2021-05-17 - The Sixth Commandment

How far is too far?

A fundamental question which every human being has to answer for themselves. Somebody does you a favour, you do them one back, you keep things a little quiet, look after your own some, watch out for each other -- and some day, you realise that helping your cousin now and then actually translates to mob hit man. And similarly -- no good deed goes unpunished, things get a little complicated, and one morning you wake up and realise you're Monaghan's girl; the one he sends when breaking kneecaps may not be a strongly worded enough message.

That's always the question with people like Reyes, Monaghan, and Kelly -- where is the line? How far is too far depends on whom you ask. For Joey Kelly, it seems, at choice: Prostitution is a choice. The line is drawn where it stops being a choice.

It's hardly surprising that with Reyes evicted from the scene, others are eyeing up the area. Even less surprising with Felix himself is focusing his attention Reyes' old turf. There's a vacuum of power, and while Kelly has been appointed to fill it, not everyone's got the memo yet. Maybe that should be the new euphemism for what people like Seth and Vic do: Memo delivery.

Whether Cassidy Bennett's return to Gray Harbor is coincidental remains to be seen. Grapevine says the ADA is back in order to investigate a drug ring. Grapevine might be wrong.

What is here, though, is an address scribbled down in haste: A pier, and a number. A warehouse, then, in what used to be Gray Harbor's, well, grey harbour. Built to accommodate a burgeoning lumber trade. Dilapidated and run down now, because the lumber trade died down, and Gray Harbor is no longer the gateway to Seattle; industrial buildings and yards remain, but many sit empty, and most are badly in need of at the very least a paint job. Rusting old cranes reminiscent of old, dying dinosaurs watch in the fog of dusk.

There are a few cars parked behind the warehouse in question. Cheap cars -- the kind you'd get if you're a low grade thug who wants to escape attention. The kind that any police car sliding past in the night on patrol will not pay attention to because of course the local teenagers go here to smoke pot and make out, and there are usually somewhat more pressing issues in this town than driving Bob or Jane home for a stern parental talking to.

Whether any of those cars are look-outs... Or there are look-outs somewhere else... Or anyone even expects somebody like the enforcer duo to turn up, is the question. The tip seems to be solid, but how organised are these guys, and are they expecting company?

Time will tell. About that, and about where the line is drawn.

The things one does for family. Stupid things that if anyone else asked you would scoff, like helping someone move. But family? Family pushes the limits of what you will do, including going off to deliver a memo typed in blood and pain. Seth has been chosen to be the particular fed-ex delivery guy for this memo so he slowly approaches the parking lot with the old cars, cars very much like the ones he and Vic tend to 'borrow' when they are out of town doing a job.

The enforcer creeps up to the line where darkness and light merge into a sort of grey area, hiding back in the shadows as he surveys the parking lot and the warehouse beyond, pulling out a little night vision scope from the cargo pocket on his pants to assist in getting a good look. "Got some cars in the lot here, V," he mutters quietly to his companion. "Don't know if they are occupied yet or not, but be ready."

Vic crouches beside Seth, dressed all in black, her hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. At his words, she focuses icy blue eyes on the parked cars at the warehouse. First things first. No one in there is getting away easily. Seth can feel the Glimmer gathering around her, like a stormcloud of force, before it creeps down into the earth and makes its way to the vehicles. Her power moves under and into the engine compartments one by one, and with a telekinetic nudge, dislodges several sparkplugs in each, drawing them back to her, and into her hand with a delicate clink. The getaway cars are now lawn ornaments. "They aren't going anywhere," she murmurs back to the other enforcer with a faint smirk, opening her hand to show him the chromed plugs.

If all the lights in old buildings like these were on, odds are that de la Vega's boys in blue would in fact pay a visit -- if for nothing else, then in order for the Gazette to be able to publish another riveting editorial about gang-related crime and the fast and efficient way in which illegal rave parties in Gray Harbor are broken up and the delinquents marched home to grumpy parents (and make no mention whatsoever that in nine out of ten such occurrences, the real reason everyone decides to go home early is that Cthulhu pops in wearing Ray-Bans and a joint, or something else along those lines happens). It's Gray Harbor, everything is fine.

There's light in a couple of windows in the part of the derelict industrial warehouse that sits right on the pier, though. A quiet thump-thump of music -- something electronical, probably somebody's amateur hip hop band, or a not too great radio station.

The cars out back are empty (and now also very likely to not be going anywhere for a while) but for one. It's rocking gently. The lights are definitely not on, but then, some human activities don't require light. Don't knock it; more Americans than you'd think have been conceived in the back seat of somebody's car.

And somewhere up there, in that crane that lurks overhead like some kind of old, rusty dinosaur, there is movement -- a glimpse of a lighter, an unprofessional move that captures Seth's eye for the split second in which it exists.

"We've got some of what I assume are kids doing the horizontal mambo in the fifth car to the right. Hope he can perform since he isn't getting out of here anytime soon now. " Seth says, holding the humor in his voice mostly in check for a moment before he continues, "And...there we go. Lighter, up on top of the crane. Spotter most likely."

Seth trains the scope back towards the area where he saw the flicker of flame, trying to find the person responsible by the glow of the cherry. "He should have switched to a vape pen..." comments the enforcer with a smirk, "And not one of the ones that have that fake light up tip either."

