One Hundred and Forty-Three

Harry drove towards the southwest section of Vancouver. The more he thought about his situation, the more he realized there was but one way out. In order for his family to have any hope of a peaceful future, it was going to require a violent present.

When he reached the Marpole district, the GPS icon on his tracking display was a steady red colour. It told him that Striker and Felicia were in the 4400 block of Camosun Street. Just across from St Patrick’s High School. They were stationary.

By the time Harry had reached 41st Avenue and started westward, the icon was flashing.

Striker and Felicia were on the move.

He pulled over for a moment and watched the red icon move past the school and down Imperial Drive. Soon the car was racing west, out towards the university grounds, at speeds of one hundred and forty K.

Three times the speed limit.

Harry watched the icon race into the centre of the campus and stop in the middle of the Thunderbird thoroughfare. Speed equalled zero. He sat there anxiously, waiting for them to move again; when they did not, he put the car in Drive and headed for UBC.

Something important was happening.

One Hundred and Forty-Four

The steam tunnels of UBC had long been a place of urban legend among the campus populace. Tales of students making it into the secret entrance were abundant, as were the horror stories of those who had entered and never come out again. Some writings even claimed that there was a serial killer lurking below the streets.

Most of it was gobbledygook, but the fact was the tunnels did exist. The University of British Columbia, being one of the few remaining steam networks left in North America, still used the terribly inefficient system to pipe in heat from the steam plant to all the old dorm buildings and the administrative offices the university owned.

For anyone who had access to Google – and the knowledge of where to look – the main entrance was no secret.

While Striker waited for UBC maintenance staff to answer his call, Felicia found the information they needed on the Internet. She lowered her phone and stopped walking down Thunderbird Avenue. She turned to talk to him.

‘Okay, there’s a few entrances,’ she said. ‘Three are somewhat hidden and off the track, but the main one is just ahead.’ She pointed to what appeared to be a rather large manhole cover that sat less than twenty feet off the main drive, in a square recess of concrete. ‘That’s it right there.’

Striker grabbed a tyre iron from the cruiser and neared the manhole. He looked down. The lid was seated properly, fitting snugly into its receptacle, and there were no signs of tampering. He jammed the tyre iron in between the rim of the cover and the manhole receptacle and applied some pressure. The round plate of steel gave a little and, seconds later, lifted altogether.

Striker removed it.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Where they went.’

‘There are other entry points,’ Felicia started, but Striker cut her off.

‘No. You don’t understand. These covers are normally locked. We should never have even been able to get in here . . . Someone went in before us, and it sure as hell wasn’t a maintenance man.’

Felicia looked into the hole. Everything below was a sea of darkness. ‘Maybe we should call in the Emergency Response Team.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They show up and this entire thing is over.’

‘He might have bombs down there, Jacob.’

‘Might nothing – you can damn well bet on it. And he’ll set them off the moment he sees ERT.’ Striker drew his pistol and double-checked that the magazine was secure. ‘I’ll go in alone.’

‘Don’t be an ass.’ Felicia drew her own piece.

Striker didn’t respond. He just swung his leg into the hole, stepped on the first rung of the ladder, and climbed down into the murky darkness below. Seconds later, Felicia followed him.

They were in.

One Hundred and Forty-Five

Having no access to night-vision goggles, Striker and Felicia were left peering through a crimson darkness. The underground was a series of long cement tubes, running north and south and east from their location. All along the top of the tunnels, a series of red lights dimly illuminated the way.

Striker took out his flashlight and shone it in all three directions. Within twenty feet, the way south led to a gated door that was locked. That left them with two options. He shone his flashlight on the ground, scanning the area for footprints in the dust. As he did so, Felicia let out an excited sound.

‘Look here,’ she said.

Striker did. Mounted on the wall was a strange-looking sensor, obviously new. It was blinking every so often – a deep red light.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said.

‘Looks like part of a relay system,’ Felicia said. She looked down the tunnel and then above them. ‘We’re underground and this is thick cement. Oliver probably can’t get a signal down here without one. He’d need it for any type of radio communications or Internet devices.’

‘Or to trigger a bomb,’ Striker said.

He looked around further.

On the side of the wall, running down the entire stretch of tunnel, were two large red pipes and two large blue pipes. They were hot – Striker could feel heat radiating off them – and they were covered in a thin film of dust. In the dimness of the tunnel, it was difficult to tell if it was the same kind of dust found at the crime scenes, but as Striker analysed it, something else caught his eye.

A long scratch mark ran down the entire length of pipe. It had been ground right into the red paint and gave off a silver gleam from the metal below.

‘Check it out. Looks fresh. Rothschild’s police knife maybe.’

Felicia noticed the scratch. ‘Or Oliver leading the way. Believe me, he knows we’re coming, Jacob.’

‘I know that. But what choice do we have?’

Striker began following the scratch down the eastern tunnel. Within thirty feet, the passage angled left, then after another ten feet, left again. Before Striker knew it, he had no idea which way they were heading. The place was a giant underground labyrinth, and it was getting progressively hotter with every step. When they turned another corner, Striker lost his balance and put out his hand. It touched the red pipe next to them, and he pulled it away fast.

‘Fucking hot,’ he said.

Felicia said nothing; she just listened. There was a rushing sound in the tunnel. A soft but constant rumble.

‘That’s the steam in the pipes,’ she said. ‘You can imagine the pressure.’

Striker looked at the pipes for a long moment. ‘If Oliver sets off a bomb down here, we’re gonna be like lobsters in a pot.’ He took out his cell phone and tried to get a signal. When it failed, he cursed. ‘I thought he had relays down here?’

Felicia just shrugged like she had no idea.

Striker turned to face her. ‘You have to go back.’

‘What?’ She gave him a stunned look. ‘Without you? No way.’

‘There’s no choice. If Oliver blows us up down here, we’ll cook to death, Feleesh. You, me, Rothschild – the kids. You got to get that steam turned off, and as fast as you can.’