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Malcolm Ferrier

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mferrier@ferrierconsulting.com

TROUBLESHOOTER

by Malcolm Ferrier

Prologue

Things like this didn’t happen in Canada.

This statement may not hold true tomorrow, but it would work for today.  The man had been repeating it like a mantra.  In fact, he was counting on it for both accomplishing his goal and executing his retreat.

He shifted his body slightly.  He was relatively comfortable where he was, lying prone on the wooded hilltop.  He had stayed in a similar position for much longer while waiting for a skittish elk to move within range.  In some ways, it was the same exercise today.  But his prey was far less wary, secure in his belief that today would be very much like yesterday.

He looked through the scope again.  He could see the garage door, part of the winding driveway, and a piece of the gate that connected with the stone wall that surrounded the estate.  He thought again of the events that had led him here and felt his resolve waver.  Taking a life was no small thing, no matter how just, and he had never killed for pleasure.  But again he felt the anger in his core that formed the impetus for this entire operation.  And underneath was the old pain, throbbing like a pulse.  These people had taken away the rights of others and by doing so had taken away rights from themselves.  Things could not continue as they had or a much greater price than this man’s blood would be paid.

He waited.

Richard Deck was tired.  As he drove across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, he thought of the events of the day.  Things were moving along, but much too slowly.  They only had so much time before the opportunity they had been given passed them by, and they still had plenty of work to do.  The Province was in terrible shape and they were meeting with severe resistance.  Didn’t these people understand?  If we all worked together we’d get there.  There may be some hard pills to swallow, but like most medicine it tasted bad then healed the organism.  Some weak cells may suffer, but it was for the good of the whole.

He continued his musings as he directed his Lexus off the bridge into congested traffic.  He spotted a gap and slid into it without signalling.  An angry horn blasted behind him.  He kept his eyes straight forward, apparently oblivious to the sound.

He had stopped using turning signals some time ago.  If required to explain why, he would have said it was always obvious where he was going.  The listener would be left to discern the unspoken assumption that the obvious was only unclear to an idiot.  It would be unlikely that he would further articulate his conviction that it was unfair that he had to share the roads with the rest of the population.  With all his hard-won power and affluence, that he had to sit in rush hour traffic with labourers and teenagers was almost intolerable.  If he could take a helicopter to his office, he would.  Unfortunately, he’d never get away with it here.  Maybe in the States.  They knew how to treat their leaders right.  Clearing the roads, jets, helicopters, and a world-class secret service insulating them from the masses.

His train of thought rolled on as he proceeded home.

The man on the hilltop was also thinking about the secret service.  He was glad that Canada was a safe place to be a politician.  For now.  That would change after today’s work and his job would become tougher, but he would deal with problems as they arose.  The plan was solid.

He deeply regretted that this operation was necessary.  Similar actions were taken in Quebec during the FLQ crisis, but those had been badly bungled by both sides.  He hoped that events would not escalate in a similar fashion, but he was prepared for the worst.  Justice required the will to fight, and that he had in abundance.

As Richard drove through West Vancouver he began to have a strange feeling.  It wasn’t fear, exactly, just a sense of… inevitability.  As though destiny was touching him on the shoulder.  He shook it off.  He was tired, that was all.  He had been working hard and it showed.  He looked forward to the weekend and a break.  As he turned into his neighbourhood, the sun moved below the horizon.  Dusk was here.

Traffic along the street was light at twilight and the sound of an expensive engine carried easily through the night air.  The hunter heard the vehicle approaching and checked his rifle once more.  All was ready.

The Lexus glided up the exclusive thoroughfare and stopped before the wrought-iron gate.  Richard triggered a remote control and a radio signal passed from the car to the gate.  The entrance slid open.

The rifleman settled his body into the grass on the hilltop.  He began to count his breaths.

Richard stopped the car on the driveway in front of the garage door and activated the remote.  Nothing.  He pressed the button again with the same result.  What the hell was wrong with the thing?  He shook it and tried again.  The door remained closed.  The battery must be dead.  Damn.

He stepped out of the vehicle.  Once more he felt the sensation that something crucial was about to happen.  Again he shrugged it off.  He needed a drink.

He moved toward the garage side door.  Inside was the switch for the garage door opener.  He pulled out his keys.

A good hunter knows it is necessary to funnel the prey down an avenue of the predator’s choosing.  If the actions of the prey are made predictable, a trap can be set.  This was exactly what the man on the hilltop had done.

He had known from careful, painstaking observation over the past few weeks that this man’s wife never took the SUV out of the garage after 4:30.  He had watched the electronic bonfire flashes of the television on the living room drapes and understood that she was occupied with the alternate reality of late afternoon programming.

A few short hours ago, he had climbed over the stone wall on the east side of the estate and carefully made his way under available cover to the garage window.  He looked into the garage and saw the Craftsman garage door opener attached to the ceiling.  All he had to do was keep the garage door from opening.  The sticker on the window had told him that he would be greeted by alarms if he were to force his way through the window or the door.  Opening either had not been an option.  It was also likely that motion detectors soaked the interior of the garage with their pervasive infrared.

He was prepared for this.  His gloved hands pulled a Hyde glasscutter from a pouch at his waist.  Before starting to cut the glass in the window, he unwrapped a cube of bubble gum and popped it in his mouth.  He carefully cut an almost complete circle in the glass and stuck the chewed gum within the circle.  He completed the cut and using the gum as a handle, silently removed the glass circle.

Pulling two coat hangers from his backpack, he twisted them together to make one long wire with a hook on the end.  Feeding this slowly through the hole in the glass, he directed it towards the garage door motor on the ceiling.  He snagged the motor’s power cable with the hook and methodically worked the plug loose from the ceiling power outlet.  Slowly, so that any potential motion detectors would be deceived, he withdrew the hangers from the garage.  Folding the hangers into his backpack and placing the glass, gum and cutters into his pouch, he had made his way back over the wall.

As he focused the rifle’s scope on the back of his target’s neck, the hunter reflected that a strange intimacy was created through a zoom lens.  It seemed as though he was only a few feet away from this man.  He felt as though he could whisper to him.

He stilled his breath and squeezed the trigger.

Richard felt like a baseball bat had been slammed into the back of his neck.  He dropped his keys and heard a single, loud shot as he crumpled to the ground.  He could feel his life force draining out of his body.  The world was becoming paler, insubstantial.  Suddenly, he felt much lighter, like an enormous weight had somehow been lifted.  He felt himself rising up and knew that everything would be all right…

The shooter on the hilltop rose from the ground.  He picked up the rifle and the expended cartridge casing, and faded down the far side of the hill.

Hours later, not so far away, a phone rang in the Premier’s home.  Wayne Stewart surfaced from a deep sleep and groaned.  What the hell?  What time is it?  His wife grunted and rolled over.  He glanced at the glowing numbers of the alarm clock on his bedside table.  1:45 AM.  This had better be good.  He picked up the receiver.

"Stewart here."

"Wayne, it’s Donald."  Donald Grant was his chief of security.  "I’m sorry to be calling late, but I’ve got some terrible news.  Richard is dead."

Richard Deck dead?  How could this happen?  Various scenarios flashed through Stewart’s head.  Heart attack.  Hit and run.  Car accident, perhaps alcohol-related.  This was exactly what they didn’t need.  Another scandal.

"How did this happen?"

"He was murdered.  A professional hit, as far as we can tell.  Right in front of his house.  His wife found him quite a while later.  She had heard a single shot earlier but thought it was a backfire.  She didn’t hear his car arrive because the TV was on.  She was stepping out to walk their dog and found his body outside the garage.  She called the police and they only just called us."

"Could she have had anything to do with it?"

"Unlikely.  She doesn’t seem the plotting type and she was hysterical.  Hard to fake."

This was impossible.  A senior government official killed outside of his home.  What could this mean?  Stewart’s mind raced.

"Donald, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this.  Cooperate fully with the police, but use every resource to find out what’s happening here."

"Understood."

"And Donald?"

"Yes?"

"I mean every resource."

Stewart replaced the receiver in its cradle.  He didn’t know what to think.

Who would want to kill the Minister of Health?

CHAPTER ONE

The four men circled the solitary figure warily.  The central character in this unfolding drama stood immobile, apparently unconcerned about his would-be assailants.  He radiated a sense of calm, but an attentive observer would detect a focus that seemed to take in the entire room at once.

Suddenly, with a shout, one of the four attacked.  He rushed in with a powerful overhead swipe aimed at the defender’s head.  Before the blow could land the attacker’s fist was redirected by the defender’s forearm, narrowly missing its target.  The defender continued to apply force in the direction of the attack, twisting his body and throwing the attacker to the ground.

The attacker threw his arms forward and executed a roll that landed him back onto his feet.  He rejoined the circling group as another of the four moved in with a sweeping arm attack.  Again, the defender guided the force of the strike and sent the attacker crashing towards the floor.  Another roll, and the attacker moved back to join the circle of four.

This pattern continued.  One by one, the attackers would move in only to be directed outwards again through the manipulation of their own energy.  It resembled a complex, free form ballet performed by pugilists.

A clap sounded.  The motion stopped and the men stood, sweating but relaxed.

"Excellent, Jack.  Those were random attacks at full-force."

The speaker was a middle-aged man with a British accent.  He wore a traditional gi with the instructor’s black wide-legged pants, the hakama.  Dave Petersen had taught Aikido, the “art of peace,” every Saturday morning for years at this community centre in False Creek.  While still a young man, he had travelled to Japan to study with the founder’s son, Kisshomaru.

Morihei Ueshiba, or “the founder” as millions of Aikidoists around the world knew him, had developed the art of Aikido after a lifetime of practice.  Born in 1883, Morihei was not a strong child.  After witnessing a gang of thugs beat his father, however, he began single-mindedly studying the martial arts of the Samurai, including jujutsu and swordsmanship.

Stories of his exploits are legendary.  While on a foray to Mongolia, the group with which he was traveling was attacked by bandits.  He was somehow able to dodge the bullets of their rifles.  When asked how this was possible, he replied, " Before the bullet could arrive I would see a beam of golden light.  It was a simple matter of avoiding this light, and by doing so, avoid the bullets."

Like a gunfighter’s life in the old west, many martial artists came to test Morihei’s ability.  Sometime in 1925, at his country home, a visiting senior military officer attacked him wielding a Samurai sword.  He was able to avoid injury by dodging the officer’s attacks until his assailant exhausted himself.  After the officer fled in shame, Morihei went into his garden to meditate.  He felt himself bathed in a golden light and gained a powerful realization.  From that point on, Aikido for him was a force of non-violence, a means of bringing peace to the world.

Jack Findlay walked from the middle of the circle of men towards the instructor.  He felt that his situational awareness was improving.  He had been able to mentally create a dynamic spatial map of the location and movement of each of his attackers.  It was almost as if time had slowed, allowing him to more easily deal with changing events.  He suspected his virtual reality training was helping his development in this arena.  He stopped in front of Dave.  They bowed.

"I think it’s time you started teaching here, Jack."

"Thank you, Sensei, but I can’t make the commitment right now.  I’ve got too many irons in the fire and I wouldn’t be able to give it the attention it deserves.  Someday soon, though."

Jack had been coming to Dave’s class for the past five years and considered it his home dojo.  He had started practicing Aikido when he was fifteen.  Twenty years later, he felt he was only now beginning to understand the subtleties of the art.

"Well, just keep it in mind.  There’ll always be a place for you here."

Jack nodded and moved to the door.  He turned, bowed to the image of the founder placed at the front of the sun-filled practice hall, and left.  He entered the locker room and changed from his gi into a black Gazzarrini suit.  Pulling his helmet and a briefcase from his locker, he left the building.

Waiting near the exit was his ‘94 BMW F 650 motorcycle.  Bought used and in bad shape for a few thousand, Jack had spent a few happy weeks last summer cleaning the engine and replacing worn parts.  Now it ran like a dream and made his excursions through congested Vancouver traffic much more enjoyable.

Placing his briefcase in the back compartment of the bike, he put on his helmet and climbed on.  He started up the engine and made his way out of the parking lot onto 6th Street.  Gunning the engine, he sped along, weaving through traffic.  After a short ride, he signalled a left turn into the underground parking garage of an apartment complex overlooking False Creek.  He parked his bike in a stall near the elevator.

Ignoring the lift, he entered the stairwell and jogged up the steps.  He reached the top floor, the sixth, and pulled open the door to the corridor.  Following it to the end, he unlocked 606 and entered his apartment.

The hunter entered Office Depot wearing Isotoner gloves.  They were useful because, like the old TV commercial claimed, one could pick up a key from a flat surface while wearing the damn things.  A measure of dexterity would be useful today.  Though their most important feature was that they cover his fingerprints.

The man’s name was Richards and he was handling the stress well.  The killing last night threatened to bubble up from the depths of his mind and steal his attention from the external world but he was able to keep it in check.  There were more steps to take before the business could be concluded.  He would have plenty of time to come to terms with his actions afterward.

He went to the stationery aisle and picked up an unopened box of envelopes and a shrink-wrapped sheaf of paper.  In another aisle he found a pair of scissors and some glue.  He went to the till, paid, and left.

Down the street he stopped at a corner store and bought both editions of the Saturday paper and a package of stamps.  He had all he needed.  He winked at the cute girl behind the counter on his way out.  She smiled back.

He went to his car parked up the street and climbed in.  A short drive up Oak brought him to the apartment hotel he was renting for the month.

He took the elevator up to his small suite and laid the morning’s purchases out on the table.  He filled a glass of water in the kitchen and set it untouched by the supplies.  Without taking off his gloves, he set to work.  Leafing through the sections of the papers, he would pause and cut out a part of a headline.  This continued until a small pile of words had formed in front of him.

He then removed the cellophane from the sheaf of paper and took a blank sheet from the pile.  Covering the page with a thin layer of glue, he quickly but carefully took the headline pieces one by one and pasted them on the sheet in sequence.

He sat back after a time and looked at his work.

"Perfect," he breathed.

Pulling an envelope from the box, he addressed it slowly, using a Bic pen held in his left hand.  He attached a stamp, moistening it with the water from the glass.  Then he folded the now dry sheet and inserted it into the envelope before sealing it shut.

All that remained was a trip to a distant mailbox.

Could life be any simpler?

Jack stood in the middle of his living room, holding a glass of water.  He took a drink.  He asked himself this question frequently, and almost every time he returned to the apartment.    He was not asking himself if things could be any easier, but instead if he could further simplify his life.

He looked around the room.  He felt his home should reflect his state of mind, much like a Zen garden reflected the level of enlightenment of a Zen master.

It was furnished simply, with low wood furniture and hardwood floors.  The walls were dark and there was a desk set up in the corner.  It held a phone, a lamp, and a laptop computer, the latest Alienware.

He crossed over to the desk.  Flipping up the cover of the laptop, he saw he had several email messages waiting.  He opened his email application and his heart quickened.  He had several messages, but the one that held his attention was a piece of spam with the subject line “Bu_y Yourse_lf a Piece of Pa_radise.”

