‘To conceal his identity.’

‘Of course. But why do that if Wong is carrying ID? It doesn’t make any sense. And why do it if he was just going to run home and kill himself. If he’s on the run, why kill himself at all?’

Felicia shrugged. ‘Panic? Fear? Family embarrassment? A twisted sense of honour? Who knows. We’re not dealing with rational people here.’

‘But that’s point number two. You see, I think we are.’

Felicia grinned darkly over her drink. ‘You think an Active Shooter is rational?’

‘The purpose might be irrational, but the plan itself was put together on good logic. Don’t kid yourself, Felicia, it was solid. Think about the facts: what kind of car did they steal for their getaway? A 1994 Honda Civic. Dark green. Not only is it the most common stolen car on the road, but they picked the most common year and colour.’

‘Actually the Dodge Caravan is number one on the stolen list.’

‘Fine,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll give you that, the Civic is number two. But tell me this, which vehicle would you choose, knowing there was a chance of a police pursuit? A clunky old van that rolls a corner at fifty miles an hour, or a small sports car that can blend in anywhere?’ When Felicia didn’t respond, Striker asked her: ‘You think that’s a coincidence?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Okay, fine, I’ll give you that too. But what about point number three: the time of the shooting. Nine a.m., on the dot – the exact time when Alpha shift is on break. Only cars we had on the road out there were Bravo Shift, and because it was still early enough, no Charlie units had cleared. There couldn’t have been a better time for a weak police response.’

Felicia hedged. ‘The timing could boil down to pure luck.’

‘All right – but then what about point number four – and this is a big one: these pricks had gun-fighting skills. Pure and simple. They were good. And I still have a real problem believing the gunmen we were duelling with back there in the cafeteria were nothing but a group of disgruntled computer science kids. Kids with no criminal history. No police files. Christ, not even a firearms licence.’

‘I know it looks off, Jacob, almost ridiculous, but Columbine was the exact same.’

Striker let out a frustrated sound. ‘Then what about the calls made before the shooting started?’

‘What calls?’

‘Twenty minutes before the shooting started, there were two 911 calls placed from Oakridge Mall. Fake gun calls. Robberies. We sent five of our Bravo units up there to deal with it, so they were way out of the picture when the real shootings started. What do you call that? Just another coincidence?’

Felicia thought it over, then said, ‘It sounds well-planned, true. But that kind of thing happens all the time – even in the Skids. Look at all the drugged-out zombies that hang out on those streets. If they can do it, anyone can. God knows it doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to divert police resources.’

‘I know that, Felicia, but I’m not talking about these things on an individual basis; I’m talking about them collectively. When added up, the shootings appear to be more than luck and decent planning – they look like a hired hit.’

‘A hired hit? You mean pros?’

‘Yes, professionals. Or at the very least someone with some type of army experience. Like a disgruntled soldier come back from Afghanistan. Or a hired mercenary. Someone with real know-how.’

Felicia looked doubtful. ‘Why would a hired soldier be involved with Saint Patrick’s High School students?’

Striker put down his mug. ‘That’s a whole different issue. Despite what Laroche is telling people, we still don’t know the true reason behind all this. Everything we have is speculation. Think about it. What the hell did these kids do to warrant such extreme violence?’

‘Or what did they see?’ Felicia said.

‘Either way, something tells me this is more than high-school politics, Felicia. A lot more.’

Felicia downed the rest of her drink, looked outside at the dark night, and sighed.

‘What?’ Striker asked.

‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘Some of the moments today, when you took charge, I resented you for it – but I also admired you for it. I wish I had your confidence, Jacob, your self-assurance.’

‘You do.’ Striker leaned forward, made sure he had her full attention. ‘There’s two kinds of people in this world, Feleesh. Them and Us. Too many of Them give in and break.’

‘That’s how I feel sometimes.’

‘Bullshit. We’re the other kind.’

‘Other kind?’

‘The survivors. And you showed that every minute of the day today, whether you were shooting it out with those gunmen or investigating Red Mask’s disappearance. You did good, Feleesh. You came through. Hell, we both did.’

Felicia exhaled and a grin found her lips. ‘It’s good to hear you say that.’ She leaned across the couch, nearer to him. ‘I guess there comes a time when you just have to let go.’

Let go.

The words hit home, and Striker nodded slowly. He looked at her for a long moment, with so many emotions colliding in his heart, ones he couldn’t find the right place for. Everything was a mixed-up jumble.

‘You never really know what someone’s made of till your life’s on the line,’ he said. ‘Well, today you really came through for me. Gave me cover when I was down and out. And I’ll never forget that.’

She reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. Her skin was warm. Soft. Tender.

‘What happened, Jacob? What happened to us?’

He let out a heavy breath. ‘You were so bitchy in the mornings.’

‘Be serious.’

He leaned back and her hand fell away. ‘It was just . . . just too soon. After Amanda’s death.’

‘Too soon for you? Or for Courtney?’

Striker looked away. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Everything matters. You know, Jacob, life would be a lot easier if Courtney knew the truth.’ When he didn’t respond, Felicia said, ‘She still doesn’t know, does she?’

Striker stared at the fire. ‘No.’

‘Amanda was her mother. Harsh or not, she deserves to know the whole story.’

‘I’m going to tell her.’

‘When?’

‘When she’s sixty.’

‘This isn’t a joke. It’s been – what, twenty months since the woman died, and—’

‘Leave it alone, Felicia. Please. For once just leave it alone.’

‘I want to, Jacob, I always want to. But where does that leave us?’

The words hit him strangely, made him feel empty and alone and desperately in need of companionship. He stared back at Felicia. Saw tenderness in her eyes. And the soft wetness of her open mouth. He wanted her now more than ever. He reached out and pulled her close.

And she came easily.

She was breathing hard, her ribs rising and falling against his hands. She felt good. So real, so alive. He kissed her lips, tasted the hot booze in her mouth, the slipperiness of her tongue. Heard her say, ‘I want you, Jacob.’

She straddled him, and her long dark hair spilled across his neck and shoulders, sent tingles through his body. It made him hard, so hard he could feel the blood pulsing through his body. He pulled her into him, until her firm breasts pushed against his chest, and her thighs ground into his hips. Her inner thighs squeezed him tight, and he could feel her warmth there.

‘I want you,’ she said, over and over again.

He unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it back off her body, revealing a lacy purple bra, which fitted snugly against her caramel breasts. In one quick movement, he reached up and tore the straps off her shoulders. He slid the bra down, away from her breasts, exposing the curve of her nipples. They were large, hard, erect, and he kissed them. Licked them softly.

‘I want you inside me,’ she said.

He reached down, broke open the front of her pants, and loosened them from her waist; she helped him. When they were partway down her hips, Striker reached around her waist to the small of her back, felt the silky thin strap of her panties and ran his fingers down, reaching lower and lower until he felt warmth and wetness and—