Chapter 108
Diversion
"Hug Nick? You want me to hug... N..."
"He's not that bad, Mom!" Judy lay back against the softness of the sheets, her exhaustion and pain giving away to the intensity with which she wanted, just wanted, her mother to accept Nick as a good mammal. "Just give him a chance, that's all I want, a chance to show you how kind, how good he is."
"Good? You saw what he did to-"
"And shut up about Billy!" she yelled, her voice drawing hoarse as the muscles of her chest siezed up. Coughs enrolled, her face contorting as each wrestle of air brought a rocket of discomfort down her body.
Nick watched helpless. Touching her, even just to support her, would risk making things even worse.
"You know it wasn't Nick who started it," Judy sputtered, dizzy with breathlessness at the strong drugs flowing through her veins. "You know that. I get it's easier for you to accept Billy's word than to accept I'm dating an okay guy, who is also a fox. But you just keep on making stuff up to try and make things how you want to believe them."
"Judyy..."
"So just stop it, okay? Just stop and hug Nick, or just shake paws like you'd make me and my siblings do whenever we'd been in a fight. Just stop it and realize you're not right or... or I just..."
The motherly doe stood silent for a long while. Judy couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, to say what was going through her mind, even with her tongue as loose as it was with the morphine she was on. But enough had been said to get the point across, as she could tell from the long nothing her mother gave her, and the slow sigh that eased from between her tight lips.
"Judy dear..."
"Mrs Hopps, I..." the fox cleared his throat, his glace moving between the doe and her daughter. "How long are you staying over here?"
"Can't wait to be rid of me?"
"No, no, I never said that. Just, if you're going to be here for a few days, I could, say, make dinner for you sometime? Scratch that, I'm offering you," Nick said, his voice calm with open palms. "Would you like to come over for dinner sometime? Leave the buck at home."
Judy only observed her mother's reactions. Something about Nick's request had triggered something in her mom's mind. She could see it on her face. It wasn't anger, wasn't fear... she couldn't quite place it, but it seemed to be good.
The doe cleared her throat, clasping her paws before her chest.
"In sight of the restrictive hours when I can visit here, and the... 'lack' of anything else to do while I'm over here, I see no reason to refuse your thoughtful offer."
Somehow, Judy noted, formality of the question had nudged her into her social-life mindset, a mindset of politeness above personal feelings and of getting along with neighbors and relatives regardless of any actual 'fondness' for them. She looked around at the fox, wondering if he'd known, if it it had just been by chance he'd hit the right note.
"You, eh... gonna be able to put Billy somewhere? No offense to the kid, but I doubt he'd help us get along."
"I understand what you're saying, Nick. And don't worry, I'll leave him at the hotel."
It was fake politeness. Judy didn't need detective-level training to realize that, but a chance was all Nick needed for his charm and good nature to come through. And a chance is exactly what he'd just bought himself. Even if her mother hated the evening, at the very least she'd see Nick was nothing like the brute she seemed to believe him to be.
…
Bogo stepped down from the high edge of the rear of the ZPD van, his foot landing with a low 'clack' at the plates of heavy-duty polycarbonate, his head encased in thick, black synthetic with a clear plastic visor – the kind that could withstand a shotgun at practically point-blank range.
He flexed his arms, bending forwards to stretch his back, checking his mobility, the tightness of the armor, making sure it stuck against his hide like second skin. "Okay," he said, "Snarlov, check me over."
"You sure you don't want me spearheading things with you?" she asked, checking over the fitting that there were no loose plates of hanging straps.
"You think I can hear you when you're muttering?" The Chief adjusted the sit of his helmet. There were small holes at his ears for sound, but in all his years they'd never been in 'just' the right place for any kind of usefulness.
"I said, I should be in there!"
He sighed, his irritation growing at having to go through this again. He knew she had good intent, but this constant questioning and double-questioning of his orders was just leading him to feel like a cub who didn't know how to walk without advice. "No, Snarlov. I need someone on radio support, coordinating our movements."
"Then we should swap places, you're the better tactical leader."
