by Karen Diem
“You’re going to get to learn extra paperwork tonight. Cuff him anyway,” the older cop told his quivering partner. Shaking his grizzled head, he looked at Wyn and Andy. “I’m going to ask you both to lie down on the ground with your hands on your head. Slow and easy, please. If you can get your pet to do it, have it lie down too.”
A couple of metallic clunks sounded as the young cop attached the other end of the cuffs to the grab bar on the container. “That’ll hold him until we can get him medical,” he said, nodding his head. As Zita watched, she noticed the bodyguard continued to bend over his arms, but his eyes were alert.
Eyes wide, Wyn shook her head. “She’s not a pet. She’s like a person on a permanent sugar high,” she began. “Listen…”
Like a person? Had she not been on top of the truck, she might have missed the next shot. Having crept closer to the police, Pretorius threw another bolt of light at a liquid container. The distance prevented her from seeing what the first shot accomplished, but the second one was obvious when the ground around the tanker turned to a growing puddle of flame. Oily black smoke coiled evilly up from the brilliant conflagration. The building wind poured smoke on the ship and the now-shouting cops outside. When the coughing began, the shouting died down. Drawing her lips back from her mouth, she pant-hooted, pointing at the fire. Pretorius shot a tanker crate and lit whatever goop’s pouring out on fire!
Andy and Wyn both twisted, as did the rookie cop, to look at where she pointed. The more experienced policeman kept his gun on Andy, but glanced over when his partner exclaimed. Even a block away, the acrid scent made her nose wrinkle when a gust of wind brought them a wave of it. The bodyguard muttered to himself.
“Fire!” shouted the rookie, pointing his finger and taking a few rapid steps toward the blaze. His gun hung, forgotten, in his other hand. “Fire! It’s gonna catch up all the containers!”
His partner murmured into his radio again. Unlike the younger cop, his gun remained on Andy. “Weapon up,” he barked at the rookie.
Andy looked at the ground and released a noisy exhale. His shoulders hunched. Observe and report, she said, and I listened. If I’m lucky, I can turn that on an angle to stop the liquid from spilling out before any of the other containers catch fire. “Don’t bother. I think I need to get that.” He rose to his feet, his hands nervously smoothing the sides of his pants.
The patrolmen began shouting at him to get down. Their shouts drowned out the other noise, even the mumbling of the driver handcuffed to the truck.
“I’m real sorry about this, but I have to go,” Andy said. Bending at the knees, he leapt inhumanly high over the two cops, and then sprinted into the network of containers and vehicles with enviable, but human, speed.
Impressed, Zita murmured mentally. Way to stand up, mano. As she gripped the edge of the truck roof, she hung off upside down, on the side opposite the handcuffed man. A tinny voice buzzed.
The handcuffed bodyguard grunted and whispered again. His thuggishness only increased in proximity, aided by the scents of jerky and chaw. With a wary eye on the remaining police, she stared until she located the noise. A deep, echoing boom sounded from the direction Andy had run.
With the police distracted, she squealed, and then swung over to the surprised man. Zita snatched the headset from his ear. As she skipped out of reach, she stuck it in her own ear and ignored the shouting from both the prisoner and the police. The older cop was aiming at her. The younger one waved his weapon everywhere.
A man, sounding terrified, prattled away on the phone. “Pretorius is having fits. He left the tub to distract them, but the bridge controls are fucked, so we can’t leave. We’re having a hell of a time finding replacements since half the real crew is now locked in the hold! We didn’t sign up for this shit. If that freak Pretorius or you don’t get here and resolve this, me and the boys are out.”
The men on the boat are panicking. The handcuffed thug is one of Jones’ bodyguards. Can you find out if he knows where Quentin is? She pulled herself up onto the roof of the truck again, and grunted into the headset, pushing her tone as close to a man’s voice as she could. The police seemed to relax with her up there and out of easy reach; she held the opinion of that keeping people with guns content was good for her continued well-being. Another bang sounded, and everyone winced.
Her attempt must have been unconvincing as the speaker paused. “Who is this?” he asked.
