by Karen Diem
She found multiple dead fish and rats, a canine corpse, and quite a bit of rotting food before she found what she sought. Zita circled and stared at the setup while Aideen flitted higher. At one of the more deserted, tired docks, a weathered metal crate hung from the end of a yellow construction crane’s hook, high above the river. The stench of blood, death, urine, and a strange plastic scent was so strong that Zita would have wrinkled her beak had it been that flexible. Rust lined the seams and dotted the crate at each bolt. Orange cones scattered around the base of the tower crane, designating the perimeter of the work zone. Despite the cones, she saw no actual construction.
Zita brought her rotation in tighter for details. When she caught Quentin’s scent and that of a woman, her spirit rejoiced. Had Zita not approached to determine to difficulty of picking the crate padlock (easy), she would have missed the small black box tucked into the shadow of the hook. It had a faint hum only perceptible when almost on top of it, and a minuscule red light gleamed dully. Her avian senses recognized it as the source of the unidentifiable odor; having no alternatives, she accepted what they told her. Ay, hermano, this crate smells like Sobek’s sick games. It figures the only bomb expert I know is the one in the box. I can’t teleport to get him since I can’t see inside. If necessary, I can try to teleport away with the bomb, but where could I go? I don’t want to take it anywhere I can’t get away or leave it where it could hurt someone. Touching it might trigger it.
Zita threw her thoughts out toward her friends, in case the link was there. I found them! They’re in a bomb-trapped box.
Please don’t shout, Wyn pleaded. We’re doing better. The hostage crisis is over, and the cops are lowering Andy. Once he touches down, we’ll be on our way, though I don’t know what we can do about booby traps.
Andy snorted mentally. What she neglects to mention is that the hostage situation ended because everyone on the deck fell asleep after mysterious clouds of pink sparkles descended.
Delighted, Zita opened her beak in a silent laugh. You go, girl!
Wyn sniffed. A giggle undermined her prim tone. Give us your location. We’ll head over when we’re free; you can tell us if you finish first.
Altering her flight, Zita zoomed the length of the crane arm. As she flew past the operator’s cab and then down the cage enclosing the ladder, she was careful not to snag her precious bag. No further bombs revealed themselves, but she did spot a tool kit hidden in the shadows of the ladder halfway up. She crossed the empty pavement between the crane and the closest structures. Cracks and potholes decorated the asphalt, with a scattering of trash to add small splashes of color and unfortunate odors. A row of two-story warehouse unites began next to the pile of dilapidated crates. Ornamented with various graffiti, the stack of crates loomed over the pavement, straight across from the crane. Most streetlights in this section were out, and only a few of the buildings had lights. Near to the ground, she spotted a space between two crates. With a call to attract Aideen’s attention, she landed beside it.
Sorry, I wasn’t certain that the telepathy stretched from Baltimore to D.C. or Virginia. I flew like a mad bird to get here. When she spotted a sign, she sent the street name and the closest building number. Zita waddled into the space, the bag bouncing against her chest with each awkward step. She shifted back to her disguise form and hastily donned her clothing. Her mane of hair she tied back with a shoelace. Her fanny pack of tools was not inside. Folding the bag up as she walked, she stepped out and nearly burnt herself. With a yelp, she hopped back. I hate it when she does that.
Fire coruscated around Aideen, her eyes like spots of darkness in her luminescent face. “Did you find anything?” she asked, impatience dripping from her voice. Even that crackled as if it had ignited. She floated a foot off the ground. Shimmers of heat distorted the air about her.
Zita nodded. The Mexican accent was becoming her security blanket. “Sí, a man and a woman are locked in a box, and hanging over the river at almost two hundred feet up at the end of a crane. Both are alive.” She ran a hand back and forth over the top of her head. The smooth, heavy weight of her hair felt strange, but it served as protective coloration, a suitable disguise. Freed by her action, a few black strands fell in front of one eye as she lowered her head and continued her summation. “I could get into the operator’s cab of the crane, and lower them to the dock. The problem is a box stuck to the top that is probably a bomb. We don’t dare move anything until it gets defused. While it makes no sense that a strong wind could set it off, the whole torturing people to death thing is all about the mental illness.” Aware she was babbling, Zita closed her mouth.