Vic snaps her head up as Seth spots the spotter. She'd been looking elsewhere, at her boyfriend, or part of him at least. She would blush but she's Vic, so she doesn't. "How do you want to handle it?" she asks him quietly. He's the lead on this particular caper, and she sweeps the area for any other movement with a chilly gaze.

There's a lot to be said in favour of vaping, and even more to said in favour of nicotine gum. It's possible that the guy up that crane's little cabin is going to hear all about it later - because the glow of a cigarette is not at all hard to spot when you know what you're looking for, and you have the right gear with which to look. This is not very professional behaviour -- Felix would have been very, very unimpressed. If this guy was First Nations, this would be the time to make a bad and probably racist joke that his name should be changed to Sitting Duck.

It's possible that these guys just aren't very pro. More likely, they're expendable.

"Don't happen to have a long rifle with a really, really good silencer or a heavy-pull crossbow in that purse of yours do you?" Seth inquires to the leggy blonde next to him as he keeps his eyes on the spotter in the crane. "I don't see a good way around him without taking him out, but we could try to sneak around and see what comes of it."

Making a mental mark of the spot on the crane the spotter is, Seth does another sweep of the grounds ahead paying close attention to the roofline, and also double-checking the rockin' car. "Maybe if we keep low and keep the cars between us and the guy on the crane. The glow from the cig is going to night-blind him and might give us an edge. He deserves to be shot for being an idiot."

Vic squints in the darkness and holds her hand out for the scope. "Or I could slam his head into the side of the crane and send him night-night." From afar nonethelesss. "If he falls though, it'll be loud and alert people inside so, your call, tiger." She hands the scope back.

Lights flicker on in another window as someone inside clearly walks around. What anyone would be doing in an old warehouse at this hour is anyone's guess; to an unsuspecting soul driving or walking by the half-abandoned industrial pier, the flickering light would likely just be presumed to be some night guard. It may well be some night guard -- whether paid to close his eyes to any illicit activities, or genuinely ignorant and indifferent. After all, nothing much happens in sleepy Gray Harbor.

Or so the Veil-sanctioned story goes, anyhow.

A light up there in the crane prescribes a slow arc as a cigarette is dropped -- probably accidentally. It falls, from the crane cabin towards the blackish water below, where a small cargo ship lies at berth. The guy up there is either extremely careless or signaling somebody.

It takes some form of an effort to be careless enough to drop a lit cigarette without meaning to. Sure, it could be a coincidence but Seth doesn't play the odds like that. That makes for dead enforcers. At the dropping of the cig, the Irishman remains still and does another sweep of the parking lot, crane, and window to see if there is anything suspicious that may have changed at what he is thinking is a signal to someone.

"If you can take him out, do it," says Seth with a hint of conviction. "Better if you can hold onto him, or at least get him so he doesn't fall, but I know that is a big ask."

Insomnia is bad enough. Adding coffee to that mix? Bad juju

Vic holds up a hand slowly, and she sends that unseen physical force out and upwards, scaling the crane with a thought, to grab and twist the collar of the lookout's shirt around his throat, hoping to choke him out quickly, but struggling to get a good grip. She grunts, an indication to Seth it's not going as planned.

If ever in someone's life there was a time to actually be grateful they were wearing a cheap Made in China synthetic, now is it. The shirt moves as Vic directs it -- it's just that it tears at the seam, too. The guy in the crane is definitely neutralised insofar that when a shirt is tightened around his neck long enough he eventually passes out; but getting there takes more effort than it should, and he manages several loud yelps and a fair bit of trashing about first.

Noise, which is heard below. On the deck of the ship at berth a dog begins to bark. Another joins it. And then a third. From the sounds of them, they're large dogs -- definitely not the shut up or I will punt you over the railing like a cheap football size.

The light moving from one window to another in the warehouse comes to a halt; the night guard -- or whatever they are -- stops. Possibly to listen -- possibly to check in with someone else on a cell phone.

On the ship, a door slams open and somebody yells at the dogs. The language is not English or Spanish; the intent is clear though -- stop that fucking racket, you stupid mutts.

The rocking car stops rocking. A door opens and a man emerges, zipping up his pants as he does. He's either been alone in there and having some very sweet alone time, or the other person decides to stay put. He reaches for a cell phone in a pocket, looking around -- but his focus is on the warehouse. It's a moment of indecision all around (except for the crane spotter -- he's a little too busy turning blue to be indecisive about much).

Then a roar of a powerful engine tears through the hushed quiet and lights flare up like a thousand suns; a big pickup truck tears into the yard of the warehouse, lights on, and overhead lights too -- almost as if the intention is to take everyone there by very blinded surprise. "Time to rock and roooooll!" somebody yells -- in very legible, if rather drunken English.

\Seth glances over at Vic, and then look to the crane through the scope again with a sigh. "Well," he says as the dogs start to bark, "So much for quiet." He doesn't seem mad at the situation, or Vic, just resolved to the fact that things may have just gotten more complicated.

He remains still, to see what response the noise of the dog's barking cause, moving the scope to the known points of interest. The window, the car, the boat. What he doesn't expect is the truck and its high-wattage lights turning on while he is looking through the night vision scope.

"Fuck!" he exclaims as he tears the scope from his now-blinded right eye. Hope that isn't permanent, he would hate to have to rock an eyepatch. He passes the scope over to Vic as he rubs the affected eye, "What the hell was that? What is going on?"

Vic drops her hold on the watchman as he finally loses consciousness. She grabs the scope and Seth's arm, hauling them both back into the shadows where the truck's lights don't reach. "Not sure, but they sound drunk. Might be random aggro a-holes. Might be something else."

