Chapter 12:

The young chicano punk was terrified, and honestly Joe Savage didn't blame him. She'd just touched his hand and literally become him. The only thing she didn't have were the tats. Joe felt a shiver of fear course through him as the alien studied the mark. She could do that to anybody she wanted. She could be Kerry. She could be his kids. She could be him. Then, as he watched, greenish-black prison ink sprouted on either of her/his arms. "Tats too," whistled Reese? "Wow!" Lucy smirked at her. "Be back in a bit," announced the shape-changer.

As the cops and their unwilling guest watched, Lucy drew on a down jacket and strolled across to the old laundry. "Jeezus," growled Joe. "That's fucking crazy!" Reese shrugged. She'd gotten her dose the first day! Joe had gotten complacent. The gang had gone out for drinks earlier in the week. They'd all gotten to see Lucy off duty, just being a normal person, and that had made Joe comfortable with her. Now this. Shaking off the shock, Joe turned to the listening device, tuning in as their ersatz gangster went up to the building and knocked on the door.

They could hear her breathing as she waited patiently for the door to open. Lucy greeted the person on the other side of the door with a gruff, "left my phone, man." There was a brief debate at the door, with Lucy insisting on coming back inside. "C'mon, man," she complained. "Jus' wan' my phone, fool." She even sounded like the young gangster. It almost made Joe laugh–especially with the young hood sitting in the back of their van listening in terror. Reese hit him with a snarky zinger, announcing, "maybe our double might go move into your old place... See the girlfriend... She might like a change..." It was a cruel comment, and it had the gangster ready to shit himself. Done laughing, Joe tuned back into what was going on inside the old laundry.

Lucy found herself in strangely familiar surroundings. Just out of sight of the entrance, around a blind corner, she was walking through a state-of-the-art manufacturing facility of some kind. There were machines of various descriptions churning away, milling out metal blocks to make some sort of object that Lucy didn't recognize. There were over a dozen men inside working away. It was a lot like being in Plumber HQ–clean, sterile, and very efficient. "Go get your phone," growled the guard! "Your shift's over!" Lucy hurried through the chamber, headed for a door marked 'locker room'. Inside the locker-room, she found herself scanning the scene, looking for cameras and any other surveillance measures they had on hand. There was one in the corner. She'd have to be careful.

Reaching into her pocket, she drew the key the thug had and took a quick glance before walking straight up to her locker and unlocking it. Rooting around inside, she found it remarkably free of personal effects. Froglike efficiency, thought Lucy. They didn't want these guys tracking in junk from outside.

"What the fuck are you doing," demanded the security guard? "Thought my phone was here," said Lucy. "Guess I was wrong." She hadn't gotten as far as she wanted, but she had an idea what was in here now. Security was a little too tight to push. When she went to brush past the guard, he grabbed her by the shoulder and put a gun in her face. "Uh-uh," said he. "Let's take a walk." Lucy announced, "yo, man! I'm just tryin' t'leave! Where you takin' me, man!" At the same time, she was actually gleeful. This overzealous idiot might just take her to the heart of the complex.

Outside, Joe and Reese were listening with laser-focus to the conversation inside the old laundry. Lucy had said that there was a real risk she'd run into trouble fast, but she'd also admonished them not to jump the gun. Having heard the hair-raising story of how the young alien-girl had met Mike in the first place, the two of them were torn just now, wondering how deep was too deep. Mike had barely gotten to Lucy in time. Neither of the two cops wanted to be telling him they hadn't made it in time to save his wife.

As the two listened, Lucy kept up a blow-by-blow as she was escorted up the stairs and through chambers full of machinery. She kept up a steady chatter as the anxious guard stone-walled and threatened. Finally, she arrived on the third floor, coming out into a large, open space filled with boxes. Just a hundred feet from the elevator, a couple of humans waited. One was clearly older. The other was a younger man, near Mike's age. Both had the hard eyes of men worn into the life of a gangster. A glance at their bodies showed their former allegiances. The older man, a Hispanic, had been a Latin King. The young black man had been a Gangster Disciple. Both now sported the red tattoos of an Incursean, or, in this case, an Incursean servant.

