The back streets leading up to the coast are only dimly lit by the moon’s eerie glow as we park the motorbike and start walking. There are lamp posts here and there, but most of them have long burned out, never to be replaced by the public officials who regard this area of town as a sort of lost cause. And the bulbs that remain with just a spark of life only flicker weakly, lending less light and more ominous atmosphere to our nocturnal mission.
We parked a few blocks away just off the road because the motorcycle engine is not exactly stealthy — you can hear it coming from miles away. Anyway, this time of night there aren’t a whole lot of vehicles or people passing through this area, so we’d stand out even in my much quieter rental. Not to mention the fact that both the local cops and the feds will definitely keep an eye out for motorcyclists at this point. They know we’re onto them, and if they’re smart they also know that we won’t give up just because they rattled the Club up a little bit with those interrogations. And we can’t risk blowing our cover, not tonight.
We’re going in to check out the abandoned docks where we heard suspicious sounds earlier, to find out what the hell could possibly be going on there. I mean, they are abandoned, so nothing should be going on there at all.
Leon and I are walking softly, keeping close together, our eyes peeled, searching for any hints of danger or discovery. I feel like I’m still glowing from our moonlit tryst earlier, but I try to keep my head calm despite the giddy butterflies flitting around in my stomach. It’s ridiculous how even in a high-stakes, gritty situation like this I am still so distracted by how much I like Leon. How intensely his touch affects me.
He makes me come alive like nothing else does.
And he takes me to places I’ve never been — even though we’re physically in the same town we both grew up in. It’s so strange to me how new and unfamiliar my hometown is when I’m traipsing through it with Leon. He gives me a new perspective on everything, showing me both the dark, terrifying underbelly of the city and the passionate, defiant camaraderie of those who fight against it. It’s just like a movie, and he’s the star.
Which might just make me the love interest.
Well, if that’s the case, I sure as hell hope I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t feel like one, not anymore. At Leon’s side I feel powerful, like an electric current is buzzing through my veins and heightening my senses. With one simple touch of his hand, I transform into a spy, a secret agent, an action heroine. I love it.
Gone is the Cherry LaBeau of New York City, the girl who holed up in her loft and dashed off shallow, insignificant gossip and fashion articles for a paycheck. Gone is the high-maintenance, high-life, high-rise Park Avenue princess who was afraid to get her hands dirty. I don’t resent that girl, and I know deep down she will always be a part of me, and I will look back fondly on those years I spent prancing through the Big Apple without a care in the world. But now there’s a new Cherry, and she’s one tough broad. She can run with the wolves. She fights for what’s right, even when it’s hard. She isn’t afraid of getting down in the mud and getting filthy when need be.
I like the new Cherry a lot. I think I’m gonna keep her.
“Shh, look,” Leon whispers, holding out his arm to halt me, then pointing up ahead a ways. I squint in the darkness to make out the movements of several black vehicles, glinting ever so subtly in the moonlight. Black sedans. The feds are here.
But that’s not all… there are several vans, too. Gray, nondescript, unmarked vans. They look for all the world to be exactly the kind of van your parents tell you to avoid as a kid.
“Let’s go closer,” I murmur softly. Leon shoots me an impressed look, then nods in agreement. He takes my hand and a thrill passes down my spine as he leads me onward, the two of us creeping along in the shadows of the trees and telephone poles.
As we sneak slowly and carefully closer, I’m able to make out something huge moving laboriously on the water, with long, tall beams. Leon stops me again and nudges me further off the sidewalk into a clump of brush across the street from the parking lot to the docks.
“Is that the ship?” I ask in an undertone, my heart racing. I still don’t know why in the world would there be a ship coming into the abandoned docks, but I know it can’t be for anything legal.
“Yeah. I guess it’s actually running somehow.”
“Don’t they have to, like, register that or something? You can’t just drive a big-ass boat up anywhere willy-nilly,” I hiss. Leon shakes his head and narrows his eyes, straining to look at the bizarre scene unfolding in front of us.
“See those big, black cars? That’s all the legality they need. A couple of feds to pave the way and keep the public out of their business, and even the nastiest crime boss can get his work done right under the citizens’ noses,” he replies quietly, clenching his jaw tightly.
