Reality dictated. There was no choice.

‘Cover me,’ he told his men.

Then he started the long walk.

Voices from the past haunted him.

The cop, the cop, shoot the goddam cop!

The words blasted through Oliver’s head, a desperate scream no one else could hear. He sat up with a jolt, and suddenly, he was back in the command room. On the cot. In the stark hotness of the dark grey room.

Out of one nightmare, into another.

For as the haze dissipated, the soft sounds of the monitor filled his ears. A jumble of words that caught his attention:

. . . bomber . . .

. . . shootout . . .

. . . hero cop . . .

And then the most horrible words he had ever heard in his life:

. . . believed to be Royal Logistic Corps Warrant Officer Molly Howell.

Oliver forced his stiff neck left and gaped at the monitor. One look at the image was all it took. Standing there in the camera feed was the cop – the big Homicide detective, Jacob Striker. And next to him were two large men in jumpsuits, loading a body hidden beneath a white sheet into a van.

The Body Removal Team.

‘Molly,’ Oliver said. His voice was soft and weak and tiny. ‘Molly.’

A sob filled his throat. Choked him mute. And like a slow pressing tide, Oliver felt himself slipping further and further away, into that dark fog of pain and medications, with only the image of his sister in his head. This time, he did not fight the feeling. This time he allowed himself to be enveloped by the thick, churning darkness. Within seconds, it overpowered him completely.

It was done.

He had passed the point of no return.

Part 4:

Shockwave

Saturday

One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

Police had located the rear guard of the protection team by the time that Mike Rothschild arrived on scene at his own home; the guard had been knocked over the head and rendered unconscious, but – aside from some bruises to his skull and to his ego – he was no worse for wear.

Striker found the situation odd. Why had Molly Howell not just killed the man? Why take a chance like that when a bullet to the head or a blade to the throat would have been so much more effective? After all, dead men didn’t return to consciousness and call in alerts.

Clearly, there was a difference in beliefs between the two bombers.

And it appeared as if he was left with the more dangerous of the two.

Pondering all this, Striker sat on the back porch, staring intently at the toy seized from the crime scene and absently rubbing his thumb along the red number 1 painted on its torso. To his surprise, the doll was not an accurate depiction of a policeman, but the personification of a duck, complete with legs and arms, and dressed in a policeman’s uniform.

It was strange. Such an odd thing for the bomber to leave behind. A policeman made sense to Striker, because there were so many connections there.

But a duck?

It was just so . . . odd.

Striker heard an engine growl, looked up and spotted Rothschild’s Toyota minivan just outside the strewn-up police tape at the south end of the lane. The man parked, then came walking in with purpose. The lines of his face were deeper than normal this morning.

‘Up here, Mike,’ Striker called.

Rothschild looked over the fence and spotted him. ‘The whole world’s gone insane!’

Striker did not respond. He just watched Rothschild enter the yard, stop at the entrance to his garage – which was now taped off as the primary crime scene with a patrolman standing guard – and peer inside. After a long moment, Rothschild shook his head in disbelief, then walked up the back porch steps to Striker’s side.

‘So she was actually in there, huh?’

Striker nodded. ‘Planting a bomb under your hood.’

‘She pull on you?’

‘Went for the detonator.’

‘Son-of-a-bitch.’

Striker looked to the east, where the sun was breaking through the strange mist that had flooded the woods of the park. ‘The woman gave me no choice . . . I opened fire.’

‘You scratch my paint?’

Striker didn’t laugh. Black humour was usually the key to warding off depression, but today it didn’t feel so good.

Rothschild took a seat beside Striker in one of the patio chairs. ‘They take your piece?’

‘Yeah. Noodles seized it and brought me a new SIG. No flashlight attachment or grip though. Laroche wants me off the road till I meet up with the Trauma Team, but me and Felicia are fighting him on it.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They’re in there right now with Noodles and the coroner. It’s a nightmare.’

Rothschild said nothing. He just looked at all the golden streams of police tape stretching across the backyard, the laneway, and the garage. ‘I can tell you this much – next time I paint the house, it won’t be yellow.’

Striker smiled for the first time. ‘How about white and blue?’ he said, and held up the toy duck.

All at once, Rothschild’s face changed. ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Crime scene. Molly Howell brought it with her. They’ve been leaving one of them for each victim, but we don’t know why. ’ Striker turned it over in his hands and examined the toy. Its body was wood, its beak plastic. The toy was solid. Well built. Striker stuck his finger through the metal O-ring and Rothschild stiffened.

‘You sure—’

‘It’s been checked already.’

Striker gave the O-ring a yank and the bills flapped open and the duck began speaking: ‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

Rothschild reached out and took the duck from Striker. He held it in his hands, stared at it in wonder and partial disbelief. ‘This is more than a toy, Shipwreck. It’s Chief Quackers.’

Striker looked hard at Rothschild. ‘You’ve seen this before?’

‘Of course, I have. It used to be our goddam mascot. In ERT.’

‘Mascot?’

Rothschild’s eyes took on a faraway look and he explained. ‘Was about ten years ago, I guess. I was on Red Team. That was when Chief Ackers was in charge. Guy was a self-righteous prick. Condescending. Arrogant as hell. He interfered with everything. No one liked the man, and we couldn’t wait to get rid of him.’

‘I heard about Ackers. He only lasted one term.’

‘Yeah, the union stepped in on that one, thank God.’ Rothschild turned the duck over and over in his hands as he spoke. ‘Anyway, Ackers was always bitching about the team’s stats and saying how we weren’t keeping track of our calls, and how it was making him look bad at the meetings.’

‘CompStat?’ Striker asked. It was the monthly meeting where city-wide statistics were discussed in public forums.

‘Yeah, goddam CompStat,’ Rothschild replied. ‘Anyway, one day, Koda comes walking into the bunker – he was our sergeant back then – and he’s got this little white duck in his hands. Got it from someone he knew, his wife or something, I can’t really remember. But he pulls the string and it starts speaking about how these criminals are making him quackers. And one of the guys says, “Holy shit, it’s Chief Ackers.” Then someone else yells, “No, it’s Chief Quackers.” And before you knew it everyone was laughing because it was, like, a total slag on the chief and all. Next thing you know, it ended up being our team mascot . . . Chief Quackers . . . God, I never thought I’d see him again.’