well, lookey here. an update! a mega-update a that. this thing might actually be finished before labor day.
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Chapter Eleven
The Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Men…
I was determined not to be nervous. I was Katrina, accomplished car thief and femme fatale. Something as routine as the resale of "borrowed" goods was nothing to be worried about. Ah, who am I kidding, I was freaked outta my gourd.
The Tigers had accumulated about thirty cars in their warehouse hideout. That was as many as could be safely stowed away on the cargo vessel. All of those had to be clandestinely transported to the dock where the Fujikawa Maru lay moored. Sharon had outlined the plan quite thoroughly, complete with play by play illustrations on a dry erase board.
"I know we've all done this before," she began, "but it can't hurt to go over it, especially for the benefit of our new partners. We'll meet here tomorrow around dusk. We will take turns driving the vehicles into the cargo hold at ten minute intervals. It's only about half a mile away so you should be able to get back before the next car leaves.
"Remember, no one knows that the car is stolen, so you don't need to act like the cops are after you. Drive slow, obey all traffic laws, and for the love of God put your lights on." The little ripple of uneasiness made me think that someone had left the lights off (like in the movies) and was very nearly caught.
Twenty minutes after the meeting, an anonymous email had appeared in the Inspector Hargrave inbox, informing her of the Tigers' plan for the next night. The next day Holmes and I were bouncing around Lei's house waiting to go down to Southampton.
I couldn't help but thinking about what the others were doing during the day. The cops were laying their ambush on the advice of an anonymous informant. The Tigers were either sleeping off hangovers or preparing to smuggle several hundred thousands dollars worth of steel out of the country. Holmes and I were plotting our moves for the night. Our goal was to make ourselves scarce before the British SWAT team moved in at precisely 9:13. Why they couldn't have made it a nice round number was beyond me. Lei was prowling around, trying to pry the secret of the Amazing Disappearing Band Members out of us.
Eventually, though, we were able to sneak around her and once again made the mind-numbing drive to Southampton. Holmes was wearing camouflage pants and a leather jacket. I was wearing a crocheted tunic-style shirt I would never have dared wear in daylight. However nervous I felt on the outside must have not shown on the outside, thankfully. It would be terribly brilliant to have come all this way only to botch it up at the last moment.
We parked Holmes' little Ford well outside the danger zone and walked in to the warehouse. The worst part was walking into the warehouse. I could almost feel the eyes of dozens of police officers watching me. It took a great deal of willpower not to look back.
The entire crew was assembled in the warehouse, giving the cars a last minute inspection. Sharon hailed us as soon as we entered.
"We're still waiting for it to get full dark." She said, rather distracted. I wondered what she was really worried about. It was about as dark as it was going to get, and the moon was almost full too. Not the best of nights to be smuggling cars, but there you have it.
There was a slight commotion from near the door. Sharon damn near sprinted over. Holmes and I followed. Agent Smith had arrived. There was a great deal of masculine posing going on between Smith and Ink, but Sharon interrupted the impending fight.
"Now then, what are you doing here?" Sharon demanded of Smith. He straightened his tie before answering.
"The boss wishes his investment protected." Smith said derisively.
"Fine. Just don't touch anything." Sharon told him sharply and stalked off. Not wanting to have to make conversation with the ever so charming Smith, I followed her. Sharon returned to what she had been doing (fixing a flat on a Civic) muttering. "Damn Smith."
"What did you call him?" I said, shocked.
"His name is Mr. Smith." Sharon swore softly, this time at the wheel. "Tighten you damn bolt. Why?"
"That's what I've been calling him in my head. Y'know, Agent Smith from the Matrix." Sharon stared at me for a moment, then broke into laughter.
"There we go." She finished with the tire. "Now, we are ready."
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
The Tigers were assembled in the center of the warehouse, with Agent Smith standing off to one side. I was resisting the urge to glance at my watch every three seconds. Last time I dared check was 9:00 exactly, that seemed like ages ago. Sharon was pairing people off. Holmes and I were to follow Sharon and Agent Smith the first time around so we knew where the heck we were going.
Sharon took a shiny Accord while Holmes and I followed in a Geo well past its prime. The drive to the pier was one of those odd moments where time seems to simultaneously stretch and compress.
Smith and Sharon were standing on the edge of the dock. The Maru's cargo bay doors in the stern were open, but Sharon was frowning at the ship. I glanced at my watch. 9:14. I looked back toward the warehouse. Was that a flash of red light, or just my imagination? As I looked back to the ship, Holmes caught my eye and nodded. So he had seen it too.
"What's wrong?" Smith demanded impatiently.