Bogo paused, gazing across at the harbor, the sun glaring off the painted metal crates which stood as a barrier between the river, and the drug-trafficking boat and the rest of the world. "I beg to differ," he muttered, too low for the polar bear to hear. "No, you and Jackson will stay out here, keep an eye on the situation."
He marched onward, Officer Snarlov shutting up the back of the van. "Sign them in, Officer."
Nodding, the bear pulled her radio. "This is Officer Snarlov, be advised, operations will be starting in around two minutes. Check one anothers' equipment, stay alert, be ready to move. Sign in when ready."
"Grizzoli, standing by."
"Jackson... ready."
The sounds of the radio chatter growing quiet, muffled more by the helmet of bullet proof plastic, Bogo pushed open the metal gate to enter into the harbor. It pulled with a sharp scrape as the wire mesh dragged across the concrete. The air smelled of salt, and he could hear the gulls circling overhead like impatient vultures.
He gazed up the colony. Usually they'd be all over the place, looking for fishes dropped by the trawler boats or for any other morsels of food they could get their yellow beaks upon. The hustle of armored cops down below had surely given them call to flee from their usual behavior.
Rounding the corner of a stack of tall crates, the ship and the officers came into view. Straightening his back, increasing his pace, he took up the role of the mammal of the hour. The armor used to make him feel five times taller and a dozen times stronger.
Used to.
Now, just as seemed to be the norm for him. He had to force it: force the appearance of confidence, the facade of command.
Reaching up to his helmet, the Chief flicked a button concealed beneath the polycarbonate shell, the built-in headset radio kicking into life as the sign-in finished. "Radio check. Everybody hear me?"
"Yes, Chief. All's signed in, ready to go."
"Thirty seconds. Gear up. I'll take point." he stated, crossing to the line of officers. He took his place at the head of the line, gestured for them to follow, and led them up onto the big boat.
"Check your equipment, make sure you're ready. We're going to be facing narrow corridors with minimal cover. Be ready for hoof to hoof combat, knives and small arms. Armor will keep you safe. We go in hard, we go in fast, we disarm them and take out the sting. If we come across a barricade, pump gas and fall back."
Up the passenger boat ramp they went, the steel bouncing to the mass of armored police officers whose plates shuffled loudly to the haste of their objectives. Discoloring white railing prevented a plunge into the darkening waters upon which shadows cast fro the evening sun.
The black paint glared until the ships hull, where sea life had infested the loss of this masked vessel of crime. Bogo hit the moist deck first and readied himself beyond tension to the sonar of his eyes and relatively equipment-disabled ears. Nothing but dampness, ship doors and giant containers.
Crossing over to the right unopened door, the crew's quarters, the two officers who had stood guard stepped back for them to enter. "We've cut through the hinges, Chief," one reported. "Ready when you are."
"Okay, everyone ready back there?"
"Ready, Chief," replied the dozen voices of the officers behind him, coming in one at a time to report their preparation, focus and engagement. "We're all good, Chief."
"Alright... Snarlov, you ready?"
"All ready up here, Sir. Great visibility, can see the deck and the whole side of the boat."
"Jackson?" the Chief asked, trying to focus through the anxiety and adrenaline spinning around in his head.
"He's on ground level. He'll respond if anyone tries to slip by."
"Be careful up there. Those crates can be slippy when they're wet." He wanted to be sick, as the lunch curdled in his stomach, brewing into some vulgar solution. He breathed deeply, though his breath reeked illness, even as he manged to straighten out the whirlpool in his head. "Alright, on my mark... go!"
The line pushed against the door, the previously cut hinges failing to hold the door as the Chief pulled it away like a gale ripping up a dead tree.
The path inside was narrow and long, a dull gray rectangle which sloped down at a crooked angle into the deeper bowls of the ship. He reached his hoof back and took the riot shotgun from Officer Anderson. He checked over the equipment: the shotgun fired beanbag rounds, and was sided with a flashlight and a pressurized capsaicin dispenser for use against armored opponents or barricades.
He engaged the flashlight with a sharp upwards jerk of the device, and began down the corridor to the single door at the end of the stark, sloping walkway. The air sulked heavy of metal and dampness beyond comfort.
