by Mel Odom
Angel worked quickly. He tore a section of his shirt into strips, not even bothering to take it off first. After uncapping the vodka bottles, he stuffed the pieces of shirt into the necks, turning them upside down briefly to soak the makeshift wicks before returning them to the crate.
As Angel was starting on the sixth bottle, glass crashed behind him, followed by the roaring bellow of an automatic weapon. He whirled as the glass flew around him, spotting the gang member on the outside of the multipaned window that had just gone to pieces.
They had guards outside, too. Desperately, Angel shoved two of the vodka bottles into his duster pockets, then seized a third bottle, a handful of the safety flares, and the crowbar. He ran, twisting around the corner as bullets chipped the concrete floor, tracking him.
At least a dozen rounds chewed through the corner of the crate he took cover behind. Rough splinters peeled back from the wood and pierced his flesh, bringing stinging pain.
Angel glanced upward, knowing the most immediate danger was going to come from the guard above. Tucking the crowbar under his arm, he took out one of the flares, broke it to ignite it, and lit the wick on the vodka bottle. The flame burned blue and yellow, slowly at first because the fire fed only on the alcohol in the rag.
The guard on the catwalk came at a run, yelling. He leaned over the railing and brought his weapon up.
Angel ran toward the back wall, then turned and launched the Molotov cocktail. The gang member was just turning to bring his weapon to bear on the other side of the catwalk when the vodka bottle shattered against the railing.
A spray of blue and yellow flames licked out. Not all of the vodka caught on fire at first. But when the burning bits touched the drenched parts now fed with oxygen as well, they swirled into a conflagration. The gang member turned into a running, shrieking torch. Flaming drops of alcohol dripped through the mesh catwalk floor.
The outside gang member leaped through the shattered window.
By then Angel was in motion, the crowbar tight in his hand. He grabbed the gang member’s machine pistol and hooked the crowbar behind the man’s foot, then yanked. He pulled the man from the harmful direct sunlight and kicked him in the head when he tried to fight back.
The gang member sprawled bonelessly.
Bullets hammered the wall beside Angel and one cut across his lower back before he threw himself forward in an all-out run. Whether his pursuers had meant to or not, they’d cut off his retreat to the manhole and the sewer system.
Angel cut around the next row of crates, slid to a stop, and jammed the crowbar under the second crate. The row was stacked six high, almost twenty feet tall. He leaned against the stack of crates and grabbed the crowbar in both hands, shoving and lifting with everything he had.
Slowly, then with increasing speed, the stack of crates shifted and tumbled into an avalanche. Most of the gang members went down under the assault. By then Angel was already sprinting down the row. He halted at the end of the stack of crates and peered around the corner.
Gunfire broke out behind him but none of the bullets came close. The gang members had lost him for the moment but the warehouse was too small for Angel to stay lost long.
Gao stood near the Camaro. Collins was huddled at Gao’s feet, the barrel of Gao’s Glock pressed against his neck. The gang member stood calmly, holding his prisoner, and talked to his men.
Glancing up, Angel spotted the top of the crate ten feet up. Another row of crates stood in front of it, only a few feet taller. Above that was a fire suppression system that hopefully remained operational. Angel leaped to the top of the crates and landed quietly.
Yelling orders, Gao quickly organized his men, getting them to settle down into a search pattern.
Angel lit another vodka bottle, took aim on the open crate of vodka, and threw as hard as he could. The Molotov cocktail arced across forty feet and dropped. For a moment Angel thought he’d missed the crate. Then the heavy vodka bottle crashed into the crate with enough force to break through the wood and shatter the bottles inside.
Glass and wood and vodka poured over the concrete floor. The burning wick caught the racing pool of alcohol on fire with a hissing whumpf! Feeding on the oxygen and straw packing that had been inside the crate, the fire quickly spread. The flames sprang up, speeding up the side of the stacked crates.