He set down his water, sat down at the desk, and opened the email.  He scrolled to the end of the message, past the contents describing a timeshare condo in Cabo San Lucas.  The last two lines were gibberish, looking like the artifacts of a bumpy ride through the Internet.

He selected the two lines at the end and copied them with Ctrl-C.  He then went to his start menu and opened a program buried in his System Tools folder called “Makeshift.”  He entered a username and password and the program opened showing a large blank text field and an unlabeled button.

He pasted the two lines into the text field and pressed the unmarked button with his mouse.  A simple message replaced the gibberish.  It said " Most Urgent.  26/13."

"Once again," he thought.

Their meeting took place in Stanley Park.  The interior trails were not crowded, even early on a Saturday afternoon, and it was unlikely that their muted conversation would be overheard.  A directional microphone used from a distance was another matter, but if they kept moving and kept their eyes open such a listener could be detected and if necessary, detained.

It was easy for Jack to interpret the message he received through the spam email but almost impossible for others.  The 13 indicated 1:00 PM; the 26 meant the twenty-sixth location on a list Jack had memorized years ago.  In this case, the trailhead by the lake in Stanley Park.  He was here to meet his CSIS handler.

CSIS, or the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, was Canada’s secret service.  An organization “with secrets to protect, not a secret organization” as was stated on the home page of its website.  Little known to most Canadians, frequently forgotten by senior government ministers, CSIS was nonetheless an important element of Canada’s national security network.

Like any organization of its type, CSIS had a number of posts to fill, both visible and invisible.  In addition to the entry level Intelligence Officers, or IOs, CSIS had on their books scientists, doctors, engineers, computer specialists, and other professionals.  They also had some operatives who were not on the books.  Jack Findlay was one of them.

On occasion, CSIS had a need for highly skilled, independent agents.  These men and women were selected from the population based on characteristics that made them suitable for dangerous solo operations.  They would be called upon in times of need when internal agents could not be utilized due to security concerns.  Carefully screened by intensive psychological profiling, their motivations for doing this sort of work were not financial, but moral.

Jack’s handler was Steven Blake, a burly Newfie with white, receding hair and a missing left arm.  He had lost it shortly before Jack had joined the CSIS independent network.

"How’ve you been, Jack?  It’s been months."

"Well.  Doing some consulting, trying to enjoy life."

"How’s the training?"

"Aikido or virtual reality?"

"Both."

"They’re coming along.  I’m plateauing with the martial arts, but that’s nothing new.  I’ll just keep at it, and a spurt will come.  The VR is another story."

"How do you mean?"

Jack paused.  It was difficult to verbalize, but he had to try.  "I feel like it’s changing me.  I get so involved that I forget where I am.  I think my reflexes are faster and my ability to handle stress is increasing.  But it’s more than just that.  I feel calmer, but more aware.  It’s like having eyes in the back of my head."

"You’ll have to come in soon and we’ll run some tests.  This may need to become part of standard training."  Blake’s stride quickened.  Jack knew it was time to move on to business.  Blake’s voice lowered.  "We’ve got a real problem."

Blake’s phone had woken him at 4:00 AM last night.  It was Donald Grant, the Premier’s chief of security.  As the Director of the BC section of CSIS, it was Blake’s job to deal with intelligence emergencies in the province.  He listened as Grant outlined the events of the murder earlier that night.

"I’ll put all our available resources on it," Blake replied after the briefing.

"The Premier wants your best."

"He’ll get the best."

After the talk with Grant, Blake had called the night watch duty officer at CSIS Vancouver Section headquarters and put into motion the process that would get the regular investigative unit started on the case. Then he had gone to the computer at his desk and produced the encrypted spam that informed Jack of the meeting in Stanley Park.

After hearing the details of the assassination, Jack’s mind went into high gear.  "This sounds like a real pro.  No fingerprints or shell casings, and an inspired plan to get the target out of his car for an easy shot.  I have a feeling Richard Deck may not be the last."

"That was our take, too.  This may be some kind of extortion operation or even terrorist activity.  That’s why I need you to look into this."

 "Have you assigned other agents?"  Jack had faced problems in the past when the right hand didn’t know what the left was doing.  Running into another CSIS independent in the field could have hazardous consequences.

"Just the usual staffers.  Keep a low profile but get this resolved.  Resources will be available as usual, but if I know you, you probably won’t call ‘til you need the cavalry."

Jack smiled.  Blake knew that Jack relied on his own resources.  Budgets were tight, even in the secret service, and Blake had no patience with agents who would call in a strike team at the slightest provocation.  CSIS worked with limited resources but still had to carry out its objectives.

The concept of the CSIS independent network was developed with this in mind.  A solo operative presented a minimal security risk while allowing maximum mobility.  Anonymous because of their limited links to their agency, they could move in environments that would be treacherous for a known agent.

And Jack had moved in some very treacherous environments.

"I’ll keep you posted through the usual channels," he said.  "Is there anything else?"

Blake handed him a file from his briefcase.  "This is it.  Some photos, the police report, and a dossier on Deck.  Not much, but it’ll get you started."

"Thanks.  I’ll let you know when something breaks."

"Great.  And Jack?"

"Yeah."

"Be careful.  This one’s a killer."

Jack leaned back and stretched.  The contents of Blake’s file covered his desk but it wasn’t much to go on.  Pictures of the body slumped in front of the garage door.  A police report describing the compromised garage window and door opener.  The dossier on Richard Deck that gave the details of his political career.  Of course a man makes enemies in politics, but how many would be willing to kill?

He’d have to visit the site.  Try to put himself in the shoes of the man responsible for the murder.  He would go at dusk tonight and try to duplicate the actions of the shooter.  This method had worked as a starting point in the past.

He thought back over his time as an agent of CSIS.  He remembered how it all started, almost ten years ago…

CHAPTER TWO

In 1996, Jack Findlay was working as an IT analyst for a consulting firm in Vancouver.  He was well paid, secure in his position, and extremely bored.  He had banked a few weeks of vacation time and had decided to take a trip somewhere quiet and think about the future.  He had decided to go north, to Alaska.

Taking a ferry up the coast of British Columbia, he had spent a spectacular week in the Queen Charlotte Islands kayaking from one beautiful island beach to another.  Feeling rejuvenated, he had continued north by ferry to Anchorage where he booked a spot on a small charter flight into the Alaskan interior.  He was going to spend his last week at a remote wilderness resort near Wonder Lake in the Denali National Park.  He would then return to Anchorage before catching a flight back to Vancouver, where his unresolved future awaited him.

Jack stood on the Anchorage dock in the summer sun and watched the pilot supervise the refueling of his Cessna Caravan. The floatplane looked sturdy enough but there was something about the scene that bothered Jack. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but something was out of alignment.  It may have been the overweight pilot chain-smoking Players while standing just inside what could have been a safe distance from the refueling.  He would take a bite out of a greasy burger and top it off with some smoke.  It may have been the red, pasty skin of the man's face or the whistling sound that accompanied the man's breathing, but something about this pilot definitely made Jack uneasy.

He looked over at his three companions on this flight.  The older couple seemed healthy enough, but they had the look of two people who had done as they were told for most of their lives and were somewhat uneasy with the newfound freedom of retirement.  They spoke to each other quietly, clearly nervous about the upcoming flight but unwilling to relinquish their carefully planned and budgeted adventure.

The third passenger was another story.  Clearly unconcerned about the flight, he was nonetheless a mess.  A big man, he was missing his left arm and his right he held stiffly, as though injured.  His face was almost black with old bruises and when he moved it was with a limp.  However, these afflictions did not seen to affect his disposition and Jack could detect none of the self-pity that often accompanied a recent serious injury.  He decided to introduce himself.  He walked across the dock to where the man was standing and realized that none of the size of this individual came from sedentary habits.

"Should be a nice day for a flight," Jack said.

The man nodded.  "Looking forward to some rest."

"My name's Jack Findlay."

"Blake.  Good to meet you."

They shook.

"Have you been up here before?"

Blake nodded.  "Once.  A long time ago.  Haven't had a chance to get back until now.  Funny how a little bang-up will give you the time to do the things you should have done years ago."

"What happened?  If you don't mind me asking."

"Car wreck.  A drunk crossed lanes and decided on my car for a head-on."

"I'm sorry." For some reason Jackie didn't believe the story.  It wasn't the way the man told it, but some undercurrent of something like…satisfaction?  Jack decided to let it pass and move along.

"Well, you couldn't have better therapy than this.  It's beautiful up here."

"The air is good, too."

"What do you think of the pilot?"

"Needs to lose a few pounds and ask himself some hard questions about his lifestyle."

Jack laughed.  They lapsed into a companionable silence.  Jack felt an affinity for this stoic, injured individual that belied their short acquaintance.

Shortly, the refueling and preflight checks were completed and the pilot made his way over to his passengers.

"Time to go.  Put your bags in the rear hatch and climb in."

Blake reached for his backpack with his injured arm but Jack got it first.  "Allow me."

"Thanks."

The pack was very light.  Jack could always tell an experienced traveler by the weight of the luggage.  There is invariably an inverse relationship between the weight of the bags and the number of miles traveled.

Jack grabbed his own pack (also quite light) and tossed them both into the back of the plane.  He climbed into the rear section beside the couple.  Blake got into the copilot's seat and pulled the side door shut.  The pilot got in, started the engine, and completed the instrument checks.

"Everyone set?" asked the pilot.  "All right, we're off!"

He added some throttle and the plane pulled away from the docks.  The water was calm and the sky was clear and blue.  He maxed the throttle once they were clear of the dock and they picked up speed.  He pulled gently back on the yoke and they were airborne.  They climbed steadily to 3000 ft. and turned to a northeastern heading.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Captain Bob and I'll be your pilot for today's flight.  It should take us about three hours to get to the resort.  Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the beauty of Alaska.  Everyone you know wishes they were you right now."

The tone of the last comment vaguely bothered Jack.  He wasn't sure if he was going to like Captain Bob.

An hour passed as they flew north.  Although the sky ahead was clear, Jack could see dark clouds starting to move in behind.

"It looks like we may have a storm brewing to the south," remarked the pilot.  "We should be at the resort well before it catches up to us.  You're in good hands."

Jack nodded and returned to taking in the scenery.  Captain Bob turned to Blake.

"So, what do you do?"

Blake pulled himself away from the spectacular view.  "Insurance."

"Sounds pretty dull.  I'll bet this trip is a highlight."

Blake was noncommittal, refusing to be baited.  Bob tried again.

"This is the life.  I can't even imagine living in the city.  Busy, competitive, and noisy." Jack thought that this description also applied to Captain Bob.

"I don't really know.  I don't spend much time in cities," replied Blake.

Jack could sense that Captain Bob was becoming frustrated.  The back of the man's neck was covered in sweat and even redder than before.  Button pushing was obviously the man's forte but Blake was demonstrating no loss of composure.  Bob tried once again to find the crack in Blake's armor.

"Its gonna be hard for you to live without that arm. You must wanna kill the guy who did it."

Blake turned to look at Bob.  He smiled.  "I've forgiven him."  He was perfectly calm.

This was more than Captain Bob could handle.

"What's the matter with you?" he exploded.  "Haven't you got any…"

The man suddenly stopped in mid-sentence.  He didn't seem to be able to catch his breath and he clutched at his left arm.  The Cessna veered down to the left as he released the yoke.  The older woman beside Jack screamed.  The plane started to spin into a dive.

Jack saw Blake grab the copilot's control yoke with his right hand and push it forward.  The only way to pull out of a dive was to steer into it until the wings were below the critical stall angle.  The plane’s dive became steeper and wind could be heard whistling over the wings.  The older couple was shouting, utterly hysterical.  Jack leaned towards them.

"It'll be all right!  The plane is under control!"  The yelling dwindled then stopped.

Blake was slowly pulling back on the yoke. The plane began to stabilize as the dive gradually turned into level flight.  Blake turned to Jack.

"Check the pilot.  I can hold this pattern for a while."

Jack could see that the effort of keeping the plane steady was a severe effort for Blake's injured arm.  Releasing his safety belt, Jack leaned over the pilot's seat and checked Captain Bob.

He didn't look good.  The man was deathly pale, sweating, and holding his chest.  His eyes were closed and his breath was labored.  Jack felt the pulse in his neck.  It was fluttering, weak.

"He's had a heart attack.  He'll need a hospital soon."

Blake nodded, clearly under strain.  "I'm going to need some help.  I can't fly this plane for too long with this arm."

Jack paused.  This was going to be interesting, he thought.  "I can fly this plane," he said steadily.

Blake glanced at him briefly.  What he saw seemed to satisfy him.  "Good.  You'll need to move Bob into the rear and make him comfortable.  I'll hang on until you're done."

Jack unclipped the unconscious pilot's safety harness and reclined the man's seat.  Turning to the older man, he asked, "What's your name, Sir?"

The older man, somewhat dazed from shock, said, "It's…  It's Mike."

"I'm going to need you to help me move this man, Mike.  Can you do this?"

The men unclipped his safety harness and nodded.  "Yes."  His voice was wavering.

"This is all going to work out, Mike.  What is your wife's name?"

The older woman broke in.  "My name is Carol.  Is the pilot going to be all right?"

Jack decided to level with them.  "I don't know.  If we act quickly he'll have the best chance."

"Then we'd better get moving," said Mike.

Working together, the three of them were able to move Bob onto seat cushions placed on the floor of the plane.  The pilot's breathing was shallow and he was unconscious, but he was still alive.

Jack sat down in the pilot's seat and flipped up the back of the chair.  He looked over the controls.  Altimeter, artificial horizon, climb indicator, compass.  Everything was where it should be.  He took the yoke.

Blake released the controls with relief.  "They won't have the facilities up in Denali to deal with this kind of emergency.  We're going to have to head back to Anchorage through the storm."

Jack had known this.  He clenched his teeth and set the plane on a two-minute turn.  After 180° he straightened out their flight path.

Directly ahead of them black clouds filled their windshield.  Jack could see occasional flashes of lightning within the storm.

"This may be rough.  Mike, Carol, see if you can strap Bob down as securely as possible with the cargo harnesses.  Once you're done, strap yourself in as tight as you can and hold on." While he was speaking Jack attached his own safety belt with one hand.

"Try and get some altitude.  It could be clearer higher up," suggested Blake.

Jack pulled back on the yolk and their nose rose.  He could see the storm was almost upon them.

The transition between the storm front and the calmer air preceding it was abrupt.  It seemed to Jack that one moment he was flying smoothly and the next he was struggling for control as the wind violently buffeted the plane.

Inside of the plane it was chaos.  Coffee cups, maps, and other small objects were thrown around the cabin and the din was incredible.  Lightning flashed outside the windows and thunder shook the plane.  Mike and Carol were white-faced, gripping each other in terror.

Jack held onto the controls and checked his instruments.  Their heading was correct and they were still climbing gradually.  We may just get out of this, he thought.