That car might have been whom the spotter was signaling somebody about, dropping that cigarette. Or it might have been coincidence. Just as it's surely coincidental that five or six people suddenly appear in the darkened warehouse windows. Definitely one of those 'sneeze and someone will start shooting' situations. Definitely one of those situations where the guys in the pickup thought they were going to be roughing up some other assholes, but the assholes saw them coming.

This of course begs the obvious question: Who are all these assholes, and why do they think they get to play turf war here?

Somebody calls out in that foreign language.

Somebody else calls him a fucktard piece of Russian shit in English.

Yet another somebody yells back in broken English, "That's Serbian shit to you, шупак!"

The discussion goes a little downhill from there. No one wants to fire the first shot. No one wants the other group to walk away unharmed. From the point of view of two actual professionals, it's beyond pathetic and into the territory of look, somebody needs to tell these guys they're out past their bedtime. Some of the boys in that pickup don't look old enough to be able to violate a parole yet.

Neither enforcer is unprofessional enough to focus their attention solely on the argument about to turn into some kind of fist fight. As always in a situation like this, there's a chance that all of this is a distraction -- or that something goes pear-shaped, and before you know it, somebody's shot some kid and the night is full of blue lights and sirens.

The door of the car that was rocking until a moment ago slips open and very, very quietly, a small figure slips out. From the form and shape of the figure it is a woman, diminutive of size, wearing very little -- sneaking across the yard as best she can, clutching a few pieces of discarded clothes to her chest and probably praying to any kindly powers that be that she isn't noticed. She heads towards the pier and the ship although for a moment -- just one moment, but one that speaks loudly -- she hesitates and looks at the road leading away. Then she sighs and pads on towards the boat, with the air and body language of a dog that's been beaten too many times to dare disobey even in her mind.

Seth gives Vic a side eye with his one good eye, still rubbing at the one that was blinded by the light. "Wonderful, " he mutters as he listens to the various languages he hears, "Do you understand any of that? Slavik languages are not my forte."

The enforcer takes another glance up over the cover and watches the show from the cover of darkness, specifically the girl. "I think we have some of the merchandise we are to set loose down there, V. Fuck, what I wouldn't give for a well placed...RPG right no..." He pauses mid-speech, looking over at the cars and sighs. "If we didn't have to be so quiet I would just blow the damn gas tanks and take all those guys out."

"Fraid not. I know Spanish because of working undercover in the Mexican cartels. Serbian is not on my skills list," Vic whispers. She follows the progress of the girl as well, frowning. "Or, we could let these idiots attack each other while we go onto the ship and get the merchandise off. If there's thin points between here and there, we can maybe sneak right by on the Other Side." She opens up her Glimmer sense to look for any thin points around them within a one block radius.

The fight-about-to-happen isn't going anywhere (in part because not counting that newly arrived pickup truck, the spark plugs of every car present is in Vic's pocket). There's probably going to be a fair bit of posturing if this goes like turf clashes tend to go -- young toughs yelling at each other, mocking each other like some ancient Inuit dance battle where the man packing the best string of smears wins. Somebody might escalate it to a shoot-out; never easy to tell who's trigger happy or twitchy enough. They might aim at the sky or the car or the ground -- or at each other. One way or another, these things are always a clusterfuck in the making, better avoided by anyone who has any kind of actual professionalism and wants to live to see retirement.

On the other hand, it's hardly a secret to Gray Harbor's small community of the preternaturally gifted that the Veil around here has the solidity of Swiss cheese. In some places it's all but non-existent -- at Gray Pond, for instance, where a careless jogger might find themselves wandering into a nightmare dimension or set upon by angry ghosts just for dashing by, or the old Lumber Mill where even the kids know to stay the hell away. The condition of the Veil around those parts is probably the exact reason those kids might hang out down here in the old industrial harbour instead when they want to make out and smoke pot.

The Veil is not too solid in the rest of the town either, though. That old pair of jeans you love and treasure because they are just so comfortable but their crotch and knees are almost see-through because of decades of wear and tear? That's the Veil around here, just with less spare change. To someone packing the kind of moving ability that Vic does, slipping in here, strolling across the street, and slipping back out there shouldn't be difficult at all. The Veil here on this pier feels much like gossamer, like old spider's web -- easy to penetrate, easy to tear aside.

Assuming, of course, that nothing else on the other side is using that little stretch of pier right now. You never know. Violence and suffering does tend to attract -- things. If that ship is full of human merchandise as might be reasonable to suspect by now, then there might very well be -- things.

One might of course argue that -- things -- might be less dangerous in their honest desire to nom on human misery than a group of enraged American thugs yelling and waving guns at a group of enraged not-American thugs.

\"You know, I forget you can do that." Seth says with a shake of his head, "The moving stuff I remember because I see you do it so often."

Blinking and testing out his eye Seth seems vaguely reassured that it is at least on the mend and should be back to full working order shortly, "I think I am ready to go when you are. Let's bypass these posers before one of them starts off a riot and lead starts flying everywhere. I don't give a shit if they kill themselves, but I don't want to catch a stray."

"Right," Vic agrees, and she moves a few yards away where there is a thin spot. She uses her hand like a knife to cut down from top to bottom, then sticks her fingertips into the wedge of glimmering light to pry it open and make a door. "Keep your head on a swivel. May be worse things on the other side. But I measure our chances are better against those things than drunken gunmen." She looks through the door to make sure they aren't walking into a dragon's mouth or some such. "Short hop, we cross the street, and come out by the boat."

