This Girl Who Was A Ghost, page 20
part #2 of Near Future Series
“I didn’t know what to say. I hung up on him, but he keeps calling.”
The bastard was tracking her.
“Do you want to talk to him?”
Sammy shook her head. “Call for a transporter.”
“You want to go back and get the recordings?”
“No, someplace quiet. What was the name of that place where we stole the gene editor?”
“Bushwick and Halsey Research?” Leo said.
“Yeah, put that down as the destination.”
“Why are we going there?”
“I’m going. You’re staying.” Sammy swung out from under the table then back, remembering the fingers.
Cindy’s gaze was on the phone. “I don’t know about this, Sam.”
“It’s a con, Cindy. It only works with one person.”
“Leo, you should go with her as a backup.”
“Me?”
“You can bring someone from security.”
“I’m sure she has this well in hand.”
“Really, Leo?”
Cindy declined the call and flipped through the screen.
“Get me a lab coat, Leo.”
Leo lifted the long white coat off the back of a chair. “The pockets aren’t very large.”
Shit. “Hand it to me under the table.” Sammy folded the coat over her hands.
“The transporter will be here in two minutes and twenty seconds,” Cindy said, looking up from her phone. “What are you doing with the coat?”
Sammy stuck her hip out. “Take Leo’s phone out of the pocket and put yours in.”
“I wish you’d tell me what you’re doing, Sam.”
“I’ll get Maria back, and she’ll owe us a dinner at one of those fancy restaurants.”
“Just get the both of you back safe.”
Sammy nodded and ran out, her gait hampered by her hands tied together under the coat. She pushed through the back door. It swung out, just missing the ape, who cursed her. She raced along the side of the club, hoping it wasn’t too late for Maria.
Chapter Forty-One
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Sammy hopped into the back of the transporter and unwrapped the lab coat from around her hands. She searched the back window for the two guys who’d jumped into the car at the corner. The phone rang again as a pair of headlights bore down on her. She blended and stripped, then shoved the clothes under the seat. The car was right behind her now.
The transporter turned off onto a quiet street. The building was about a mile away, but Sammy was sure they’d make their move before then. She inched over more to the middle until the tips of her fingers reached the other door. The car raced from behind and cut in front of her. The transporter veered and screeched to a halt. “This vehicle has stopped unexpectedly to avoid collision. Please indicate if any passenger requires medical attention.”
Both of the car’s front doors swung open. Two figures stepped out, but only the passenger approached.
Sammy flexed her fingers. She wanted to get a good grip of this asshole. The transporter’s message repeated about medical attention. “Yeah, this asshole is going to need some of that.”
Sammy reached back to strike when the door swung open, but the guy held a gun on her about the size of a small cannon. She yanked her hand back, fearing that gun would blast a good-sized hole into her.
The guy ducked his head in amd scanned the cabin, then swiped the phone and shouted to the driver to call the number. He spoke in the same language as the asshole who lived in the building with the fountain. It must be Albanian. Didn’t the Russian dancer say something about the Albanians?
The guy scrolled through Cindy’s phone.
Sammy inched toward the door.
“The police have been notified,” blared from the transporter.
Sammy jumped, startled by the alert.
The guy with the gun shouted in Albanian that the police were on their way and ran back to the car. Sammy leaped out of the transporter and latched onto the trunk just as the car made a hard U-turn, almost whipping her off. The guy in the passenger seat turned back and stared at her. Sammy could only imagine what he saw, since she doubted she could blend as quickly as a car moved. The guy turned his head from one side to the other as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing out the window. He turned to the driver, pointing back at Sammy. The driver shrugged.
Sammy shook from a chill. The wind rushed around her as the car sped downtown. The car banked right. Her finger suction cups held firm, or she would’ve surely been thrown off. The streets were getting darker as the car headed toward the water. The car slowed and turned left. It pulled up to a four-foot levee wall where a boat was moored on a makeshift dock. The car’s headlights and the boat’s deck lights provided the only illumination. A guy with a machine gun stepped out from the shadows.
