by Karen Diem
Once she was behind the man in his white vinyl chair, Zita shifted again, this time to gorilla. Moving so her fur barely whispered, she reached out and seized him, putting him into a chokehold. His hands scrabbled at her muscular arms futilely as she counted seconds in her head. About when she started to worry, he stopped resisting and went still. She released her hold, easing his limp form to the ground. When she checked his pulse, it was steady. Relief flooded her. Practicing safe sleeper holds is difficult when everyone over the age of ten is taller than you.
Now he was down, Zita examined the bridge. Three of four sides had windows, including her entry point. The whole room reeked like fish, sweat, salt water, and men who needed to bathe. A row of lockers lined the wall without windows. When she opened the lockers, she found a handful of snacks, cleaning supplies, and a toolbox. Her eyes lit up at the toolbox, and she ripped it open. A wrench flew across the room. She lost a second gawking; she made a mental note to practice more as a gorilla. Two metal consoles, pale green, were the only furniture other than the two ripped chairs that badly needed cleaning. Rushing to a boxy console, she looked for a key to pull. In the disorder of old-fashioned buttons, dials, assorted odd knobs, and built-in monitors that covered the consoles, nothing seemed like a key. A few buttons glared with dull red eyes at her. Things beeped, buzzed, and hummed like a chorus of tone-deaf kindergarteners. As she realized she could not even find a keyhole, let alone a key, she swore; her limited experience with marine vessels had not prepared her for this. When she noticed a button with the image of an anchor over it, she pushed it. It lit to a red glow, and the loud release of a chain winch began. She clenched a fist in victory.
A minute later, she had duct taped the now-moaning sailor, and packed him into a locker. After ensuring the locker had ventilation holes, she closed the door, picked up tools and began working. When enlightenment failed to dawn after another look at the confusing boards, she settled for turning off anything marked on and pulling out any plugs or wires visible. Since only four screws and a wire attached it, she removed the joystick too. While she searched for more ways to slow them down, her hands knotted the joystick, wires, and cables into a ball. The thick door caught her eye. If they can’t get in, they can’t sail this puppy away. Spinning a screwdriver in one hand, she eyed the door. It looked like one of the newer windowless ones, a thick metal meant to keep out hijackers. A chortle escaped her as she went to work. She switched to a chimpanzee to improve her dexterity. Zita finished with an artful layer of duct tape, one of the most awesome inventions ever, in her opinion. Nothing says fun like duct tape, a knife, and paracord; throw in the wilderness, a sexy man, and a box of condoms, and you have pure bliss.
Yay, more treasure to bury in the too much information box, Andy grumbled.
Wyn sounded more uncertain. Are we still looking for your brother?
Someone shouted. A single gunshot sounded. The full locker thumped and leaked obscenities as its occupant reacted. Another torrent of shouting—like baboons gone insane, loud, and angry—made her peek out a window as she finished up. A dockworker lay on the deck of the boat. The back of his head was… everywhere but where it should have been. Zita gulped and pushed down nausea, contentment fleeing. Still working on the rescuing brother, she sent. Their negotiator isn’t worth shit. I’m pulling cheap delay tactics to stop them from leaving, she thought, remembering the dangling container. She rubbed her hands on her hairy arms.
Whatever happened to observing and reporting, like super-powered mall cops? Andy asked.
Wyn added, Really attractive mall cops.
Zita did not bother to answer that. Transforming to her human disguise form, she picked up the only other thing she recognized in the console. Her hair hung around her like a cape; she hoped it hid her face from any cameras. “Hello,” she purred into the intercom. The Mexican accent was definitely a comfort at this point. “This is not your captain speaking. This is just a reminder that the cargo container hanging over the ship has innocent people inside, so if everyone would please avoid shooting it, that would be awesome. Thank you.”
The shouting ceased or at least paused. The handle of the door clicked, and an angry man glared through a window at her.
She wiggled her fingers at him.
He gaped at her and then pounded on the window. As his face flushed red, he called out to the others. The man began kicking the door, alternating with rattling the handle.