The older man asked, "what you bring him up here for?" "Somethin's wrong with him," rumbled the guard. At the head thug's frown, the guard explained, "said he left his phone, but I caught him standing in the machine room staring around him like he ain't seen it before..." "Really," muttered the black man. Strolling across the room and around a pair of crates, the young turk approached Lucy with a frown on his face. "You been workin' here for four months, and you don't know what machines look like," said the man? "I was jist tryin' t'remember where I lef' my phone...," said Lucy. "You know phones aren't supposed t'come in here, playuh," retorted the thug.

To Lucy's surprise, the man hauled off and punched her hard in the chest. A little surprised, she actually staggered back. The man seemed to consider that, as Lucy considered what she was going to do about this development. "Yo, man," said the infiltrator! "You ain't gotta' do that! I'm sorry! It won't happen again!" Before Lucy could say another word, the man began to frisk her. The thug patted her down top to bottom. She guessed he was looking for a listening device. He wouldn't find one. Lucy's listening device was embedded at the base of her neck beneath the skin. That seemed to give him pause. "You think this one's up t'somethin'," asked the Hispanic? The young black man continued to ponder that, while his antsy pals pondered offing Lucy there on the spot.

Now he reached down the front of the baggy-saggy pants Lucy had gotten from her friend in the van, tucked his hand under Lucy's crotch, and groped her. "Sonofabitch," growled the black man as Lucy's face went red hot. "It's true! This is that bitch they told us about!" "What," said the guard?! "The one with the rubber face," growled the black man! "They got Flores! This bitch replaced him!" Time to start thinking, Lucy, thought the Lenopan. Her cover was blown. "Waste the bitch," growled the Hispanic thug! "Take her to the basement and waste her! Throw the body in with the rest! We'll dump it in a few days!"

The guard grabbed Lucy by the arm and tucked his pistol in against her ribs. He frog-marched her back down the stairs, headed for the basement. "Yo, man," said Lucy! "I don't know what he's talkin' about!" The guard ignored her. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that this thing had walked right by him. He/she/it even sounded like Benito! As the guard reached the first floor, he said, "you won't be runnin' a trick on anybody else. We're gonna' dump your ass in the East River. You can float off with the rest of the garbage..."

That was when the front door burst inwards, blown off its hinges by one of the explosives from the van out front. As the startled guard turned towards the explosion, Lucy disarmed him and shot him twice in the chest. The last thing he saw on Earth was the sight of her face sliding back to normal. As the gangster assumed room temperature, the blonde girl stepped over him. Just now Reese and Joe were shoving their way through the pack of men fleeing the underground laboratory, fighting to reach their boss's lady.

Lucy met them halfway across the machinery room. Lucy barely managed to say, 'glad to see you guys,' before a pack of bandits came running into the room from behind her. As the gangsters opened fire, Lucy threw herself behind a pillar. Reese plugged one thug, then two, as fire walked in on her. Joe tackled her and knocked her down behind one of the heavy milling machines.

"What the fuck happened," demanded Joe?! "Guy-check," retorted Lucy as 9mm slammed into the pillar inches from her head! "Guy-check," shouted Joe?! "Yeah," said Lucy as she stepped out and laid down some rounds. She caught one of the perps in the chest and flattened him. When she darted back under cover, Reese stepped out and nailed a second perp. "Are you shooting," demanded Reese, "or asking dumb questions?!" Ducking out, Joe rushed to the next pillar, sliding behind cover at the last moment. As he opened fire, the perps ran for the door at the end of the room. The three cops pursued as Reese called for backup.

The trio cleared the laundry by the numbers, working their way from room to room. The men they were dealing with weren't soldiers, no matter what they chose to call themselves. They didn't stand their ground unless cornered. One by one the three cops picked off the bandits, geeking them in the hallways and laying them out in doorways. In the end, none of these men were really in this for the loyalty to the frogs. They'd been snatched off the streets and coerced into signing on with death as the alternative. As the three cops tore through their ranks, a lot of them got it in mind to say goodbye.

By the time backup arrived, most of the gangsters had fled, running into the early-morning chill in fear. Many of them were picked up within blocks. When all was said, they had two-hundred men being hauled to jail–so many that the stations couldn't handle them all. Joe, Reese, and Lucy found themselves in sole possession of the once and former industrial laundry.

Standing in the entry, watching the last of the young thugs be hauled off, Joe finally had the space to ask the burning question, "what the hell happened? They let you in like it was nothing." Lucy shrugged, "I don't know if it was the interview or what, but the guys in charge seemed to have been warned about me. When they had me upstairs, one of the leaders decided to do 'guy-check'." Which Joe still didn't get. Rolling her eyes, Reese growled, "no dick, dummy!" Now he got it. His face snapped around, and Lucy declared, "strictly taco. No sausage... No matter who I'm impersonating..." Joe couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed until he had tears streaming down his face. Reese and Lucy laughed too. Then it was time to get back to work.