It's such an eerie experience, stepping across to the Other Side. When you're sucked into a Dream you go somewhere else -- into a story, into some kind of narrative, some kind of stage set for the experience. This, on the other hand, is like shifting two degrees left of reality. It's the same place. The same smells, the same sounds, the same street, the same moon and stars. Just -- tiny differences. Such as the small black things, reminiscent of tennis-ball sized spiders, that skitter along in the shadows, more afraid of the intruders than they are. Or the seagulls, black as night, that circle overhead as if birds circling the night sky is a perfectly normal thing. Also, pay no attention to the sleek weasel-like things that hover just at the corner of one's field of vision -- they're probably just curious.

More importantly, the din of shouting in two or three languages falls quiet. The men are still there, still posturing -- but their voices are hushed and distant, like they come from very far away. They move jerkily, as if reality is a little bit out of sync with that other reality over there. Like there's a slight bit of bottleneck in an interdimensional router somewhere.

The pier and the street are empty but for the shadows of men who argue one dimension over from here. Crossing over and exiting by the ship -- a small coaster by the name of Mercantic from the looks of its prow -- should be no challenge at all. Walking up the gangplank might draw some attention if anyone over there is even remotely alert -- unless, of course, one does so from inside this strange next door reality, and exits it on the deck proper. Or, you know -- below deck, or anywhere else one desires, because this place is a sieve as far as the Veil is concerned, and Vic's bitch to boot.

Seth never seems totally comfortable moving through the veil like this. He has only done it voluntarily once when they blue up Reyes's lab. All other times he was being yanked into it, so when Vic opens the way inside he eyes it warily for a moment before taking a breath and walking through the tear in reality. He steps aside, keeping his eyes peeled for any trouble as he waits for Vic to come in, to cover her in case of any odd roaming...whatever. Once she is through, he looks at her, "Take point, since you are the one who is going to be getting us out of this place. I'll cover you."

Vic nods as she steps inside the door, and closes it behind them by reversing her motions. Then she begins trekking across the street towards the hulk of the ship, up the gangplank to the upper deck, opening an exit behind some crates so they can stay hidden as they emerge.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes watch Seth as intently as he watches them; but at least for the moment, the odd, roaming whatever weasels seem quite content to just watch. There is something intelligent in their beady little eyes -- something patient. Something very small, granted, but predator. Something that gently taps you on the shoulder and refers you to the Wikipedia page mentioning that while the ermine, smallest member of the weasel family, is barely larger than your thumb plus a tail, its bigger uncle is the wolverine.

It's quiet over there -- in the shadow dimension, and in the reality native to the two enforcers as they emerge. A couple of guys are on deck -- backs turned towards them, elbows on the railing. It's not difficult to see from the shape of their butts that there are guns tucked into those belts -- but the lookouts are clearly watching the show across the street. And why not? No one sane would expect the enemy to sneak aboard like shadow ninjas using a parallel dimension. There is only one way aboard the Mercantic and that's up that gangplank right there. In plain sight.

Obviously, neither man has the ability to look into parallel realities, nor any reason to suspect that they even exist.

It's not so difficult to get a clear overview, either. She's a small ship -- a coaster, a small merchant hauler the sort that travel up and down the coastline all the time, attracting no particular attention. Sometimes, harbour police or coast guard come for a visit to see if the paperwork is in order; not often enough that it's a genuine concern. It's the perfect smuggling vessel if you've got a cousin or friend in that very harbour police, making sure that the name doesn't come up for 'random' inspections when there's merchandise to be found.

And of course it makes sense logistically: Whatever's being moved, moving it right into Seattle would attract a lot more attention. Shipping it here, to a nearly derelict harbour in Fuckville, Nowhere, and then sending the goods in via the highway? Sucker bet.

Seth slips out of the tear in reality as quietly as possible, keeping his eyes trained on the two guards at the gangplank. He slowly withdraws his knife, settling it into his grip. If it comes to a fight, things are going to get bad, messy, and loud unless they can get the drop on them and silence them quickly. Using hand gestures, he signals a query to Vic about taking out the two at the gangplank or just going further into the ship and, hopefully, leaving conflict for sometime later.

Vic tips her chin towards the hatch leading into the ship proper. Those two goons are busy, no sense picking a fight with them until they have to, like on the way off this rat trap. She slinks through the shadows to try to get to the lower decks and the hold.

The best part about ships is that they are designed for a very harsh environment, and no one puts the door in front where every other tall wave washing over the deck would let hundreds of gallons of water in every time there was a bit of wind at sea. The doors to the lower decks -- and for that matter, the bridge -- are situated on the side. Meaning, out of sight from where the gangplank guards are hanging out to watch the show by the warehouse.

There's a lot of noise on a ship like this, even at berth. The waves, lapping against the hull. Creaking things. Every footfall ringing out loudly on the metal deck. You get used to it, on doubt -- and a sailor can probably tell in short time whether anything is wrong on board based on whether the noise sounds like it's supposed to sound. But the two goons up front are not sailors -- they're a couple of thugs with a semi-automatic each in their pants, and they're not expecting company.