Obeying her instincts, she dove for the floor right before a ray of light went through where she had been standing. Lasers are an excellent hint to leave. Zita crept to the window furthest from where the beam had come from. With a hard shove to slide it as far open as it could go, she dropped the ball of wires out. After shifting into a cat, she hopped on the sill and slipped through. With the ball of wires in one claw, she changed again into her albatross form and threw herself into the air. As she wheeled above the docks, she dropped the ball of wires near a cluster of police.
Once she had attained enough height, she circled to go over and around the cargo container, and then perched on it. Chemicals mingled with more human sweat and urine odors. When she took the time to sort through the scents, she could distinguish multiple people inside, none of whom were her brother. People are inside the hanging crate, but not Quentin.
A screech of hydraulic brakes distracted Zita and announced another truck rumbling toward the ship. It stopped, reversed, beeping loudly, and ran over part of the container storage area. Thanks to his slow three-point turn and attempt at nonchalance, the driver took long enough for her to recognize him as the beefier of Sobek’s bodyguards. More important to her, the truck held a container identical to her perch. She may have yelled in her excitement as she launched herself off the hanging container and arrowed after the truck. A second truck with another container is by 11th Street and, uh, 10th Street! Bring my bag of tools! I’ll try to stop it before it takes off with more people.
As she prepared to dive close enough to do—what, she didn’t know—Zita saw a flare of light on the drafty top of a blue crane. The sound of the gunshot hit her ears a second later, followed by an echoing BOOM from the truck. It skidded sideways and came to a halt by a giant shed, momentum exhausted. She glimpsed movement from the crane even as she swooped toward the truck. Having thought the blue crane empty when she scoped out the place, she puzzled at the shot even as she approached the disabled vehicle.
The driver threw open the door and ran. As Zita drew closer, she shifted to chimpanzee when she was within five feet, and hit him with both feet. The blow knocked him off balance, and he fell forward with a choked cry. She landed, rolled to absorb the impact, and whipped around to see if she needed to do more, but he was insensate on the ground. One of his wrists bent wrong, and she scented blood. His breathing was regular. Reassured, she paced back to the truck, though her stomach curdled at the sound of his moans as he awakened. The container reeked of more fear, chemicals, and people, overlaid by the burnt stench of hot metal and fuel. This close, the air holes were visible.
Faster than she expected, Andy came running up in his usual form, no longer Morgan what’s his name; they must have been creeping closer instead of staying back. His mask was firmly in place.
By the lock for the container, Zita gestured, curling her fingers for her tools. People are inside that thing. Give me my bag and a minute, and I’ll get them out, she sent, holding out her hand. He tossed it at her. Pulling out the fanny pack, she dug through it.
Andy faced the container, breathing hard. “They locked people in there?” Horror suffused his tone, and he shivered. His eyes flared, and he shook his head. Seizing the side of the door, he dug his fingers into the seam with no more effort than she would have used with sand. Metal shrieked.
Zita found her picks and waved them at him. Oye, I have the picks right here.
The door surrendered with a bang, and the entire end of the shipping container yawned open. Andy tossed the twisted scrap of the door aside.
“People don’t belong in boxes,” Andy grunted, crossing his arms across his chest, hiding his hands under his elbows. He squared his shoulders, brought his hands down, and then climbed into the truck.
Wyn, wearing her other guise, came staggering up, gasping for air. She put her hands on her knees for a second to catch her breath and then straightened. She looked inside, and a hand flew up to her mouth. Those poor people!
The scent of chemicals and urine hung heavy in the stuffy air of the container. Old cots, bolted to the floor, rubbed up against each other, each one holding an unmoving form. The cots were arranged three across and three long, with coolers set in the narrow space remaining between the last cot and the wall. Each unconscious person had a slow-drip IV secured in one arm. Sympathy propelled a soft hooting sound from Zita. After handing her fanny pack to Wyn, she inhaled and then began carefully climbing over the cots to check the occupants. Her knowledge of medicine was limited to sports medicine and her CPR certification, so she could not do much more than check pulses and breathing. They’re all alive, but breathing and pulse rates are shallow and slow. A tranquilizer? Quentin and Jennifer aren’t here.
