Illegal Immigrant

The small container ship made its own way down the American River towards the city of Sacramento. It once had a name and had set off on its maiden voyage many moons before. Now, it was unknown to whom actually owned it and seemed to be cast adrift of its own accord; a ghost ship with no motive. Well, almost.

Deep in the hold, a shadow remained motionless, cross-legged upon the cold steel floor of a Spartan chamber. Upon the floor was a slightly curved knife, its inner edge razor sharp and designed with one purpose; to kill, a natural extension of its owner.

The Sacramento Police Marine Division swarmed the container with fast response vessels, each with bright stab lights and a number of officers preparing to board. Armed with semi-automatic weapons and years of intense training, the officers stormed the ship, yelling “Police!” at every opportunity and moving in precise, two-officer teams. They searched the ship in spectacular fashion.

The knife disappeared beneath the jacket and as the shadow heard the cries of a well-trained force, it rose and darkened the room, manipulating the light to an extent that it could move unnoticed. A small cry emanated from the corner of the room, stifled by the shadow’s hand in a flash. “Not yet, little one,” it said with a whisper in a language not English. “Soon, you will be free.”

“Police! Come out with your hands in the air!” the rookie called, his adrenaline pumping. His 9-mm held out in front of his body in a textbook manner, the rookie strayed too far ahead of his partner in his rush to get the job down. Going further into the ship than anyone, the newbie was determined to make an arrest. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the hold seemed to lose light but he pushed through anyway, determined to get a result.

The shadow detached from the wall as the young and armed police officer passed him by, focused on the dimming light. He tapped his torch, assuming the batteries were going dead. “How ironic,” the shadow thought. The officer reached the chamber and dropped his gun, a small cut appearing on his wrist, forcing his hand to open. As he turned, the rookie froze.

“What happened?” the sergeant asked upon arrival. The container had been secured at the docks and had been searched from end to end, top to bottom. “Well, sir, it appears the ship had some Indians onboard, illegally attempting to gain entry into the city. No sign of any crew; must have jumped ship up river.” The seen it all, run of the mill cop sighed before handing over his notepad. “We got about 30 stowaways in the hold, found by Baker. He’s receiving some medical attention to a small laceration on his hand.” The cop then stopped, his brows frowning, waiting for the sergeant to read the pad.
“What’s this here,” the sergeant asked, pointing towards the last entry with a question mark. “Baker saying something about ‘the light going out and seeing a flash of teeth, very briefly?”
“Yeah, not sure about that, sir. Seems he got a bit carried away, his first bust and all. He can’t quite remember what happened, but it must have been one of the illegals. That’s what I’ve put it down as, anyway.” The sergeant shrugs and hands back the notepad.

Fifty yards away, Jayant Nagaraj makes his way out of the docks and into the city of Sacramento, ready to lend his services to any who’s Requiem he believes is worthy.