Suddenly, with a simultaneous deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning hit their right wing.  The plane veered to the right before Jack could stabilize it and the instruments spun wildly.  The engine faltered, caught, and faltered again before returning to life.

"I've lost the instruments!" he called to Blake.

"Keep climbing.  It's our only chance."

Jack kept their nose pointed upwards and prayed.  The plane rocked back and forth, shaken by high winds within the storm.

As they climbed, Jack noticed that the cabin was getting brighter.  It became easier to control the plane.  Suddenly they broke through the top layer of clouds into blinding sunlight.  A cheer went up in the floatplane's cabin.

"We made it," said Blake.

A dual sigh of relief came from the couple in the rear.

"Without instruments, we've still got work to do.  We need to orient ourselves," Blake continued.  "It's about three o'clock, so we'll need the sun at our right to head south."

Jack adjusted the controls to make it happen.  Below them, the clouds hid the fury of the storm as they continued south towards Anchorage.

After an hour of steady flight at 10,000 ft., they had passed over the storm.  The city of Anchorage was visible in the distance.  Blake got on the radio and tuned it to the emergency band.

"SOS.  I repeat, SOS.  We are a Cessna floatplane with a medical emergency.  Our pilot is down with a heart attack.  Does anyone copy?  Over."

There was a crackle of static and then silence.  Jack assumed that the radio was as fried as the rest of the instruments when suddenly a voice broke through.

"Cessna, this is Anchorage.  We receive and copy.  Who is flying the plane?  Over."

"Fortunately we have another pilot on board.  We need an ambulance when we get in.  Where do we land?  Over."

"Cessna, your path is cleared to the floatplane dock.  Can you find it?  Over."

Jack looked down at the city and was able to spot where they had taken off.  He nodded at Blake.

"Roger, Anchorage," said Blake.  "Please get an ambulance there ASAP.  The pilot had a heart attack about an hour ago and needs immediate medical attention.  Over."

"Roger that, Cessna.  Is there anything else you need?  Over."

Jack spoke up.  "Just make sure there are no other planes in our landing pattern."

"Is the area clear of traffic, Anchorage?  Over," said Blake.

"Roger, Cessna.  Good luck.  Over and out."

"Can they save my game?" Jack muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" asked Blake.

"Nothing.  Are we set to put this plane down?"

"Everything looks good," replied Blake.  "Just take it slow."

By this time they were lined up for the landing.  Jack looked for the flaps control.  He found it and put it up two notches then lowered the throttle.  The plane slowed and began to descend.  The surface of the water was slightly choppy from the wind.  It made it more visible and would help him land.

"You're coming in a little too fast," said Blake.

Jack reduced the throttle a little more.  As the water came up to meet the floats Jack pulled back on the yolk and flared.  They hit the water, bounced, and hit again as Jack pushed the yoke forward.  They skidded over the surface and slowed as Jack reduced the power.  He could see an ambulance and two police cars parked on the dock, their lights flashing.

"We're back," he said as he pointed the plane towards the dock.  He turned to the couple behind him, a big smile on his face.  "Everything's going to be all right."

Jack stood with Blake on the dock as the ambulance pulled away.  Captain Bob was aboard.  A police officer walked over to them.

"He's going to be all right.  He was lucky you were able to get him back in time.  He won't fly commercially again, though."

"I'm glad he'll be OK," said Blake.

"There is a small problem, however," continued the officer.  He looked at Jack.  "We don't have a listing of your pilot's license."

Here's where it hits the fan, thought Jack.

"I don't have a pilot's license."

Blake looked at him as well.  "You told me you could fly a plane."

"That's right.  But I didn't tell you I had a license."

"Not even a student's pilot rating?" asked Blake.  Jack shook his head.  "Then where did you learn to fly?"

"On my computer.  Microsoft Flight Simulator."

Blake and the officer looked at each other.  "I think we’ll need to sort this out at the station," said the officer.

"Sergeant, can I speak with you for a moment?"  Blake took the officer aside.  Jack couldn't hear their conversation but he did see Blake take out his wallet and show a card to the officer.  They walked back to where Jack was waiting.

"Given the circumstances," said the officer, "I think we can overlook any irregularities.  You've both been through a lot so I suggest you go get some food and make arrangements for tonight."  He closed his notebook and walked back to the squad car.

"What was that all about?" asked Jack.

"We need to talk," said Blake.

They sat in a booth in a nearby café on Floatplane Road.  The waitress took their orders: two specials.  She left and Blake began to talk.

"As you may have guessed, I didn't get these injuries in a car accident.  Are you familiar with CSIS?"

"Canada's answer to the CIA?  A little."

"I work for them.  I was under cover in the Hell's Angels, investigating a connection with an international heroin cartel.  Unfortunately, I got into the middle of a squabble with a rival bike gang.  A chainsaw was involved.  By the time backup arrived I was pretty fucked up.  My handlers pulled me out, and I've been on leave since."

"Tough break."

"True.  However, as a consolation prize I've been put in charge of the British Columbia section of CSIS.  I have an idea for a special unit and that's what I want to talk to you about."

At this point their food arrived.  They ate as Blake outlined his concept of the CSIS independent network.  Jack listened closely, occasionally asking for clarification.  When Blake finished, Jack sat back.

"So how do I fit into this?"

"You reacted well in the plane.  The problem we have with selecting agents is that it's nearly impossible to re-create a true crisis situation in training.  There's almost no way to determine how a novice agent will respond to a life or death situation until they're actually in one.  Unfortunately, most tend to panic.  You didn't."

"I didn't really have any other options."

"You did, but you didn't take them.  At any rate, I believe that you'd be an asset as an independent agent.  Are you interested?"

Jack considered the offer.  Although it was tempting, he wasn't sure if it was for him.  He didn't want to become a government sneak, hanging around embassy parties listening to tedious conversations.  Or worse, a paper pusher sitting behind a desk.  The role Blake had described didn't seem to involve these duties, but Jack wasn't sure.  You could trust people, but not governments.

"I'll have to think about it.  How can I reach you?"

Blake pulled a card from his wallet.

"Call this number.  They'll get me a message."

Jack took the card.  Blake stood, tossed a few bills on the table, and moved toward the exit.

"Be seeing you," Blake said.

A month later, Jack quit his job at the consulting firm.  Two weeks before that he had been assigned yet another project that required no initiative or creative thinking and decided he had had enough.  He had walked into his Director's office and gave his notice.  Two weeks later, he walked out of the office building with no job and nothing lined up.  He felt great.  Free as a bird.

When he got back to his apartment he found Blake's card and called the number.  A man's voice answered.

"CSIS B.C.  Can I help you?"

"My name's Jack Findlay.  I'm looking for Steven Blake."

"Please stay by the phone."  The man severed the connection.

Five minutes later, Jack's phone rang.

"This is Jack."

"Blake here.  Have you made a decision?"

"Yes.  I'm in."

He was flown to CSIS headquarters in Ottawa where he was subjected to a series of interviews, written examinations, and psychological evaluations.  He wanted to make sure they were getting him and not someone he was trying to be, so he answered the questions candidly.  He felt honesty was a good approach for another reason; there were probably other security and background checks of which he was not aware being conducted at the same time.

He stayed at a hotel near the facility, and after a week of these activities he met with Blake in a CSIS conference room.

"You've been given the thumbs-up.  Are you ready to begin training?" Blake asked.  Jack nodded.

That was the beginning of spy school.

Training took place in a facility north of Ottawa.  It was a combination of classroom learning and live exercises, called "labs" by the faculty.  The classroom courses were fascinating.  Jack sat at a desk and listened to lectures on infiltration, code-breaking, counter-surveillance, and disguise.  The labs were even more compelling.

One afternoon Jack found himself in a large indoor gymnasium.  It was a pitch black maze of walls and trip wires.  The exercise was a complicated version of capture the flag, and Jack was tasked with retrieving a small rubber ball from the center of the maze without being detected.  There were other students acting as sentries, instructed to raise the alarm if he was overheard.

His Aikido training was helping.  He had trained while wearing a blindfold and it gave him a solid advantage.  He made his way slowly through the obstacles.  Keeping low, he kept one arm curved head of him and moved toward the goal.  He froze.  He sensed someone nearby.  He felt the air move as one of the sentries passed right in front of him.  After another pause, he continued.

After a series of slow, careful movements, he felt the space ahead of him open up.  He moved forward and felt the carpet of the dais that held the rubber ball and reached to take it.  As he lifted it, the lights came on.  He looked up at a balcony above and saw Blake removing night-vision goggles.

"Great work, Jack.  I knew you'd be cut out for this.  Can I talk to you?"

They met in an empty classroom.  Jack took a seat behind a desk.  Blake pulled over a chair.

"We've got some new equipment that's planned for standard agent training, but we need some guinea pigs for testing.  Are you interested?"

"Tell me more."

"You've heard of conflict scenario training?  The idea of rehearsing a conflict situation in practice so that the response becomes automatic?  Cops and the military have been using the concept for years in training, but we've got a new twist.  In police academy and SWAT training all of the activities are performed in training areas, so the immersion level is low.  Now we've got some new technology that can change this.  Come with me."

Blake led Jack downstairs to the basement level of the computer training wing.  The door required an electronic pass card and was simply labeled “Simulation.”  They went down the hall and entered a door into what looked like an air traffic control room.  Glass walls separated this room from another.

Inside the other room, a sophisticated Cray mainframe surrounded a large black chair.  It looked something like a comfortable dentist's chair with control pads on the armrests.  A black helmet sat on the seat.  Wires emerged from it and snaked to a control box by the mainframes.

"What the hell is all this?" asked Jack.

"The future of agent training.  It's a virtual reality simulator."

"Virtual reality?  So you're turning me into the Lawnmower Man?"

"More like the I've-learned-from-my-mistakes man.  You can mess up all you want here with no consequences.  Have a seat."

Jack entered the simulation room through a glass door which closed behind him.  Lifting the helmet off the chair, he sat down.  Blake moved to one of the computer terminals and tapped on the keyboard.  He bent to the microphone.

"Put the helmet on and close your eyes.  It can be a little disorienting at first."  Blake's voice came from speakers near the top of the glass divider.

Jack followed his instructions.  The helmet seemed to be about the same size as those made for use with motorcycles.  The front covered his face completely.  Inside the cover, a divider along his nose separated his eyes.  His vision was blocked and he could see nothing except pitch black.  He closed his eyes.

"Are you ready?"  This time Blake's voice came from speakers near his ears inside the helmet.

"Yes."  Jack's voice was calm and steady, but he couldn't help feeling some apprehension.

There was a click, and he could hear monks praying.  There was light filtering through his closed eyelids.

"Open your eyes," said Blake.

Jack opened his eyes.  He was looking down a hallway, but it looked strange.  Iconic, almost, like the essential elements of a hallway had been duplicated but all of the extra details had been left out.  It was computer animation, but it was of a higher quality than he'd ever seen before.  He turned his head, and the view of the hallway shifted to keep the correct perspective.

"The computer tracks the movement of the helmet and changes your viewpoint.  You'll find it works best if you keep your eyes forward and move your head to look around.  Some people get VR sickness from the experience, but we've improved the tracking to minimize this."

"It's amazing."

"It gets better.  In this scenario, you start in the basement of a monastery.  Upstairs are terrorists holding six hostages.  You need to find them and get them out, while remaining undetected."

"Is this the first scenario you give everyone?"

"No, but I wanted to see how you manage.  You can move around using the control pad on the left arm of the chair.  The control pad on the right is for interacting with the virtual world: opening doors, talking to hostages, climbing walls, and so forth.  Any questions?"

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"You've only got five minutes, starting now.  Good luck."

Jack quickly adapted to the control system by moving around the hallway.  After a few moments he felt comfortable.  He moved along the hallway and up a flight of stone stairs.

Jack looked down on a courtyard.  It held three guards armed with machine guns.  A wooden doorway led off the courtyard and Jack was sure he’d find the hostages there.

The experience was incredible.  He had moved around the monastery, stealthily avoiding guards until he had found himself on a small balcony above the courtyard.  He could hear the sounds of muted voices behind the door and the presence of the sentries indicated something worth guarding.

He watched the pattern of the guards for a few moments.  He knew he didn't have much time left, but he had to develop some sort of plan.  Running into the courtyard would be suicide.  The machine guns would tear him apart.  Jack reflected for a moment on how immersive this experience was.  Even though he knew it was little more than an elaborate videogame, he felt his adrenaline pumping as strongly as when he was flying the float plane through the storm.

He noticed that all three of the guards faced away from the wooden door and the staircase leading down from the balcony every 20 seconds.  He had about five seconds to make it through the door.

He moved down the staircase and waited at the bottom for the right moment.  When it came, he quickly maneuvered to the doorway and activated the handle.  He slipped through and closed the door, unnoticed by the guards.

Inside, he found the six hostages.  Again, he thought that they looked… strange.  They had all the features of people, but without enough detail to look fully human.  They were standing, huddled in a corner.

He looked around the room.  It appeared to have been a storage room, with rough stone walls and a single bulb in the ceiling.  There was a square grill in the middle of the floor.

He knew he was running out of time.  He went over to the grill and tried to activate it.  To his surprise, it slid open and he saw a ladder leading down into darkness.  He quickly moved to the hostages and one by one moved them over to the grill.  They each climbed in.

Once they were all out of sight, Jack followed them in.  The drainage tube ended in a sewage tunnel, and there was a light about 50 meters down.  He herded the former hostages towards the light.

Suddenly, the world around him faded into darkness.  He removed the VR helmet.

"So, you won that round.  What you think?" asked Blake.

"Incredible."

After being introduced to VR training, Jack continued with his classroom espionage lessons and the live “labs.”  A significant portion of his time, however, was spent with the simulator.  Jack couldn't get enough.  After mastering the control system, Jack found that the realism of the VR scenarios was like nothing else.  He worked his way through the basic operational files and then took on infiltration, hostage-rescue, sabotage, and black ops simulations.

The black ops situations included explosives, escape and avoidance, and assassination techniques.  Jack found the last one distasteful.  He was no killer, and even in simulation he found he had no stomach for this activity.  He also disliked guns, and although he was as capable of accomplishing these virtual missions as any others, he knew that he'd have no part of any real government-sanctioned murders.  He also knew that this might affect his position with the CSIS independent network, so he decided to talk to Blake.

One afternoon after a live explosives drill, Jack entered Blake's temporary office on the third floor.

"What can I do for you, Jack?"  Blake was typing on a laptop, but closed the lid and gave Jack his full attention.

"I've got a problem.  Why am I being trained to kill people?  Does the Canadian government support political assassination?"

Blake sat back in his chair.  He paused for a moment, and then said "The assassination scenarios are simply another training technique.  To my knowledge, no CSIS agent has ever been used as an assassin.  However, there is no way to predict what sort of situations agents will meet when they're in the field, so we try to throw everything at them while they're here in a controlled environment.  You've passed every test we've given you, including this one right now."

"What are you talking about?"

"We don't want sociopaths running around with CSIS credentials.  Any trainee here that shows special enthusiasm for assassination training is placed in a posting where that training will never be required, usually a desk job on the Prairies.  By showing me that you've got no stomach for murder, you've passed the final test."