Gao yelled more orders. Some of the gang members split off to find fire extinguishers. They returned quickly and hosed the fire. Clouds of white vapor rolled against the mass of twisting flames but appeared to have little effect. Thick, acrid, black smoke pooled against the warehouse ceiling. In seconds, the fire had spread down two rows of crates.
Angel waited, watching the gang members search frantically. The smoke rolled across the warehouse ceiling, obscuring his vision and stinging his eyes. As the fire continued to burn, the smoke got thicker, completely filling the warehouse, getting thicker at ground level as the air became saturated.
The fire alarm rang stridently, hooting into the cavernous warehouse. Immediately, thick blobs of white retardant foam sprayed down from the suppression system like a sudden blizzard, adding to the confusion.
Angel listened to the sounds of the gang members coughing and hacking below him. If he still breathed, he’d have the same problems. He gathered himself, sheltered in the smoke, and leaped across the twenty-foot gap between crate stakes, making his way toward Gao and Collins.
Someone below heard him and fired up at the roof. Holes opened in the ceiling, letting in shafts of morning sunlight. Sunlight sizzled the back of Angel’s hand, bringing a searing pain as the flesh blistered up. He leaped across to the next row, readying the crowbar in his hand.
At the next row, he turned and dropped to the floor, jumping out toward Gao and Collins. The smoke was so thick in the warehouse now that visibility was limited. Angel’s dark clothing helped disguise him as he landed on the other side of the Camaro.
He pushed himself effortlessly up from a drop that would have shattered a normal man’s legs and sent shards of pain ripping up into his own body. Without hesitation, knowing he had only heartbeats before the Black Wind members found him, he sprinted toward Gao and Collins.
Gao spotted Angel and brought his pistol up, yelling for the others.
Chapter 15
“THIS WAY, MS. SUMMERS.” Buffy stayed a step behind her mom as they walked through the packed cargo warehouse. Yellow and green forklifts darted through the aisles stacked high with crates and shelving piled with boxes and other containers. Supervisors yelled to get the attention of workers, holding up clipboards with cargo numbers on them. Bright sunlight showed on the other side of the big bay doors that weren’t blocked by trailers. Other forklifts barreled into the trailers carrying packages and crates. The noise cascaded inside the warehouse.
“The package arrived safely?” Joyce asked.
“Yes.” The warehouse supervisor was a gruff guy in his fifties with broad shoulders and white and gray chest hair that stood out so straight it looked like he’d shoved a cockatoo down his shirt. His name tag read COBEN. He punched numbers into a digital unit held in one big hand and the readout flashed instantly. “Came in on Blue Tulip about an hour ago, then arrived here in the warehouse maybe ten minutes ago.” He looked at Joyce. “I’m kinda surprised they told you to get here so soon.”
“Actually,” Joyce replied. “I forgot what time I was supposed to be here, but I knew it was around noon.”
Buffy knew that really wasn’t true. Joyce had been told to schedule pickup of the statue at one-fifteen that afternoon, but she’d known the statue would arrive around noon.
Coben shrugged. “It’s no skin off my nose. If we hadn’t of had it, you’d have had to wait. But since you’re here now, we’ll go ahead and pull it for you.” He glanced at the aisles as they passed.
Buffy scanned the numbers painted on the concrete floor at the front of each aisle.
Coben halted in front of 37 and glanced up at the top shelves. He cur
sed under his breath, then looked at Joyce and said, “Excuse me. It’s just that after those gangbangers drifted through Sunnydale last night, some of the local guys decided not to show up in case there was any leftover flak. We’re working with nearly a third of our crew from temp agencies.”
Intrigued, Buffy asked, “What kind of flak?”
“We work a lot of Asian guys down here,” Coben said. “There was some talk that maybe some of the people down on the docks that lost stuff would be looking for a little payback.”
Buffy had heard some of the stories on the radio on the way over from school. Besides terrorizing several businesses in Sunnydale, the gang members had also confronted two different gangs along the docks shortly before morning. At least, that was what the police department believed had happened. Two warehouses had gone up in flames. The fire department was still searching through smoldering debris for corpses. The official body count was now up to twenty-seven, but was expected to go higher.
