Snakes & Ladders Read Free

left standing there, clutching one of the man’s black leather gloves.
    The man plummeted three storeys down. No scream, just silence. He hit the crabgrass, rolled down the small slope of hill, then got back to his feet.
    Striker tried to flood the man with light from his flashlight, but from three storeys up the beam was too weak. All he saw was black clothing. A dark hoodie. And beneath that, what appeared to be a black leather mask. The suspect leaned down and picked up his camera. Then, for a brief moment, he looked back up at the window.
    ‘Don’t move!’ Striker ordered.
    But the man ignored him again; he turned and raced into the shadows of the south lane. And then he was gone.

Five
    Five minutes later, Striker looked up and down Union Street for the red and blue glow of the Canine Unit’s lights. When he didn’t see them, he got on his phone and called the Central Dispatcher, Sue Rhaemer.
    ‘Where the hell’s the dog?’ he demanded.
    Rhaemer paused for barely a moment, and Striker knew she was checking the GPS. ‘He’s just a few blocks out.’
    ‘Well, tell him to get his ass here now .’
    Striker had barely ended the conversation when the dogman’s emergency lights tinted the air and a white Chevy Tahoe came racing around the bend of Gore Avenue. The man behind the wheel was Harry Hooch, one of the department’s best dogmen.
    The Tahoe came to a sliding stop on the icy road surface and stopped right in front of the Lucky Lodge. Hooch climbed out. He was shorter than most cops, maybe five foot seven, and he was rail-thin, weighing less than a hundred and sixty pounds. But what Harry Hooch lacked in height and weight he made up for with his steel determination. He yanked open the rear door and Sable jumped out. The Shepherd’s colouring was completely black. Even in the grey light of the coming night, her coat glistened.
    ‘Where’s the scent?’ Hooch asked.
    Striker pointed to the area where the suspect had fled. ‘Landed there. On the slope beneath the window.’
    ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘None. The area’s clean.’
    Hooch said nothing. He got the Shepherd to sniff the glove, then led the dog across the lot and got to work.
    Striker watched eagerly as the Shepherd scoured back and forth in search of the trail. When the dog finally picked up the scent, she beelined down the south lane of Union.
    Hooch went with her, and so did Striker. The dogman didn’t want the extra protection, and the scowl on his face showed that; like most dogmen, Hooch liked to play the game solo. But Striker wasn’t about to leave him without proper cover. Especially when they had no idea what they were dealing with here.
    He ran with the man.
    The dog continued the trail southeast, eventually turning down Malkin Avenue. As they ran, Striker mapped out the area in his head, and cursed.
    ‘What?’ Hooch asked.
    ‘He’s heading for the train yards.’
    Hooch made no reply, but the tightness of his face showed his own frustration. The train yards were always a bitch during tracks. Too many obstacles: the fenced-off areas, the moving freightliners. And, of course, the endless streams of the homeless people who camped out behind the industrial area, or grouped together down by the bottle depot and recycling plant.
    All in all, it all made for a difficult track.
    When they reached the dead-end stop of Glen Drive, Sable stopped running. The dog dropped her tail low and began running back and forth all along the gated area that led into the train yards. Hooch gave the dog more leash and marched impatiently with her.
    Striker took the moment to scan the area and catch his breath. The cold air stung his lungs and it was dirty, stinking of diesel gas fumes and smoke from the industrial plants. Not twenty yards away stood a tall chain-link fence that separated the federal land of the national railway with that of the City. Behind it were pockets of homeless people. Small fire-lit camps dotted the rail yard.
    ‘Tracks gonna get