Rothschild frowned. He pulled out a pack of Old Port wine-tips and lit one up. ‘Fuckin’ hope not, man. Kids are really looking forward to seeing you. Plus, I picked us up some thick-ass T-bones. Gonna try this Jack Daniel’s BBQ recipe I found on the net. Supposed to be great.’ He took a long drag on the cigarillo and blew out a stream of wine-scented smoke. ‘Real great.’

Striker barely heard him. His mind was preoccupied with the list of tasks that still needed to be done. Without responding to Rothschild’s remarks, he pulled out his cell phone and called E-Comm. Sue Rhaemer answered with more of her usual 80s slang.

‘Word up, Shipwreck.’

Striker tasked her with notifying all the hospitals. ‘Tell them to be on the lookout for anyone coming in with injuries indicative of electrical torture.’

‘I’m on it,’ Rhaemer said, then hung up.

As Striker lowered his cell, his eyes caught sight of the land mass in the centre of the strait. Mitchell Island was a small section of land, connected by only the single-lane off-ramp of the Knight Street Bridge. The area was home to industrial plants, warehouses and shipping docks. Only factory workers ever ventured there. It was a good kilometre upriver and another kilometre across the waterway.

Striker looked at Rothschild. ‘You think this guy could have swum there?’

Rothschild let out a laugh filled with smoke. ‘Mitchell fucking Island? I guess that depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether our suspect is Aquaman.’

‘I know it’s a long ways off . . . but it’s not impossible.’

Rothschild shrugged. ‘Not impossible. But that’s far, man. And the currents are really bad. This guy would have to be one hell of a swimmer. Strong, and in great friggin’ shape.’

Striker said nothing back, he just stared silently across the way. When Inspector Osaka returned from his phone call, Striker got the man’s attention and pointed at the island. ‘Order the bird there, sir. And send in a search team with a dog.’

The inspector gave him an odd look. ‘You honestly think he could have swum all that way? Especially while holding a woman hostage?’

Striker offered no further explanations.

‘Just send the bird.’

Eleven

Garbed in a black tracksuit, the bomber drove down West 52nd Avenue and stopped at Cartier Street under the shadowy overhang of a cherry blossom tree. On the seat next to him were two piles of The Province newspapers, today’s issue and thirty in all – props to explain why he was out so early in case the police pulled him over.

Just delivering papers, Officer.

Sometimes the most simple explanations were the best.

In the back compartment of the van was the woman. She was bound and gagged with duct tape.

She would be no problem.

For what seemed like a long time, the bomber waited, listening to the van idle and savouring the minty taste of the chewing tobacco he had stuffed under his bottom lip. It was Skoal – always Skoal. Wintergreen pouches.

He’d been craving some baccy for the last two hours now. It was because of the job, he knew. The stress always did that to him. Heightened the addiction. Made time slow down on him. It fucked up a lot of things. He preferred chew over fags for one reason – cigarette butts were easily found and made perfect DNA cultures for forensic techs.

Which was unacceptable.

He cracked his fingers, one by one. Edgy, he was getting edgy. He needed to blow something up. Send it sky fucking high. In an effort to maintain control, he closed his eyes and muttered his favourite old rhyme:

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

He finished the rhyme. It was one he recited often. Like always, it stirred up old feelings, ones he could not define or place. That – the lack of recollection – bothered him more than anything.

He spat the baccy out the window. Grabbed another pouch. Inserted it.

Finally, the radio came to life – one soft click of a mike, followed by Molly’s tinny but decisive tone: ‘West 52nd is clear from Cartier Street to Adera Street. Proceed.’

He pressed his own mike: ‘Copy. West 52nd is clear from Cartier Street to Adera Street. Proceeding.’

When the bomber reached the entrance to the command centre – an area wide open for the general public to see, yet a place everyone drove by every day and never so much as looked at – he slowed down.

He pulled onto a side road, just off the thoroughfare, and killed the engine. He had barely stepped out of the van when Molly, ever the silent ghost, was suddenly right there in front of him. Her drab brown hair was pulled back over her head into a short ponytail. Her pudgy face was tense and her fingers clutched the silver pendant around her neck so tightly that the chain dug into her skin.

‘Where’s your uniform?’ she asked.

‘I discarded it.’

‘Discarded it? Where—’

‘Don’t throw a wobbly, all right? I did it safely. Safely.’

He stared into her eyes. Molly was tense. So tense. He could see that, hear that, feel that. It was her way. In past times, he had tried hard to change that part of her. To project a sense of calmness into her being. But it never did any good and he had long since stopped trying.

Nowadays, he just let her be.

He opened the side door of the van. There, lying on her side, hands and legs bound behind her back, blindfolded and gagged, was the woman. Molly made a choking sound at the sight of her. Her face paled noticeably, and she shuddered.

‘This . . . this isn’t a game, love. These are real people.’

‘I understand that.’

‘Do you?’

He said nothing.

‘Did you get the information we needed?’ she asked. ‘Did she talk?’

He nodded slowly. ‘They all talk.’

‘But did you get confirmation?’

‘We were right all along.’

Molly closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She looked ready to cry. ‘Well thank God, because nothing else is going according to plan. Absolutely nothing.’

He touched her arm. ‘We’ll assess. Adjust. Adapt. Like we always do.’

Molly said nothing. Her face looked hard and her thin lips were pressed together tightly.

For a long moment, the bomber studied her gentle face. The tenderness in her eyes. And the memories flooded him – moments that were good and bad and somewhere in between, but all of them jumbled in time. Without uniformity or order. Like marbles rolling around uncontrollably in a porcelain basin.

For a moment, he tried to sort through them. Like he always did. When he failed miserably, yet again, he broke from his thoughts and focused back on Molly. Her small hands trembled, and he found that strange. Over the years, she had been on more missions than him. She had faced death numerous times.

So why so edgy now?

And then, slowly, it dawned on him. He reached up and gently took her hands. Pulled her close. Kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m fine.’

She looked up at him intently. ‘I don’t want the darkness coming back on you.’

‘Sunny days are here again.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I love you, Molly.’

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I know.’

Twelve

Striker watched Felicia exit the cement plant. The morning light glinted in her brown-black eyes and made her long straight hair appear thick and flaxen. She looked beautiful, and Striker couldn’t help but stare at her for a moment. When she climbed into the passenger seat, he started the car.