CHAPTER 42

Julie had to plead with Anson and Theo to let her accompany them. Theo was the first to relent, but Anson was harder to wear down. It was only after she played the guilt card, pointing out how many volunteer hours she had devoted to helping them with the medical aspects of the case, that he grudgingly agreed to let her observe from the back seat of the car.

The adrenaline courses through her veins as Julie leans between the two front seats. The anticipation is comparable to that delicious feeling she still remembers all too vividly of drawing up the next hit in a syringe. Every passing second heightens the excitement. Not only is she on the front line of a police takedown, but they might be closing in on the source of this ultralethal poison.

Julie has a good view of Vince from the rear driver’s-side window. It probably doesn’t help the covert operation that the twitchy bellman can’t keep still, but she supposes it won’t matter even if he does give himself away. There are six other cops waiting to pounce the moment Wade shows his face. If he shows his face.

“He’s nine minutes late and counting,” Anson mutters as he checks his watch again.

“Patience, partner,” Theo says soothingly.

No one says a word for a minute or so, until Theo’s phone buzzes with a text. “Wade?” Anson demands.

“No. Hoops is just confirming that they’ve got a surveillance team in place outside the dump in East Van the Jian brothers own.”

“But no search warrant?” Julie asks.

“We still need probable cause,” Theo says.

“They’re gangsters,” she says, frustrated.

“Not convicted. And even if they had been, we’d still need more.”

“Like what?”

“Often we end up stealing their garbage. If we find suspicious chemicals in there, we get our warrant.”

Anson scoffs. “I like my idea better. Talk a neighbor into reporting a funny smell or something that we would have to go check out.”

“Not kosher, partner.”

“Whatever. It would probably stand up in—” Anson stops midsentence and sits up straighter when a cyclist wheels past them in a red helmet and shoes with tips that reflect the overhead fluorescent lights.

The radio crackles with the voice of the tactical operations officer in charge. “Stand down. It’s not him. There’s a bike locker on level P4.”

They lapse into vigilant silence. A minute or two later, the same cyclist rides by them coming up the ramp. “What?” Anson drums the steering wheel with his fingers. “No bike locker?”

They watch as the rider throws a friendly wave to Vince and continues up the ramp.

Anson suddenly hits the ignition. The voice crackles on the radio again. “Engines off! Vince didn’t give the signal.”

Theo’s head snaps toward him. “Anson?”

“Check out Vince!” Anson says as the car lurches forward.

Julie saw it, too. Vince stilled the moment the cyclist rode past him, and his head followed him all the way out of the garage. Even as they gun past Vince, his gaze is still turned in that direction.

Anson slams on the brakes at the exit, and two pedestrians freeze a foot or two from his bumper, bracing for impact. One of them flips them the finger.

“Police! Move!” Anson cries out his open window, and the two scurry out of the way.

Theo grabs the radio. “Mark heading east on Cordova on bike! Red helmet. Black bike.”

Theo points up to the next intersection on West Cordova, and Julie sees the red helmet round the corner onto Richards Street.

Anson tears after him. As they turn onto the same street, the cyclist glances over his shoulder and then darts down the first lane he reaches. Anson pounds the steering wheel as he waits for more pedestrians, including an older man with a cane, to clear the lane’s entrance.

“Move it, granddad,” Julie grumbles, sharing in his impatience.

By the time they go again and gain on him, the cyclist has already reached the far end of the lane and is turning onto Cambie Street. Anson hits the gas. They fly around the corner after him. Julie spots the cyclist half a block ahead, heading toward the iconic steam clock in the heart of Gastown. He swerves right and peddles directly into oncoming traffic on the one-way Water Street, igniting a chorus of honking horns.

Don’t lose him! Julie wants to scream.

Anson is all focus as he flies down Carrall Street and turns onto Abbott Street.

“Blood Alley!” Theo calls into the radio, and Julie sees the back wheel disappear down the old lane that was once home to rows of slaughterhouses but is now a trendy pedestrian-only thoroughfare. “Box him in from the other side!” Theo says as he hops out of the car.

Anson circles the block and abandons the car, doors open, in front of the Cambie Street entrance to Blood Alley. With her heart pounding in her throat, Julie follows him down the lane, which is teeming with restaurant-goers, tourists, and other pedestrians.

She glimpses Theo approaching from the other side, but there’s no sign of the cyclist or his bike. They weave around a pack of slow-moving tourists with a guide in front who is shouting in what sounds like German. Julie doesn’t even see the face of the last member of the group, who wears shorts and a T-shirt and dawdles close behind the others. But as she looks down, she notices reflectors on the tips of his shoes.

Her head snaps up. “Hey! You!”

The man surges ahead. He shoves the woman closest to him, who falls forward, knocking her friend down, too. The cyclist bolts ahead down the lane.

Julie runs after him, but Anson overtakes her in a few strides. Before the man even reaches the end of the lane, Anson lunges and tackles him by the legs, toppling him to the pavement.