“I have to admit,” Coben said, “some of the Asian guys who work here said they had some trouble coming to work today. Especially the young guys. They got some suspicious stares and a few choice words tossed their way.” He spotted a passing forklift, put his hands together around his mouth, and whistled.
The forklift driver stopped.
“Hey, Bobby,” Coben yelled. “I need a crate down.”
The forklift driver flipped Coben a salute and backed up, swinging easily into the aisle. “Which one?”
Coben read off the number and pointed out the crate.
Buffy stepped back as the forklift driver lowered the crate in front of her. Joyce stepped forward and checked the paperwork against the copies she’d brought to the warehouse.
“This it?” Coben asked.
Joyce nodded.
The crate was a three-foot cube of wooden slats. The paperwork was in English and Chinese. At least, Buffy assumed the second language was Chinese.
“I thought I remembered it,” Coben said, pulling a hand truck from under the shelving. “Some guy called earlier from Zhiyong Shipping wanting to know if your package had arrived.”
“Really?” Joyce asked.
“Yeah.” Coben shrugged. “If the guy really works in shipping, he should know we don’t give out information about other people’s stuff like that.” He glanced around. “Got any place special you’d like this taken?”
“I’d like to confirm the contents first,” Joyce said.
“Sure.” Coben pulled a crowbar from the front of the next aisle over and set to work on the top of the crate. Nails screeched as they pulled free of the wood. Styrofoam peanuts floated free of the crate.
Joyce kneeled beside the crate and sifted through the contents, finally unearthing the statue. A fierce dragon’s face filled with teeth glared up from the sea of Styrofoam. The face looked like it had been carved from black rock.
Not exactly a poster child for Friendly, Buffy thought. The back of her neck tightened in response to the sight of the dragon.
“Everything look okay?” Coben asked.
“Yes.” Joyce stood again. “Can you seal this back up for me?”
“Sure.” Coben quickly hammered the nails back in with the crowbar.
Joyce led the way to the Summers’s SUV and Coben rattled along behind her. The station wagon was just tall enough in the back to hold the crate. After Joyce had signed the paperwork, she slipped behind the wheel and they took off back toward downtown Sunnydale.
Buffy gazed through the window at one of the burned heaps that had been a warehouse until early that morning. Firemen still pumped water onto the smoldering debris.
“Well,” Joyce said, “that certainly seemed to be anticlimactic.”
Buffy started to agree, then spotted the van pulling in behind them in the side mirror. The windows were covered in dark Mylar, turning the interior black. “Take a right at the next light,” she said as her Slayer senses flared in warning.
“What’s going on?” Joyce demanded.
“I think we’re being followed.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know,” Buffy answered. “But I’d like to find out.” She reached down into her bag and pulled Mr. Pointy out as she continued watching the van in the side mirror.
Joyce coasted through the yellow light ahead and turned right, driving almost casually. “Maybe you’re just imagining things.” She started to look over her shoulder.
“Don’t look,” Buffy said.
“Then how are we supposed to know if they’re following us?”
“I’ll look. But only through the mirror.”
Even though the light had turned red, the van pulled through the intersection and trailed them, slightly closing the distance.
Okay, Buffy thought, wishing her mom wasn’t with her, time to run. But she had to wonder if the unknown person or persons in the van was after her because she was the Slayer, or because of the crate her mom had picked up at the warehouse.
The van continued following, and the distance shortened between it and the SUV.
Buffy looked at her mom. “Floor it!”
Gao’s first two rounds cut the air over Angel’s head as he leaped feetfirst and skidded across the Camaro’s hood. The fire-retardant foam made the metal slippery. He dropped to a crouch on the other side of the sports car with the crowbar drawn back as flame jumped from Gao’s muzzle again. The bullet cored through the Camaro’s windshield.
Angel brought the crowbar off his shoulder like he was smashing a line drive. The impact sounded metallic and meaty, mixed with the snap of splintering bone.
