by Karen Diem
Wyn sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Just when I was hoping to get my beauty sleep.”
Her throat felt tight. “If you two don’t want to come, I understand,” Zita offered.
“What’s a little more sleep deprivation amongst friends? The frat boys might listen for five seconds if I explain that I spent the night with two women,” Andy grumbled.
Nodding agreement, Wyn pulled away from the post. “No better time than the present.”
Relief bloomed. Smiling beneath her mask, Zita nodded. “Okay, vámonos! Mano, you might want to pick up the remains of your clothing before we go. Oh, and witchy wonder, don’t forget your weapon unless you’re wearing gloves under your disguise?”
Wyn’s shoulders slumped. After a moment, she went to get the frying pan.
Chapter 16
Zita stood up from a dead sleep and crowed.
Coarse polyester complained as Andy staggered to his feet. Above her head, Wyn mumbled vague threats and flopped over on her lounge chair, falling off.
Awake now, Zita stopped herself before she repeated the call, and fluffed her feathers. She peeked out from under the lounger.
Andy blinked at her.
Wyn glared. “What were you thinking? It’s not even dawn yet!” she hissed.
She clucked. If I’d known crowing was such a strong impulse, I would have chosen a different shape. I thought dawn would wake a rooster best. Before she could do more, lights flew on in the narrow home whose patio furniture they had borrowed for the night.
With a gasp, Wyn staggered to her feet. Run! She sprinted across the postage stamp lawn, and down the sidewalk.
Andy tucked Zita and her clothing bag under one arm like a football and followed.
A cluck escaped her, and Zita resisted the urge to peck as they bounced across cracked pavement. Loosen your grip. You’re crushing my feathers! The predawn dimness prevented her from seeing whether anyone witnessed their flight.
When Wyn dropped to a walk, panting hard, Andy slowed to match her pace.
At the slower speed, Zita could make out more old, thin houses just like the one they had slept outside, separated by lawns with the length of a sedan. Most had chain link fences; the lack of a fence and available loungers had been the deciding factor in their accommodations. She prayed they had run toward the docks, rather than away. Wyn, you should reconsider that training regimen I made for you. It would stop you from getting winded so easily. Let me know when I can shift. This shape is terrible for seeing any distance.
When Andy squeezed her, she pecked at him reflexively. Zita had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, even though her beak had not penetrated his skin. No penetration, story of my life.
“Hey!” Andy said. He dropped her in brush by the wavy wall separating the docks from the residential area. Lalalala, don’t want to know, he sent.
When the brush hid her, she grabbed a mouthful of dandelion before shifting to a seagull, and taking flight. Once she was aloft, she changed again to a snowy albatross. As she adjusted her wings to soar, Zita cawed in delight at her improved eyesight and the incredible sense of smell. The odor of rank fish was far more pleasant in this form than in human form. The rooster form had not noticed.
Below her, Wyn put her hand up to her eyes and peered up. “How will we tell you from the other—oh, that is one giant seagull.” With a shrug, Wyn handed the plastic bag to Andy.
Albatross, Zita corrected. Technically, albatross don’t usually come this far north, but I doubt anyone will know that. People should assume I’m the seagull emperor.
The smiley face on her clothing bag grinned up at her as Andy fastened it around his wrist. Why not be a seagull?
Although flying was mindless if she obeyed her intuition, Zita experimented with subtle variations of her wings. When instinct and intellect combined, the list of possible widened; she loved nothing better than finding those boundaries and exploring them. Albatross have an excellent sense of smell, which might help me find Quentin. They’re designed to move around rather than sitting still, which suits me, she sent back. She circled, noting the change in colors and scents between the port and the aging residential neighborhood snuggled up to it. While she grew accustomed to the movement, she kept herself lower and closer to her friends.
“If it looks like a seagull, smells like a seagull…” Wyn commented, and then whispered to Andy. They both snickered and began walking around the wall to get to the port. “Why did we have to sleep there overnight again?”