Stupid thing, I don’t want it anyway. Zita tossed it on the ground at the older cop’s feet. When she surveyed him again, Pretorius, glowing, tossed someone else 37 feet away. The skid and then bounce looked particularly painful, and she winced in empathy. She gave whoever it was points for the roll at the end of the throw. After a moment, she identified Andy by his habitual slump as he trudged back, shaking his head. Something inside her relaxed until an unfamiliar man tried to sap Pretorius from behind.
The blond did not even look, just swatted the person away with one hand. Since a container interrupted the flight, his victim did not fly far. The hapless officer slumped into a jumble of limbs near the flaming puddle. She winced again. A cop got bounced off a container. Andy got thrown too, but he’s fine. If the cop is alive, I’m going move him away from nasty burning death.
Wyn flinched and made a grimace. That poor man. You go see what you can do. I’ll see if I can get anything off the bodyguard. The cops, well, I’m not real threatening. The witch turned her head and studied the bodyguard.
His gun on Zita, the older cop knelt and picked up the Bluetooth. The rookie had his gun aimed at the truck. She took advantage of his distraction to shift to an owl and fly toward the downed cop. Light flashed as Pretorius fired again.
Someone shouted from behind her, but her attention was on the network of boxes below her. Cops crept through the boxes, some with the measured steps of Special Forces veterans, and a few with just aspirations to stealth. None were close enough to do anything for the injured cop. Zita landed beside him, noting the dangerous liquid continuing to spread. Heat blasted her feathers. Andy, can you get that container upright so it doesn’t leak more? If you could distract Pretentious P, that would help too. The cop’s chest moved shallowly. This guy’s alive; I’m moving him.
Exasperation dripped from Andy’s mental voice. I’m trying. He keeps pushing it over and then hitting me with his lasers, well, not technically lasers, maybe more of a plasma bolt... Her friend shoved the container up to balance on the short end.
Staying away from the flaming liquid, Pretorius inched toward the water, even as he shook another ball of light into his hand. He tossed this one at the fuel container, punching another hole in it.
Swearing with language that might shock kindergarteners and no one else, Andy lifted the container. He spun it overhead to stop the flow from the two holes.
She shifted to gorilla, and lifted the cop, trying to support his neck. This close to the fire, burning diesel and scorched rubber overwhelmed all other scents. Vaguely, she recalled the advice not to move back injuries, but letting him burn to death was not an option. Pretorius turned toward her, a ball of light growing to life in his hand. Obeying her instincts, Zita evaded the blast with a wild leap to the side. She landed on her shoulder and rolled, cradling the cop like a child in her arms. She grunted.
The injured man groaned at even the limited impact and opened his eyes. Shock and pain swirled on his face. She put a finger on her lips and carried him, zigzagging through the boxes, toward one of the less stealthy cops. “Right. Hallucinations,” her passenger said.
Andy growled, the sound loud, rolling, and deeper than his usual voice. “You could have hurt someone!” Thunder echoed overhead. Clouds began to gather.
“That would be the point,” Pretorius replied. Another bolt went off.
Her ape feet moved faster, and she set the injured man down in front of one of his coworkers. The other cop drew on her, of course. His eyes flicked between her and the hurt man she had set down. Claro, she thought
, the gorilla handing an wounded man over to a cop’s care is more hazardous than any laser-shooting, hostage-taking problems. Have to remember that. She raised her hands in the air and took a single step back.
“Gorilla’s saving my ass,” the wounded cop slurred. “Drinks on King Kong!” He let out a cheer.
When cheer drew the other’s attention, she shifted back to owl and flew. She circled back around to see if Andy needed help.
Her friend got the container into an upright position, cutting off the flow of liquid. His eyes glowed white. He strode over to a scorched forklift, and snapped off a fork from it. Hefting it in one hand, he stalked Pretorius.
Perhaps sensing the danger, Pretorius ascended into the air, a measured, gradual rise. He smirked down at Andy. “If you’re auditioning, you should know that being stronger and tougher is the new average for the servant class. While the eyes are a dramatic touch, you’d have to do better than that.” Almost imperceptibly, his head crooked toward his ship, and his lips turned downward.
