The Survivor by Sean Slater Read Free Book Online

that all Deputy Chiefs and Inspectors wore, starched so strongly it looked like white cardboard rather than a cotton-polyester blend, and had adorned himself with all the medals he’d earned during his time in the Army – a time which everyone knew he’d spent on this side of the ocean in field management despite his claims that he’d seen battle in the Kuwaiti wars. In one hand, Laroche held a steaming hot cup of Starbucks; in the other, a sandwich overflowing with cheese and lettuce. He took a huge bite of it as they drove by, and Striker turned his eyes back to Felicia.
    ‘Kids are dying in there and that prick’s out here eating sandwiches.’
    The earlier defiance of Felicia’s face crumbled away. ‘Well, he’s . . . he’s got to eat sometime, I guess.’
    ‘Have we eaten yet?’ When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘We’ve been on the road since eight.’
    ‘I’m not getting into this, Jacob.’
    ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’
    She gave him another hot look, and for a moment, she seemed ready to say more, but changed her mind.
    They left the White Whale parked a half block behind them and drove into the roundabout at the school driveway, past the front entrance. Striker parked, climbed out, and had a flashback of chasing Red Mask. He could still hear the loud bangs of the gunfire, still smell the lingering scent of burned gunpowder.
    He closed his eyes, attempting to suppress the frantic blur, and flinched when a door slammed shut.
    To the south-east, where the gym was located, a gaggle of paramedics exited the building. They came in twos, each pair rolling a gurney. On the gurneys were victims, some as young as thirteen.
    The paramedics hurried in different directions to many waiting ambulances that were parked all over the school’s front lawn. Striker watched one girl being loaded up. She was about fifteen. Dripping with a redness that managed to seep through the medics’ blankets. Her eyes were out of focus, her face slack and without colour, as if there were no more blood in her body to redden her cheeks. The rear door of the ambulance closed and it accelerated away.
    ‘That should be it,’ a nearby voice said.
    Striker turned and spotted a row of men snaking out of the building. It was a parade of combat boots and ballistic helmets and heavy weaponry – MP5 machine guns, sniper rifles, and close-quarter combat shotguns. The Emergency Response Team. All wore black padded uniforms, covered with dark grey, reinforced-ceramic plates. The lead, Zulu Five-One, was Tyrone Takuto, a Eurasian cop Striker knew well. Takuto had a distant look in his eyes, detectable even behind the protective goggles.
    Striker met his stare. ‘Any more kids in there?’
    ‘Just bodies.’ Takuto spoke with machine-like precision, without emotion. ‘All the injured have been evacuated and all the uninjured are being staged in the gym. Dogmen are running the halls right now, giving it a final clear – just to be sure we got every one of them.’ He glanced back at the school. ‘There’s a lot of bodies in there still . . . a lot of bodies.’
    Felicia stepped forward, and for the first time, she looked shaken. ‘How bad is it?’
    Takuto just kept looking at the school. ‘Things like this make you fear sleeping,’ he murmured.
    Striker understood him completely. Night terrors.
    ‘How many?’ he asked.
    ‘Last I heard we had eleven confirmed dead, over thirty wounded.’
    Striker scanned the line of ERT members. Each one of them looked exhausted, like they’d just been on a ten-day mission, not a two-hour school clearing.
    ‘What else you find in there?’ he asked.
    ‘Just carnage. Pretty much what you’d expect.’
    ‘Any traps, any explosives?’
    ‘IEDs? No, none.’
    ‘Not even a homemade rig?’
    ‘None yet. But the dogs are still searching.’
    Striker thought this over. No booby traps. Unusual. IEDs – or Improvised Explosive Devices – were the norm nowadays. And that was mainly because