Pull one out. If I can revive them, perhaps they know where Quentin and Jennifer are, Wyn ordered mentally.
While Zita finished checking the last one, Andy inhaled sharply, and pulled the first cot. Bolts groaned and gave way when he tugged. He hopped to the ground carrying it with no more effort than if it were a pack of gum. I recognize this person! He set the cot on the pavement. “How are they? Can you check, W—uh, blond lady?”
Zita really needed to pay more attention to faces. Who is it?
“Oh, my Goddess!” Wyn exclaimed, looking closely at the unconscious woman in the cot. She leaned over. From her own hospitalization, she also knew how to disconnect an IV and did so. Green sparkles grew around her hands. “It’s Trixie! She doesn’t even live in D.C. full time. I… I don’t know if I can help her, but I can try,” she murmured.
“So they must be in the other crate?” Andy said.
Zita shook her head, rubbing a hand over the top of it. No, they were not in the hanging crate or an on-deck crate. The threat of imminent gunfire stopped me from checking the hold, but I could try that next. The driver is over there. Maybe he knows.
Perhaps more loudly than she had intended, Wyn muttered, “I’m glad something scares you.”
What? Zita looked at where the other worked on Trixie.
Wyn’s pretty mouth thinned. “I’m petrified. This is crazy, but you’re diving into deeper and more terrifying places every minute. You’re even enjoying it!” Despite her words, her hands and the sparkly light were steady over Trixie.
Pursing her lips, Zita stared at her friend. For once, she was glad her inhuman form lacked speech, as it gave her a chance to formulate an answer. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and she pushed aside the hurt that Wyn could think she would enjoy her brother’s danger. What happens if the cops fail—if we fail—is worse than any other possible future. If anyone else dies, especially my brother, and I could have stopped it and chose not to, that’s worse than my death. I won’t play that, not again. Sí, some parts of this, when nobody’s being victimized, have been fun for me, to be honest, but the whole saving people thing? Totally worth it. Plus, I found out I got two badass friends, including one who’s scared as shit and going ahead anyway. I don’t know anybody else that brave. She walked to the edge of the truck and sat down next to the fanny pack. She hooted.
Wyn looked up and gave her a tremulous smile.
“FREEZE!” shouted a cop, stepping out from behind a container. “Step away from the gurney! Put your hands in the air. This is the police!” The eager young man and his older partner both had guns drawn. One focused on Wyn, and the other on Andy. She gave them credit; both had textbook-perfect hand positions on the weapons. While they wore patrol cop uniforms, bulky ballistic vests sat atop, sealed shut.
With a shudder, Wyn pulled her hands away and the glow disappeared. She blinked at the cops. Her illusory perfect mouth dropped open. If possibly, her milky skin turned paler.
Andy sighed and put his hands up behind his masked head. His shoulders slumped. Yup. That’s what I expected to happen. Do you think they’ll let me defend my dissertation from prison?
Walking to the edge of the box, Zita shook her head at the cops and pointed to the boat. She hooted at them, adding a raspberry in case they mistook her meaning. A male voice behind a box swore, revealing the presence of at least one more cop.
Classy, Zita, Wyn sent. Her voice only shook a little as she tried to soothe the police. “They have—had—nine people in this container. The driver’s over there, he, umm, a monkey fell on him. We were attempting to render aid to the victims of the crash.” Please don’t shoot us. The words and emotions accompanying them fretted over the party line for a moment before the litany cut off.
One older cop muttered into his shoulder radio. While he was speaking, his gun moved from threatening Wyn to point at Andy, with a waver toward Zita. “On the ground!” the cop shouted. His stomach jiggled, and his movements held none of the threat she’d associate with a real fighter. Still, he had reach on her (who didn’t?) and hard eyes that told her he had been a cop years enough to fight dirty. Fair enough, survival was a respectable goal.