With a screech, Andy crouched, and then leapt up into the air, an impossible jump that brought the two men level for a second. That was sufficient for Andy to strike Pretorius with the improvised bat, sending him crashing to the ground.
When Pretorius staggered to his feet, blood dripped from his arm and nose. He wiped blood off his mouth, his face ugly as he flicked it onto the ground. His body was too stiff, hinting at injury and anger. He launched himself up into the air, higher this time, but still slow. His gaze returned to the boat, and then he faced Andy again.
Her friend had landed on his feet, his back toward the blond man. Andy pivoted to face Pretorius with a harsh, jagged sound that was both a shriek and a roar. His voice was a deeper rumble, as if multiple men spoke in unison. “I am more. You may not deserve mercy.” Light rippled over his arms and body, like small lightning bolts. He tossed his makeshift weapon to the ground.
Her eyes widened as Zita realized what was happening. Andy, keep control! Don’t shift! Think of baseball or your grandma or something! She circled back toward the ship of hostages and the box swaying in the breeze. Rain began to fall, rolling off her feathers in increasing amounts.
Andy? Hang in there! Wyn’s voice was soft. Zita, he knows where your brother is, but he hasn’t thought of the address yet. They’re not here. I’m trying to dig without him noticing or hurting him.
Fire streaked out of nowhere and exploded against Pretorius, throwing the bloodied man back down. He fell at Andy’s feet, rolling and gasping and hitting at the flames on his clothing. Glowing with fire, an androgynous figure floated in the air above the boxes, snaky locks writhing about an incandescent face. Aideen’s here.
When Pretorius lurched to his feet again, his hand glowed and blood mixed with soot on his face. One arm held his ribs. He snarled up at the flying woman, who smiled. A soft cough came from behind him. He twisted to look, and Andy, sans lightning, smacked him upside the head with one hand. Pretorius collapsed. The shot Pretorius was holding flew wild; it was nowhere near Aideen.
The shot was, however, near Zita; it nicked the rope holding the container over the ship. A screech escaped her as she launched herself in the air. He hit the crane rope! The container’s going to fall! She searched her brain, frantic to think of an animal strong enough to stop the people from falling into the water.
Andy looked at the container and took a deep breath. He took off running and leapt, one of those supernatural jumps. His arms and legs flailed as he soared toward the rope. He caught it with one hand; when the added tension severed it, he caught the other end of the rope with his free hand, and hung suspended in midair. The container swung from one arm while his other hand gripped the rope to the crane. His legs dangled. Rainwater dripped off his hair and nose. “I got it! I got it! This shouldn’t work! Farnswaggle’s Thirteenth Theorem!” he shouted to the sky, jubilant.
Oblivious to the contents of the container, Aideen grumbled as she flew over to Andy and inspected his work. Her voice held affront. “This started early! Wait, why are you holding up a box?”
Zita could only hope Aideen had the sense to stay away from the ropes.
Wyn’s voice was worried. Do you need anything? Can we do anything?
“They have hostages in the box.” Andy’s posture relaxed, as if hanging from the rope and holding the box relieved a terrible tension. He nodded down to the cops swarming below. Convince the cops to let me go without me having to hurt them or take off my mask…
Aideen drifted around Andy. “You people again. Are you the reason for all this mess?”
Her friend, holding the rope halves, shook his head. “No, we’re helping. Can you put out the fire or is it too much for you?” Andy seemed almost chirpy.
The flaming woman sniffed. “Please.” She wafted over to the bonfire and posed above it. Lowering her arms dramatically, the flames began to go out, even as the rain lessened to a mist.
Andy! Zita! The bodyguard is gone! He ran off during the fight. I’m sorry, I was distracted for a few seconds. Contrition warred with frustration in Wyn’s mental tones.
Zita flew without conscious thought. You hurt? Reaching the sky above the truck, she was relieved to see her friend, hands on her hips, one foot tapping. The rookie guarded Trixie, who was sitting up and rubbing her head. The older cop paced.
Wyn sounded upset. Yes, fine. Can you find him? I almost had the address! He’s planning to tell Sobek to kill the hostages and go into hiding!