Andy sighed. “So I could park my car further away and have less of a chance of it being noticed.”
The witch snorted. “I guess the whole rooster thing blew that idea.” She and Andy had reached the outer parking lot, and cut across the empty parking rows toward the main port.
Her muscles felt warm and stretched. After calculating the angles, Zita swooped toward Wyn, pulling up at the last moment to avoid a collision.
Andy ducked and covered his head.
Wyn gave a wimpy shriek and threw her arms up to protect her face. “Hey!”
They noticed a pair of trespassers. They didn’t notice Andy’s car, parked a few blocks away. I would have teleported us, but we couldn’t find any webcams. Zita ascended on an air current and soared over the port.
An odd, asymmetrical shape, the port had a long side divided from most of the residential area by Broening Highway and railroad tracks. The predawn darkness was interrupted by circles of artificial light, further apart in the parking areas most distant from the ships, and closer together until the piers shone almost as bright as day. None of the buildings were tall, and the closest areas were another port and a neighborhood of petite houses; she imagined the sobs of police snipers searching for advantageous spots to set up. She had to credit the marine terminal for organization; the largest permanent structures—storage sheds, perhaps—clustered on the west side, while outlying areas were primarily parking lots, with personal parking in the outer ring. Orderly streets broke the area up into sections, with only two or three exits. Stackers and trucks clustered near the ships, with sections devoted to irregular container groupings in between. White lines divided every inch of pavement, designating the size of object that could be placed or parked in any given spot. Nine gigantic blue cranes dangled over the water on two sides of the port, and rail tracks meandered through the facility. With organization that regimented, anything that broke pattern was suspicious. Her stomach twisted at the number of cops she noticed, far too alert for third shift dockworkers near dawn, and adjusting what she assumed were hidden weapons.
At this hour, the dock had only three vessels. The giant container ship she dismissed with a single glance; while anonymity provided concealment, it had too many crew. Of the remaining two container ships, one was half the size of the other. The undersized one had a smaller crane onboard, but the last had none. Either might work. Dockworkers with more numbers than skill unloaded both of the smaller ships. More of the suspiciously perky dockworkers grouped by the lesser ships, so she assumed the police agreed they made better candidates as well. Tension and excitement simmered.
These are not the droids you’re looking for, Andy sent. You can do it, Obi-Wan. Her wings faltered.
Uh, what? She wheeled and headed back toward where her friends should be.
Wyn sent laughter. Would you believe that worked? Her mental voice held overtones of relief and surprise.
Andy’s held the same relief. I knew you could do it. A security guard wanted to know what we were doing. Wyn convinced him to let us continue. So where are we going? We’re in a massive parking lot.
You know you don’t have to be here, right? If you want to go home, I won’t think less of you. She scanned the ground, trying to determine who was present. The resulting number of cops or crooks—people who looked like they were hiding weapons and alert—made her wings twitch. This may turn into a gun battle and bystanders fare poorly in those. After a moment, she identified the pair walking arm in arm as her fr
iends, a familiar bag smiling and swinging from the man’s wrist. They had made it through most of the outer parking lot, and a slow-moving figure strolled away from them.
Andy’s reply was a mental snort. We’ll go if you do. You’re not bulletproof either. He appeared to be an older African American man, with a mustache and beard that held more gray than black in a vaguely familiar freckled face. Broad-shouldered yet slim, he had to be a couple inches over than six feet tall. He walked with Andy’s martial artist roll and economy of motion—even if they had split apart, she would have guessed his identity by his walk.
Clasping his arm was an African American woman of a certain age and the bearing of a queen. A hand smoothed hair that glinted with silver as they strolled under the lights. Wyn made a face unsuited to her dignified seeming at Andy. As if we would abandon the endeavor now? With luck, our presence will prove superfluous if the surfeit of older American sedans in the parking lot indicates the amount of law enforcement presence. That said, I am happy to confine myself to the back.
After a momentary pause, Andy added, Way back. Possibly so far back you couldn’t find us with the Way Back Machine.