Tucking her errant hair behind one ear, she looked at the crate that held her brother and a woman captive. The urge to punch someone, preferably Sobek, rose. Zita jogged in place as she thought. Her eyes drifted over the faded patchwork quilt of shipping containers, and then down the row of dull gray warehouses. In the distance, people began to move about, though this particular area showed no activity yet. Exhaust, fish, and water drowned out all other aromas. Something tickled her senses, but she could not place it.
Aideen drifted in a circle. “Can you disarm a bomb?” she asked. Her flaming aura rose and fell slightly with her breath.
Zita shook her head, and hair fell over her face again. Stupid disguise. “No. I know that it could go off if we move the crate without taking care of it first. I think we’re going to have to call the cops and hide. If Sobek is here and sees us, he might set it off for spite,” she said, her stomach twisting. Turning her head, she searched again for the source of her disquiet. Something had set off her internal alarms.
The glow dimmed and then flared around Aideen. The brilliant head nodded. “When dealing with bombs, it is best to let the professionals handle it. You call. I will see if I can alert local law enforcement. Have the others contacted you?” She rose a foot higher off the ground, spreading her arms wide. As the movement did not affect her flight, Zita realized after a minute that it must have been for effect.
“Yes, they radioed.” My brain. “The cops arrested everyone and are working on the captives.” It worked by the nightclub. Let’s see if I can do it again. With a deep breath, Zita reached for a feline shape, but kept her grip on her current form. Her vision sharpened and scents grew stronger. Fire hissed, and the camera on the nearest warehouse hummed. The light on that warehouse shone weakly. Turning from the other woman, she wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth, curling back her top lip and inhaling. She took a moment to sort through the cacophony of odor. Aideen’s fire resembled those chemical fires that burned without heat, with just a hint of wood smoke. For that matter, despite the warmth she threw off, no smoke followed her. Her cat instincts disliked the fire intensely. Heated pavement combined with exhaust and…
Aideen interrupted her reverie. “What are you doing? Are you sniffling?” she demanded, incredulity dripping from her voice. She gave a dismissive gesture with one hand and then rubbed her hand over her forehead. Her voice softened. “Never mind. Since you’re upset, why don’t you return home? The police will attend to this shortly. I will see if any patrol officers are nearby. If you do not leave, wait here for me until I have completed a patrol.” One arm outstretched, she leapt upward and soared off.
Neither the woman nor the part of her that was feline liked that. “We hear and obey, oh fiery master. Cops definitely won’t shoot a dumbass made of fire that flies up out of nowhere,” Zita muttered, with a one-fingered salute at the other woman’s departing back. If she had had a tail, she would have swished it.
She jogged over to the crane, unlocked the combination lock—Why do people bother with these things?—and slipped inside, leaving the door ajar. Climbing the ladder ate a couple of minutes and retrieving the tools took a few more. Good tools were hard to replace; she hoped Wyn retrieved her fanny pack from the truck. As she scrambled back down, Zita skipped rungs and slid part of the way for expediency and amusement. At the bottom, she stopped a couple r
ungs from the ground at the sight of a familiar black-clad form. Her position on the ladder put them at eye level, so he had to be six feet tall. The mask, goggles, and clothing were similar, though this time his belt hung lower with small, intriguing pouches. While the sharp tang of cordite from a recently fired gun blurred it, this close she could smell the same complex male scent as before. She tensed, but his hands held only the blocky shape of a small electronic device. Not a weapon, at least not one that I recognize, but then again, I wasn’t expecting to get stunned earlier either, she thought.
His first words were a question, albeit one delivered in a robotic monotone. “This crane has the remaining prisoners?” He stowed the device in a pouch as he spoke, displacing a boxy gun. One hand tapped the side of his goggles as he looked toward the crate.