"You mean…"

"That's right.  You've finished spy school and are ready for assignment."

CHAPTER THREE

Jack gathered up the pages of the Deck file and placed them in the manila envelope.  He couldn't spend the day reminiscing about his past; he had work to do.  He would go to the crime scene at dusk this evening, but this afternoon he wanted to train.

Every second day, unless circumstances prevented, he would spend a few hours working on his physical and mental skills.  Weight training, sparring with a punching bag, and a long run made up the physical component.  Meditation and VR training developed his mental abilities.

During his time training at the CSIS facility, Jack had written an internal paper about virtual reality skill development.  He had called it "First Personal Growth: Video Games as a Martial Art."  It had started like this:

“Video gaming is like dreaming.  The experience seems real, but the consequences are not.  Nonetheless, it can still be a profound emotional experience.  Video games are also part of the storytelling tradition of our culture.  They give life to the mythology of our time and allow us to face the wonders and fears of our post-modern world.

Video games also simulate action under stress, and function as a forge of the spirit.  The repeated actions create pathways in the brain which allow the practitioner to remain calm and focused under pressure.  They also allow the user to face his or her fears in a controlled environment and try out new strategies and tactics…”

In order to continue using this technology after leaving CSIS agent training, Blake had arranged to get Jack a prototype of a mobile VR headset.  It connected to his laptop and functioned in a similar fashion to the full-scale version at the CSIS facility.  It looked like a bike helmet with a bulky pair of sunglasses attached.  Wires ran from the glasses across the top of the helmet and out the back where they attached to the video output of the computer.  They took a 3-D video signal from the laptop and split it into two slightly different images which were projected onto each lens of the glasses.  The user's eyes and brain would assemble these images into a full 3-D view.

Jack had been using the simulations from CSIS on this home VR system and found they kept his abilities up-to-date.  However, he had also found that the current selection of commercial video games worked just as well, if not better.  It probably had to do with the competitive market, but there was a broader range of missions from which he could select and the experience was often more intense and of a higher quality.  The games easily adapted to the 3-D VR system, were extremely immersive, and could simulate combat, driving, piloting, infiltration, anti-terrorist operations, and other activities.

He would practice his stealth and problem-solving skills for 60 minutes, usually playing at the hardest skill level.  He also wouldn't save his game, requiring him to restart if he made a mistake.  This raised the level of tension and forced him to proceed carefully and attentively.  Although this training wasn't the same as a real mission, it was as close as he could get.

By the time he completed his exercise and training routines, it was late afternoon.  Jack wanted to arrive at the crime scene shortly before dusk and re-create the killer's activities.  He changed into a black T-shirt and khakis and went to the parking garage.

It took him 45 minutes to reach West Vancouver.  He drove slowly through Deck's quiet, affluent neighborhood.  The houses on Deck's block were the kind that made people think of winning lotteries, writing a best-selling novel, or releasing a hit single.  Many could fall under the category of estate, with circular driveways, stone walls with automatic gates, and huge sculpted hedges surrounding immaculately tended grounds.

Jack stopped his BMW motorcycle a few houses down from Deck's home.  He walked slowly up the street, acting casual but taking in everything.  He knew his quarry was a professional and, despite the old saying, was unlikely to return to the scene of the crime.  Jack, however, took nothing for granted.

On his left, the walls and hedges of the huge properties rose up.  On his right, across the street, a forest began at the edge of the road and continued up the hillside.  No one had built on this side due to the steepness of the terrain.  Jack knew that was where he needed to start.

He crossed the road and walked along the forest's edge until he was across from Deck's address.  The police report indicated that the shot had come from this direction, near the top of the wooded hill.

Moving carefully, Jack climbed to the ridge of the hill.  He could see clearly over the stone wall to Deck's house.  He pulled out binoculars and focused in on the area near the garage door.  There was still police tape and an outline where Deck had fallen.  He looked over the house and could see the light of a television through the drapes.  The opiate of the mourning, he supposed.  Jack lowered the binoculars and looked at the rocky ground where he was standing.  The police forensics team had determined that the shot had come from this point, but they had found nothing.  Even the killer's tracks had been covered.

Near the end of his CSIS training, Blake had given Jack a few lessons on tradecraft and investigation.  One of the pointers that Jack used frequently was this: look for negative space.  When Blake first told him this tip, Jack hadn't understood.  Blake offered this anecdote.

"There's a Sherlock Holmes story that contains a conversation between Holmes and Watson.  Holmes says to Watson that there was a curious incident of a dog barking last night.  Watson replies that the dog didn’t bark at all.  Holmes says that is exactly what was curious.  The point of this story is that you should look for things that should be there but aren't.  By the way, you could learn a lot about investigation from Doyle's books."

Jack look again at the ground, trying to see what wasn't there.  Suddenly, it came to him.  The ground was strewn with rocks and twigs except for one area the size of a man's body.  If the killer had lain down to steady his rifle and wait for his target, this outline is where he would have done so.  He would have moved the rocks and twigs from underneath his body in order to be more comfortable.

Jack lay down within the outline and looked through the binoculars at the garage door.  This spot provided a perfect field of view.  He thought about what it must have been like for the shooter.  Waiting patiently to end a man's life.

Jack realized that all the separate pieces were beginning to add up.  Based on the ballistics report, the killer had used a high-powered hunting rifle.  He had been patient and thorough.  He had found a perch and made himself comfortable.  And he had created a trap for his prey.  It was clear that this man had hunted a great deal, and it could not have been other human beings he had hunted or his M.O. would be well-known.

The killer was a hunter of animals.

The Premier had called an emergency Cabinet meeting for Saturday evening.  Every available MLA met at the federal building in downtown Vancouver.  Word had gotten out about the murder of Richard Deck and many were near panic.  The meeting room was filled with the din of multiple voices asking questions, demanding answers, making threats.  There was nothing like the bluster of the powerful when they were frightened.

The Premier moved through the crowd to the dais at the front and addressed the group.

"I know you've all heard a lot of rumors and I'm here to set things straight."

"What the hell is going on here?"  This was from a heavyset man near the front of the room.  He was Maxwell Stevens, the Minister of Education.  "What exactly happened to Richard?"

"If you'll let me speak for a moment, Max, I'll tell you.  Richard Deck was found shot outside his home last night.  His wife discovered the body and called the police.  No one has been arrested, but every available agency is working on this."

A cacophony of voices exploded after this statement.  The loudest, belonging to Stevens, rose above the uproar.

"Have you even got a suspect?  What do we pay these people for?"

"That's why I called this meeting.  Until this matter is resolved, everyone here should take precautions.  You'll each be assigned a small security detail, but you should change your schedule to minimize any exposure.  I'll keep you all posted with any developments."

The Premier stepped down from the dais amid shouting voices.  Max Stephens stepped into his path, blocking his way.

"What haven't you told us, Wayne?"

Stewart looked at his interrogator.  He didn't much like the man.  Stevens was loud, obnoxious, and contrary.  Despite his girth, he had a pinched face with a terminally sour expression.  His was the type that made reaching a consensus a Herculean task.

"Look, Max, I’ve told you everything we know.  Why would I hide information?"

"I still get the feeling that there's something you're keeping from us.  I guarantee I'll find out what it is."

Stewart was losing his patience.  He hadn't slept since the call early this morning and he didn't feel like entering a debate with Stevens.

"Good luck to you, Max.  If you crack this case, please let us know."  He brushed past and headed to the exit.

Outside the meeting room, MLAs were assigned one or more plainclothes RCMP officers, depending on their status.  The little groups moved off awkwardly, like uncomfortable dance partners.  As he left, Stuart saw Stevens arguing with the two officers to whom he had been assigned.

Jason Pannu had worked as a security guard at the mall for ten years now, ever since he had moved from India as a younger man.  He had worked his way to supervisor of the evening shift, and he enjoyed his job.  It paid enough, he was able to provide for his family, and there was little actual danger.  The mall was located next door to offices and the federal building, and most of the clientele were affluent.  Shoplifters and kids on skateboards were the usual problems, with the occasional medical emergency or graffiti artist.

He didn't know why he noticed the man with the guitar case.  Perhaps the look of the man was inconsistent with the artistic nature of the guitar.  Jason had spent time in the Indian military and could recognize the look of a professional soldier.  He would remember this one.

Jason watched the man take the escalator up to the second level and move out of sight.

Richards saw the security guard take note of him.  He didn't like it, but he didn't think it would be a problem.  He walked along the railing on the second floor of the mall and looked down at the main level.  At this time on a Saturday evening, the mall was moderately crowded.  It would close in an hour, but he believed he'd have his opportunity before then.

He had spent the afternoon strolling near the federal building.  He had dressed poorly, because a down-on-his-luck individual loitering in downtown Vancouver was essentially invisible.

He knew that it would take time for the government to respond to last night’s event, but he assumed the MLAs would meet as soon as possible.  He had been right.  He had observed a steady stream of politicians entering the federal building early this evening.  He had gone to his car, changed his clothes, and entered the mall.

His targets this evening would be those of opportunity, but he had one that was a higher priority.  It all depended on circumstances.

He strolled along the storefronts and took an escalator up to the third and top floor of the mall.  This area contained expensive men's clothing stores and was not as crowded.  He walked to a side hallway which led to washrooms, a telephone, and a doorway labeled "Staff Only."  There was a teenage girl using the phone.  Richards walked past and entered the Men's washroom.

He crossed to a stall, went in, and locked the door.  It was important that he not be sighted entering the staff area.  He didn't have much time but he'd have to wait.  He could hear the girl's voice out in the hall.  He hoped this wouldn’t take too long.

Stevens was not happy.  This wasn’t unusual, but the extent of his unhappiness was more severe this evening.  Not only was Stewart trying to keep him out of the loop, Stevens had to put up with being babysat by a couple of Boy Scouts.

After the meeting, the RCMP officers had briefed him on their security measures.  Stevens had found most of them invasive, and resented the fact that he needed the two of them at all.  He had been argumentative, and it was clear to all that this would not be a harmonious relationship.

They had gone over his schedule in an empty conference room and the officers eliminated activities that they considered unnecessary and risky.  This had led to further arguments, and when they finished there was a palpable tension.  The officers were professionals, though, and remained calm and polite.  The three of them left the room and headed to Steven's car.

Finally Richards heard the girl say her goodbyes and hang up the phone.  He listened to her diminishing footsteps and then left the washroom.  He crossed the hall and entered the door marked “Staff Only.”

He had made a recon of this area a few days ago and knew that this hallway led to some administrative offices, storage rooms, and a staircase to the roof.  At this time, the whole staff area would be deserted.  He moved to the end of the hall and went up the stairs two at a time.  The door at the top was marked with a sign that said "Warning: Fire Alarm will sound if opened."

The alarm was triggered if the contact broke between leads in the top of the door frame and the top of the door.  Richards pulled some black electrical tape and a spool of wire from his coat pocket.  From the case attached to his belt he pulled a multitool.  Working quickly, he cut a length of wire and attached it to the two leads using the electrical tape.  He put the tools back in his pocket and pressed the door's handle.  The door open silently, and he slipped through.  He left the door slightly ajar using a coin from his pocket.

Once on the roof, he crossed over to the northwest corner.  From here, he could see the federal building, the multilevel parking garage next door, and the third story walkway that connected the two.  He placed his guitar case on the ground and opened it.

His rifle rested inside.  It gleamed dully in the reflected light.  He had cleaned it thoroughly before leaving his apartment and had only handled it with gloved hands.  There would be no fingerprints.

He lifted it out and set up the bipod stand at the end of the barrel.  Setting the stand on the corner's ledge, he had a perfect view of the glass-walled skywalk.  Once again, he waited.

Once again, they were arguing.  Stevens thought it inconceivable that he would not be driving his own car.  Rogers, the senior RCMP officer, told him it was standard procedure in such situations and was for his own safety.  MacKay, the other officer, wisely kept silent.

They walked along the second-story corridor that led to the skywalk.  As they reached the walkway, Stevens pulled out his keys and broke ahead.  Rogers sighed.  This man was like a small child.  He wondered if Stevens would get in the car and lock the doors.  It wasn't out of the question.  Rogers quickened his pace and called out.

"Mr. Stevens!  This area is very exposed.  Please let us do our jobs."

Stevens said nothing and walked faster.

Richards saw the group move onto the walkway.  One of the three was his prime target for this evening, but he was given special instructions for this one.  It would be a difficult shot, but he had made many difficult shots.  He looked through the scope, made a few slight adjustments, and squeezed the trigger.

The sounds were a bodyguard's worst fears come to life.  The simultaneous crack of a gunshot, the shattering of glass, and the soft impact of a bullet into flesh.

Rogers had just about caught up to Stevens in the skywalk and despite his personal feelings for the man, reacted quickly.  He threw himself at the staggering man and knocked him to the ground with a flying tackle.  At the same time, he pulled his gun and started to scan the area outside the smashed window.  He spotted movement on the roof of the mall across the street.

Richards calmly chambered another round and looked through the scope.  One of the men with Stephens, obviously well-trained, had his gun out and was covering the injured man with his body.  Richards heard him call to his partner who was crouched nearby, also holding a gun.

"The mall roof!  Two o'clock!"

The second officer looked straight at Richards' position and took careful aim.  A shot ricocheted off the stone ledge a few feet from Richards.

It was time to leave.

MacKay was about to take another shot when the shooter ducked out of sight behind the ledge.  Rogers called to him.

"Call this in!  I've got to check Stevens!"

MacKay rapidly spoke into his shoulder radio mike as Rogers rolled Stevens over.  The injured man groaned.  His shoulder was bloody, but it didn't look fatal.  After further examination, Rogers determined that the bullet had passed right through, missing vital organs.

The window must have deflected the path of the bullet enough to save the man's life.

Richards dropped the rifle into the case with gloved hands and moved away, staying low.  He regretted leaving the weapon behind but he wouldn't make it far with it in his possession.  He didn't think the cops had much of a description to go on, but he had to reduce the risk as much as possible.

He crossed to the exit door and pulled it open.  Entering the stairwell, he pulled the door shut and removed the wire and tape from the alarm leads.  He stuffed them in his pocket as he went down the stairs.

Reaching the staff hallway, he went to a fire alarm trigger on the wall and pulled the lever.  He continued through the staff door as the fire alarms began blaring.

He knew it would not be long before the mall was crawling with police.  He headed to the escalator leading to the second floor.

By this time, the patrons of the mall were starting to head toward the exits.  Richards fell in with a small group on the second level and moved with them down to the ground floor.

The exits were a mass of confusion.  There were people streaming out of the building as a few uniformed police officers tried to get inside.  He planned to walk right past them on his way out.

"Hold it!"

The voice came from behind him.  Richards kept moving, ignoring the order.  A hand fell on his right shoulder.

Richards turned slightly to look at his assailant.  It was the security guard from earlier.  He must have seen Richards without the guitar case and put two and two together.  It was unfortunate that Richards had to reward competence with pain.

