Gabe stood beside the spaceship with his arms folded, like a wall of flesh blocking the docks.
His men barely had to make an effort. Three of the five groups began backing away as soon as they saw the Community Service Team's MP5s. The Biker Gang hesitated for a few seconds, until someone beside Gabe put a military crossbow bolt through their leader's knee. The rest scattered.
As for the Snakehead Gang and the Irish Mob-they were too busy shooting at each other on a street corner to notice that the docks had already changed hands.
By the time the Service Squad threw the last few still-twitching bodies into the sea, the only sounds left on the docks were waves slapping against concrete pilings and the occasional crackle of electrical arcs across the golden spaceship's hull.
A young man in a bulletproof vest ran over and lowered his voice. "Boss, the hull's surface temperature is dropping. What should we do?"
Gabe didn't answer. He took a cigarette from the inside pocket of his suit, stuck it between his lips, lit it with a lighter, and drew deeply. Smoke streamed from his nostrils and dispersed in the dockside air.
Ah, this felt wonderful. No wonder the boss liked it so much.
"This thing won't open."
Another team member came around the side of the spaceship, holding a bent crowbar. Its tip had melted a little and was still trailing thin smoke.
"What about cutting through it?"
"The welding equipment can't get through. We're still trying."
"Then we wait here." Gabe didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the entrance to the docks. "Someone will know how to open it."
A few seconds later, an engine sounded at the far end of the docks. It was neither a gang's modified car nor