A what machine? Why do you look familiar, Andy? Zita sent. She ignored the urge to ask about the machine.
He frowned at his companion. I’m not the one who looks like Nichelle Nichols. Who did you make me?
A smile teased at Wyn’s lips. Don’t worry, you’re worthy of being seen with me. We needed disguises that people would not question. I figured I’d pick two people you’d appreciate, fanboy. Keep chatting with me, Morgan Freeman.
Andy’s tone held resignation. That explains why the guard acted so strange. If you had to pick famous people, why can’t I be Wesley Snipes or Samuel L. Jackson?
Zita ignored their byplay as her attention paused on a white pickup. Tucked between larger trucks near F Street and a service road, the vehicle waited with the engine running. Stomach clenching, she swooped that direction to get a closer look. Nothing stood out about it, other than the fact that someone huddled inside, their face hidden by the shadows of the containers on either side. As fleets of white pickups and vans were scattered liberally through the marine terminal, she counted herself as paranoid and continued her flight. She exhaled and adjusted her wing position. Walk like you know where you’re going. Everything’s pretty well lit close to the docks. Don’t slink or do anything odd—I’ve spotted cop snipers on the few buildings, and an awful lot of people who are criminally slow, cops, or union workers. Once you hit 14th Street, settle nearby and be ready.
Assent hummed in her mind from the others. After peering at street signs, they headed the right direction.
Wyn sent, Got it. People seem to be trickling in, so we don’t look suspicious. We’ll have plenty of time; dawn won’t be for another forty minutes.
Zita returned to her circuit of the port, gliding low over the containers closest to the smaller ships. The feathers on the back of her neck prickled. Cargo containers, in uniform twenty- and forty-foot lengths, were piled and stacked in spots marked on pavement. Although the containers followed no obvious placement model, creating an odd maze of multicolored metal boxes, each one was precise within the confines of the rectangles painted on the ground. She assumed their placement followed a strategy known only to dock planners, because it made no discernible pattern to her. Forcing herself to focus, she continued skimming the tops of the containers, pulling up higher as an SUV thundered by, followed by a truck. When she glanced at them, “ASS” gleamed under the lights as the SUV parked in the lot near the smallest ship. The truck pulled up by the ship. After reading the street signs, she sent a terse message to her friends. They’re here early. The ship is the small one at G and 11th Street. Men piled out. She eyed them and groaned internally as the sixth and final form to exit was a familiar blond man. Oh, joy. They brought Pretentious P with them. I hope he’s not bulletproof in addition to all his other powers.
After a pause, Andy sent. We can’t see from here. Should we head that way or stay back?
Zita did not have to think about her answer, even as she flew closer to the ship. Stay back. There’s a police swarm here; the last thing we need is the bad guys getting away because the police think we’re the issue.
Wyn’s mental voice held humor and relief. If Quentin’s kidnappers are the bad guys, why are you so nervous about the cops?
Perching on an unused crane next to the ship, Zita twitched her shoulders, settling her feathers. Quentin’s kidnappers are meth-cooking drug dealers with a sideline in kidnapping, torture, and murder. Perhaps they are kidnapping torturers with a sideline in drugs, but they’re definitely evil. The cops are just authority figures. Even if they’re on our side, they might not be competent. That said, use the phone we lifted from the meth place to call in a tip to the cops on the ship. I doubt Pretorius is shipping cookies to his abuela. She swore. Now I want cookies. Antsy, she shifted from foot to foot before sinking into her roost.
The driver remained in the truck while Pretorius and two cronies marched up to a stevedore with a handheld device. Engine idling, the truck next to the ship held a single shipping container, the standard smaller container, at twenty long by eight feet wide. Fans whirred on the refrigerated container. Her head twitched. Are those rusty rivets or air holes?
Pretorius nodded at the driver and then spoke to the stevedore.
The dockworker poked at his little machine again and replied. After gesturing to a couple loitering workers to join him, the stevedore walked to the container truck. They conferred next to the truck.