It's not difficult to slip past real quiet. Seth finds it reasonably easy once he grows aware of how his sneakers need to connect with the metal grid on deck in order to not produce noise. Vic finds it easier yet -- gliding from one shadow to another with ease. One could be tempted to think that this is something these two people have done before, once or twice. Maybe this is why Felix Monaghan keeps them on his payroll. Maybe this is why Joey Kelly doesn't send ten expendables in a pickup truck.

The Mercantic is well maintained, well cared for. The door doesn't even creak when it slides open. There is no lock -- because a lock is the last thing you want to have to deal with in an emergency on board. On a merchant fleet vessel like this, the gangplank is the lock. If you get to go past that -- well, the captain's safe is locked, no doubt, and the ship's cook probably locks the pantry, but you'll never find an emergency exit that you need to break open. No one wants to drown or burn.

Maybe it's a lucky day. Maybe it's just that no one expects trouble on this side of that very gangplank. A small movement alerts both enforcers to the presence of somebody else in that corridor below the stairs, leading towards the engine room and the cargo hold (probably -- might be another flight of stairs, actually, did anyone think to bring a map?).

The girl from the parking lot is sitting there, in the dark. She's pulled her shirt and panties on at least, but in the half-light it's easy to see the bruises on her wrists and thighs. She's a small, dark-haired thing, maybe in her early twenties -- Hispanic, possibly. Curled up in a small ball of despair she just sits there, hugging herself, crying silently.

Taking an educated guess, Seth quietly speaks in Spanish <<Please be quiet, we are here to help you get out of here. We won't hurt you, but we need you to remain calm. How many more are there of you, and of them?>>

But at the same time, he tightens his grip on the knife, just in case he needs to silence her.

Vic holds a finger to her lips in a shushing motion to the girl, then she extends her mind out to touch the girl's, conveying a sense of calm and safety. The presence is like a purring great jungle cat, barely visible in the gloom, dark on dark but with bright blue eyes like the tall woman.

The terror in the woman's eyes fades -- a sight that at least Vic might find familiar from previous occasions. She does not have the shine -- just an ordinary woman whose fear is driven out by the overwhelming sense of calm that the enforcer focuses upon her. It's not much -- it probably won't last long either, but it's enough to switch a mind from sheer terror into something more coherent. Something hopeful, even.

"¿Eres la policía? Somos cinco, nos retienen en la bodega de carga. ¡Por favor ayudenos!" The woman looks from one to the other with fire in her dark eyes as she demands to know - are they the police? There are five of them, kept in the cargo hold, she adds, imploring the strange woman with the shining blue eyes to help.

She pauses. And then holds up two fingers while she adds, "Dos guardias."

Police? Sure, they will roll with that. Seth just nods to the woman, <<Stay here. We will get you and your friends out. You will be safe soon, remain here.>>

Seth swaps the knife out for his sidearm, slipping it from the holster on his side and readying it in his hand before reaching into one of the pockets of his tac vest and produces a sound suppressor which he starts to attach to the barrel of his gun. "You ready, Vic? Let's go down quiet, we have surprise on our side. If we can get them without firing a shot, all the better. I'm going to try something, but I don't know if it will work so be ready. I'm going to try and snap a neck."

The enforcer creeps forward, his movements slow and steady to try and make as little noise as possible on the floor of the ship as he creeps forwards in the direction of the hold.

" Sí, somos la policía. Quédate aquí, traeremos a los demás, luego nos iremos todos juntos," Vic whispers back to her. " Si escuchas que viene alguien, ¿puedes silbar?" she asks, before nodding to Seth and heading down to the cargo hold. She pulls her gun from her bag and screws a silencer onto the end of it. "Following your lead," she murmurs to him.

The woman nods her fervent agreement; she'll whistle if somebody comes. The hatred in her eyes burn like two little flames in the night; the marks on her body offer silent testimony as to why she doesn't bat an eyelid when the guns and the silencers come out. Does she believe that the two enforcers are the world's smallest SWAT team?

Does she care?

It's never quite dark in a ship's corridor because -- as with the doors without locks -- you need to be able to find your way and see what you're doing in an emergency. Life and death at sea can be a matter of literal minutes, and no one wants to drown or burn because they can't find the light switch, either. This works somewhat to the home team's advantage; at least they can see where they're going, and no one is going to be alerted by the light suddenly coming on somewhere it shouldn't.

A sign on the staircase leading down says 'Cargo Bay' in English -- and in Spanish, and in something that might be Russian or another language using the Cyrillic alphabet.

On the landing below, two men are standing pretty casually, each with a cigarette. They're talking -- not loudly, but also not trying to stay unheard. One has a radio clipped on to his belt. Whatever the subject is, it's being discussed in the lazy, slightly bored tones of two guys who don't expect trouble; two guys who are standing guard here because whoever's in charge of this operation said so.

Whatever language they're speaking, it's neither English nor Spanish. Maybe it doesn't matter.

There's a knocking on the cargo bay door, from the inside. A woman's voice pleads in broken syllables, clearly not mastering the language.

One man replies; one does not need to understand Serbian to get the message -- shut up, go back to sleep, be quiet.

Upon seeing the two guards, Seth stops and holds up his fist in the universal 'Stop, we got something' signal, pointing ahead and holding up two fingers. He points to himself, then to the guard on the right to indicate this is the guard he is going to try for, leaving the other for Vic to handle herself.

Taking a deep breath, Seth looks to the guard on the right and concentrates, a second later there is an audible snap as something gives way in the guard's neck and it arches at an awkward angle. It might not be the severed spine the enforcer was going for, but maybe it was enough to put the guy out just due to the shock of it. Let's just hope he doesn't scream.

