The Night Crew

‘‘Shit.’’
    Ahead of them, the women carrying the garbage can were jerking and twisting down the driveway, doing the media polka—looking for the cameras, running for the lights, trying to stay away from the guards.
    The raiders had gone into the back of the building, over a loading dock; the dock was contained inside a fence, with a concrete patio big enough for fifteen or twenty cars. At least a dozen women, all masked, milled around the patio; then a man ran out of the medical building, carrying a small, squealing, black-and-white pig. Then another woman, carrying boxes, or maybe cages.
    As the truck settled, as Bee yelped, Anna was out and running, the Nagra banging against her leg. Jason was two steps behind her with the backup Sony, and Creek was out the driver’s door, his camera up on his shoulder, off to Anna’s left. Bee, a little out of shape, sputtered in their wake.
    Then Creek lit up and Anna yelled at the man with the pig, ‘‘Bring the pig. Bring the pig this way . . . Bring the pig.’’ The man saw them coming and walked toward them, and she had the Nagra’s mike pointed at the squealing pig and Jason lit up.
    The security guards saw the camera lights and the first one turned to the man trailing, yelled something to the other, who ran back up the hill. The first one continued down, and shouted at Creek, ‘‘Hey, no cameras here, no cameras.’’
    A group of masked women headed toward him, walled him off from the rest of the milling crowd, pushed him toward the ramp. Frustrated, he climbed up the loading dock and hurried to the open door. Just as he was about to go through the door, he jumped back, and a young man in a blue oxford cloth shirt and jeans ran out of the building and headed toward the lights.
    Anna said to the microphone, her voice calm, even, ‘‘Creek, there’s a kid coming in, watch him. Jason, stay with the pig.’’
    Creek backpedaled. When Anna spoke into his ear, he’d looked up from his eyepiece and spotted the kid in the blue shirt: trouble, maybe. Trouble made good movies. The kid was striding toward them, a dark smear under his nose, one hand cupping his jaw. He seemed to be crying.
    ‘‘They were gonna kill this pig, for nothing—for soap tests or something, shampoo,’’ the masked pig-man shouted at Jason’s camera. The pig was freaking out, long shrieking bleats, like a woman being stabbed. ‘‘She’s gonna live now,’’ pig-man shouted, as the pig struggled against him. ‘‘She’s gonna live.’’
    The patio was chaos, with the cameras and the pig-man, the women with cages, all swirling around: Blue shirt arrived and Anna saw that he was crying, tears running down his cheeks as Creek tracked him with the lens. The dark smear was blood, which streamed from his nose and across his lips and chin.
    ‘‘Give me that pig,’’ he screamed, and he ran at the pigman. ‘‘Gimme that.’’ The animal women blocked him out, not hitting him, just body blocking. Both Creek and Jason tracked the twirling scrum while Anna tried to stay out of their line; she kept the Nagra pointed, picking up the overall noise, which could be laid back into the tape later, if needed.
    The Bee caught Anna’s arm: ‘‘He’s just a flunky, forget him,’’ she shouted, over the screams and grunting of the struggle. ‘‘But we’re gonna do the mice now. Get the mice, in the garbage cans.’’
    The women with the blue garbage can were waiting their turn with the lights, and Anna spoke into the mike again: ‘‘Jason, get out of there. Go over to that blue garbage can, it’s full of mice, they’re gonna turn them loose.’’ Jason took a step back, lifted his head, spotted the garbage can. ‘‘Creek, stay with the kid,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Stay with the kid.’’
    As Jason came up, the women with the garbage can, who’d been waiting, popped the lid and tipped it, and two hundred or three hundred mice, some black, some white, some tan, scurried down the sides and ran out onto the patio, looked around and headed for the nearest piece of cover.
    Jason hung close and then the kid in the blue shirt went that way, screaming, ‘‘Gimme those,’’ and, sobbing, tried to corral the mice. They were everywhere, running over his feet, over his hands, avoiding him, making the break. He finally gave up and slumped on the ground, his head in his hands, the mice all around.
    Jeez: this is almost too good,
    Anna thought. As Creek tracked him, the Bee came back