Pretorius put his hands on his hips.
One dockworker jogged onto the ship. On the ship’s deck, one of the cranes began to hum. The arm lurched to one side, and then the other.
Pretorius moved toward the dockworkers. His steps gained speed as the stevedore with the device waved it at the truck and knocked on the walls of the container. Another dockworker fumbled around trying to attach the crate to the hooks. Only one dockworker, the one unlocking the container from the truck, seemed to know what he was doing. In a more controlled descent, the crane descended to the box. The dockworker who had unlocked the container climbed up top and attached the box to the crane. After jumping back down, he gave a thumbs-up to the crane operator. The crate began to rise. Noticing the movement, the stevedore on the ground shouted, and made a slashing, negative motion.
Pretorius yelled back, and then closed the distance between himself and the lead stevedore. Conversation grew heated; the words were inaudible, but the tones communicated. A gun flashed, and then everything was a confusion of shouting. Cops melted in and out of view behind cover as they identified themselves and barked orders. Pretorius hissed instructions at his men, who swore and fought with the dockhands. Everyone waved around guns. The crane stopped, crate hanging in midair.
What’s going on? Wyn sent. That sounds… awful.
Zita gulped and lifted herself up into the air, rising higher. Everyone but us has guns. I don’t think the Sobek’s men want to follow the playbook. Stay back; they’re taking hostages. They need to not shoot by the container! Her friends were as safe as possible near a gunfight, she reassured herself.
The shouting ceased when Pretorius pressed against the truck, shielded by the tires of the vehicle. Each of his men, save the truck driver crouched at his side, had a “dock worker” hostage. He turned his head to either side as if issuing instructions. With one hand at his side, he counted out numbers with angry flicks of his fingers. On five, his men ran to the ship, towing their hostages as human shields. Pretorius stepped out from behind the truck and a brilliant white wall of light sprang up between the truck and the rest of the port. He dashed toward the gangplank.
He can make walls of… something glowy. She reminded herself that this was for the cops to handle, and she would only look for her brother and watch. Dark-clad SWAT team members moved toward the wall. The first one to reach it tapped, and yanked his hand back. Glowy and hot, she amende
d.
A cop ordered Pretorius to lie down on the ground.
Pretorius shook his head as he ran. With a flick of his hand, he returned a white bolt back in the direction the voice had come from as the wall simultaneously disappeared. He had not aimed, so he may have intended to delay further police action, she concluded. After reaching the deck of the ship, he ducked down by the side. One of his cronies pulled the gangplank up behind him.
The police scattered, taking cover behind anything possible. While they dispersed, Pretorius found better cover between two standard crates, ones lacking refrigeration or air holes. Given the way men scurried to truss the hostages, he must have been giving orders. One of men smacked the head of one of the more argumentative hostages with his handgun. Her stomach twisted.
The cops behind the machinery and containers settled into an uneasy détente with the boat. She circled. The crane continued holding the crate up in the air, partway between the ship and the dock. A crewman emerged from a windowed room toward the front of the ship—the bridge?—and crept over to Pretorius. He held out a phone to the bodyguard. Without leaving his spot, the blond took the phone and held it to his ear. He made a motion with his hand. Heavy chain screeched, and water cascaded.
A summer spent working on a cruise ship had taught her the sound of a lifting anchor. ¡Carajo! They can’t leave, especially if my brother is here! Maybe I can steal their boat keys so they can’t drive it. Gliding into a different air current, she let it carry her down obliquely toward the front of the ship, keeping the ship’s bulk between herself and the cops. When she got there, she landed on a railing and surveyed the windowed room. It was a bridge. Unfortunately, one skinny man was inside, but at least one window stood open. The crack had to be about six inches wide, the widest extent allowed by that style of window. Zita grinned internally. Engrossed with checking instruments and doing mysterious things with switches and dials, the man inside did not notice when she shifted into a cat and snuck inside.