"The crew. They haven't given the countersignal." Sharon snapped back. The crew of the Maru was most like locked away in a paddy wagon somewhere.
Holmes gently touched my wrist. I damn near jumped out of my skin. He was trying to tell me that now would be a good time to make our exit. I concurred. We stepped back slowly, hoping that no one would notice.
"What the hell is going on?" Sharon muttered. Floodlights on the ship snapped on, illuminating a perfect circle of light, with Sharon and Smith in the center. Holmes and I were just outside the edge of the pool of light, effectively hidden by the glare.
"This is the police. You are under arrest." Sharon froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Smith was not going down so easy. He bolted before the bobbies could converge on him, escaping into the maze of shipping crates and heavy machinery. The sensible thing to do would have been to make ourselves scarce and let the real police handle it. So naturally we took off after him. Well, to be more accurate, Holmes took off after him. Katrina couldn't wear anything less than a two inch heel, and Watson was not keen on breaking an ankle.
I discovered that it is difficult, though not impossible, to run in heels. Smith headed away from both the docks and the warehouse. I decided (as I dodged a fork lift) that he had a car parked out there in case of emergency. This observation was quickly replaced by the observation that the ground was rushing at my head. The right heel had been neatly snapped by an empty forklift pallet. I shucked off both shoes and gingerly dashed after Holmes, clutching the useless sandals in one hand.
I caught up with both him and Agent Smith, at Agent's black Buick, parked on dark, anonymous, Southampton street. At first I couldn't figure out why Holmes was stopped. Then I saw the orange streetlight glinting off the metal gun barrel. Shit.
"I'd stay back if I were you," Smith warned, "not unless you want that shiny medal to be posthumous." Holmes didn't reply. I took me moment to figure out what the hell he was talking about. In the poor light, Smith had mistaken Holmes for a cop
"You've committed a crime." Holmes replied, doing his imitation of a serious young man. "You must pay your dues to society." Smith replied in typical Bond villain style, and the banter continued for quite some time.
All this bought me time to sneak around a pile of crates so I had Smith flanked on the right. From this vantage point, my American eyes, accustomed to cop movies, noticed that Smith had not cocked the gun. Unfortunately, Smith also noticed this at the same time.
"Farewell, my good man. Guess you won't see your retirement after all." Smith mocked. I didn't think, I just acted. I really gotta stop doing that.
I threw my high heels at the gun, then threw myself at Smith with what Holmes would later describe as an Amazonian battle cry. This tactic was extremely effective, though. The shot went wild, ricocheting off three metal shipping containers before losing momentum. Holmes lost no time in joining the fray.
What happened next is something of a tangle of memory and sensation. I vaguely remember someone's elbow connecting with my temple. I was staring up at the orange streetlight trying to suss out what had just happened. Holmes and Smith were struggling for control of the gun in front of me.
I dove for Smith knees as a second shot rang out. All three of us hit the ground hard. Smith twisted around and brought the business end of the gun down on my head. I reeled back for a second, then regained my grip on his arm which I promptly twisted around behind his back. Smith wasn't ready to give up, but since his gun hand was twisted behind his back and there was 60 kilos of Watson sitting on his spine, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could do about it.
I didn't have much time to glory in my victory though. The SWAT team had been alerted by the gunfire and came running in a second later, weapons drawn. Thankfully, the good Inspector was with them.
"Holmes! What the hell!" Hargrave did an excellent impression of a pissed off woman. One of the SWAT guys hauled me off Smith and applied handcuffs to him. Holmes had been behind me when I pinned down Smith, and this was the first I could spare a glance for him.
"Shit, Holmes!" Those camouflage pants looked like they had been through a war when he bought them, now they were soaked through with blood.
"Calm down Watson."
"Calm down? Calm down, he tells me to calm down. Holmes you have a hole in your goddamn leg!" Why am I forever patching up bullet holes in bandmates?
Vehicles with sirens attached to them seemed to sprout from the ground, and pretty soon the entire pier was a mass of patrol cars and yellow tape. Hargrave dragged a medic over from the warehouse. From the way he was muttering to himself it seemed that our friends there had also put up a fight. Fortunately, none of them were armed with anything more dangerous than a tire iron.
It was a very long ambulance ride back to London. I was itching to talk about the case, but the presence of the two medics made that an unwise idea. A guy with an earring and a nametag that said "Steve" examined us both. Holmes' bullet holes wasn't too serious. A simple through and through; it even missed all major blood vessels. I had a concussion and lovely black bruise cross the forehead and what would be a spectacular headache in the morning.
Not bad for a night's work.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Make your voice heard.