He placed his left hand over the guard's knuckles and swung his right arm underneath and over.  He twisted his body violently and pushed on the back of the guard's head.  As the guard fell forward, Richards stuck out his right leg.  The guard flipped head over heels and crashed onto the hard tiling.

The people around him backed away in fear.  Richards looked over at the nearest exit.  The police were pointing at him through the crowd and yelling into their radios.  He turned and saw more cops coming toward him from the other end of the mall.

Richards knew he didn't have many options.  He could take a hostage, but that would only end in disaster.  Even if he had a gun, a firefight would be suicide.  He'd have to run.

From his reconnaissance of the mall, he had noted all possible exits.  He didn't believe the police would have time to cover them all.

Leaving the groaning security guard and the ring of frightened onlookers, he ran into the nearby Le Château.  Moving quickly, he passed by racks of black clothing on his way to the street exit.  He couldn't see any officers through the window, so he kicked the door open and ran out onto the sidewalk.

He heard shouts and the sound of running feet but he continued across the street.  He slid across the hood of a slow-moving car and was nearly hit by a bus.  Horns blasted as he ran into the entrance of the SkyTrain station.

The SkyTrain ran underground through downtown Vancouver and then emerged onto elevated tracks to deliver passengers to Burnaby and beyond.  Richards hoped his timing was lucky.

He tore down the stairs that led to the platform.  The police were right behind, maybe 30 seconds.  Richards vaulted over the turnstiles and took the last staircase down to the platform.  A train was just leaving, but as he sprinted to the nearest car, the doors closed and the train started to move away.  He slammed his fist in frustration on the window of the departing car.

He looked around.  There was a small crowd heading up the exit staircase opposite the one he had just descended.  There wasn't much time, but he had one more idea.  One more chance.

He crossed over to the exiting crowd and took off his jacket.  From one of his pockets he pulled a knit cap which he put on his head.  He forced himself to move slowly and casually, blending into the group.

From the top of the stairs he heard his pursuers reach the platform.

"A train just left!  He must be on board!"

"Contact the driver and tell him to take it slow.  We'll have four units waiting at the next station."

Thanking his luck, Richards continued up and out of the station and into the busy streets.  Next time, his exit strategy would be guaranteed.

Jack arrived back in his apartment shortly after 10 p.m.  He had thought about the case on his ride home, and had a plan of action.  He had some research to do, so he went to his computer.

There were a few messages waiting for him, including a spam entitled “Travel to the Caymans in Style.”  This got Jack's full attention.

This subject line was used by CSIS to indicate urgent information.  Jack copied the random seeming characters at the end of the email into his decryption program and read the translation:

"Another attempted hit on a Minister was made at 8:07 this evening at the Federal Building.  The target was Maxwell Stevens, Minister of Education.  Although wounded in the shoulder, the target is in stable condition under guard at St. Paul's Hospital.  The shooter was sighted by several mall patrons and a security guard, but escaped via the SkyTrain.  His weapon was recovered and is being held by the RCMP.  A description follows."

Jack read the description but realized it would be of little use.  There were too many six-foot white males with dark hair to start reeling in suspects, and the shooter was likely to change his appearance or hair color next time.  The weapon was another story, however.

Jack had to see that rifle.

Richards returned to his apartment around 11 o'clock.  After he got back to his car, he had taken a convoluted path through Vancouver to be sure he wasn’t followed.  He pulled a pack from the closet and started filling it with clothes and the few possessions he had in the room.  There would be some heat from tonight's operation and he felt it best if he was far away.  A few witnesses had gotten a good look at him and he had some respect for police tracking methods.  It was what they did, after all.

Directly, he finished packing.  Looking around the room, he could see no trace that he had been here.  He pulled open the door, shut off the light, and left the room.

CHAPTER FOUR

The message was waiting for Donald Grant when he returned to his West End apartment.  He pressed the play button on his answering machine and listened to the Premier's voice recount the details of Steven's shooting an hour earlier.  Grant gazed out of the living room's floor-to-ceiling window at the nighttime view of Stanley Park and thought about his next move.  He'd have to act fast.

He picked up the phone and dialed.  A man's voice answered.

"I just received another call from Stewart," said Grant.  "You're going to have to speed things up."

He listened, and replied "Just do it.  And no more mistakes."

He broke the connection then dialed again.

"Wayne.  I just got your message.  I wanted to let you know everything that can be done is being done…"

The next morning, Jack entered the headquarters of the Vancouver Police Department at the south foot of Cambie Bridge.  He crossed the lobby to the glass-enclosed duty desk where a dark-haired, heavyset young woman sat before a bank of monitors.

"Could you let Lieutenant Gardener know that Jack Findlay is here to see him?"

The woman nodded and spoke into the phone.  A few minutes later a sandy-haired man in his middle forties came into the lobby through a set of heavy doors behind the duty desk.  He was wearing a gray suit and had the look of a high school mathematics teacher.  Jack knew that looks were deceiving in the case of Ron Gardner.  A highly competent homicide detective, Gardner had twice been decorated for bravery in the line of duty.  He had joined the VPD in his early twenties and had built a reputation as an ethical, quick thinking investigator.  His face broke into a smile at the sight of Jack.

"Jack!  It's great to see you.  It's been a while."

"It's good to see you too, Ron.  The last time we got together was over that bomb in the Stadium."

"That was a mess.  The game had to be postponed and the crowd nearly rioted while being evacuated.  At least we were able to stop the timer."

"Not a moment too soon, if I remember correctly.  How have you been, Ron?"

"Not too bad.  It's been fairly quiet around here.  The usual.  Until this weekend, that is.  I can imagine why you're here."

"You imagine correctly.  I was hoping to see the gun."

"Follow me."  Ron turned and walked towards the double doors.  Jack followed.

They passed through an area filled with officers’ desks where the usual Sunday morning business of a large metropolitan police department was being conducted.  Various individuals were being booked for a variety of infractions but the hum of focused activity indicated a somewhat higher level of purpose.  Jack could imagine that the events of the past two days had made quite an impact.

They continued down a staircase to a basement sublevel.  They walked down a featureless corridor to a door marked “Evidence Room.”  Ron produced an electronic passcard and passed it in front of a sensor to the right of the door.  There was a click, and they entered the room.

Inside, the small entrance area was separated from the main evidence room by a counter and heavy-duty wire mesh screening.  Behind the counter, an officer sat reading Sports Illustrated.  Ron spoke through the mesh.

"We're going to need to see the rifle from last night."

The officer put down his magazine and stood.

"No problem, sir.  Just give me a moment."

Ron and Jack watched the man walk into the rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves in the main area of the room.  A few moments later he returned with a rifle encased in clear plastic.  He set the gun on the counter and produced a clipboard.

"Please sign here.  You can use the examination room next door."

"Thanks," said Ron.  "We'll have it back in a few moments."

They went next door and set the rifle on the table in the middle of the room.

"They've already been over it," said Ron.  "It's been matched to the shooting last night as well as the night before.  It's a stock Remington hunting rifle.  Thousands are sold every year in the lower mainland alone.  You can buy one at any sporting goods store.  As you may have guessed, the serial numbers are filed and there are no distinguishing marks.  It's a clean job.  The man who left this behind is a pro."

Jack leaned closer to look through the plastic.  This is what he expected.

"What about the scope?" he asked.

"Same deal.  Top-of-the-line hunting scope, available at fine hunting shops everywhere.  The calibration job is outstanding, though.  At 100 meters, the bullet lands only a few millimeters outside of the scope's crosshair point.  Again, the man is a pro.  He knows guns.  That is, if the shooter is the same man who set up this rifle."

"I'm pretty sure he is.  The best always work alone.  Ron, once again I can't thank you enough.  I think I've seen all I need."

"Glad to help.  I still owe you from last time.  I'll walk you out."

They returned the rifle to the evidence locker and made their way back to the main floor.

"We're producing a list of suspects from the gun registry but it's a long one," said Ron.  "Dispersed across BC, too.  We're also checking gun clubs and hunting shops, but nothing yet.  I'll let you know if something breaks."

"Thanks," said Jack.  "You can reach me at the same number."

They shook, and Jack left the building.

To catch a hunter, he'd have to think like one.

Jack knelt on a zazen cushion, counting his breaths.  Although one was supposed to let go of thoughts during meditation, Jack found the activity helped him to focus his mind and find solutions to difficult problems.

It was clear that the man he was seeking had considerable skills.  It was also likely he had military experience, and was able to think both tactically and strategically.  His plan for the assassination of Richard Deck was well-designed and essentially foolproof, and his escape from the police last night showed an ability to adapt and improvise.

But what were his motivations?  Why was he trying to kill BC's political leaders?  To be sure, the present administration was not popular.  They had gained an overwhelming majority in the last election due to the bungling of the previous leadership.  However, they had used this majority to implement controversial legislation, dramatically cutting funding for education, health care, and other social services.  Even though the attacks were on the Ministers of Education and Health, Jack found it hard to believe that government funding cuts would lead a man like this to murder.

There had to be more to it, but Jack didn't have the pieces.  He'd have to move forward with what he had.  The hunting rifle and calibrated scope, the patient wait for the right shot, and the ability to predict and influence his target’s behavior all pointed toward an experienced hunter.  And a hunter needed prey.

Jack would become the bait.

Jack quickly put together a cover story.  If questioned, he would claim to be an anonymous representative of a Saudi oil magnate needing a discreet individual for "wet" work.  He put on a dark suit, emptied his wallet of identification, and used the phone to arrange the delivery of a rental car to his address.

He spent the rest of the afternoon visiting hunting gear shops in the Lower Mainland.  He would enter a store, get the feel of the place, and approach a likely looking employee.  After some small talk, he'd ask the employee to show him the store's rifles.  If his intuition told him to proceed, Jack would look pointedly at the rifles and drop a line about needing to find someone who wasn't afraid of some "rough" work.  The first six stores he visited produced nothing, but the seventh proved to be the charm.

Jack entered Barney's Army Surplus on Terminal Street fifteen minutes before closing time.  There were few patrons in the dimly lit, overstocked establishment.  He made his way past racks of camouflage army fatigues and shelves of camping gear to the counter at the back.  The two employees in the shop were discussing a recent transaction.

"I'm telling you, he arrived twenty minutes late and then couldn't get the grinder started."  The first speaker wore thick, dark-framed glasses that made his eyes appear slightly cockeyed.  He was dressed in a Rush T-shirt and jeans, and appeared to be in his early thirties.

"That's happened to me.  You'd think they'd make sure the one thing their business depended on was working properly."  The second speaker was younger than the first, with short spiky blond hair and a post-punk wardrobe.

"Anyway, so he tells me that he's gonna do it by hand, that it'll be better that way," resumed Eyeglasses.

"Bullshit."

"That's what I said.  I said, 'Bullshit, you're gonna screw it up.'"

"What'd he say?"

"He said, like, 'No man, I've done this lots.'"

"So what'd you do?"

"I handed in the knife."

"You did?"

"What was I gonna do?  I needed it sharpened, the man was a mobile knife sharpener, so I let him do it by hand."

"What happened?"

"He actually did a good job."

Jack moved up to the counter.

"I was hoping you could help me," he asked.

Eyeglasses turned to Jack as if resentful for the interruption.  Seeing there might be money here, he forced a smile.

"Can I help you?"  The tone was not accommodating.

"Yes.  I'd like to take a look at your hunting rifles."

"Follow me."  Eyeglasses came out from behind the counter and led Jack to a locked glass case on the side wall.  Inside were a number of rifles, including a Winchester.

"Any particular model?" asked Eyeglasses.

Jack pointed at the Winchester.

"That one," he said.

Eyeglasses pulled a large set of keys from his pocket and selecting one, unlocked the case.  He pulled the Winchester out of its rack and handed it to Jack.

"Good choice.  You find the sights are more precise than the Remington. This'll drop a grizzly in its tracks from 50 meters and with an attached scope you could have a day of hunting without leaving your campsite."

Jack looked over the rifle and then lifted it to his shoulder.  Looking down the sights at the store wall, he imagined the way the man he was seeking had felt before pulling the trigger and ending another man's life.  It was a sense of power, but Jack found it distasteful.  He lowered the weapon.

"It's a quality product," said Jack.  "But to tell you the truth, it's not why I'm here."

Eyeglasses suddenly looked wary.  "You're not a cop, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"We've already had cops in here today.  They're looking for someone who may have bought a rifle recently.  To do with the shooting of that government guy Friday night."

"I'm not a cop.  But I may be looking for the same person.  Someone who's not afraid to use one of these."  Jack held up the Winchester.

"I couldn't help the cops and I can't help you."  Eyeglasses took the rifle from Jack and locked it back in the case.  "We're closing now."

Jack had the feeling that this man knew more than he was telling.  He pulled out a money clip and removed a $100 bill.

"This gets me five more minutes."

Eyeglasses looked at the bill, uncertain for a moment.  Greed quickly won over, and he took the bill.  "Five more minutes, and that's all."

"I'm not a cop.  I represent…other interests.  All I need from you is a name.  Someone who can help my employer deal with certain problems.  It'll be rewarding for you and you'll remain completely anonymous."

"How rewarding?"

"A name will get you a thousand bucks.  However, a lie will get you dead.  I believe it's a fair deal."

Eyeglasses looked across the store at his partner.  Even though Post-punk was out of earshot, Eyeglasses lowered his voice. 

"Two thousand.  Not negotiable."

Jack's face remained impassive but inside he felt relief.  He was finally getting somewhere.  He had been prepared to spend more than two grand, especially since it was the government's money.  It's too bad he couldn't get a commendation for thriftiness.

"Two thousand, then," said Jack.  He counted off twenty hundred dollar bills and handed them over.  "What have you got?"

Eyeglasses leaned toward him and spoken a low tone.  "It's not the name of a person, but a place.  I've heard it's where most of the big deals go through.  You're sure to find the man you're looking for there."

"What's the name?"

"The Gastown Gun Club.  It's near the East Hastings end of the street.  Talk to Rick.  He'll find who you need."

"Thanks.  Keep in mind if you're lying to me I'll be back with friends."

Eyeglasses looked earnest.  "I'm not lying.  Rick's the one to talk to.  But you'll have to convince him you're not a cop.  Some cash will probably help."

Jack nodded and left the shop.  Outside, he walked to his rental and got in.  Finally, some progress.  He'd pay a visit to the Gastown Gun Club first thing tomorrow.

As soon as the man in the suit stepped out the door, Eyeglasses picked up the phone and dialed.  While the line rang at the other end, he thought about his visitor.  He didn't like the look in the man's eyes.  At all.  Finally the phone at the other end was picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Rick.  It's Fred.  I'm sorry to be calling you at home, but there something you gotta know…"

The next morning, Jack walked into the Gastown Gun Club.  He had checked the place out using police and government databases and found a few interesting facts.  It was a nonprofit organization managed by Rick McCallum, a former bouncer.  He had been banned from his previous occupation due to excessive force in the performance of his duties, putting a club-goer into a wheelchair permanently.  He had been arrested a few times after this on charges of theft and assault, but nothing had stuck.  A gun enthusiast, McCallum had been involved in the Gastown Gun Club for years.  He had recently applied for and received the position of manager.