"Anderson, open it up," he ordered, able to mutter the words through the radios in their headsets.
The door opened, and Bogo's nose was assaulted with the stench of sweat and alcohol, the inside warm and further moist. "Start your air masks," he said, pulling the helmet's visor down, breathing through the built-in filters. "Smells like the Academy changing rooms down here."
"Come in, Bogo. What's your status?"
"Looks quiet here, Snarlov," Bogo said, moving into the dark, grey room. "No lights, using flashlights. The sleeping quarters: a dozen bunk beds, cheap sheets, junk over the floor. No movement. Any on your end?"
"Ten-sixty out here."
"Received. Continuing search."
Moving past the last of the beds, the Chief lifted the lid of a knee-height crate. Inside was more trash: empty boxes, half-eaten food. He examined around the room, the other officers checking under the beds and in the other potential hiding spaces the room offered. There were two doors out, both leading further into the insides of the ship.
"Anderson, search through the crates here, check for anything it can tell us: where this ship stopped, where it came from. A-unit, search through that doorway. Everyone else, on me."
The door was sealed, but unbolted with some sharp tugging as it was forced open. Bogo stepped out, his shotgun raised and flashlight searching the unlit gray of the ship's interior. What followed was another downwards slope, marked by further trails of junk. Though... this seemed to be different. Rather than empty packets and eaten food, it was clothing and genuine packets of food.
His mind rationalized that they had been caught off guard by the ZPD's appearance, and they'd ran down this corridor while trying to dress, taking with them food and supplies to try to wait out the police presence, dropping these items as they'd fled to lock themselves deeper down.
"Chief," A-unit radioed, "the second room was a toilet. Nothing of value."
"Fall in behind. And be alert. Anyone who's left onboard this ship must be down this corridor."
A change in the air nipped upon his nose. The few parts of his body which were not encased in plastic sensed a coolness. He paused, his mind processing the meanings.
He pulled the visor up form his face, and sucked in the air. "Salt, sea water. Maybe a leak? Or... Everyone, doubetime!" He marched the procession through the ship, a gnawing reality etching into his mind. He darted down the staircase into a storage room of small crates and draping tarpaulin. Glancing around, unable to see what he knew he would hear, he pulled his helmet from his head and dropped it upon a crate beside him.
The sound of sloshing water came clear to his ears. "Sweep the area, check the crates, no surprises." His voice had lost its tension, as he'd already understood what he was about to discover. Following the sound of water, he found a tarpaulin sheet stretched across a part of the floor.
Reaching down, he pulled it away, revealing a square hole, an open trap door, in the base of the ship, with the dark waters of the open river facing him from below. He cursed to himself. Pulling his helmet back over to him, he removed the radio unit and spoke into it, his voice exhausted as the adrenaline drained away, leaving behind only the problems which had festered like tumors on him.
"Clear, Snarlov. They've flown."
"Flown? How?"
"I mean they're gone. Underside exit into the water. At any time in the past few hours they could've slipped away. If they had diving gear, a sea scooter... could be anywhere by now. Send a couple of helis to check up the coast, maybe they'll catch something."
"On it."
He returned the headset to its rightful place, glaring down at the lappingly disinterested waters. He had enjoyed the raid. The thrill of the unknown, those moments of tension where your ability to react was all you needed to rely on... it made him feel so much more alive than the endless weeks of research and planning his position of management had granted him.
He knew already this would be his last raid, the last time he would see action such as this.
What faced him in the future was a few short days of quiet office work, a one-sided convocation with the Administrators, a final week, a 'surprise' leaving party which already made him cringe at the amount of smiling he'd have to force... and then a very slow-paced retirement.
He knew he could easily get a job at any private security agency he could apply for, but doing it for enjoyment or for money had never been his goal. Doing it to uphold the law had always been his highest priority. A security job? Looking after some rich banker's goods? The work was the same, yet the job felt entirely different.
Author's notes:
Hesitance jumps around your mind,
Grooms decision thus chosen blind.
Your thoughts most succulent of snack,
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