.•´¨`•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨`•.
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Chapter Eleven
The Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Men…
I was determined not to be nervous. I was Katrina, accomplished car thief and femme fatale. Something as routine as the resale of "borrowed" goods was nothing to be worried about. Ah, who am I kidding, I was freaked outta my gourd.
The Tigers had accumulated about thirty cars in their warehouse hideout. That was as many as could be safely stowed away on the cargo vessel. All of those had to be clandestinely transported to the dock where the Fujikawa Maru lay moored. Sharon had outlined the plan quite thoroughly, complete with play by play illustrations on a dry erase board.
"I know we've all done this before," she began, "but it can't hurt to go over it, especially for the benefit of our new partners. We'll meet here tomorrow around dusk. We will take turns driving the vehicles into the cargo hold at ten minute intervals. It's only about half a mile away so you should be able to get back before the next car leaves.
"Remember, no one knows that the car is stolen, so you don't need to act like the cops are after you. Drive slow, obey all traffic laws, and for the love of God put your lights on." The little ripple of uneasiness made me think that someone had left the lights off (like in the movies) and was very nearly caught.
Twenty minutes after the meeting, an anonymous email had appeared in the Inspector Hargrave inbox, informing her of the Tigers' plan for the next night. The next day Holmes and I were bouncing around Lei's house waiting to go down to Southampton.
I couldn't help but thinking about what the others were doing during the day. The cops were laying their ambush on the advice of an anonymous informant. The Tigers were either sleeping off hangovers or preparing to smuggle several hundred thousands dollars worth of steel out of the country. Holmes and I were plotting our moves for the night. Our goal was to make ourselves scarce before the British SWAT team moved in at precisely 9:13. Why they couldn't have made it a nice round number was beyond me. Lei was prowling around, trying to pry the secret of the Amazing Disappearing Band Members out of us.
Eventually, though, we were able to sneak around her and once again made the mind-numbing drive to Southampton. Holmes was wearing camouflage pants and a leather jacket. I was wearing a crocheted tunic-style shirt I would never have dared wear in daylight. However nervous I felt on the outside must have not shown on the outside, thankfully. It would be terribly brilliant to have come all this way only to botch it up at the last moment.
We parked Holmes' little Ford well outside the danger zone and walked in to the warehouse. The worst part was walking into the warehouse. I could almost feel the eyes of dozens of police officers watching me. It took a great deal of willpower not to look back.
The entire crew was assembled in the warehouse, giving the cars a last minute inspection. Sharon hailed us as soon as we entered.
"We're still waiting for it to get full dark." She said, rather distracted. I wondered what she was really worried about. It was about as dark as it was going to get, and the moon was almost full too. Not the best of nights to be smuggling cars, but there you have it.
There was a slight commotion from near the door. Sharon damn near sprinted over. Holmes and I followed. Agent Smith had arrived. There was a great deal of masculine posing going on between Smith and Ink, but Sharon interrupted the impending fight.
"Now then, what are you doing here?" Sharon demanded of Smith. He straightened his tie before answering.
"The boss wishes his investment protected." Smith said derisively.
"Fine. Just don't touch anything." Sharon told him sharply and stalked off. Not wanting to have to make conversation with the ever so charming Smith, I followed her. Sharon returned to what she had been doing (fixing a flat on a Civic) muttering. "Damn Smith."
"What did you call him?" I said, shocked.
"His name is Mr. Smith." Sharon swore softly, this time at the wheel. "Tighten you damn bolt. Why?"
"That's what I've been calling him in my head. Y'know, Agent Smith from the Matrix." Sharon stared at me for a moment, then broke into laughter.
"There we go." She finished with the tire. "Now, we are ready."
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
The Tigers were assembled in the center of the warehouse, with Agent Smith standing off to one side. I was resisting the urge to glance at my watch every three seconds. Last time I dared check was 9:00 exactly, that seemed like ages ago. Sharon was pairing people off. Holmes and I were to follow Sharon and Agent Smith the first time around so we knew where the heck we were going.
Sharon took a shiny Accord while Holmes and I followed in a Geo well past its prime. The drive to the pier was one of those odd moments where time seems to simultaneously stretch and compress.
Smith and Sharon were standing on the edge of the dock. The Maru's cargo bay doors in the stern were open, but Sharon was frowning at the ship. I glanced at my watch. 9:14. I looked back toward the warehouse. Was that a flash of red light, or just my imagination? As I looked back to the ship, Holmes caught my eye and nodded. So he had seen it too.
"What's wrong?" Smith demanded impatiently.