Vic levels her weapon at the other thug and pulls the trigger, hoping to shut him down fast as well.

One moment you're standing there, discussing the latest Superliga wins and losses (it's a soccer thing, they're big on this in Europe), thinking about how your shift is ending soon and you get to retire to your bunk with a beer and a skin mag. Sure, Pavel said on the radio there's some shit going down up there but that's not your headache -- you're just going to mind your own fucking business, and then go to bed. They don't pay you enough to think.

And then, suddenly, your collarbone is coming out your ear -- or at least that's what it feels like. Or you're being knocked down with that strangely delayed oomph of hitting the ground first and then realising that the warmth and the punch is hot lead.

Mihail wants to scream. He really does. He probably pictures himself screaming as he curls up and sinks into oblivion. The amount of physical therapy he's going to need for that neck injury is immense. Mihail honestly should find a better job.

Andrei does too. Want to scream, that is -- it's just that the shock of the bullet impact sends him reeling, head first, into the wall. He glides down it much in the fashion of a wet dish rag hitting a wall, whimpering very quietly.

All in all, if these guys are the Russian mob, then the Russian mob is vastly and severely overrated.

Glancing over to Vic with a smile, and a chuckle, "You shot him? Really? Hell, I could have done that...I was trying for something different. I assumed you would do your own kinda whammy."

Seth continues to chuckle and shake his head as he makes his way down the stairs, using the moment to silence Mihal and Andrei forever with a shot each to the brain matter. "Let's get the girls and get out of here. We still have to head to Spokane."

Vic presses her gun to Andrei's skull and pulls the trigger to finish him. There are a few types of people in the world that the former police detective has ZERO qualms about murdering outright, and human traffickers are at the top of that list. She then sweeps her hand out to telekinetically YANK the bullet remains out of the victim and pocket them. Nice to be untraceable, and always good to have a forensic expert on the side of the criminals.

She grins at Seth. "He is a human trafficker. I don't want to waste time or energy on people like that."

Leaving evidence? Well, technically, a couple of dead bodies are evidence. It's tempting, sometimes, to think about how the Veil will rationalise away an incident. One of these men clearly suffered severe neck trauma before both of them were shot -- except that there is no ballistic evidence. What killed them? Cosmic radiation? Very small meteors that can open doors and fly down to the lower decks before impact? .303 bookworms?

Maybe it's better to leave this to the coroner. The Gazette will publish whatever narrative that seems the most plausible. Natural deaths, maybe? Acute onset botulism? Maybe the health inspector will have a thing or two to say about the Mercantic's kitchen.

The door that the two men were guarding is not locked, see above mentions of why locked doors on ships is generally considered a really bad idea. With both men down for the count and leaking blood and brain matter all over the floor, it's mostly a matter of stepping around said puddles in order to not leave foot prints that can be used to identify anyone's shoes. A careless kid playing gangsta might make this mistake; a couple of pros do not. Turning the bolt to open the door reveals --

-- darkness, at first. It's a cargo hold, certainly -- dark, damp, and echoing. The smell is not fantastic -- sweat, clothes that could do with a wash, a bit of mold, and an underlying aroma hinting that the cargo hold has a bucket rather than a functional water closet.

There are five pairs of eyes in there, in the dark, reflecting the light that streams in from the door as it is pushed open. Five pairs of eyes -- some brown, some blue -- in the faces of young women of several ethnicities. All of them look haunted. All of them look terrified in that shut-down way of people who know that they have hit rock bottom, and there is no way to descend further. None of them are properly dressed -- bare feet, panties, and a t-shirt is all that they get, probably to discourage anyone from somehow sneaking off. It's a pretty safe bet that their papers, if they have any, are locked away in the captain's safe somewhere.

The sight before Seth makes him grit his teeth. Yeah, he may do some less than savory things in his line of work, but human trafficking is a hard line he won't cross. <<Remain quiet. We are here to get you out, but you need to keep quiet so we don't alert the other guards.>> he spits off in Spanish.

Turning to Vic, "We need an exit strategy. I don't think hauling these five across the veil is going to work, and I don't think we can swim out of here either, but however we do it I am scuttling this boat once we are off it."

Vic gestures Seth around the blood to avoid leaving prints. Not that they likely won't trash these outfits entirely in the fire just in case. Having a former detective in your criminal organization results in very little forensic evidence being left behind to tie the group to crimes. She picks her way carefully into the 'cell' and scowls at the condition of the girls. Her senses reach out, feeling along the ship. "Fuckers have no lifeboats either." She takes a long moment and then grunts. "Get them up on deck, onto a pallet or in one of the containers the crane can clip to. I'm going to get their papers then we're swinging them off here. You need to take out those other two guards topside, love."

She checks her weapon. "Have the first girl we saw coordinate them if you can, they trust her. I'll meet you on deck in a few." Then she is off, heading towards the captain's safe.

Five girls -- six if you count the one standing guard. Two of whom stop flat in the door at the sight of the bodies, rapidly bleeding out. Blood pools on the metal floor, along with, uh, other bits. It smells funny. It's definitely not ketchup, and it's definitely not a movie effect. Two girls do exactly what you'd expect two terrified girls to do: They start to scream. The other three quickly clamp hands over mouths -- their own and those of their two rattled companions.

"Putos pendejos," one sneers under her breath.

"Fucking karma," another replies.

"Гори у паклу." Not all of them are Hispanic.

