No way in hell Dad was screwing this up too.

She needed the costume. They’d gotten front-row tickets for Britney Spears on Friday, and it was gonna rock hard. But before that, they were going to the Parade of Lost Souls party. They had to.

Bobby Ryan was going to be there.

Nine

As Striker drove back to St Patrick’s High, he felt as if they were on a House of Horrors ride at the carnival. Small swells of anxiety crept into the back of his heart, causing it to beat a little faster with every mile. He felt hot. His skin was sweaty.

He pulled at his shirt collar to get some air, then gave Felicia a quick glance. He saw the relaxed expression on her face and the casualness of her posture, and he wondered how the hell she could be so cool all the time.

Her ability to distance herself was unnerving.

They drove on. The weather was cold and blustery, but the eleven o’clock sky remained clear and bright. Sunny, even. Unusually beautiful for such a fall day, especially one so late in October.

It seemed wrong, given all that had happened.

Imperial Road curved lazily around the woodlands as they followed it south, the road surface uneven and slippery. They passed through the swerving tunnels of maple trees until the north end of the school came into view.

A mob of people had gathered. Clusters of mothers and fathers massed near the roundabout. A handful of officers were speaking with them. Most of the parents were as white as sheets. Some of their faces were filled with fear and longing. Others were loud and hostile, ready to riot at a moment’s notice. An explosive tension filled the air.

Striker felt sick for them. From this day forward some of their homes would feel empty, filled with an unnatural silence; a grief too deep to be explained. He knew this because he had felt it after Amanda died. Even after two long years, there was still a strange emptiness inside his core. A dark and hollow place.

He looked ahead and spotted a white unmarked Crown Victoria, parked out front of the school. The White Whale, everyone called it, because there was no colour less operational than white.

The Crown Vic belonged to the road boss. Car 10. Meaning the Inspector of the day. There were many of them that ruled the road, and most of them were men Striker not only respected but admired. Guys like Jean Concorde who had been one of the best investigators the Department had ever seen, or Reggie Yorke, who was as operational as men come, spending the bulk of his time with Strike Force and the Emergency Response Team. Hell, even Davey Falk was a good man, lacking the operational and investigational skills the other two Inspectors had, but making up for it with his steadfast support of the men and women under him. All were exceptional men, and Striker hoped to see one of them behind the wheel of the White Whale.

But as he and Felicia drove nearer and the occupant came into view, Striker’s hopes faltered and were replaced by a morbid feeling of something between frustration and disgust. It was the Deputy Chief himself.

‘Oh Christ,’ Striker said. ‘It’s Laroche.’

‘Avoid him,’ Felicia said.

‘Just what we need now. The one guy in the Department who can make even an Active Shooter situation worse.’

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Of course you would say that.’

Felicia shot him a fiery look, as if preparing for an argument, but then let the comment go.

Striker slowed their speed as they passed the white Crown Victoria. Inside the car sat Deputy Chief Laroche. His dyed black hair, which was slicked back over his head in an oily smear, contrasted with the unblemished white of his skin. As if to counteract the glare of his face, he’d adorned himself with a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses with overly dark lenses. He wore the standard white shirt that all Deputy Chiefs and Inspectors wore, starched so strongly it looked like white cardboard rather than a cotton-polyester blend, and had adorned himself with all the medals he’d earned during his time in the Army – a time which everyone knew he’d spent on this side of the ocean in field management despite his claims that he’d seen battle in the Kuwaiti wars. In one hand, Laroche held a steaming hot cup of Starbucks; in the other, a sandwich overflowing with cheese and lettuce. He took a huge bite of it as they drove by, and Striker turned his eyes back to Felicia.

‘Kids are dying in there and that prick’s out here eating sandwiches.’

The earlier defiance of Felicia’s face crumbled away. ‘Well, he’s . . . he’s got to eat sometime, I guess.’

‘Have we eaten yet?’ When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘We’ve been on the road since eight.’

‘I’m not getting into this, Jacob.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’

She gave him another hot look, and for a moment, she seemed ready to say more, but changed her mind.

They left the White Whale parked a half block behind them and drove into the roundabout at the school driveway, past the front entrance. Striker parked, climbed out, and had a flashback of chasing Red Mask. He could still hear the loud bangs of the gunfire, still smell the lingering scent of burned gunpowder.

He closed his eyes, attempting to suppress the frantic blur, and flinched when a door slammed shut.

To the south-east, where the gym was located, a gaggle of paramedics exited the building. They came in twos, each pair rolling a gurney. On the gurneys were victims, some as young as thirteen.

The paramedics hurried in different directions to many waiting ambulances that were parked all over the school’s front lawn. Striker watched one girl being loaded up. She was about fifteen. Dripping with a redness that managed to seep through the medics’ blankets. Her eyes were out of focus, her face slack and without colour, as if there were no more blood in her body to redden her cheeks. The rear door of the ambulance closed and it accelerated away.

‘That should be it,’ a nearby voice said.

Striker turned and spotted a row of men snaking out of the building. It was a parade of combat boots and ballistic helmets and heavy weaponry – MP5 machine guns, sniper rifles, and close-quarter combat shotguns. The Emergency Response Team. All wore black padded uniforms, covered with dark grey, reinforced-ceramic plates. The lead, Zulu Five-One, was Tyrone Takuto, a Eurasian cop Striker knew well. Takuto had a distant look in his eyes, detectable even behind the protective goggles.

Striker met his stare. ‘Any more kids in there?’

‘Just bodies.’ Takuto spoke with machine-like precision, without emotion. ‘All the injured have been evacuated and all the uninjured are being staged in the gym. Dogmen are running the halls right now, giving it a final clear – just to be sure we got every one of them.’ He glanced back at the school. ‘There’s a lot of bodies in there still . . . a lot of bodies.’

Felicia stepped forward, and for the first time, she looked shaken. ‘How bad is it?’

Takuto just kept looking at the school. ‘Things like this make you fear sleeping,’ he murmured.

Striker understood him completely. Night terrors.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Last I heard we had eleven confirmed dead, over thirty wounded.’

Striker scanned the line of ERT members. Each one of them looked exhausted, like they’d just been on a ten-day mission, not a two-hour school clearing.

‘What else you find in there?’ he asked.

‘Just carnage. Pretty much what you’d expect.’

‘Any traps, any explosives?’

‘IEDs? No, none.’

‘Not even a homemade rig?’

‘None yet. But the dogs are still searching.’

Striker thought this over. No booby traps. Unusual. IEDs – or Improvised Explosive Devices – were the norm nowadays. And that was mainly because of an Active Shooter’s intent. Terror wasn’t the only goal here: inflicting the maximum number of casualties was a high priority. The more carnage, the more coverage. The better the headlines.