Then I see something even stranger. It looks like the ship is pulling in and starting to unload a series of massive, heavy-duty containers, big enough to hide elephants inside.
“What the hell?” I mumble. Leon squeezes my hand.
“Come on,” he urges, “let’s go closer. If that’s what I think it is…”
His voice trails off as he pulls me along behind him. We both crouch as we bolt across the road and into the parking lot. I’m grateful that we’re both dressed in pretty dark clothing, so we don’t stand out too much in the shadowy lot. Either way, there’s not a whole lot to hide behind here, so this leg of the journey is considerably riskier. If any of those people on the docks just happen to turn around and look directly our way, they’d catch us. My heart is pounding, but somehow I still feel relatively calm. Leon makes me feel safe, even in the most dangerous of situations. We’re still a few hundred yards from where the black cars and creepy vans are parked, but I know we are essentially inside the lair of the beast right now.
There’s a dilapidated old green dumpster nearby, and Leon pulls me beside him several yards to hide behind it. I try not to gag at the musty smell, deciding it will be better for now to just… breathe through my mouth. But at least we have some kind of cover here, and we can still poke our heads around the side of the dumpster to watch what’s happening on the docks.
The vans are driving up close to where the ship has pulled in to a stop. Feds in black suits and sketchy workers in black hoodies and baseball caps stand on the docks awaiting the containers to be unloaded. I watch with bated breath as the first of these giant boxes is opened.
And my jaw drops.
I was afraid it would be filled with weapons or drugs or something. But what I see now is so much worse. Filing slowly out of the container is a huddled mass of human beings, trudging out and dragging their feet. They all look exhausted, their heads hanging and their bodies thin, dressed in ripped, stained rags. They’ve got to be immigrants, being shuffled into Bayonne for what? Hard labor? Servitude?
“Oh my God,” I breathe, starting to shiver.
Leon’s chest is heaving, breathing hard. I glance up at him to see the mingled horror, fury, and despair on his handsome face. His hands are balled into fists and he looks like he might run down to the docks and start swinging at any moment.
“It’s exactly what I feared,” he murmurs, swiping one huge hand down his face.
“Who are they? Where did they come from?” I question, tears tingling in my eyes at the sight of their bare feet and battered limbs. Some of the women are crying, and the men have distant, far-away looks on their faces.
“From all over, I’m sure. Wherever the price of human life is cheapest,” Leon snarls.
There are multiple containers, at least three from what I can tell. And sure enough, all of them are opened to reveal similarly-disheveled, malnourished, world-weary people inside. The men in suits stand by, emotionless with their hands behind their backs or crossed on their chests, like they’re simply statues-for-hire planted strategically along the docks to guard this illicit deal. And the men in hoodies guide the miserable people down the docks and into the backs of the vans. It’s a horrifying sight. I know they aren’t bringing these people here to give them a chance at a better life. They aren’t rescuing them. They’re herding them like cattle.
Probably to be used much like cattle. Used up and tossed aside.
I tear my eyes away from this heartbreaking procession to land on another sight which chills me to the bone. There are two men overlooking the whole thing with nonchalance, one of them smirking and gesturing jovially to the other. One is in a sleek black suit and tie — and I recognize him after a moment of squinting and wracking my brain.
Agent Doyle. Of course that bastard is involved.
And beside him, talking and joking with gleeful abandon, is an old, potbellied man in a tacky white suit and red tie. He oozes wealth, the kind of exorbitant, obnoxious wealth that indicates he has no intention of spending his money responsibly. He looks like the epitome of greed and selfishness, like a pig in a silk jacket and a salt-and-pepper toupee.
“Who’s that talking to Doyle?” I whisper. Leon sighs.
“Martin Chandler, the rich douchebag who owns the docks. He’s like a festering sore on this town, draining all the resources and sucking the life out of the working folk,” Leon answers with a grimace.
“Leon, what is going on here?” I ask fearfully, turning to him.
He bites his lip and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Tell me, I can take it.”
“Cherry, I — ”
Just then, he’s interrupted by a loud voice down near the docks.
A man shouts out: “Hey! Over there!” Everyone turns to look toward where the man is pointing: directly at us. We’ve been spotted.
“Shit,” Leon whispers, grabbing me so we can both duck back behind the dumpster.
One second later, there’s the deafening crack of several gunshots.