Alarm shot through her, and Zita gulped. She scanned the area. A white pickup truck crept down the street. Acting on a hunch, she concentrated on that section, and caught sight of the escaping bodyguard, still on foot. He slid into a nondescript gray sedan and closed the door. He tinkered with the steering wheel. No time for cleverness.
Zita landed beside the car, shifting to a gorilla again. Silent, she curled her fingers around the door handle, hoping to ease it open, and then pull him from the vehicle so Wyn could ransack his brain. Incongruously, the ape part of her brain noted the car smelled like fast food and candy. Her stomach released a loud gurgle right before the engine started.
He looked up from whatever he was doing in the car and stared at her.
She jerked the door open even as he grabbed it and tried to close it. As Zita resisted, her weight and strength warped the doorframe, stopping it from closing completely.
Swearing, he floored the gas pedal, and she had to release it or be dragged. Red lights flared as he braked to avoid hitting a barrier and shifted direction.
Quentin! He needs to tell us where my brother is! Shifting to a grizzly bear, Zita raced behind the car and leapt. Her massive black claws scrabbled for purchase on the smooth skin of the vehicle as she attained the trunk, and then the roof of the vehicle. Her weight made the roof give a little, enough to impart an odd, springy sensation underfoot. One claw hooked into the sunroof, and she hooked the other claw in as well, jiggling and pulling. The roof groaned and then cracked. Even as the glass shattered, the frame of the sunroof tilted up and back at ninety-degree angle. Surprised by the lack of resistance, she lost her grip and fell off the back of the moving car. She rolled.
Light flashed from the driver’s side, and then a gun fired.
Zita dodged between the flash and the thunder. He’s going to get away! She jumped up, changing form again to an albatross. Her wings strove against the air with effort and emotion. While she wanted to follow him, she could not abandon the others. Quentin needed her, though. In rare indecision, she hovered awkwardly in midair, an exercise for which her avian form was not equipped. Fatigue settled over her even as a flaming shape arrived, holding a burning stick with a familiar happy face bag. Despite all this, she kept her eyes on the departing vehicle.
“Which one is he? You’re the only giant seagull I see,” Aideen asked, dropping the bag and the stick casually on a nearby car. She waved her hand at the stick and the fire extinguished.
Wyn was the first to speak. Go! He’s goin
g to Sobek and we’re out of time. Sobek celebrated this shipment by starting on Jennifer and your brother. We got this.
The boat…you guys. Zita thought unhappily. She could track the car as it stopped a block away at a light. The door sagged open to grind against the ground. The driver yanked it closed again. Good, he can’t go at top speed if he can’t keep that door shut. I might be able to tail him, even on the highway.
Let the cops do their job here. Go save Quentin, or at least call in his position to the cops. Andy added. We’ll hang out here, and when I get down, Wyn will whammy them. Go! He snickered at his own pun.
As Zita glided to her clothes, she flared her wings and seized the bag. Zita clicked her beak and gained altitude, the bag clutched in her claws. Once she leveled out her flying, she went after the battered car, trusting Aideen to figure out which vehicle to follow.
The cop rose higher in the sky. “Try to keep up.”
Chapter 17
Dawn’s grimy fingers scratched away at the darkness, and rush hour traffic began pushing and shoving its way onto the roads. When her target limped off the highway and into the warren of another dock area, Zita flew closer. Even with the slower speed and reduced distance, she lost sight of the car. Here, buildings and the occasional grouping of decorative trees dotted the streets while cement piers jutted out into the water. Each pier had warehouse buildings hogging the center of the dock, with narrow strips of road and storage, and then the actual boat docking areas. Cranes were far fewer than at the Baltimore docks; most of the ships were small ones, tourist rides, or “personal” boats. With the assumption that he would avoid witnesses, they concentrated their searches on more industrial areas where drunken partiers would not mistake Sobek’s lair for a portable toilet. At least, Zita did. Aideen might have just been following her around; she flew overhead, but not beside Zita after a near miss.
Remaining in the shape of a snowy albatross, Zita soared above a pier, searching for the car. They had done one quick circuit of the docks, but she had not seen anything suspicious other than discussions that seemed more furtive than third shift. Still, she rode the wind closer to take advantage of the lights.