It was a large space, probably converted from a warehouse.  The ceilings were high and the wood floors looked like they hadn't been swept for a while.  Sunlight streamed in from windows high on the walls, illuminating the room.  There was hunting equipment for rent, a small library/bookstore, and a meeting area with couches, but the centerpiece of the room was obviously the range.

It was off to the side of the room.  Walls had been knocked down to create a long firing range.  The roof was low over this area and the floor covered in sand.  Several paper targets hung from hooks at the end of the range, and thick corkboard covered the wall behind the targets.  The hooks ran along tracks and could automatically be moved toward the shooter to inspect the results of a session.

Standing at the firing line were two men.  One was large, with the look of a bike gang member going to fat.  The other was smaller, more wiry.  Jack guessed that this was Tim Carter, the assistant manager.  The other was likely McCallum.  They had both heard the bell over the door as Jack came in, and were looking at him.  At this time on a Monday morning there were no other patrons.  Jack walked straight across the room to where they were standing.

"Good morning.  I'm looking for Mr. McCallum," said Jack.

"That's me," the large one replied.  "What can I do for you?"

"I've been told you'd be able to help me.  Can we talk in private?"  Jack looked over at the smaller man.

"Whatever you say to me you can say to Tim.  He's my right-hand man," said McCallum.

"Alright then.  I'll get straight to the point.  I've been told that you might be able to connect me with a man that can shoot straight, no questions asked.  No matter what the target."

"I know a lot of straight shooters.  What's this all about?"

"My employer needs a man that can follow orders.  Someone to help him take care of a few problems.  If you can point me in the right direction, he'd be grateful."

"How much is this worth?"

"I can give you a thousand for a name."

During this conversation, Tim was edging out of Jack's field of vision, toward a nearby cabinet.  An alarm bell went off in Jack's head.  As Tim slid open the drawer and reached in, Jack aimed a kick at the drawer's handle.  It crashed shut on Tim's hand as he pulled out a Black Eagle handgun.  Tim screamed in pain but still tried to level the gun at Jack.  Jack twisted his body sideways and hooked the wrist of Tim's gun arm with his left hand.  The gun fired but Tim's injury combined with Jack's deflection caused the bullet to whistle harmlessly past Jack's right side.

With a fluid, continuous motion, Jack wrapped his right hand around Tim's gun hand.  He twisted in a circle upwards and to the side, and Tim was forced backwards to the ground.  There was a loud snap, and Tim was screaming again.

"My arm!  You broke my fucking arm!"

Jack picked up the gun and spun around to see McCallum making a quick exit out the back door.  Jack turned back to Tim and held the gun to Tim's head.

"You'd better be able to tell me what I need to know."

Tim looked panicked.

"I don't know nothing!  Rick's the boss here!  He got a call yesterday from Fred and he told me we had to take you out!  That's all I know!"

Tim's eyes slid shut and his face went waxy.  Jack scooped the phone off a nearby counter and dropped it on the floor by Tim.

"You'd better call yourself an ambulance," said Jack.  As Tim dialed 911, Jack headed out the back door and was just in time to see McCallum exiting the far end of the alley on to Carrall Street.  Jack ran after him.

As he sprinted down the alley, Jack pulled the ammo clip from the gun and ejected the bullet from the chamber.  He tossed the gun and ammunition down a sewer grill and ran out onto the sidewalk.

Jack had three reasons for disposing of the gun.  First, he was sure McCallum wasn't carrying a gun or he would have pulled it while Jack was fighting Tim.  Second, Jack had no idea where the gun had been.  He didn't want to be stopped by the police while possibly carrying a murder weapon.  Dropping the gun in the sewer would eliminate his fingerprints.  Third, like most martial artists, Jack hated guns.  They could instantly change the balance of power in a fight no matter what the skill of the combatants.  He felt better off without them.

His target could move fast for a big man.  McCallum tore down the sidewalk, knocking over tourists as he went.  Jack followed in his wake, dodging pedestrians and slowly gaining.  McCallum looked back and increased his speed.  He left Carrall Street and turned onto East Hastings.

One of the poorest neighborhoods in Canada, East Hastings was the inner-city home to a large population of transients, intravenous drug users, sex trade workers, and the homeless.  At this time on a Monday morning, the streets were busy but the sprinters attracted little attention as they ran.  A foot race was not out of place in this neighborhood.  There was the odd comment but they were not impeded.  People made it a habit to mind their own business here.

After a few blocks, McCallum turned down a side street and ducked into an alley.  Jack followed.

The alleys of East Hastings were used frequently by the Vancouver film industry to depict gritty, urban environments.  They were the archetypal dark alleys in which one wouldn't want to meet an undesirable.  Garbage and cardboard boxes lined the backs of local businesses, and power lines crisscrossed overhead.  The uneven pavement was slick with oily-looking water.

Jack could see immediately that McCallum had made a bad choice.  The alley went for half a block and ended at the back of an apartment building.  There were a few men playing craps at the end of the alley who watched with interest as McCallum fruitlessly tried to open one of the building’s reinforced doors.  Jack walked slowly down the alley towards McCallum and stopped twenty feet away.

"We need to talk," said Jack.

McCallum looked wildly at Jack and then turned to the dice players.

"500 bucks each if you take care of this asshole for me," said McCallum.

One of the men stood.  He was tall and thin with a weather-beaten face, dressed in a worn grey parka.

"Let's see the money."

McCallum pulled out his wallet and looked inside.

"I haven't got it all here.  When you're done, we'll go to a bank machine…"

Grey Parka motioned to his companions.

"No cash, no trash.  We don't take credit."

As the group headed out of the alley, Grey Parka nodded to Jack.

"I don't know what business you have to transact with him, but don't take a check."

Jack smiled.  "Don't worry.  All he owes me are answers."

McCallum stood with his feet planted, red in the face.  Expressions of rage and wounded pride alternated as he spat at Jack.

"I don't know what the hell you did to Tim, but it's not going to work with me.  I'm going to tear your motherfucking head off."

Jack knew he couldn't toy with this one.  Anger was dangerous, especially combined with physical size.  However, he also knew that anger impaired judgment.  He planned to take full advantage of this fact.  His feet moved into the stable "T" shape of the Aikido resting stance.

"You look like you're about to explode, my friend.  Why don't we sit down and you can tell me your problems."

With a roar, McCallum charged towards Jack, arms outstretched.  Jack moved to the side, ready for a circular throw, but McCallum was more cunning than Jack had anticipated.  McCallum's charge was a bluff, and he feinted to the left.  McCallum's full weight hit Jack and slammed him into the wall.  Winded, Jack managed to block McCallum's flurry of blows and twisted away from the wall.  He moved back to the middle of the alley, trying to catch his breath.  He wouldn't underestimate McCallum again.

"Not so smug now, are you?" said McAllen.  "I'm gonna beat you to death."

Jack said nothing, just gave him the Bruce Lee "come-at-me" motion with his fingers.  McAllen moved quickly towards him and dodged again, this time to the right.  Jack, however, was ready.  He moved inside McCallum's space before McCallum could finish his maneuver, placed both arms across McCallum's wide chest, and tossed the man headfirst into the oily pavement with a hip throw.

Jack regretted the violence but realized the necessity of it.  McCallum, if left unchecked, would sooner or later get the upper hand with his greater size and strength.  Besides, Jack fully expected the man to have a head like a rock.

He wasn't wrong.  Already McCallum was groaning and trying to get up onto his hands and knees.  Jack grabbed one of McCallum's arms and twisted it behind his back in an elbow lock.  A little pressure would cause the man some pain; even more would break his arm.  McCallum gritted his teeth and let out a long stream of curses.

Jackie ignored them.  "There's only two ways this can end.  One, you tell me what I need to know. Two, I break your arm and you tell me what I need to know."

McCallum swore again.

"Fine.  You've got another arm, two legs, and a lot of fingers, which leaves me with a lot of options."  Jack put more pressure on the arm.

"All right!  All right!  What do you want to know?"

"Who put you up to killing me?"

"No one!"

Jack increased the pressure on McCallum's arm.

"No, really!" shouted McCallum.  "We were just supposed to steer you away, but I thought…"

"You thought you'd indulge your homicidal impulses.  Bad move.  Who's paying for all this?"

"I don't know."  More pressure.  "No!  Really I don't!  I got an unmarked letter with cash in it promising more if I could arrange a shooter.  I knew of a guy and I hooked them up."

"How?"

"The money man called and I told them how to reach the shooter."

"How?"

"Through the Galiano Rod and Gun club.  The shooter's name is Richards.  He's ex-military and hates the government.  I met him while I was at the club."

"What about the money man?"

"He only said a few words.  He sounded older, like the cigarette guy from the X-Files.  That's all I know."

Jack believed him.  This one was all about his own skin and didn't have the imagination to create this story.  Jack eased up on the man's arm.

"I suggest you and your partner get out of Vancouver.  Bad things will happen if you don't."

Jack released the man and backed away.  McCallum slowly got to his feet, his face bright red.

"Fuck you."

He stalked over to the side of the alley and kicked over a trash can.

"Fuck you.  Fuck you!"

He punched the wall.  He was like a schoolyard bully trying to get his courage up to attack after being beaten.  Jack continued to back away until he reached the end of the alley.  His last image of McCallum was of a child having a tantrum.

The truth was, Jack no longer cared about McCallum and his friend.  He had his lead, and he was on his way to Galiano Island.

CHAPTER FIVE

They would know he was coming.  It was unavoidable.  McCallum would have contacted Richards to tell him what had happened.  Jack had caught the next ferry to Galiano and could only hope that he’d be quick enough to catch Richards.

Located in the channel between Vancouver City and Vancouver Island, Galiano Island was the lesser-known brother to the movie star–infested Saltspring Island.  Long and thin, Galiano still retained a small town, “Beachcombers” feel.

As the ferry pulled into the dock at Sturdies Bay, Jack stood on the bow and looked at the town.  A new hotel had been built near the ferry dock but the island was much as he remembered.  His favorite Gulf Island, Jack had been coming to Galiano at least once a year for the past decade.  He hoped his familiarity with the island would give him an advantage.

He wheeled his motorbike off the ferry, started the engine, and slowly headed up the hill to the center of town.  Sturdies Bay was a small community.  The town was made up of a bakery, a bookstore, and a few other establishments.  The bakery was the hub of Galiano social life, so that was where he started.

He entered the small shop, the bell ringing over the door.  The smell of homemade bread and cookies wafted past him.  He ordered a chicken sandwich and fries from the booth at the back.  The young woman who helped him gave him an appraising glance.

“Just here for the day?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.  I thought I’d look around, maybe stay a night or two,” Jack said.

“It’s nice here during the week.  Not as many tourists.  Supposed to rain, though.”

“That’s the coast.”

“Well, have a good time.”  She handed him his food and smiled.

“Thanks.  By the way, do you know where I can find the Rod and Gun club?”

Her smile faded.  “Those weirdos?  You don’t look the type.”

“What do you mean?”

“They give me the creeps.  You don’t.”

Jack laughed.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.  I’m just trying to locate a colleague.”  Jack found a version of the truth was often the best approach.

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.  You’ll find the Gun club at the end of Cook Road.”

“Thanks.”  Jack took his meal to a table to eat.  It seemed the gun club had a reputation.

After checking into the hotel by the ferry dock, Jack got on the BMW and followed his map of the island to Cook Road.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Galiano Rod and Gun club.  The lot was empty except for an old GM pickup parked by the long, low timber building that Jack took for the clubhouse.  He walked over and went in the main doors.

As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting, he saw several long wood tables, stacks of chairs near the back door, and a window on the side that looked into a kitchen area.

“Hello?” Jack called.

No answer.

He called again, louder.  “Hello?”

Suddenly, the door in the back wall banged open and a short, stocky, balding man burst into the room.  He was carrying a rifle.

“Who the hell are you?” he yelled.  Jack breathed in slowly.  He kept his voice low and calm.

“My name is Jack.  I’m looking for a friend.”

The man looked Jack over.  The guns barrel wasn’t pointing at Jack yet, but it was close.

“Jack who?  And who are you looking for?”

“Jack Yale.  I’m looking for Richards.”

“You’re a friend of Richards?”  The gun lowered but there was still suspicion in the man’s eyes.

Jack decided to take a chance.  He was fairly certain the man he was seeking was ex-military, but he wasn’t positive.

“We were in the service together.  I thought I’d look him up.  Do you know where I can find him?”

The suspicious look remained.  “That depends.  If you were in the service with Richards, you must be able to shoot.”  The suspicion was replaced by craftiness.  “If you can beat me in a little shooting competition, I'll know you're who you say you are.  If you can’t, well…”  The man glanced down at his rifle.  “I guess you’ll have to go.”

They stood outside the back of the clubhouse.  They were facing a long outdoor firing range.  There were metal tracks like long clotheslines which led to the sandy slope of a hill at the end of the range.  The tracks were used for mechanically moving paper targets along the length of the range, and the sand on the hill stopped the bullets.  The man, who identified himself only as “Sonic,” was armed with a high-powered Remington.  He had provided Jack with a more than slightly used .22 caliber rifle.  There was a low table in front of them which contained the controls for the target tracks.

Sonic spoke.  “The rules are simple.  We'll use standard scored paper targets, we'll each get five shots as we alternate turns, and the highest total score wins.”

Jack looked at the targets.  There was an outline of a human figure with circles drawn within.  The circles around the head and the heart were worth ten points, the wider circles on the shoulders and navel five points, and the arms and legs two points.  The targets were similar to the ones at the CSIS training range.  He'd also spent countless hours on computer-generated VR ranges.  He felt confident.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great,” said Sonic.  “I'll go first.”

He chambered a round into his Remington and stepped up to the firing position.  There were two targets set up at the end of the range, about fifty meters away.  He put on goggles and ear protection and lined up his target.  He fired.

The shot pierced the head circle of the leftmost target.  Ten points.  As the sound of the shot echoed away, Sonic turned smugly to Jack.

“Your turn.”

As Jack moved to the firing position, Sonic handed him a bullet.  He conspicuously did not offer Jack eye or ear protection.  He also kept behind as Jack loaded his rifle.  Sonic was taking no chances.

Jack centered the right-hand target in the rifle's sights.  He aimed for the heart circle, slowed his breathing, inhaled halfway, held, and squeezed the trigger.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha!” Sonic laughed.

The shot had passed through the target's right arm!  Only two points.  This wasn’t right.  He had practiced enough to know that missing that widely was not his error.  Sonic had either tampered with the sights or had given him a defective rifle.  Jack hoped it was the former.  He could compensate for tampering but not for faulty parts.

Sonic took his place.  It may have been his overconfidence or his laughing fit, but he only managed a five-point shot to the target's shoulder.  Looking somewhat annoyed, he tossed Jack another round.