Gao yelled as the pistol flew away. He swiveled, setting up in a martial arts stance, then launched his left foot at Angel’s head in a roundhouse kick. Moving quickly, Angel shifted and used the crowbar to block the kick, then shifted the hook to catch Gao’s foot. Angel yanked, pulling the demon off his feet.
Collins crawled away.
Angel grabbed the lawyer’s belt and threw him against the Camaro. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “If we get out of here, we’re going to talk.”
“Okay,” Collins replied, pressing up tight against the sports car.
Warned by the slither of movement, Angel turned back to Gao. The Black Wind member rolled backward, then swept Angel’s feet from under him with a leg. Angel crashed down painfully, watching as Gao got to his feet, moving lithely in spite of his injured hand.
Gao’s head fell back as his mouth opened hugely again. The forked tongue flicked out, coming straight at Angel’s eyes.
Angel grabbed the black tongue, stopping it only inches from his eyes. The wicked, barbed forks writhed as they tried to reach him. The tongue pressed forward, incredibly strong, forcing Angel’s arm back. The tongue’s scaly surface burned Angel’s palm.
Gao hissed angrily, shifting in a spidery crouch.
Angel rolled and got to his feet, still gripping the tongue. He yanked, getting all of his weight and strength into the effort, pulling Gao forward. Angel snap-kicked, catching Gao under the chin. The demon’s teeth sliced through the ropy tongue and blood sprayed.
Revulsion filled Angel as he threw the severed tongue aside. The tongue continued twisting and writhing like a dying snake, tracking blood across the pavement. That is disgusting. He glanced at his hand and saw the reddened flesh, still felt the acid burning into him.
Gao stood unsteadily, bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. He held his right hand forward and the eye opened in his palm.
Immediately, lethargy filled Angel. His arms and legs felt leaden.
Gao tried to yell for help, but only a bloody, choked cry sounded. Still, it was enough to attract the gang members. Footsteps and yells sounded in the roiling smoke, growing closer.
Focusing, Angel forced himself to step toward Gao, backing the Black Wind gang member against the wall. The eye opened wider in the palm and Angel felt like he was moving through quicksand. He drew the crowbar back, then rammed the sharp end through the demon�
�s palm-eye and the concrete beyond, nailing the hand to the wall. The lethargy dropped away.
Collins hunkered against the car, coughing and retching from the smoke. Angel grabbed the man by his jacket, got him up on his feet, and got him moving. Collins ran unsteadily, banging into the crates on either side of the stack. Angel kept him headed for the sewer opening.
A figure, blurred by the thick curtain of smoke, moved ahead and called out in Chinese.
Angel caught Collins by the jacket and swung him aside, then picked up a small crate full of machine parts. The Black Wind member fired as Angel threw the crate. The stream of bullets cracked the wooden crate open but the machine parts slammed into the gang member anyway, driving him back and down.
Collins collapsed, unable to go on. Sirens screamed outside the building, letting Angel know the police or fire department or both had arrived, drawn by the smoke and alarm. He grabbed the attorney and hustled him toward the manhole.
“C’mon,” Angel growled. “Just a few more feet.”
Cool, though fetid, air came up from the manhole. Angel helped Collins find the ladder built onto the wall below and guided him down. Rats scattered along the sewer as they entered.
Draping Collins’s arm across his shoulder, Angel took long strides down the sewer system, putting distance between them and the warehouse. With any luck, Collins would be able to give him a better lead on what the Black Wind gang intended for Sunnydale. He kept moving, listening for sounds of pursuit.
Joyce hesitated briefly, then put the SUV’s accelerator to the floor. The big vehicle shivered in response at first, then started gaining speed. She focused on the traffic, gripping the wheel with both hands. “I hope I don’t get a ticket.”
“Actually,” Buffy said, “a police officer might not be such a bad thing right now.” She continued watching the van in the mirror.
The van floated back and forth in the SUV’s wake, jockeying for position. The driver no longer tried to remain sneaky.