Zooming in, perhaps? If he were working for Sobek, wouldn’t he know where they were? How did he get so close without me noticing? Clutching her plastic bag with its stupid happy face and the stolen tools inside, Zita nodded. She tossed on the thick accent again for safety. Something told her this was not a man to be careless about or with. “Sí, but there is probably a bomb on top. Don’t—”
He interrupted. “I will handle the bomb. Sobek is near. A pay phone is that way.” One hand gestured toward another dock, one where the buildings looked newer and the majority of the lights worked. From her earlier circuit, she knew it had tourist boats, yachts, and a closed snow cone stand. “Go find a phone, collect the fireball, and then go home before you get anyone killed,” he continued. He stepped closer, pointed the boxy gun up, and it whooshed. Something clunked above them.
The bag crinkled under her fingers as they clenched. This close, his scent was even richer, and she could almost feel his body heat. “You can disarm a bomb?” she asked. Zita was rather proud her voice gave away none of the tension his proximity raised, though she could feel her pulse accelerate. Indecision gripped her until she parsed his words. “You were eavesdropping on us? What do you do, follow us around and wait for us to do the hard part?” She hoped she had not said anything that would give away her identity.
A derisive exhale escaped him as if he had stopped himself from snorting at her last question. He pressed a button and sailed upward. One arm rose and pointed at the other dock in the distance.
She swore, setting her hands on her hips. Zita looked up and up again. His dark form perched on a rung, then shot again and continued up. Not only was his time better than hers had been, but it looked like more fun than scaling the ladder as well.
“I so want that grapple gun, dale,” she muttered. Another glance upwards revealed he was out of her range of sight. She growled and began climbing. Shifting and flying would have been faster, but she refused to have this conversation while naked.
Once at the top, she looked for SWAT Ninja Man. He needs a shorter nickname. Even though she did not see him, she knew where he would have to go. After removing her shoes, she shoved them into the bag. Zita flexed her feet, the metal warm underfoot. Her steps were measured as she learned the sway and feel of the crane arm underfoot. With a deliberate inhale and exhale, she called on her focus. Less give and padding than a balance beam, but it’s wider. I have to run though, given his lead. I’ve done worse. This isn’t that different, she thought. After one more deep breath, she let instincts and practice handle the balancing, and picked up speed as her toes warmed and her footing improved. Hopefully, Quentin goes home tonight, and then I can return to mildly illegal base jumping and climbing. Masked vigilantism isn’t my thing.
He paused, and swiveled to face her, almost immediately after she spotted him. Her speed was better than his, some part of her gloated.
Despite the distance between them, she fancied she could catch a faint scent she recognized as his beneath the metal and river odors whenever the wind picked up. She fumbled for words as she padded closer, her hands held out at her sides. “Oye, Freelance! Look, I don’t know who you are, but are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
He nodded and started to turn away.
“Hang on, I wasn’t done. If they die because you screw up with that bomb, I’ll find you.” Zita paused. “Assuming you survive and all.” She glared at him. For reasons she would never understand, she pointed two fingers at her own eyes, and then at his goggles.
His head tilted at her again.
She blinked and lowered her hand.
Freelance sighed and gestured for her to continue as if bored.
Zita turned red, a fact she hoped her dark skin and mask hid. Oh, right. He wants the rest of the threat. I didn’t think that far ahead. What frightens a seasoned mercenary killer? She pressed her lips together and gave him the unfriendly stare Miguel gave men she dated. Even if the ninja mask hid it, she hoped the attitude conveyed. “I’ll hand you over to the cops as a terrorist. They’ll believe a well-armed macho like you could be a terrorist, given your physique, sweet grapple gun, and whatever else is in your pants. It’ll be years before you walk free again, especially if I tip off the IRS too.” Her finger whipped out and pointed at him, shaking with each word that followed. “Even if none of your gear is illegal, you’ll be well past your prime earnings potential years when they let you go, and your professional reputation will suck. The pecuniary damage alone will ruin you. And if you kill me, my friends will do it. On the other hand, if the prisoners live, you can collect a huge reward for returning them home safe.” Hands at hip level, she nodded and bounced into a ready position in case he struck at her. Her bag, attached to one wrist, slapped her thigh with the movement.