The SWAT team leader was tense as he stared at the blue-skinned alien-woman sitting in the back of his van. She was monitoring some sort of terminal plugged into an iPhone with jury-rigged wiring conducting some sort of surveillance on the target house. The place didn't fit the typical image of a trap-house. For one, it was in an upscale neighborhood. For another, there were no gangsters hanging out in front, patrolling. A couple of the neighbors had complained over the last few months that there was a large amount of traffic on their streets at all hours of the day and night, but said traffic seemed to be fairly discrete. More to the point, there were no sneakers hanging from the telephone wires or drive-by shootings to advertise the thugs inside, and nobody was casing the place for a drive-by.

"Frogs," rumbled Nick Luchini. "Now that they run the underworld, there ain't anybody to beef with." It was a one-stop shop. These people had the vice of your choice. They delivered it with snappy service in a clean store, and it was just like going down to White-Castles for munchies. In point of fact, Helen had insisted the team park over two blocks away just to avoid attracting notice. Now they were down to the rough part. Were there frogs there or not? Molly's team was on backup at the station, ready to swoop in to the rescue, but that was a last resort. Mike and Lucy wanted this to be an NYPD op all the way.

"Not hearing any frogs," announced Helen. "We're good to go." The SWAT team lead let out the breath he'd been holding. Turning to his assistant team lead, he said, "let's do it." In moments, the team was mounted up on the outside of the van, and the van was rolling through the streets of the quiet little neighborhood. Older men and women watched them go by in puzzlement, and a couple of housewives with small children waved to them as if they were just passing through on a beat.

Nick counted the seconds, and he checked his weapon just in case. He and Helen were going in as part of the raid. They were there ostensibly to corral any evidence of an extra-terrestrial nature. Nick knew the reality was that if there was a frog inside, he could wipe out the tactical team before they could respond. Nick and Helen were supposed to take care of business if it came to that.

The van rolled to a stop in front of the house, and the team-members were on the pavement, beating feet for the house almost before the van was fully stopped. Helen wielded her strange combination multi-tool/blaster thing, slicing a section out of the heavy, wrought-iron fence that protected the trap-house. The SWAT team swarmed through in silence, surrounding the house as the entry team rushed the front door. "NYPD," shouted the SWAT lead! "This is a raid! Open the door!" Not that they were going to wait around for someone to do that.

Again Helen did the honors, slicing the heavy door in half, permitting the man with the ram to knock it inward in just one blow. And then they were inside. The house inside was just as strangely beautiful as the outside. The walls were freshly painted. The floor was done in high-end hardwoods, and the living room and dining room were full of high-end furniture–exactly what you'd expect of a house in this neighborhood. Drawing that device from her pocket again, Helen announced, "downstairs."

The SWAT team raced for the basement stairs. At the same time, out back, the roaches were leaving the burning building, doing their best to escape. They ran straight into an army of NYPD blue. The heavily armed cops in back snatched the men up and started bundling them into squad-cars and paddy-wagons almost before they realized the jig was up. As the neighbors stared, the house was taken down with ruthless efficiency.

The first man off the basement stairs announced, "there's nothing here!" "Yeah there is," growled Helen, as she dropped her visor. Stepping to her left, she flicked a switch on the wall. The room seemed to shimmer, and then they were standing in a room full of stacks and stacks of crates. Over in the far corner was a row of beds–the crash-space for addicts allowed to use down here. And there were a couple of startled frogs there, staring back at the raiders.

Things slowed down then, as the frogs reached for the blasters at their hips. Nick raised the big .50 he was carrying and let fly, catching the closest one center of mass and spraying the wall with his innards. Helen rushed forward and disarmed the second almost before he realized she was there. The SWAT team lead stood there a moment in stunned surprise. And then he rushed forward to help Helen, who was, just now fighting the frog over his side-arm. The New York cop smacked the frog with his nightstick, dropping him like a sack of potatoes, as Helen wrenched the gun free of his nerveless fingers. Now they were left with the surprise of their lives.

