Johnson hesitated outside the threshold of the door. He looked down the street as if checking to see whether someone followed him.

Johnson put his phone away and proceeded at a brisk pace, going west on Windsor Lane. I gave him a minute’s head start. With my contacts out, I would have no problem tailing him.

He cut left and right through the neighborhood, stopping occasionally to pretend he was making a phone call, as he scanned back over where he’d been. I was able to hang back a block and track him by glimpsing his aura. When he halted, I stayed behind the cover of garden shrubs lining the sidewalk. Because of the shimmer of his aura, I could tell he was only being careful, though I wondered why he seemed to be taking these precautions against being followed. Why had he left his Mustang at the Bottoms Up and where was he going?

Had he spotted a tail, meaning me, his aura would’ve flared in alarm. Instead it remained at an even, nervous burn.

Johnson continued in a westerly direction. When he reached Caroline Street, he stopped and glanced around.

He walked the last block to the marina and got on the dock. He unfastened the lines of a twenty-foot cruiser and got aboard. I kept in the shadows and darted across the marina. A bank of lampposts lit the dock and I couldn’t get closer without being spotted.

Johnson nudged the throttle and drifted from the dock. He turned the running lights on.

The harbor was full of boats and I needed something before Johnson motored out of view. Closest to me was a rust bucket of a powerboat. It was an older hull, the cracked vinyl seats mended with duct tape and the windshield missing one panel. Empty cans and the ragged pieces of a Styrofoam cooler littered the floor.

I checked the tank-it was full-and lowered the outboard Evinrude into the water. The lock on the throttle lever was no problem to break. I reached under the instrument panel, hot-wired the ignition, and fired up the engine.

Johnson cruised past the buoys and out of the harbor. I kept my distance, at least a quarter mile back. He sailed around Wisteria Island and then southwest into the open sea. His running lights blinked off. Against the darkness, his aura was as obvious as a red signal flare. A half-hour later, he turned east, toward a cluster of small islands.

He slowed and beached his boat on the sandy shore of the center island, about three hundred meters wide, with a dense cover of vegetation. I idled my engine and drifted. The surf splashing on the beach masked the noise of the Evinrude.

Two men crept out of the brush, assault rifles at the ready. Johnson greeted them. All their auras burned with worry and excitement. I tried to listen, but against the churning surf, their voices were but murmurs. The three of them melted into the darkened interior of the island.

Now I had these armed men to consider. I motored forward quietly and anchored in a dark little inlet swaddled in mangroves. I stepped off the boat and into the peaty muck. A cloud of bugs settled around me. Swathes of mosquitoes landed on my arm, tickled my skin, and took off. Why didn’t they bite? Professional courtesy, I guess.

I lashed the bowline to a mangrove knee, climbed out of the inlet and onto sandy ground. The mosquitoes must’ve passed the word, because as I moved about, the bugs kept clear.

Johnson and the two other men moved noisily through the brush, fronds, and branches. I followed in the shadows.

They stopped in a clearing. One of the other men spoke into a handheld radio. “Bueno. Estamos listos.” He spoke with a Cuban accent. “La noche es bien lindo.”

Of course the night was beautiful, that’s why they carried guns and sneaked around. This was code for what?

Was Johnson here undercover? I couldn’t believe it. The man was sleaze; I could almost smell it on him.

I stepped forward. A palm frond rustled against my leg. One of the men panned his gun in my direction. They hushed and studied the gloom.

I froze until they seemed satisfied no one else was out there. I needed a form better suited to sneaking through the darkness. Like a wolf.

I backtracked and found a clear spot of sand surrounded by saw grass. I took off my clothes, stowed them under a stunted pine, and lay in the sand.

Summoning the transformation, I tensed my fingers, then my limbs. A searing pain racked my body. My bones twisted and re-formed. My spine elongated into a tail. Skin burned as fur pushed through. My jaws stretched and my teeth grew long.

For several moments I lay still, letting the agony subside as I gathered strength and oriented myself in this new flesh.

The air was rich with fresh smells. My hearing caught the tiniest of sounds. I rolled onto my belly and pushed up on my paws. I padded through the darkness. My feet avoided anything that could betray my presence. Leaves and branches brushed silently against my fur.

I circled downwind of the men. They reeked of insect repellent and greasy meat. The odor from their oily guns cautioned me to keep my distance.

The tallest of the strangers gave Johnson a satchel; he opened it and counted piles of the green paper humans hold more dear than life. Johnson looped the bag’s strap over his head. The three got up and headed to the south side of the island, where they stood on the beach. One of the men flashed a hand lamp toward the water. A tiny light answered.

A dark shape pushed a curl of water. The shape turned into a boat crowded with human auras. The men aboard called out to Johnson.

The boat crossed the surf and bellied into the sand. Men jumped off and formed a line from the boat to the trees. Others lifted bundles that were handed down the line, to be piled among the trees.

I sniffed and caught the sharp smell of cocaine.

Slinking around them, I kept watch on my prey: Johnson. These men had many weapons, which meant I had to corner Johnson alone and unsuspecting.

A thumping echoed faintly in the sky, a noise still too small for humans to hear. I perked my ears. Motor sounds approached from the water. More humans were coming, though Johnson and his companions hadn’t yet noticed.

Weapons. Cocaine. The paper they valued so dearly. There was going to be trouble.

But how to get Johnson? If trouble started, he would be in the middle of it. I might never get at him.

The thumping grew loud. The men on the beach dropped their bundles and shouted in panic. Their auras raged like fire.

A beam shot upon them from overhead, a circle of bright light that held steady on the boat. The whirring wings of the flying machine reflected the light. The loud thumping made my guts tremble. More beams flashed over the water and the men scurried across the beach.

The light stung my eyes. I retreated into the shadow of the palmettos.

A lone figure, tall, his aura bright with desperation, sprinted up the beach. Johnson.

A beam of light snagged him.

Johnson raised his arm, pointed his gun into the beam, and fired.