Sammy dropped off the back and crouched behind the car.
The driver pushed open the door and jumped out. He called the guy with the machine gun, saying something about cleaning the back window. Either her Albanian wasn’t that good, or he was using a curse word she didn’t know. She still wasn’t sure how she knew Albanian, then again the early years of her life were just bits and pieces. Uncle Danny had always said it was better not to remember. She thought it had to do with people dying; now she wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t clean windows, but if you want them blown out, I’ll comply.” He patted the machine gun in case they weren’t sure of his method.
Cannon-gun huffed. “It’s not dirt. If you don’t believe me, check it now.”
“Then it’s a ghost.” The driver laughed. “Maybe you’ll blow out the ghost.”
“You point, and I’ll shoot; pop it like a balloon.”
They laughed, but Cannon-gun didn’t seem to find it funny.
Sammy swung wide of them to the levee, giving herself a better view of the boat. It was about fifty feet long with a cargo container strapped onto its flat bed. The boat’s bridge sat high above the container, and instruments ringed the top. She crept along the levee, each step placed gingerly. A misstep could alert the guy with the machine gun, turning him into ghost-popping mode.
The asshole from the building stepped out from behind the container, dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt and tan slacks. He held a glass that fit snugly in his hand, and ice rattled as he strutted. Behind him was another guy with a machine gun.
Sammy glided along the wall, stopping about ten feet from the makeshift dock. Cannon-gun climbed onto the levee, straddling it and the dock. He held Cindy’s phone, telling the Albanian he found the phone, but the girl disappeared.
“Like a magic trick?”
Cannon-gun turned to the driver. “You saw the girl get in the car, Besnik?”
The driver shrugged. “You say the girl got in the car, and I believe you. I’m just the driver.”
Cannon-gun shouted something at him that Sammy didn’t understand. It must’ve been mostly curse words.
The driver’s expression turned sour. “Maybe she is the ghost on the back window.”
“Is this girl a ghost now?” the asshole Albanian asked, flicking his finger for Cannon-gun to come on the boat.
“I’ll find the girl, Serban.” Cannon-gun tottered along the shifting dock. He stepped onto the boat. “You have my dying word on that.”
“Did I ask to have this mess tied up tomorrow, or the next day, or next week? I’m leaving tonight, and I don’t want to worry about the police.”
“She is on the run, Serban. She won’t be able to call the police, and I will get her before…”
Sammy didn’t get the last part. Serban tugged on his Hawaiian shirt and said something about it, then asked Cannon-gun if he thought he was an imbecile.
Cannon-gun looked down and mumbled something.
“I tell Liviu to get Fred by the next morning, and he got me Fred by the morning. I tell you to get me the girl before I leave and there is no girl. This is from the mess you make at the club by talking like a silly schoolboy.”
“I didn’t know the tables had listening devices.”
Serban sneered. “If it was planted by the police instead of a reporter, we’d all be in jail.”
Sammy stepped around punctured soup cans. Target practice? She was careful not to touch the two remaining cans propped up on the levee. Where was Maria?
Cannon-gun searched Cindy’s phone as if hoping to find something to buoy his case.
Serban strode next to the guy with the machine gun cradled in his arms. “You have the phone but no girl. How are you going to find her now?”
“She has contacts,” Cannon-gun said, showing him the phone.
“Her contacts are now with the police. Did you call her with your phone? The same phone you bring on my boat, so the police know where to find us?”
Cannon-gun avoided his gaze.
Serban downed his drink, the ice rattling in the glass. The only sound was the waves lapping the hull. He patted the shoulder of the guy with the machine gun. “He gave me his dying word.”