On the other hand, his younger partner looked like fair game. The rookie shifted, separating to cover them from another angle and drawing Zita’s attention. Color was high in his cheeks, despite his dark skin. While physically fit, he lacked the cynical opportunism of a street fighter. His eyes were so wide that white ringed them, and excitement made him bounce. His sweat stank of his adrenaline and nerves. Gesturing at her with his gun, he shouted, “Get your monkey down too!” The older cop shook his head.
Andy snorted. “You try telling her anything.” He knelt. Unhappiness thrummed through party line. I can’t let them take off my hood, but if they shoot me, it might ricochet.
A breeze thick with moisture lifted pale hair in soft tendrils around a perfect face. Wyn raised her hands in the air and kneeled. “No need to get upset, officers. We just wanted the people in the truck to be safe. This is all a misunderstanding. We’re just bystanders.”
The experienced cop guffawed. “Lady, people wearing masks are either going to a Halloween party, kinky, or committing a crime. This ain’t no party, and nobody’s naked. All of you, on the ground with your hands on your head.” He gestured with his gun, dark hands wrapped firmly around it.
“Technically, the monkey’s naked,” the young one blurted out, his eyes on Wyn. The tip of his gun dipped.
If we get technical, I’m an ape, not a monkey. He’s right about naked, though. You know he’s going to get an obnoxious nickname from this, like Monkeypants. When her wide smile that made the younger policeman flinch, Zita scratched her head and considered. Grabbing her bag of clothing, she clambered onto the top of the truck. The rookie’s gun swung toward her, but returned to Andy. From the top of the truck, she took in the surrounding area while she thought frantically. Can you convince them to let us go, Wyn?
Her friend’s mental voice held notes of exasperation. What did you think I was doing? I’m doing my best to persuade, not force.
The voice of the third cop came from the direction of the downed truck driver. “Hell of a shot to stop the truck. SWAT’s going to be insufferable. The driver needs a bus, but he’ll live.” As she peeked over the edge of the truck, she marked him for another experienced policeman, between the other two in age. His movements were efficient, and no more than they had to be. While his gun held steady on the bodyguard, the cant of his arms and the amount of sweat coming off him suggested a ballistic vest hid under his dockworker garb. He had his foot in the back of the downed man and spoke in quiet bursts of command. The bodyguard lay on the
ground, eyes wide, blood dripping from his nose.
The oldest cop shook his head, his gun steady on Andy. “SWAT says it wasn’t them. It could have been the Halloween gang here or their pet chimp.”
Andy looked up. “Oh, no, we’re all unarmed. We thought you stopped them.”
A block or two east, a flicker of light caught her eye. A glowing Pretorius sent first one, then another streak of light toward where the cops huddled outside the ship. She could not tell from the angle if he hit anyone or anything, but shouting began and ended again.
The radios affixed to all three cops began to buzz with distant voices.
“What was that?” asked Wyn. Was that Aideen?
No, Pretorius, Zita answered. She craned her head to see. The bright streetlamps deepened the shadows thrown by all the crates and vehicles, making the area a patchwork of light and dark. Tracking people in it was a challenge; had it been a game of paintball, it would have been an engaging pleasure.
The dockworker cop gestured to the rookie. “I’m on the light bulb. You search and cuff this one,” he stated. Once the rookie had his gun trained on the downed man, the third cop broke into a fast walk toward where she had last spotted Pretorius. He disappeared into the maze.
The older cop grunted into his radio while the rookie did a cursory search of the driver.
Curling up around his hands, the man on the ground cried out when the rookie attached a handcuff to one wrist. He writhed on the ground, shouting that his wrists were broken. For a crime lord’s bodyguard, he’s a pansy, Zita thought.
The rookie seized the bodyguard’s arm, and hauled him to his feet, not touching the wrists or attaching the other cuff. “Come on, sit on the truck,” he urged the distraught man, leading him to the truck bed.
