7. Special K Doesn’t Get Permission

Chapter seven

Special K Doesn't Get Permission

D oolittle leaned against the car in the parking lot behind Sal's Bodega. He'd gone in to get the bread and was now breaking it up and tossing it on the ground while the bird who helped us stuffed himself. I, on the other hand, was on the phone with SPAM HQ. Doolittle insisted we get permission before infiltrating the property in question. Unfortunately, April, who I was speaking with, didn't take the word of our feathered friend as enough probable cause.

"Not probable cause? But did you read my report? Doolittle filled out the paperwork yesterday."

"Yes, but the dots are not connecting here, Special K. There is no reason to suspect people on a property means they are up to no good. You just need more than that, honey." I wasn't sure how to take this April person. She hadn't supplied her rank or her security clearance level. But she bossed me around like she knew everything, and I wasn't sure if she was patronizing me or being sweet.

"No, the bird said they're loading people into boxes, crates, maybe shipping containers."

"That's not what you reported. Chickens into boxes? That is not human trafficking. That's KFC."

"April, with all due respect, he said the people were like chickens. Passive and easily—"

"Still not evidence."

"Yes, ma'am." I clicked off before the conversation went deeper. I trusted my gut, and my gut said I was right. Fuck April, whoever she was.

Doolittle tossed the last of the bread and brushed his hands off by sliding them together. "So you got a big fat no." I glared at him. "I suppose you want to do it anyway?"

I threw my arms up. "What else do we do?"

"If we get caught, we'll be in a lot of trouble."

"So, maybe we don't get caught." I stared at the bird, still pecking at the last of the bread. "Maybe this guy can be our lookout?"

Doolittle smirked. "Yo, Dove-face."

The bird made an uncharacteristic noise. I'd never heard a pigeon make that sound. "What did he say?"

"He didn't like what I called him. His bird buds call him Dark Gray One Who Hangs Out At The Docks."

"That's really long. Can we call him Docks?"

"Apparently, that works. Docks, can you keep an eye out for us? Yes, yes. More bread. Doesn't that go without saying? Sheesh." Doolittle shook his head. "Making deals seems to be a thing with Docks."

"Then we have a deal?" I asked, needing clarification since I only had one side of the conversation.

"Yep. Let's go before I change my mind. Follow us back over there, Docks." Then he cursed under his breath as he got in the car.

"What was all that?"

"He's a bit of a smart ass. He doesn't need to follow us, knows where he's going. Whatever." Doolittle actually rolled his eyes. "At least he isn't shitting on me again."

"You did come through with the bread." As if that was the entire explanation. Maybe it was because Doolittle didn't argue, and so far, I'd found he liked to argue with everything or at least bitch about it.

We parked the car at the gas place and walked over to the other property. Docks told Dolittle there was a small break in the bushes we could go through rather than the front entrance, which seemed smarter. But I sure as hell wished I wore boots like his instead of sneakers. I kept picking up stickers and other types of hitchhikers on my shoes and pants. My laces were ensnared by the time we broke out of the brush.

Doolittle yanked my arms, dragging me down beside where he knelt. He pointed at the people between the warehouse building and the series of shipping crates. They were milling around, but not in a normal way. Docks had been right, though I would have said they were like zombies rather than chickens. They swayed back and forth in a shambling walk and didn't talk to each other. Doolittle elbowed me and pointed across to the far side of the building. Two tall guys with long hair, so blond it was almost white, stood beside each other. They were looking at a tablet and pointing at some people as if picking them out. They could have been doing anything, really. Maybe I was reading into things again, but I was pretty sure I was right.

My suspicions were confirmed when a third white-blond guy came out of the building and opened one of the containers. Then, they started directing people into the open box. Yep, they were loading these people into shipping containers. And those zombie-chicken people matched the basic description of the missing people.