The guy lifted the gun’s muzzle, and the gun clicked but didn’t fire. Cannon-gun reached back for his gun. Serban hurled his glass, ice arching upward. The glass hit Cannon-gun’s chest with a thump, knocking him back. Serban whipped out his gun and fired. Cannon-gun’s arms shot up, and his gun sailed back and splashed into the water before he crumpled onto the deck.
Sammy gasped, stepping back. One of the cans rolled underfoot. She reached out to the levee to keep from falling and brushed against a can. It spun into the other one, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The sound of the cans clanking exploded in the quiet. All eyes were on her.
The two guys by the dock turned, the machine gun pointed in her direction. She ducked and rolled. Gunshots crackled and light exploded into small bursts, giving the impression of someone holding onto an arcing wire.
Sammy sprang up from her roll and jerked the spent machine gun from his grasp. She grabbed the driver’s hand as he pulled out his gun. It fired, shooting him in the leg. He buckled over, screaming. She kicked the gun away and tossed the machine gun over the levee. The guy, who had the machine gun, whipped out a knife and waved it at her. Sammy grabbed his forearm and yanked, snapping the arm at the elbow.
Gunfire from the boat ricocheted off the levee, hitting the guy in the back. Sammy dropped behind the levee; an acrid smell choked the air. The boat engines rumbled to life. Wood snapped and cracked above. Sammy peeked over the levee. The boat pulled away with Maria on board. Two lines were taut, ripping apart the dock. One line snapped, and the other ripped the dock free. Sammy jumped up onto the levee and dived into the water, snaring a piece of the dock. The boat picked up speed, dragging her under.
Chapter Forty-Two
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The boat turned, the wake pushing Sammy up above the water, allowing her to take a much-needed gulp of air before being dragged under. She tugged the plank from the dock to her to get to the rope, but she wound up pulling the dock free. She strained to get a finger on the escaping loop. Her middle finger caught it. The dock slipped free, careening off her leg. Her moans were muffled by swallowing a mouthful of water.
Sammy kicked, lifting her head above the water, but she was no match for the speed of the boat, and it pulled her under again. Damn it! She was part octopus; this should be easy for her. The gray outlines of her finger looped around the rope and came into focus. She grasped her arm with her free hand as if her arm were an extension of the rope, squaring her shoulders to the stern. She inched her fingers up as if scaling a building, reaching the rope with her other hand. She kicked up for another gulp of air.
The numbing water was making it difficult to hold on. Now was her time to get out of the water. She yanked the rope toward her, squeezing it to get the feeling back in her hands and arms. She grabbed onto the ladder off the stern and peered along the back. It was clear except for the dead guy crumpled like a week’s worth of dirty laundry. She stepped onto the boat and shivered, bringing herself in and out of blending. A white canvas tarp was folded and draped over the side railing. Sammy unfolded one flap and crouched under it. She whisked off the water and rubbed some warmth back into her arms and legs. What she wouldn’t give for a blanket.
The guy with the machine gun popped up from the steps that ran along the side of the container. He leaned along the railing a few feet away. Sammy slipped out from under the canvas. The guy glanced back, then scurried to the dead man. He bent down and rifled through the coat pockets and found a wallet. He stuffed the bills into his pocket and shoved the wallet back.
Another guy dressed in the same Hawaiian setup as Serban but a darker shade of blue, maybe even purple, climbed the steps; must shop in the same store for creepy assholes. He was younger with dark hair slicked back, strutting as if he owned the boat and everyone on it. He stopped by the dead man. “Rene always liked fishing.” He snickered, patting the guy with the machine gun on the shoulder. “This is as good a place as any to fish.”
The guy with the machine gun put it down and lifted the dead man up against the railing, then grabbed him by the ankles and hoisted him over and into the water.
Purple Hawaiian was back in the cabin, so Sammy rushed the guy and knocked him overboard. She threw his gun in after him. “You might need it for the sharks.”
A girl about Sammy’s age dressed in a worn skirt climbed the steps with a bucket and towel. She knelt on the deck, putting the towel under her knees, and wiped up the blood with a sponge.