"The crew. They haven't given the countersignal." Sharon snapped back. The crew of the Maru was most like locked away in a paddy wagon somewhere.
Holmes gently touched my wrist. I damn near jumped out of my skin. He was trying to tell me that now would be a good time to make our exit. I concurred. We stepped back slowly, hoping that no one would notice.
"What the hell is going on?" Sharon muttered. Floodlights on the ship snapped on, illuminating a perfect circle of light, with Sharon and Smith in the center. Holmes and I were just outside the edge of the pool of light, effectively hidden by the glare.
"This is the police. You are under arrest." Sharon froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Smith was not going down so easy. He bolted before the bobbies could converge on him, escaping into the maze of shipping crates and heavy machinery. The sensible thing to do would have been to make ourselves scarce and let the real police handle it. So naturally we took off after him. Well, to be more accurate, Holmes took off after him. Katrina couldn't wear anything less than a two inch heel, and Watson was not keen on breaking an ankle.
I discovered that it is difficult, though not impossible, to run in heels. Smith headed away from both the docks and the warehouse. I decided (as I dodged a fork lift) that he had a car parked out there in case of emergency. This observation was quickly replaced by the observation that the ground was rushing at my head. The right heel had been neatly snapped by an empty forklift pallet. I shucked off both shoes and gingerly dashed after Holmes, clutching the useless sandals in one hand.
I caught up with both him and Agent Smith, at Agent's black Buick, parked on dark, anonymous, Southampton street. At first I couldn't figure out why Holmes was stopped. Then I saw the orange streetlight glinting off the metal gun barrel. Shit.
"I'd stay back if I were you," Smith warned, "not unless you want that shiny medal to be posthumous." Holmes didn't reply. I took me moment to figure out what the hell he was talking about. In the poor light, Smith had mistaken Holmes for a cop
"You've committed a crime." Holmes replied, doing his imitation of a serious young man. "You must pay your dues to society." Smith replied in typical Bond villain style, and the banter continued for quite some time.
All this bought me time to sneak around a pile of crates so I had Smith flanked on the right. From this vantage point, my American eyes, accustomed to cop movies, noticed that Smith had not cocked the gun. Unfortunately, Smith also noticed this at the same time.
"Farewell, my good man. Guess you won't see your retirement after all." Smith mocked. I didn't think, I just acted. I really gotta stop doing that.
I threw my high heels at the gun, then threw myself at Smith with what Holmes would later describe as an Amazonian battle cry. This tactic was extremely effective, though. The shot went wild, ricocheting off three metal shipping containers before losing momentum. Holmes lost no time in joining the fray.
What happened next is something of a tangle of memory and sensation. I vaguely remember someone's elbow connecting with my temple. I was staring up at the orange streetlight trying to suss out what had just happened. Holmes and Smith were struggling for control of the gun in front of me.
I dove for Smith knees as a second shot rang out. All three of us hit the ground hard. Smith twisted around and brought the business end of the gun down on my head. I reeled back for a second, then regained my grip on his arm which I promptly twisted around behind his back. Smith wasn't ready to give up, but since his gun hand was twisted behind his back and there was 60 kilos of Watson sitting on his spine, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could do about it.
I didn't have much time to glory in my victory though. The SWAT team had been alerted by the gunfire and came running in a second later, weapons drawn. Thankfully, the good Inspector was with them.
"Holmes! What the hell!" Hargrave did an excellent impression of a pissed off woman. One of the SWAT guys hauled me off Smith and applied handcuffs to him. Holmes had been behind me when I pinned down Smith, and this was the first I could spare a glance for him.
"Shit, Holmes!" Those camouflage pants looked like they had been through a war when he bought them, now they were soaked through with blood.
"Calm down Watson."
"Calm down? Calm down, he tells me to calm down. Holmes you have a hole in your goddamn leg!" Why am I forever patching up bullet holes in bandmates?
Vehicles with sirens attached to them seemed to sprout from the ground, and pretty soon the entire pier was a mass of patrol cars and yellow tape. Hargrave dragged a medic over from the warehouse. From the way he was muttering to himself it seemed that our friends there had also put up a fight. Fortunately, none of them were armed with anything more dangerous than a tire iron.
It was a very long ambulance ride back to London. I was itching to talk about the case, but the presence of the two medics made that an unwise idea. A guy with an earring and a nametag that said "Steve" examined us both. Holmes' bullet holes wasn't too serious. A simple through and through; it even missed all major blood vessels. I had a concussion and lovely black bruise cross the forehead and what would be a spectacular headache in the morning.
Not bad for a night's work.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Make your voice heard.
.•´¨`•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨`•.