spun about, and raced back towards Koda. After five steps, he caught sight of Koda, sitting there in the driver’s seat – and the sight of the man made him come to a halt.

Koda was sitting there, frozen, with a terrified expression on his face. He was staring at the object that had been placed on the dashboard of the cruiser.

A doll of some kind.

Suddenly, Koda let out a strangled cry. He shouldered open the car door. Tried to get out.

But he was far too late.

A strange, wind-sucking sound filled the air, and was followed by a piercing flash of light. In one quick blast of smoke and fire and tearing metal, the Ford Crown Vic cruiser exploded – killing Chad Koda in the process.

Eighty-Two

Striker raised his hands without thinking.

The flash came first – one giant burst of light, followed by the fracturing sounds of the windows. A percussive force powered through the A&W restaurant, driving wood and rock and dirt and glass shards with it. One moment, Striker was hurrying to get outside, the next thing he knew he was spinning across the floor like a small toy flung by some giant child. He rolled and flipped, and slammed into a nearby wall. Stunned, he instinctively reached for his pistol. Drew it. Tried to focus.

All around him, people were crying. Crawling. Screaming:

‘I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding!’

‘A bomb! It was a fucking bomb!’

‘. . . an ambulance, we need an ambulance . . .’

‘. . . she’s not breathing, someone—’

The screams and cries all mutated into one loud din that Striker could barely hear through his deafened ears. Dizzy, reeling, he grabbed on to the nearest booth and hauled himself to his feet. The tiles beneath his shoes felt like moving mush; and the world shifted.

Out in the parking lot, the undercover police cruiser was nothing but a fragmented, flaming shell now. Dark smoke poured through the lot like some form of unfurling, gaseous molasses. And on the ground, not twenty feet from the blast, was Harry.

The man tried to get up.

Fell.

Tried again.

Striker reached into his jacket pocket for the portable radio, found it wasn’t there. Swearing, he got his legs moving. He navigated through the chaos in the restaurant. Past two girls who were standing there like frozen statues. Around an old lady who was on her knees, sobbing. He reached the exit door. Stared through the broken glass panes into the parking lot.

And then he saw the woman.

She was small but stocky. Dressed in coveralls – just like the man he’d chased yesterday by the toy store. She moved quickly into the parking lot, in a semi-crouched position, and she moved with purpose. From behind her back, she suddenly pulled something out and zoned in on Harry.

Gun.

She had a gun.

Striker kicked open the broken frame of the door. Raised his SIG. Fought to stabilize himself.

‘Police – don’t move!’

The woman did not so much as flinch. She dropped lower, kept moving towards her target, and took one quick glance in Striker’s direction – assessing; clearly assessing. Then she raised her gun and took aim.

But not at Striker.

She aimed at Harry.

Eighty-Three

With the world shifting all around him, Striker opened fire.

The first bullet hit the cement wall of the neighbouring shop; the second ricocheted off the burning husk of the police car; the third shattered the brick wall behind the woman. It startled her. Stopped her dead in her tracks. And she turned her eyes towards him.

Saw that he had her lined up.

‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ Striker ordered.

In between them, Harry crawled behind a cement parking barrier.

When the woman saw this, her face darkened. She could not reach him now. And her hands tightened on the pistol.

‘Don’t do it,’ Striker warned.

He put one hand against the door frame to stabilize himself and fought to steady his aim.

‘Drop the gun! Drop it right now—’

He’d barely finished the sentence when the male appeared. He came from the south end of the lot, and was dressed exactly the same as the girl – a pair of workman’s coveralls with an orange vest.

Like a flag-person.

The man raced across the lot, firing at Striker as he came. Quick double-taps.

Striker dropped down and hit the ground as the shots rang out. One-two, three-four. They ricocheted throughout the foyer. Clattered off tile and steel. Shattered more glass. And caused the remaining customers to wail and scream in terror.

In the parking lot, Harry returned fire.

Striker needed cover. He rolled onto his belly. Tried to lift his head above the window partition and engage the enemy. But it was impossible – bullets continued to spear through the restaurant in a constant stream of suppressive fire.

Five-six, seven-eight.

He was pinned down. Unable to reposition.

Couldn’t get a shot off.

And then he spotted Felicia. He had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been there. But suddenly she was at the broken remains of the northeast window, using the wall as cover and emptying her clip on their enemies.

Her unexpected presence changed the firefight, forcing the enemy to reposition. They slid in behind one of the lot’s cement parking barriers and returned fire – though now on Felicia. Two streams of bullets punched through the window like sideways rain.

‘Down!’ Striker yelled. ‘Everyone stay DOWN!’ Felicia dropped low and rolled for cover as more glass shattered all around her; Striker seized the moment. He rolled out. Extended his arms. Took aim. And returned fire.

Two shots, one hit.

And the man in the orange work vest let out a surprised cry. He stumbled backwards. Fell. Landed on his ass. And still, he kept firing – one constant, steady rhythm of gunfire, with each bullet plunking into the wall behind Striker.

Again, Striker rolled for cover.

And then, as quickly as the gun battle had started, it ended.