He grabbed two of his men. ‘Get him downstairs – and call the doctor. Be quick!’
Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tunnel.
Down, down, down they went.
And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light – a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.
Twelve
Striker hurried out of the boys’ changing room and headed down the hall. As he went, he scanned the walls and ceiling for any closed-circuit television. Cameras didn’t take long to find. They were mounted high on every corner. They were old models – big black boxy things. Striker noticed that they didn’t pan down or follow him as he walked.
That was not good news.
Striker followed Ich and Felicia on their way towards the security room. Up ahead, he heard Laroche’s nasally tone, so he cut away through the assembly hall. Inside, the elevated stage was empty and looming, and the room had a haunted feel.
The scene before Striker shocked him. Drying smears of blood coloured the stage’s front, and a yellow Star Trek costume had been left behind. Its fabric was splattered with red and torn. The sight made Striker realise he had gotten it wrong: the shootings hadn’t started in the cafeteria, but somewhere down here – in the hall or auditorium. It had all been such a panic, the exact details were hard to pull from his memory.
He looked around.
High above, Striker saw another camera. This one was silver and grey. Smaller. A newer model than the ones in the hall. He needed to know what its eye had seen.
As he cut through the opposite doorway into the next hall, before the door had even swung closed, he felt someone bump into his chest. He didn’t have to look down to see the person’s face to know who it was. He noted the small stature of the man’s frame, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a glimmer of that unnatural black hair, gelled heavily back and patted down with perfection.
Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘Striker!’ he said.
Striker stopped walking and faced the man he had moments earlier tried to avoid.
The DC was five and a half feet tall and less than one hundred and fifty pounds. Small in comparison to the normal population; puny by police standards, where the average cop was five foot ten and an even two hundred pounds.
‘Sir,’ Striker acknowledged.
‘I’ve been looking for you – have you turned in your clothes?’
‘Of course.’
‘And your gun?’
Striker forced a grim smile. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks for asking.’
The Deputy Chief furrowed his brow. ‘What?’
‘Just informing you of my well-being. I’m sure that was your primary concern. I mean, one of your officers being in a shootout and all.’ When the Deputy Chief didn’t respond, but just stood there, hands on his hips, chest pushed out for dramatic effect, Striker added, ‘I didn’t want the worry weighing too heavily on your mind right now, when you’ve got so many press conferences to attend. God knows, those have to be stressful.’
The Deputy Chief’s lips compressed into a straight line. He looked around, as if to see who else was present. Striker looked too. He saw a few Global TV cameras just outside the front entrance, where a smear of yellow police tape blocked access.
The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, Striker, it’s good. Good you’re unharmed. That was my first concern.’
‘Of course it was.’
When the Deputy Chief said no more, Striker looked back at Felicia, who stood beside the assembly-hall door. Her face was more strained now than it had been during the shootout.
‘Felicia is okay, too. In case you were wondering.’
The Deputy Chief stood there silently, letting the words digest.
‘Your gun, Striker,’ he finally said.
‘What
Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tunnel.
Down, down, down they went.
And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light – a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.
Twelve
Striker hurried out of the boys’ changing room and headed down the hall. As he went, he scanned the walls and ceiling for any closed-circuit television. Cameras didn’t take long to find. They were mounted high on every corner. They were old models – big black boxy things. Striker noticed that they didn’t pan down or follow him as he walked.
That was not good news.
Striker followed Ich and Felicia on their way towards the security room. Up ahead, he heard Laroche’s nasally tone, so he cut away through the assembly hall. Inside, the elevated stage was empty and looming, and the room had a haunted feel.
The scene before Striker shocked him. Drying smears of blood coloured the stage’s front, and a yellow Star Trek costume had been left behind. Its fabric was splattered with red and torn. The sight made Striker realise he had gotten it wrong: the shootings hadn’t started in the cafeteria, but somewhere down here – in the hall or auditorium. It had all been such a panic, the exact details were hard to pull from his memory.
He looked around.
High above, Striker saw another camera. This one was silver and grey. Smaller. A newer model than the ones in the hall. He needed to know what its eye had seen.
As he cut through the opposite doorway into the next hall, before the door had even swung closed, he felt someone bump into his chest. He didn’t have to look down to see the person’s face to know who it was. He noted the small stature of the man’s frame, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a glimmer of that unnatural black hair, gelled heavily back and patted down with perfection.
Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘Striker!’ he said.
Striker stopped walking and faced the man he had moments earlier tried to avoid.
The DC was five and a half feet tall and less than one hundred and fifty pounds. Small in comparison to the normal population; puny by police standards, where the average cop was five foot ten and an even two hundred pounds.
‘Sir,’ Striker acknowledged.
‘I’ve been looking for you – have you turned in your clothes?’
‘Of course.’
‘And your gun?’
Striker forced a grim smile. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks for asking.’
The Deputy Chief furrowed his brow. ‘What?’
‘Just informing you of my well-being. I’m sure that was your primary concern. I mean, one of your officers being in a shootout and all.’ When the Deputy Chief didn’t respond, but just stood there, hands on his hips, chest pushed out for dramatic effect, Striker added, ‘I didn’t want the worry weighing too heavily on your mind right now, when you’ve got so many press conferences to attend. God knows, those have to be stressful.’
The Deputy Chief’s lips compressed into a straight line. He looked around, as if to see who else was present. Striker looked too. He saw a few Global TV cameras just outside the front entrance, where a smear of yellow police tape blocked access.
The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, Striker, it’s good. Good you’re unharmed. That was my first concern.’
‘Of course it was.’
When the Deputy Chief said no more, Striker looked back at Felicia, who stood beside the assembly-hall door. Her face was more strained now than it had been during the shootout.
‘Felicia is okay, too. In case you were wondering.’
The Deputy Chief stood there silently, letting the words digest.
‘Your gun, Striker,’ he finally said.
‘What
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