Despite his goggles and mask, she thought he focused on her for a moment. He nodded, once.
“Well, then,” Zita replied, with a brisk nod as if they had come to an agreement. Mentally, she castigated herself for the lame threat; she had a firm policy against compounding her own stupidity whenever possible. Her return down the crane arm was on autopilot. His eyes burned into her the whole way, but she resisted the urge to turn. Prime earnings potential? What was I thinking? He’s probably laughing his ass off. Squaring her shoulders, she prayed he was as accomplished as he seemed to think. After sliding down the ladder (much faster and more fun than the ascent), she slid her shoes back on right before touching the ground. Given how little she knew of Freelance, she ran toward the nearest warehouse. I do like that name for him. If the bomb squad showed before the bomb went off, that was preferable to depending on an unknown. Cameras meant electricity and phones, and the warehouse was far closer than his suggested dock.
Aideen intercepted her. “They were not helpful,” the other woman informed her.
She blinked. Zita was glad the mask hid her expression. “You are aware you’re flying around on fire, right? Cops hate weird stuff, especially if it’s near the end of their shift and means more paperwork.”
The fiery woman opened her mouth as if to protest, but no sound came out as she rethought whatever she had been going to say. Instead, she inclined her head. “You turn into a seagull, and you call me names?” she retorted.
Zita shrugged. “Yeah, but if the cops don’t know about something, they can go home on schedule. Not to mention, fire is dangerous to everyone but you. Seagulls, not so much. I’ll head into that warehouse and use their phone to call the bomb squad.” She took a step toward the silent building. The excess heat emanating from the other woman made the muggy morning even more uncomfortable.
Hands settled on flaming hips. “Why have you not already done so?”
Refusing to allow the other woman to cow her, Zita waved a hand. Her eyes flicked to the container. “Got held up.” She strode toward the warehouse. A thought struck her. “You may want to stay back so you don’t scare anyone inside… if it’s not empty.”
Aideen nodded.
Turning her back on the living fireball, Zita walked up to the gray metal door. Cameras whirred and focused on her. Might as well try to do this as legal as possible, especially with Aideen and camera oversight. She knocked on the metal d
oor and waited. No one answered.
After a few minutes, Aideen called from behind her, “Do I need to melt open the door for you?”
After a look over her shoulder, Zita tried the doorknob. “No, I got it. Thanks.” It turned without protest under her hand, opening into a dim, cavernous area. As she stepped inside, she pushed the door as far open as it would go to ensure no one waited behind it. Wrinkling her nose, she scanned the room. “Hello?” Zita called out, Mexico flavoring her greeting. While screens glowed from a desk on a raised platform, the rest of the room held little light. The bulk of it seemed deserted, though darkness coiled in the corners, too much for even her feline eyesight. Fifteen feet up, a dirty film coated large rectangular windows. Despite her misgivings, she entered anyway, because sometimes progress required stupidity, followed by a clever recovery. If that was what it took to get Quentin back, she knew she could do the first, and prayed she could do the second. Blood and fear were undertones in the wave of metal, sweat, and cement that washed over her sensitive nose. The hair on the back of her neck rose. “Hello? Can I use your phone?” She stepped inside, eyes on the lit screens. If the computers were at that desk, any phones would be there too.
“Do come in,” a male voice invited. Someone squat moved by the desk, his head backlit by the screen.
When she was a few steps in, concentrated light came on with a brilliant flash. Tears sprang up in the harsh transition, and she raised a hand to her eyes in an involuntary action. Something whispered near her, and even blinded, she twisted away. A pilfered tool clunked out of the bag on her wrist. A click and buzz suggested what that might have been. Zita dove for the next patch of shadow and blinked, trying to get her vision back. Her returning vision showed a large man with a bandage-clad wrist standing by where she had been, holding a TASER.