"What the fuck is all this," asked Sargent Barrows? There were dozens of small crates there, all labeled neatly with 'Property of Gen-Term' and 'Pharmaceutical Supplies'. "The answer to a mystery," muttered Nick. "And a pile of questions all rolled into one." Shaking himself, Nick announced, "let's get this place secure. Helen, sweetheart, I'm gonna' need you t'go room by room. We may find more stuff hidden in here."

Up on the New Jersey Turnpike, Mike Stack stood in the chill of a rest-stop parking lot listening to the distant chatter of Alpha Team's communications. Nearby, a New Jersey State Patrol SWAT Team stood waiting. Inspector Graves wasn't thrilled about that. He wanted to hit the truck within city limits. Mike had vetoed the idea. He didn't know who was in the truck, and he didn't want to chance a shootout within city limits. Reaching out to the Jersey police ended up bringing them more evidence, and the Jersey boys ended up being eager to cooperate.

The target truck was on its way after hanging out in the swamps for several hours. "They're coming," announced Mike. "Let's roll." "Roger that," said the lead Jersey trooper. The team mounted up, and drove out onto the highway. The Jersey troopers set up a fake construction zone, complete with narrowing lanes and a few cops directing traffic. The take-down team was riding in Helen's beat-up Astro, looking like just another vehicle caught in the mix.

The suspect truck was obvious for their studious attention to all the relevant traffic laws. It was unheard of for a vehicle in New Jersey to slow for construction. As the trooper flagged the truck down, Mike scanned Fergi's little gadget. "It's them," announced Mike. At his signal, the men working their fake construction site waved the truck over to the side of the road. Mike was expecting them to bolt, and he was surprised as anything when they didn't. The two jokers pulled over and parked, handing over their licenses and registration. As the officer pretended to check them, the take-down team swarmed out of the proto-truk and rushed them. Before either man could respond, they were being pulled from the truck and put on the ground. Mike strolled up to the back of the laundry-van and popped the doors open.

The van was empty.

Irritated, Inspector Graves growled, "dammit, Stack! I thought you said there'd be dope!" Mike was a little irritated himself. "Hang on, Inspector," announced the Jersey trooper. "Something was in here." Reaching in, he wiped his finger across the rusty floor of the van. Bits of saw-dust, streaks of oil, and a pattern of lines looking suspiciously like crates showed the two men had been transporting some kind of cargo. Playing the hunch, the trooper went around to the front of the van were the two amigos stood.

"This one's got warrants," announced one of the troopers. Nodding, the lead trooper asked, "what was in the truck?" "Nothin', man," spat the thug. "He's already under arrest for warrants," said Graves. "Let's see what he's got on him..." The man was pushed up against the truck and his pockets turned out. The cops came up with a packet that looked suspiciously like dope along with one of the alien-altered phones. "Run it," commanded the lead trooper. In short order, he was holding a test kit with an ominous blue glow. "Heroin," he grimly announced.

Turning back to the thug, the cop said, "you can talk, or we can take you in on possession..." The thug spat at his feet. Mike announced, "not so fast, Captain. Possession of alien technology's a Section 83 offense... I own this guy!" Grimly, the Captain told their thug, "this is Mr. Stack. Looks like a pretty ordinary guy, but he's actually... Well let's just say he's not one of us... With the treaty the President signed, we have to extradite you to him now... Hope you enjoy your complimentary butt probe in alien jail..."

That opened the floodgates. The hard-core guy still refused to talk, but his pal started spilling his guts, and they couldn't make him shut up! He told them how he and his buddy made a run once a week to the Meadowlands, hauling crates for the killer frogs. He told of how they were admonished never to ask questions or talk about what they did. The last guy they knew of who'd talked had eaten a bullet and ended up in the Hudson. He'd never looked in the crates, but he'd been inside the building on Lancaster street and seen the people there filling them. He'd been doing this for just six weeks, but his pal had been at it much longer.

The talkative one was MS-13, and he'd been given the choice of dieing or working for the frogs. They'd snatched him in a raid on a MS-13 safe-house, and he'd seen ten guys get wasted in one night. He and the remaining seven had agreed to work for the frogs on the spot. Rolling up his sleeve, he even showed them the strange alien tattoo the frogs had given him. "I just wanna' go home, man," he whined! "I ain't seen my kids and my baby's momma in eight weeks, man...! I just wanna' go home!" With a chill smile, Inspector Graves told him, "we can arrange that..." Signaling the troopers, he said, "let's go!"