The two most terrified girls are silenced; somewhat forcedly, granted, but it works. Seth's message was clear enough to the three that didn't panic, and they'll make the two others comply one way or another. No one is staying here willingly. The girl that was appointed sentry gives a thumbs up. Whatever that's supposed to mean. Maybe just that the hallway is clear.

The Mercantic is not a large ship; even by the standards of a coaster, she is small and probably approaching derelict. One doesn't need a map and a compass to find one's way on board; you got the bridge on the top deck, you got the cargo hold down below, and in between, there's the deck containing everything else -- crew quarters, galley, pantry, the works. Ship like this? The captain probably has an office, possibly even a bunk in his office if he fancies his privacy. Either way, it's that way, up that staircase, and to the left.

Same way to the exterior, where one might presume that those two guys are still watching the fight or prelude to a fight going on the dock.

Six girls look to Seth for directions. "Give me a knife, I'll fucking stab them," one suggests in a strong midwestern accent.

Seth nods to Vic once in agreement. "Right. I'll go up and take care of those two, you go get the safe," he repeats just to make sure that they are on the same page and there is no miscommunications. Withdrawing his pistol from his shoulder holster again he looks to the now six ladies that huddle together near the stairs, <<Stay here. I am going to go clear a path.>> he says first in Spanish and then turns to the one speaking English, a small smile forming on his lips as he withdraws his knife from its sheath and offers it over hilt first. "I appreciate the offer, but it could be a mess up there and the last thing I want to do is get you killed in this rescue...so just stay here and keep them safe. I'll signal when the coast is clear."

Quietly, he makes his way back upstairs towards the door that he entered in from, gun at the ready in case he stumbles upon a guard.

Vic looks to the feisty girl with new appreciation, but adds to Seth's words. "No, you need to be the victim here, so the police protect you. Don't give them a reason not to." She nods to Seth and then quickly and quietly begins picking her way to the Captain's office.

On the deck above, two guys are still leaning against the railing, watching the arguing on the dock. The bulges at their backs are obvious; there are semi-automatics tucked into those belts, and they are obviously sentries -- pretty poor sentries, all things considered, because while no, they didn't have much chance of spotting people slipping past inside the Veil, they ought to have noticed the commotion below when the bodies dropped and two of the girls cried out.

It's just that the fight in there is interesting. It's not possible to see everything from here -- the pickup truck with the lights drove into the yard of the derelict warehouse across the pier, after all -- but the shouting is easy enough to hear. It feels like maybe half an hour, maybe more, that the show began -- but in reality it's been only a matter of minutes. Those guys over there are probably still working their way through various great ape postures and chest thumpings in order to decide whether they really want to make a shoot-out out of this, or they should just call it an evening, tell each other a nice fuck you, and bugger off while the buggering is still good.

And maybe notice those missing spark plugs. But that's a realisation yet to come.

This is good news as far as Seth is concerned. One might compare two guys with their backs turned and their attention elsewhere to shooting fish in a barrel.

Upstairs, Vic is not quite as lucky. Finding her way to the captain's quarters -- honestly, it's a broom closet with a bunk and a safe, and a sorry excuse for a very small desk -- is not difficult. The first door leads to the galley. The next, to a room of communal bunks. The third, bingo. It's just that the man himself seems to be asleep in his bunk, a fact which may complicate retrieving anything from the room.

Or make it easier. After all, it is easier to ask a man for the safe combination than try to guess it.

Taking cover behind the crates that they arrived behind, Seth takes a knee and braces his arms on the top of the crate. Slowly he takes a deep breath in, lining up his sights on the first sentry's head, and exhales slowly. Once all his breath is out he squeezes the trigger quickly twice and then quickly adjusts the sights over to the second sentry to fire twice again. Thankfully the suppressor will conceal the muzzle flash and most of the sound, hopefully enough so the people arguing down in the parking lot won't hear it.

Vic creeps into the Captain's Quarters, as they are, and reaches out with her Mover Art to attempt to slip the tumblers of the safe's locking mechanism with a simple thought, then open it from the doorway, and pull its contents out and into her hand, then into her bag of holding. Money, paperwork, anything in there? Is now her property. Or well, Joey's by way of Felix.

Sitting ducks become lying ducks. Inasmuch it's ever easy to take a human life, this is almost embarrassingly easy. These guys clearly did not even consider the idea that somebody might get on the Mercantic unnoticed -- the idea simply doesn't exist. Any threat will have to make it up the gangplank in full view. Alternatives are not considered because there are no alternatives (technically, you could rope down from a chopper overhead, obviously, but that might not go unnoticed either).

These two guys are not going to be helping anyone sell women into modern day slavery again.

The captain of the ship might be. Provided his masters -- Russian mob or other East European grouping -- decides to let him live. Maybe he will be able to come up with an explanation that's believable enough. He'll only need to explain four casualties, no one seeing a thing, and the merchandise escaping along with their passports, stolen literally right under his nose.

Well. Above his nose. The safe is in the wall, above the bunk. Not helping.

Small noises behind Seth indicate that the girls are moving up to the deck. The Hispanic girl and the Midwestern girl seem to have taken charge between them; they've got one knife between them but six firm desires to claw out the eyes of anyone trying to herd them back to their cargo hold. At least they're smart enough to slink across the deck in the shadows, towards the hitman. A couple of them still look very green, and the Hispanic girl hisses at them -- something about getting your fucking act together -- when they spot the fresh bodies and gasp.