Loading his rifle, Jack looked at his target.  He had to trust that his previous targeting had been accurate, and compensate to the left the exact distance from the center of the heart circle to his previous misfired shot.  He pulled the trigger.

He heard a rapid intake of breath from Sonic.  He had nailed the center of the heart circle.  Ten points.  The score was now fifteen Sonic, twelve Jack.

The next two rounds were flawless.  They each scored two more ten point shots, each putting one in the head circle and one in the heart.  Thirty-five Sonic, thirty-two Jack.  The next round would determine the game.

Sonic took his time with the shot.  He planted his feet firmly, aimed carefully, and after some time finally pulled the trigger.

“Fuck!”

The pressure must have gotten to him.  His shot had passed through the target's navel.  Only five points.  But this meant that Jack still needed a bull’s-eye or he’d lose.

Sonic passed him the final bullet.  Jack loaded, aimed carefully, and fired.

“You missed!” shouted Sonic.

Jack narrowed his eyes.  He'd aimed for the head, but the only hole in the circle was from his previous head shot.

“Well," said Sonic.  "You missed completely.  One thing I know, anyone who used to work with Richards must be able to shoot better than that.”  Sonic had reloaded his rifle while Jack was preparing to shoot.  He swung the barrel up to cover Jack.

“Richards is a good friend of mine.  I know he doesn’t like company, especially strangers,” stated Sonic quietly.

Jack backed away until he bumped into the weapon table.  He thought quickly.  He couldn’t have missed by that much!  There was only one possibility.

He reached behind and triggered the track controls.  The targets began to slide towards them.

“What the hell you playing at?” yelled Sonic.

The targets reach the table.  Jack, moving slowly and deliberately, turned around to look at his target, putting his back to Sonic.

“Just as I thought,” said Jack.

“What are you talking about?”

“It looks like I won.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Take a look.”

“Move away, then.”

Keeping his rifle leveled as Jack backed away, Sonic moved over to look at the target.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Sonic.

The hole in the center of the head circle was actually two overlapping holes.  Jack had managed two precise bull’s-eyes with a misaligned rifle.  Forty Sonic, forty-two Jack.

Sonic lowered his weapon.

“That’s more like Richards.  In fact, I’m not sure even he’s ever had a session like this.  I’m sorry about the treatment.  I needed to make sure you were who you said you are.  I’ll tell you where you can find him.”

“Trespassers will be Composted.”

Jack read the sign again.  It would have been funny, but he was pretty sure the person who made the sign wasn’t joking.

Jack was standing on a narrow dirt road bordered by thick brush.  The road dead-ended against a large metal gate upon which the sign was posted.  He looked to either side.  A tall wooden fence curved off in both directions, clearly surrounding a sizable compound.

Sonic had provided the location of Richards' residence after the contest.  It was three-quarters of the way up the island in a relatively unoccupied area.

Jack had hidden his BMW in a clearing a mile or so up the road.  On his walk here he had passed only one house.  He decided to complete his recce by gathering some information.

He walked up the drive of the nearby house and knocked on the door.  After a short wait a middle-aged woman answered the door.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman.

Jack had his story ready.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could help me.  I’m trying to walk to Dionisio Park and this road seems to stop at a gate down the road.  Is there any way I can get through?”

Dionisio Point Provincial Park was a marine access park on the north tip of Galiano.  The only way to get there was by boat or on foot.  Jack was sure she’d buy his cover.

“I’m afraid not,” she said.  “You’ll have to go back to the fork and take a left.”

“What about the gate?  Could I talk to someone who’ll let me through?”

“I don’t think so.  The owner’s a little… strange down there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t much like company.  I hardly ever see him, and when I do he pretty much keeps to himself.  I think he wants to live off the grid.”

Jack played the curious tourist.  “What’s up with that?  Is he nuts?”

The woman’s expression became brittle.  “I don’t think so.  He lost his wife and baby daughter not long ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  I appreciate your help.  I'll head back to the main road.”

“No problem.  Have a good day.”  She closed the door.

Jack walked back to his motorcycle and thought about these new developments.  Richards had recently lost his wife and daughter.  That’s kind of loss could drive a man to extreme behavior.  The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but Jack still couldn’t see what picture they formed.

He’d pay a visit to Richards' place tonight.

After dark, Jack made his way quietly through the brush to the side wall of Richards' compound.  He was dressed in a black T-shirt and cargo pants.  The full moon provided sufficient light as he passed silently through the tall grass.

The wall was made of thick wood planks nailed to a solid timber frame and rose ten feet. There were no handholds or gaps.  He followed the curve of the wall away from the main gate, searching for a weakness.

He found it.  About halfway around, almost directly opposite the main gate, Jack located a small gap underneath the fence.  Made by animals, it was too small for Jack to fit without modifications.  As quietly as possible, Jack set about upgrading it.

After twenty minutes of burrowing with his hands, the gap was wide enough to allow him to enter the compound.  He crawled through and crouched near the end of a sizable but neglected garden.  He surveyed the enclosure.

It was about two hundred meters across.  Jack could see a well-constructed two-story log home with solar panels on the roof, a large shed that probably doubled as a workshop, and a smaller-scale version of the Gun Club firing range.  Light shone out of the main floor windows of the house.  Jack moved closer to take a look.  He hadn’t heard a single bark so he was fairly certain there were no dogs.  However, he still moved as silently as possible in order to let sleeping ones lie.

He stayed far enough away from the windows to remain in darkness.  He could see a well-appointed kitchen through the first set of windows.  Adjoining was a comfortable living room with a large rug thrown over a hardwood floor.  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rug was a man.

This had to be Richards.  He was tall, dark-haired, and wore a few days growth of beard.  He was fit-looking, but Jack could see a darkness in his hardened features.  He was methodically cleaning a rifle piece by piece.

Although he was sure this was the man he was looking for, Jack wanted to find hard evidence.  He needed to check out the rest of the compound before calling for backup.

Jack moved away from the windows and crossed to the darkened firing range.  There was a bench for holding weapons and ammo, but no automated track system.  The targets were simply fixed to boards at the end of the range.  Jack could see an unmarked target pinned in place.

The work shed nearby was unlocked.  The door made a slight creaking sound as he entered.  Jack froze.  He waited a few breathless minutes to see if he had been heard.  The lights remained on at the house, however, and Richards did not come out to investigate.

Jack scanned the room.  It contained a tool bench, some gardening equipment, and a riding lawnmower.  There was also a plastic lawn chair, a trashcan, and lots of dust and cobwebs.

He checked the tool bench but found nothing.  He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it.  He looked over the walls, at the gardening tools, and at the trashcan.  Wait.  The trashcan.

Inside there were grass clippings, plastic wrap, wood shavings, and crumpled wads of paper.  Jack removed one of the wads and flattened it out.  It was a paper target with several precise holes in the shoulder.  He pulled out another; the same target, the same holes in the shoulder.  The third and fourth were identical.  All with surgically precise holes in the shoulder…

Wait a minute.  Suddenly it all came together.  Maxwell Stevens, the Minister of Education, had been shot in the shoulder.  It had been intentional.  Richards had not planned to kill Stevens, but simply wound him.  This meant that Stevens was involved in, if not behind, the whole affair.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Jack whirled around to look down the barrel of Richards' loaded rifle.

“I had to put my gun back together,” said Richards.  “You’re the Kung Fu master, I presume?”

CHAPTER SIX

“McCallum told me you were coming.  I’m happy to see you came alone.”

Richards motioned toward the plastic lawn chair with his rifle.  He was keeping his distance from Jack, staying out of reach.  Jack had no opportunity to move against him, so he took a seat in the chair.

“I’m not alone,” said Jack.  “You’ll see shortly.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you.  If you had backup, tactical procedure would require you to sweep this place with a partner.  You haven’t got a partner, so you haven’t got backup.”

Jack looked at Richards.  He was dressed in a fleece jacket and khaki pants.  He held the rifle loosely, with a practiced hand.  It was his eyes that held Jack’s attention, though.  They were hard, but haunted.  This man was a killer, but he didn’t kill lightly.

“I’m just recon,” replied Jack.  “If I don’t report soon you’re going to find yourself in a world of hurt.”

“I still don’t believe you.  I am curious, however, why you’re alone.”

Still holding the rifle on Jack, Richards reached behind and picked up something from the tool bench.  He tossed it at Jack.  A heavy-duty plastic garbage bag tie landed in his lap.

“Strap your right wrist to the chair arm.”

Lacking alternatives, Jack did as he was told.

“Now lay your left arm on the armrest.”

After Jack complied, Richards crossed the room to where Jack was seated and placed the rifle barrel on Jack's temple.

“Don’t move,” said Richards.  He quickly strapped Jack’s left wrist to the chair arm with another tie.  He checked that both ties were secure and then strapped both of Jack’s ankles to the chair legs.  He stepped back.

Jack tested the straps.  He would not be able to break them.

“Let’s have a chat,” said Richards.

“I’d be happy to,” said Jack.  “It won’t be long until we have more company, however.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, eh?”

“That’s right.  Since we're getting to know each other, I'd like to know a few things about you.”

“Like Hannibal Lecter says, quid pro quo.  Ask away.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why does anybody do anything?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Richards face became serious.  “I’m not obligated to tell you anything.”

“You lost your wife and child recently.  Did you…”

Crack!  Jack’s head jerked violently to the side as Richards' fist connected with his jaw.  Jack spit some blood onto the floor.  “I guess that answers my question.”

Richards' eyes burned with fury but his voice was calm, almost robotic.  “You don’t have the right to ask me about that.”

“I’m sorry.  What happened to you?”

Richards looked at Jack.  He seemed to make an internal decision.  He began to talk in the same soft, robotic voice.

“Joelle, Chris, and I were coming back from the interior.  We just passed Hope and were driving into the Lower Mainland when it happened.  A tanker truck changed lanes and forced us off the road into a tree.  The bastard didn’t even stop.  I woke up lying in a pool of my own blood on a stretcher in a hospital hallway.  My wife was on another stretcher nearby.  I crawled over to her but she was dead.  My wife of fifteen years was dead in a filthy hospital hallway.  I managed to walk to the ER where my baby Chris was waiting to go into the operating room.  Waiting!  I tried to get someone to help but they were all too busy.  I watched my baby die in front of me while the hospital staff tried to deal with too many patients.  Then I passed out from blood loss.  I’m surprised I didn’t die myself.  When I came to, I knew someone would have to pay.”

“So you killed the Minister of Health.  How is Maxwell Stevens involved?”

Richards looked surprised.  “So you know Stevens is part of this?  I’m afraid that fact can't leave this room.”

“What’s the next part of the plan?”

“This isn’t a James Bond movie.  I’m done talking.  It’s your turn now.  Who do you work for?”

“I’m a cop.”

“No, you’re not.  Cops don’t work alone.”

“I already told you, I’m not alone.”

“And here I had bared my soul to you.  This is getting us nowhere.  I need to know what to expect and to know this I need some honesty from you.  We’re going to have to take a different tack.”

Richards crossed to the workbench.  He pulled a toolbox from a shelf underneath and set it on the bench.

“Back in the day, during the Spanish Inquisition, they used to have five stages of torture.  Stage one was threatening the prisoner with torture.”  Richards turned to look at Jack.  “I’m threatening you with torture.”

Jack could feel sweat forming on his skin.  “I told you, I’m a cop.”

Richards continued to look at Jack.  “The next stage was conveying the prisoner to the place of torture, and stage three was binding the prisoner for torture.  We’ll have to take those as accomplished.”

“Look,” said Jack, “you don’t seem like a crazy person.  I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but I can help you sort this out.”

Richards continued, not seeming to hear.  “Stage four was hoisting the prisoner onto the torture rack.  Stage five was the torture.  They did the whole thing in stages so that the prisoner would have time to imagine what was going to happen to him." 

Richards turned back and opened the toolbox.  He pulled out a hammer and laid it on the bench.  A saw followed; then a screwdriver; then a pair of pliers.

“Because we’ve had to abbreviate the process, I'll leave you with some time to think.  Be seeing you.”  Richards walked out of the shed and closed the door.

Jack let out a long breath.  He was in a jam, that was for certain.  He is relieved the torture didn’t start right away, but he still couldn’t move, couldn’t reach the tools, and couldn’t break the straps.

Like most kids, Jack had had heroes.  Indiana Jones, Doc Savage, Luke Skywalker.  But not all of his idols had been fictional.  One of his real-life heroes had been Houdini.

Jack could remember reading a biography of the famous escape artist late at night under his bedcovers with a flashlight.  It had told the story of the wily Scottish jailer who had stumped Houdini for hours by not locking his cell door.  He only realized what the old Scot had done when he leaned up against the door in defeat and it had swung open.  The book also recounted some of the tricks Houdini used to escape from various predicaments.  He had developed the ability to hold lock picks in his throat and regurgitate them later.  He could also dislocate his shoulder to escape from a straitjacket and hold his breath for over three minutes.  However, it was one of his simpler techniques that Jack remembered now.

When his wrists were being tied together, Houdini would tense his wrist muscles so that when he relaxed slack would form in the ropes and he could pull free.  This technique worked because Houdini was in outstanding condition and his wrist muscles made a significant size difference when tensed.

Jack had well-developed wrist muscles as well.  Because Aikido required strong wrists, long-time practitioners ended up with large wrist muscles.  When Richards had strapped him to the chair, Jack had tensed his wrist muscles.  Now he’d find out if it was enough.

He relaxed the muscles in his right arm and tried to pull his hand out of the strap.  It wouldn’t fit.  Fighting panic, he tried the same thing with his left arm.  No luck.

Jack forced himself to relax.  Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on the still point at his center.  Once he had mastered his anxiety, he tried again. 

This time, his left hand was able to get halfway out of the strap.  After more deep breathing, he was able to pull his left arm free.

He was not out yet, though.  The ties were self-locking, and he was unable to undo or break them with his free hand.  He looked around.  He couldn’t reach the tools on the bench, but there were additional tools on the bottom shelf of the workbench.  There was only one thing to do.  Jack tipped over his chair and landed with a crash on his side.  Richards must have heard!  He had to work fast.

He reached over to the bottom shelf and groped around.  His hand fell upon a small hand saw.  Perfect.  He grabbed it and within seconds was free.  He stood, massaging his wrists, and crossed to the door.  Opening it a crack, he saw Richards crossing the yard towards him, holding his rifle.

Richards was inside the house, preparing to leave, when he heard a crash from the shed.  What the hell was going on?  Richards regretted that he was going to have to make the man talk, but he wasn’t going to put up with any trouble.

He grabbed his rifle and headed out the door.  Crossing to the shed, he kicked open the door.

“You’re just looking for…”  He stopped.  The lawn chair was on its side with the slashed ties lying around it.  He was gone.  Richards looked around the room and then ran back to the house.  He was going to have to hunt the man down.

Jack watched from a rafter near the ceiling as Richards left the shed.  He had swung himself up after seeing Richards on the lawn and had been counting on the fact that people almost never look up.  Thankfully, Richards had not.