Sammy stepped around her and found Cindy’s phone propped up against the hull wall a foot from the steps. She slipped the phone into a folded canvas draped over a vent. The steps on this side looked the same, dropping into a hold three or four feet down. What was in the container?
Purple Hawaiian was back, looking from one side to the other. He said something to the girl, most of which Sammy didn’t understand, but it sounded as if he was looking for the guy Sammy pushed into the water. Sammy would be more than happy to show him where he was.
The girl shrugged.
He looked down the side toward bow, then back at the girl, accusing her of knocking the guy overboard.
The girl cringed and pleaded that she didn’t do anything and was but a small girl to a big man.
Purple Hawaiian grabbed her hair by the nape of the neck and drew his hand back to strike her, calling her names Sammy could only guess at.
Sammy spun and grabbed the guy’s arm and yanked it, popping it out of the shoulder. She slammed his head against the deck. His eyes fluttered and his body went slack. She tossed his gun overboard.
The girl stood wide-eyed, watching unseen hands tossing the gun away.
Sammy checked for anyone coming. She tried to remember how to say “box” or “container” in Albanian, but nothing was coming. “You speak English?”
The girl dropped to her knees and blessed herself.
“What’s in the container?”
The girl pointed to the container.
“Yeah, the big thing sitting in the middle of the boat.”
“Girls,” she said as if she wasn’t sure it was right.
“There’s people in that thing?”
She nodded. “People.” It sounded like “pebble,” though.
Someone called from the front. It was Serban. He called again, sounding unsure.
Nothing was worse than an unsure asshole. Sure enough, he had his gun out, shuffling along the side of the container. When he reached the top, Sammy scampered to the steps and snatched the gun. She grabbed his head, and banged it against the metal stair railing. Blood dripped down the side of his head as he clawed at the steps to keep from sliding down, fighting gravity with a defiant snarl. When he raised his head over the top step, Sammy kicked him hard. The top of his head clipped the railing, and the snarl faded into a grimace. She dragged him up the steps next to his friend and tossed the gun into the water. “Just job.”
Sammy walked down the steps and up again to the cabin. It was cramped but plush with cushioned wooden bench seats on each side and a marble table in the middle with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. She checked a door in the back. It led to a small bathroom.
“Where’s Maria?” She pushed away the thought of her being killed.
Sammy grabbed a blanket off the shelf and wrapped it around her shoulders. She sat and drew up her legs.
The girl stood by the open cabin door and looked in, trying to make sense of the invisible figure wrapped in the blanket.
“Is anybody driving this boat?” Sammy asked.
“Diving?”
“No, driving. You know, steering.”
“Steering, yes,” she said, pointing up. “English.”
Sammy looked up, remembering there were stairs running along the side of the cabin. She reluctantly let go of the blanket and brushed past the girl, who jumped back. Sammy climbed the steps and peeked inside the helm. A sinewy middle-aged guy in need of a shave stood in front of the large steering wheel, a hand resting on the far side of it.
Sammy stood behind him. “Speak English?”
The guy turned back. “Who’s there?”
“Good enough,” Sammy said. “We’re going back.”
He searched the room. “What the hell is this?”
“I don’t see you turning back.”
“I only take orders from Kucinich.”
“He’s indisposed right now.”
“Pirates!”
Sammy grabbed him by the throat and lifted him. “You’re the pirate, asshole. Do you know what you’re carrying in that cargo container?” She let him go when he turned a little too red.
He fell back against the steering wheel, bent over, gasping for breath. “What are you?”
“Turn this boat around, or you’ll find out.”
He put his hand out as though he was giving up. “I’m just a hired pilot. I have nothing to do with Kucinich’s business.”
“Yeah, you’re as innocent as a newborn.”
He pulled a lever, slowing the boat. He spun the big wheel hand over hand, the ship listing into the turn; the distant glow of the city came into view.
