She smiled weakly. ‘That’s because you’ve had only eight hours’ sleep in three nights. Close your eyes and get some slumber. We can worry about it in the morning.’

‘Sure, sure,’ he replied.

But fifteen minutes later, he climbed out of bed, then threw on a pair of old blue jeans and a wrinkled baseball shirt. With Felicia fast asleep again, Striker returned to the den to read through some more of the files.

He had to.

They were missing something.

Ninety-Five

The work was agonizing. Even the most minimal of movements tore his shoulder apart. But the bomber pushed through the pain. Performed the required task. And now it was done.

The bomb was set.

He retreated across the road to a small hole in the hedge bushes of the neighbouring yard. It was a perfect place of concealment – hidden, dark, with a full view of the target residence. It also had the wooden backing of the fence to support him, and he needed that.

Sweat dripped from every pore of his skin, so much that the remote detonator felt slippery in his hands. He tightened his grip, slumped back against the fence, and smelled the putrid stink of his own body odour. He smelled like something that had gone bad.

Old meat in the sun, as his former sergeant often said.

High above, the sky was slowly lightening, the stars turning more and more invisible in the softening blue. The moon was all but gone now, dropped down to her nightly bed, and in the east, the morning sun was rising like a waking fiery beast. The sight made him smile.

It wouldn’t be long now.

They were one step closer to the completion of their mission.

One step closer to retribution.

Ninety-Six

Striker read through an Assault report – a CBH, or a Causing Bodily Harm – in which Chipotle was one of the main suspects in a gang swarming. As Striker read, he put on a pot of coffee. He leaned against the counter, waited, and listened to the machine percolate. Soon, the rich aroma filled the entire kitchen.

As if on cue, Rothschild walked sleepily into the kitchen. He was wearing a red-and-green striped robe, was unshaven, and his silvering hair was sticking out all over the place. He took one look at Striker and nodded.

‘So that’s what your ugly mug looks like in the morning.’

Striker nodded. ‘If I had a few more wrinkles, people would think I was you.’

Rothschild shouldered him aside to get to the counter. Not bothering to wait till the pot was finished brewing, he poured himself a cup. The burner made a hissing sound when the percolating coffee hit it.

Striker did the same, and the two men sat down at the table with the stacks of file folders in front of them.

‘How’d you sleep?’ Striker asked.

Rothschild rubbed his eyes and an almost defeated look filled his face. ‘Dreams of Rozzie.’ He gave Striker a tired look. ‘I sure miss her . . . Does it ever stop?’

‘Do you want it to?’

Rothschild said nothing, he just shook his head in a no manner.

It suddenly occurred to Striker how similar their lives had been. Both of them had spent too many hard years living for the job; both had lost their wives to tragedy; and both were still struggling with the notion of raising their kids.

Striker sipped his brew. The memories were harder to deal with than the investigation, so he changed the subject back to the police-involved shooting of Chipotle and began firing questions at his old friend.

Rothschild soon conceded the point.

‘Yeah, I shot Chipotle. So what? It was a goddam gunfight. Everyone was shooting. Bullets were flying everywhere. Mine was just the one that finally found its target – I had the sniper rifle.’ He took a long sip of his coffee and made a bitter face. ‘It’s old fuckin’ news. I still don’t see how any of this is relevant.’

Striker splayed his hands. ‘It has to be relevant, Mike. It’s the only thing that connects you to the Prowlers. And to Koda and Harry too.’

‘Harry? He was never part of the Emergency Response Team. How the hell is he connected?’

Striker thought of how the two bikers – Sleeves and Chipotle – were linked to the two cops – Harry and Koda – by way of the drugs. Then he thought of how Chipotle and Koda were also linked to Rothschild through the Emergency Response Team and the shooting.

The whole thing was a tangled web. Two separate files that were connected, though only through the people involved.

‘It’s complicated,’ Striker finally said. ‘But there’s no denying one thing – the bomber was at your house, Mike.’

Rothschild nodded. ‘He was also at the Toy Hut, and I got no connection to the shop or that woman he killed.’ He stood up from the table looking stressed out. ‘I need some air.’

He topped off his cup with another splash of coffee, then walked down the hall to the front door. He disabled the alarm, opened the door, and walked out onto the porch.

Striker got up and followed him. By the time he stepped onto the porch, Rothschild had already lit up a cigarillo. The sweet burning smell of wine-tipped tobacco filled the morning air. As much as Striker hated to admit it, he loved the aroma. It reminded him of his father.

At his feet, on the front-door mat, was the morning newspaper. It was all rolled up in an elastic band. Striker picked it up, unrolled it, and read the headline:

Mad Bomber Blowing Up The City

How to Protect Your Family

‘Oh Jesus, you gotta be kidding me,’ he said.

The header was your typical media scare tactic, implemented to sell more papers, and it drove Striker crazy. The editors often unleashed their stories with no concern for the public anxiety it would create. All this would do now was put even more attention on the file, and more pressure on the bombers to achieve their task.

It would speed up their attacks.

‘You see this, Mike?’ he asked.

‘What? Yeah, sure.’

Striker looked up and saw that Rothschild had wandered down to the roadside, where he was enjoying his smoke and watching the sun rising in the east. Next to him was a marked cruiser, and inside it was the patrol cop on guard.

Striker looked farther down the road.

Ten feet away was another car – an old Honda Civic, parked by the kerb. The vehicle was covered with leaves and the right front tyre looked half flat. Striker had never seen the car before, and something about it bothered him.

‘Hey Mike, move over here.’

‘Huh?’

‘Get away from that car.’

Before Rothschild could so much as respond, Striker realized what was bothering him. It was the maple leaves on the hood – they didn’t match the cherry blossoms of the tree above it. On autopilot, Striker swept his hand down to his gun, felt nothing – not even a holster – and realized he hadn’t geared up yet. He felt naked without the gun. Exposed.

He started down the porch steps.

‘Get away from that goddam car!’

Ninety-Seven

Tiny, invisible strings pulled at the bomber’s consciousness as he waited, hidden in the dark crevice of the observation point. Like a slowly coming night, the darkness was pressing in on him, forcing out the light. And his body was weakening as fast as his mind. Thoughts of the big homicide cop kept charging into his mind, and he found that oddly intriguing.