Jack quietly lowered himself down and landed soundlessly on the floor.  He had to get out of here, now.

He looked out of the shed door and saw Richards through the living room window.  He was filling a backpack with gear.  There was no way Jack could get past him and out the main gate, so he headed towards the tunnel at the end of the garden. 

“Freeze!”  It was Richards!  Jack threw himself to the ground and squirmed through the hole as a bullet crashed into the fence above his head.  He was through.  He jumped to his feet and took off at a run.

Richards wouldn’t be able to fit through the tunnel with his pack and would have to take the gate, but he wouldn’t be far behind.  He also knew the terrain much better than Jack and was an expert tracker.  Jack would have to move fast.

He headed north.  This part of the island wasn’t heavily populated, but there was a First Nations reservation on the northwest tip.  He decided to make for it.

He looked behind as he ran.  He could see a light a few hundred feet back.  Richards' headlamp.  He'd also have the rifle, and possibly a night-vision scope.  It had rained recently, so Jack’s trail would be obvious.  All he could do was run.

It was fairly easy to make good progress through the woods as the brush was not dense, but he needed to pace himself.  It was several miles to the reservation and he couldn’t exhaust or injure himself.

He continued for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes.  He was covered in sweat and when he looked back he could see Richards' headlamp following relentlessly.  The gap between them had narrowed.  If Richards got a clear shot, Jack would be dead.

He picked up his speed.  He needed to get farther ahead.  The brush he was running through was getting thicker, however.  Branches whipped at his face as he tried to maintain his pace.  Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath his feet and he tumbled crazily downhill.  His arm slammed hard into a rock as he came to a stop at the bottom of the slope.

His arm throbbed.  He wasn’t sure it was broken, but it hurt badly.  He had to get up.  Richards was right behind.  As he pushed himself to his feet, he realized he had been lying on asphalt.  He was on a highway!

It came to him with a crushing realization that he was nowhere near where he thought he was.  In the darkness in the woods he had actually been heading northeast instead of straight north.  He was on the highway that dead-ended at Dionisio Marine Park.  The highway was closed because of property disputes and the park would be deserted at this time of year.  There would be no one to help him.

He had no choice.  The park entrance was a few hundred feet away and he had to cover that distance before Richards emerged from the woods.  Jack sprinted down the road.  His arm was hurting badly but he could move much faster on the road surface.  As he reached the park gate he heard crashing from behind. It was Richards emerging from the brush.  Jack ducked into the trees as a bullet whizzed past.

He sprinted through the trees and made his way down to the water.  He had been to this park before and knew there was a small island joined to the shore by a small strip of beach.  He wasn’t sure what he'd do once he got to the island but there was nowhere else to run.

He ran across the beach and scrambled up the trail onto the little island.  It was only a few hundred meters long and there were few places to hide.

Looking out from behind a rock Jack saw Richards in the moonlight, rifle raised, heading towards his position.  He also saw that Richards had a night-vision scope and was scanning the length of the island.

Jack leaned back against the rock.  What the hell was he going to do?  He looked around desperately.  On the other side of the island he saw a gray bulge.  On a hunch, he crawled slowly over the ridge and saw that the bulge was a domed tent in the middle of a small campsite.  The campfire was long dead and there was no movement inside the tent.  There was also a double sea kayak beached on the shore.

This was his way out.  He scrambled down to the beach, nursing his injured arm, and saw two double ended oars leaning against the kayak.  As quickly and quietly as possible he grabbed an oar and pushed the kayak into the water.  It was icy cold.  He swam out beside the kayak and placed it between himself and the shore.  The tide started to pull him away from the beach.

Jack peered around the kayak at the shore.  He saw Richards come over the ridge, halt after seeing the tent, and scan the shoreline with the night-vision scope.  Finding nothing, he lowered the rifle and looked out over the water.

Jack pulled his head back behind the kayak.  By this time he was a considerable distance from the shore.  Richards wouldn’t have a shot, and if he did fire he’d have to deal with the tent’s occupants.  Jack was safe.

This duel was a draw, but he knew the next would be their last.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jack and Blake surveyed the ruins of an expansive office.  The furniture was destroyed, the pictures on the wall were shattered, and a paper fire smoldered in the trash can.  The computer monitor on the scarred desk was smashed, and pieces of a motherboard lay on the floor beside a cracked CPU case.

It was the morning after his escape from Galiano.  Jack had managed to climb into the kayak and paddle to nearby Thetis Island.  His arm caused him trouble, but fortunately the injury was not debilitating.  Once on Thetis, he made an emergency call to update Blake and then chartered a float plane back to Vancouver.  He arrived early in the morning to find Blake waiting for him.

“I’ve been to see Stevens in the hospital,” said Blake.  “He’s not talking.”

“And we’ve got no proof,” said Jack.

“Let’s check out his office.”

When they arrived at Stevens’ downtown Vancouver office, there were police cars outside.  Lieutenant Gardener was on the site and told them that Stevens’ office had been ransacked.  He was able to get them into the crime scene.

They found themselves in the middle of chaos.  Stevens’ office was destroyed.

“I have a feeling McCallum had one more errand to run before he skipped town,” said Jack.

“Stevens definitely covered his tracks,” replied Blake.

“I’m not so sure.  All the paper is gone but I don’t think McCallum is a computer whiz.”  Jack picked through the remains of the CPU.  “The motherboard is smashed but the hard drive is still in one piece.  We may be able to pull something from it.”

Jack pulled out a Swiss Army knife and disconnected the hard drive from the cracked CPU case.  They walked into the empty office next door and Jack wired the hard drive into the computer on the desk.  After booting up the computer, Jack scanned the drive.  In addition to the usual administrative documents of a senior government official, there was a surprising amount of porn.

“Our tax dollars at work,” said Blake.

“I wonder what his expense account looks like,” said Jack.

There was one file that caught his eye.  It was a PDF file of the detailed blueprints for the Parliament building in Victoria.

“Why would he have these?” asked Jack.

“That’s a good question.  You wouldn’t think he’d need more than a basic map to get around the building…”

Jack and Blake looked at each other.

“…unless he was trying to get someone else in!” finished Jack.

“The Premier’s greeting the Chinese Ambassador this afternoon.  They’re unveiling a peace statue on the lawn in front of the Parliament building.”

“That’s where Richards will be,” said Jack.  “And I’ll have to be there too.”

Richards wheeled the custodial cart down the south hallway.  He was dressed in a grey coverall with a staff ID clipped to his front breast pocket.  The wheels squeaked as he turned the corner.

He was amazed at how simple it was to get into the building.  Even with the enhanced security surrounding the Chinese ambassador's visit, he still had no difficulty getting access with the pass provided by Stevens.

He went to a storage closet halfway down the hall and went in.  It contained cleaning supplies, paper for the photocopiers, and stacks of foldable chairs.  He began to move the boxes of paper.

Jack jumped out of the helicopter as soon as the skids hit the ground.  Blake had arranged a charter jet chopper to take Jack to Victoria Harbor right after their visit to Stevens’ office.  He ran off the landing pad into a waiting car.

“The Parliament building.  And don’t waste time,” said Jack.

“Yes, sir,” said the dark suited driver.  “It’s only a few blocks.”

“Step on it.”

The lawn of the Parliament building was already starting to fill with people.  A large stage facing the building had been erected in front of a shrouded statue.  Curtains covered the backstage areas.

Behind the left curtain Premier Wayne Stewart paced in front of Donald Grant, his chief of security.

“I don’t like this, Donald.  What if that psycho is out there?”

“He’ll never get near you.  We've secured the Parliament building, we’ve got men in the crowd, and there are no lines of sight from the surrounding buildings.”

“What about the call you got from the spook, Blaine or Blade?”

“Blake.  He’s just got a hunch.  He's sending a man to check it out.”

“I still don’t like it.  I'd cancel if I could, but relations are difficult enough with the Chinese.  Especially because of the Dalai Lama’s recent visit.”

“Don’t worry.  We’ve got it covered.”

Richards finished moving the second row of boxes and started on the third.  At the bottom of the third row he pulled open the middle two cartons.  Underneath the paper in the boxes were the parts of a high-powered rifle and scope.  Richards put them at the bottom of the shredded paper in the trash bag of his custodial cart.  He wheeled the cart out and shut the closet door.

Jack was out of the car before it came to a complete stop.  He sprinted up the steps of the Parliament building.  Two dark-suited men with sunglasses and earpieces converged on him and blocked his way.

“I’ve got clearance,” said Jack.  “The code phrase is 'Buffalo.'”

“You can pass,” said the larger of the two.

“I need your help,” continued Jack.  “There may be a security breach.  We’re looking for a white male, early forties, six feet, possibly wearing a disguise.”

“That’s just about everyone here,” said the smaller agent.

“He’ll be armed.”

“We’ll do what we can.”  The larger agent spoke quickly into his wrist mike.  Jack continued into the building.

Richards was almost there.  He reached the small door at the end of a narrow corridor on the third floor when a voice called out.

"Hold it.”

Richards turned around slowly.  A security agent was walking towards him down the hall.

“Yes, sir?” said Richards.

“What are you doing here?”

Richards looked at his custodial card and then back at the agent.  “Cleaning,” he said simply.

“I need to check your cart.”

“Of course.”

Richards stepped away from the cart.  The agent looked at the collection of cleaning products and then stuck his hand into the mass of shredded paper.  His eyes widened when he felt the barrel of the rifle but before he could react Richards was on him.  Richards locked his right arm around the agent’s neck and pushed hard with his left hand.  There was a quiet snap and the agent went limp.

Richards slowly lowered the man down to the ground.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  It would all be over soon, though.

He unlocked the door, carried the body inside, and then retrieved the rifle components from the cart.  He went through the door and pulled it shut.  The hallway, empty except for the custodial cart, was quiet again.

Jack looked at the printout of the building's blueprints.  Security had checked every floor but nothing was out of order.  He tried again to put himself in Richards' mind.  Where would he go?  The roof was out of the question.  There were no escape routes and he’d be a sitting duck.  An office window would be the obvious choice, but all of the offices had been searched and the hallways locked down.  So where was he?  Jack didn’t believe the man had given up.  He was too motivated…

Wait.  That was it.  Richards didn’t need an escape route because he didn’t plan to escape.  He’d sent himself on a suicide mission!

Jack ran towards a nearby stairwell.

Stewart was about to step on stage.  He would introduce the Chinese ambassador and then together they would unveil the new statue.  He still thought this was madness, but he had to trust his people.  They knew what they were doing.

Richards finished assembling his rifle.  He was on the small exterior balcony at the top of the Parliament building's domed roof.  He had a complete view of the stage.

He looked through the scope.  An aide was standing at the podium introducing the Premier.  Richards thought about the irony of a leader struck down by a bullet from his seat of power.  It wouldn’t be long now.

Jack emerged from the third story stairwell at a run.  There was only one covered position on the roof and this hallway led to the access point.  He saw an abandoned custodial cart sitting in front of a small door at the end of the hall.  Richards was close.

He opened the door at the end of the hall and saw the agent’s body.  He quickly checked for a pulse.  Nothing.  Richards had a lot to answer for.  Jack continued up the spiral staircase to the roof.

Premier Stewart walked out onto the stage to both cheers and taunts.  He waved and took his place at the podium.

Richards centered the crosshairs on the Premier’s head.  This was it.  Stewart’s decisions had led to the death of Richards' wife and child.  Now Stewart would pay.  He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Jack reached the top of the staircase and saw Richards fifteen feet away, ready to fire.  There was no way Jack could reach him in time.

“Richards!” Jack called.

Richard spun around, leveling the rifle at Jack.

“If you shoot me, you won't get another shot at the Premier,” Jack said calmly, slowly moving towards Richards.  “A security team will hear the shot and have him shielded before you can fire again.”

“Stop where you are!” said Richards.

Jack stopped.  Richards was still ten feet away.

“This won't bring your wife and child back,” said Jack.  “Lay down the gun and I can help you.”

Richards' eyes filled with fury.  “Someone has to pay,” he said quietly.  He spun around, raising the rifle’s scope to his eye.

There is a story about Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of Aikido.  In the early 1920's, shortly after the invention of the motion picture camera, Ueshiba was filmed practicing Aikido.  When the film was developed it was noted that between two frames of film, Ueshiba had moved ten feet.  Given that each frame was 1/24th of the second apart, he had moved at approximately 160 miles per hour.

There was no way Jack could have reached Richards before he shot the Premier, but he did.  As Richards pulled the trigger, Jack pushed his shoulder.  The gun fired.

The bullet passed through the podium and embedded itself into the stage. A fraction of a second later the sound of the shot reached Premier Stewart’s ears.  Instantly he was surrounded by a disorienting number of security agents who rushed him off the stage.

Richards tried to level the rifle at Jack but was blocked by Jack’s arm.  Jack managed to twist himself between Richards and the rifle.  The weapon went flying.  It hit the ground, slid, and fell down the stairwell.

Richards locked his arms around Jack’s neck and tightened his grip.  Jack grabbed the man’s arms and attempted to free himself but Richards' fury had given him additional strength.  The man was too strong.  Jack fell to his knees, fighting for consciousness.

His vision swam.  With a supreme effort, he got his feet underneath his body and pushed up as hard as he could.  Richards hit the railing of the balcony hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

Jack seized Richards' arm, pulled it away from his neck, and initiated a full body throw.  In his oxygen-starved state, Jack miscalculated his opponent's landing position.  Richards fell over the balcony railing and hit the domed roof.  He scrabbled for a handhold but found nothing.

Jack leaned over the railing and tried to grab Richards' hand but he was out of reach.  Jack looked into Richards' eyes and saw resignation as he slid down the dome, gaining speed.  He flew off the edge of the dome, out of sight.

Even during the fall that killed him, Richards didn’t make a sound.

EPILOGUE

“Once Stevens was told that Richards' security pass had been traced back to him, he caved and confessed everything,” said Blake.  “If you hadn’t made that connection from the targets you found at Richards' compound, Stevens would have gotten away with it.  As things are, as soon as he’s out of the hospital he’ll be on his way to prison.”

Jack and Blake were standing by a railing overlooking False Creek.  The huge silver dome of Science World rose up behind them.

“He was planning a coup,” continued Blake.  “Once Premier Stewart was out of the way, as second in line for party leadership Stevens was ready to seize control.  He thought that as a heroic survivor of an assassin’s bullet he'd easily get the Premier’s seat.  I think he had his eye on the Prime Minister’s position.”

“The best laid plans,” said Jack.  “I still can’t help but feel for Richards.  What he went through I wouldn't wish on anyone.  I hope he's found some peace.”

“He’s going to be buried with his family on Galiano.  What a tragedy.”

“At least it’s over,” said Jack.

“So what now?”

“I think I need a break.  Take a vacation somewhere.  Just not Galiano.”

Jack shook Blake’s hand and started to walk away.

“Hey, Jack,” said Blake.

Jack turned.  “What?”

“We’ll see you soon.”

Copyright © 2006 Malcolm Ferrier

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