With the sentries down, Seth motions to the women coming up from the hold over towards the crane and aforementioned pallet. "Get on the pallet," he says in both English and then in Spanish as he keeps watch on the deck, covering the girls as they make their way over to one of the pallets/crates. "Once my partner is back, we will swing you off the boat and onto the dock over away from this place. From there, you will be free of this mess."

Vic takes not just their papers, but the ship's papers. Good luck getting into or out of any harbor without them, Captain Cocknocker. Also a lovely thing the police will be glad to tack onto things when they come investigate. Which they will. If a gunfight doesn't break out, she'll drop an anonymous tip to Ruiz.

She retreats back through the ship, and up to the deck, casually reclaiming the slugs from the bodies of Seth's victims to not leave anything for ballistics to match. Then she moves to the girls and the pallet. She hands the passports to the first girl they encountered, who seems to be handling things best. She can distribute them. She explains to her in English and Spanish, "On the other side, there is a road leading out. Take it to the HOPE Center. They will help you there."

Then she reaches out with her Glimmer to manually work the crane's controls from a distance. She maneuvers the arm , clip it to the pallet, and raise the arm to swing it over to the dock. Winch, hoist, swing the boom, not all that complicated. Especially since she got a real good look at a few in her days in Portland.

Welcome to Gray Harbor, everything is fine. That's literally what it says on the sign off the freeway, and sure enough, when you've lived here for some time, you start to kind of believe it. Nothing really is unusual when everything is unusual. Those six girls clinging to a pallet as a crane swings them from the deck of a small merchant fleet coaster, over the pier and the black water below, and then on to the next pier? One of them has her eyes clenched shut; the others have eyes like dinner plates. They're probably all going to need some serious therapy after this -- adventure -- but some day, there's going to be grandmothers telling stories about that time Granny flew to freedom; in Spanish, English, and Serbian.

None of them are careless enough to make a peep. None of them hesitate to take off at full speed the instant they're out of sight, either. Whether they'll turn up in Spruce Street in panties and a t-shirt in a few hours? Heaven only knows. But wherever they're going, it's not the Mercantic's intended destination, and it can only be an improvement. They have their passports. Hopefully, none of them end up detained on other charges.

The deck is quiet once the girls are gone. Evidence? Four bodies, with no bullets and no prints. No sign of forced entry anywhere. No witnesses (unless any of those girls talk). Some eight or ten cars that seem to all be missing their spark plugs; who knows? Maybe Rosencrantz' garage will be gaining new customers, maybe folks will fix it themselves real quiet.

All that remains to be done is to disappear, and hope that those stolen papers from the captain's safe will provide a name and an address in Spokane.

Seeing Vic show up with the paperwork, Seth assumes that everything went smoothly up with the Capitan. Once the girls are off and away, Seth looks to Vic and nods in satisfaction. "Get ready to open a way out of here, because I am about to set a fire in the engine room. Without anyone around to put it out, it should tear through this deathtrap with no effort at all." Seth did say he was going to scuttle this thing.

Vic nods to Seth once the girls are away, and she opens up another door into the Veil for their own escape. This will no doubt be boggling to many, how all of this happened, but Ruiz will likely have his suspicions. With no proof though? Not much he can do about it. Considering the circumstances, would he even want to? There is a definite line between humans and sub-humans, and sex traffickers are the latter in her mind.

"Captain is asleep. Fuck em."

It takes a while for the fire to take. Not because Seth doesn't know how to start one but because apparently, the one thing that actually works as intended on this rusting old tub is the sprinkler system. Take that out, though, and sure enough, fire happens. The Irishman has a natural affinity for fire that goes deeper than the colour of his hair. Once the fire takes, it's all but explosive. Not because the Mercantic is hauling a secret of cargo of C4 -- but because she is old and poorly maintained, and there's plenty dirt, old leaked oil and chemical stains, and random clutter lying around for fire to really take and spread.

The people arguing at the warehouse turn, of course, when the sudden rage of fire billows towards the night sky. They respond as humans will; some run for cover -- others simply run -- and quite a lot of them end up running only after realising that their cars sure as hell aren't going anywhere. No one has time to argue or fight. Somebody, apparently, thinks to call 911 -- but probably not until they themselves are far enough away to not end up taken in as a witness or otherwise having to explain their presence.

A phone call is made as even as the industrial harbour lights up with the flashing blue lights of emergency responders rushing to put out the fire on board the coaster before it reaches the fuel tanks. One side of it goes something like this, except not in English.

"Have no fucking idea what happened, man. Suddenly these cats come out of nowhere, telling us we're on their turf -- and then the fucking ship catches fire. Those assholes were a distraction."
"Yeah, I know. Look, I lost four sailors -- the EMTs are bringing out the body bags. No, they sure as fuck didn't burn to death but no one saw a thing. Captain's a goner as well, don't think he even made it out of his cabin."
"The girls? We don't know yet. If they're still on board, I'm banking on the smoke getting 'em. No way out of that cargo hold."
"Anything weird? Apart from the whole thing? I'll ask the boys if they saw anything or anyone."

Meanwhile, a couple of blocks over, a man in a denim jacket and a red bandana lights a cigarette and thinks to himself, I could have sworn I saw two people on that deck when the fire rose up like a column on the deck. There one moment, gone the next. Like badass action movie heroes -- walking away from the fire without looking back. I gotta have imagined that 'cause no one walked off that ship alive.