Just as two nights before, Thorn and Sean Kelley walked the pier on their first round of the evening while full darkness settled in over Boston. Each of them carried an aging .44 strapped to their hip and a cheap clipboard in their hands.
“How’d the dinner go last night?” Kelley asked, the sound of their boots scraping the ground making for a steady cadence beneath them.
“Went real well. Place was nice, Cardoza seems like a good guy.”
“You say that like there’s a but coming,” Kelley said, casting him a sideways glance.
“Food was great last night, but man is it killing me today,” Thorn said. “I just can’t do that spicy stuff.”
The food the night before had not been spicy in the slightest. In his experience though, most people in the northern states couldn’t tell one Latin country from another, a majority he was willing to wager Kelley fell into.
“I bet,” Kelley said, throwing his head back, letting a belly laugh roll out. ”That’s why I stick with meat and potatoes. You give me any of that stuff, I might as well be sitting on the crapper when I eat it because it’s not staying in very long.”
A sharp laugh coughed out of Thorn, his face crinkled in mirth. The look remained on his face as they finished the first pier and started down the second.
As they walked, Thorn kept an eye out for the container in question. Cardoza had given them the freight number the night before and Turner had made a point of stacking others along either side and atop it.
The thinking by all parties was the extra presence of other containers nearby would make it impossible for a truck to push one off or for a crane to swing one free without having to move others.
Thorn spotted it sitting halfway down, the only one with others stacked high above or wedged in tight to either side. The odd formation of cargo made it an easy target to identify, sitting at the bottom of a makeshift pyramid, rising much higher than any of the others around it.
Casting sideways glances as they passed, Thorn checked for the best vantage points surrounding the container, fingering the fiber-optic cameras in his pocket. The awkward positioning of it made for placing all four impossible, his only hope that two would be enough.
Together they worked their way to the end of the dock and made the turn, coming back up in a slow and even gait. Twice more Thorn mentioned the Cuban food churning in his stomach and as they approached the container again, he made a quick dash for a wooden post along the edge of the pier. Normally used as a tie-off for docking ships, Thorn slid to a knee alongside it and dry heaved into the water below.
The sudden movement surprised Kelley, who stood rooted in place before throwing a hand over his own mouth and turning away. “Aw, hell. I’m sorry man, but I have to go on or I’ll get sick too.”
Without looking up Thorn waved Kelley off, continuing to heave as he pressed the camera against the post and stumbled to his feet. On shaky legs, he managed to get just past the container before doing the same thing next to a light pole.
Passing the back of his hand over his mouth, Thorn staggered his way back toward the main roadway, feeling Nio’s cell phone buzz against his thigh, the sign that the feeds were alive and active.
A moment later he rounded the corner of the pier to find Kelley waiting for him, bent at the waist, his face pale. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Thorn managed, a grimace on his face. ”I’m cussing the entire nation of Cuba right now, but I’ll survive.”
Kelley bought the explanation with another chuckle and side by side they finished the round. An hour later they did the same.
A starless sky arrived with nightfall, an inky cloak blocking out all light from above. The temperature dropped several degrees and a light mist rose from the water. The combined effect did little to ease the growing apprehension within Thorn, anticipation growing for the attack he knew was coming.
Shortly before midnight, it did.
Thorn and Kelley were halfway through a discussion of the Patriots chances to repeat when Nio’s phone vibrated against his thigh. A moment later, a second buzz followed it. Sliding it out, Thorn saw a new text message from his phone number, pulling it up to find a single declarative statement.
We’ve got movement.
The three simple words sent an electric jolt through Thorn’s system, his body going rigid. Deep within him preprogrammed machinations seemed to transition into auto-pilot, awakening things he hadn’t used in years.
“What?” Kelley asked, sensing the shift in demeanor.
A grim glance was Thorn’s only response as he stepped out from the guardhouse and turned his body sideways in the soft night breeze.
“What is it?” Kelley asked again.
“You hear that?” Thorn asked, keeping his body poised, every nerve ending within him starting to dance with anticipation. As best he could tell there was no sound, nothing but the now familiar din of water lapping against the docks. Still he stood with his head cocked to the side, going through the motions, counting off the seconds.
An inquiry was coming in the morning and he had to play it out just long enough that Kelley and whoever may be watching over the cameras neither one suspected a thing.
“There it is again,” Thorn said, snapping his head toward the far end of the dock, pantomiming that he’d just picked up another distinct sound on the breeze. Across from him he could sense Kelley standing in complete confusion, trying to determine what had his partner so jumpy.
Counting out five more long seconds, Thorn took off at a dead sprint, leaving Kelley and the questions he was about to ask behind.
In the military, he had been trained to always move as a unit, to trust in the men beside him. That was easy at the time, given that many of the men he worked with had enlisted together, been by his side from the beginning.
Sean Kelley he had known less than a week. Nothing that had transpired in that time gave Thorn any indication that he was capable of handling himself in this sort of situation, the scars he seemed to find as a source of pride only confirming to Thorn the man’s ineptitude in a confrontation.
Already knowing where he was going, Thorn slowed his pace along the first pier just enough to gaze the length of it, confirming that all lights were on, no shadows were moving about. Once he was content that everything was clear he pushed himself back into a full run, covering the distance to the second pier in just ten seconds.
Fueled by adrenaline and a long-awaited awakening within, Thorn could feel his senses heighten. Droplets of sweat formed along his skin, his breathing leveling out, the entirety of his previous training returning in one fluid round of muscle memory.
Somewhere in the distance Thorn detected the sound of heavy footsteps, Kelley bumbling along behind him. Wanting to put as much distance between them as possible Thorn ducked behind the closest container and drew his weapon, wrapping his hand around the trigger guard, the hammer of it nestled against his palm. Content his weapon was secure, he continued straight past the container and dove headfirst into the harbor, the chilly water enveloping his body.
For a brief moment the icy jolt threatened to pull the air from him before the adrenaline pumping through him regained equilibrium. At once it became like he was back five years before, home in the water, at ease in the ocean.
Remaining submerged, he drew both hands into his chest and frog kicked his legs, propelling his body through the water. The gun in his hand made his right side lag a bit behind the left, his path veering a touch to the side. Ignoring it, Thorn kept himself well below the surface, covering as much ground as possible, each stroke bringing him closer to his target.
At one point Thorn had been able to hold his breath for ninety seconds. His lung capacity was now nowhere near what it had been, but he judged he was under for at least a full minute before emerging from the water. Careful to keep his movements slow and quiet, he raised the top of his head above the surface, water sluicing off his forehead and ears as air filled his lungs.
His efforts had taken him most o
f the way down the dock, the muted sounds of feet scraping against concrete and objects being bandied about finding his ears. Throttling down his pace, he continued in a simple front crawl stroke, watching as the misshapen pyramid of containers grew closer.
Despite the frigid Atlantic wrapped around him, Thorn could feel his body temperature rise as the sounds grew louder. Pushing out the last few strokes, he made his way to a rusted ladder of wrought iron rungs screwed directly into the side of the pier, hooking his left hand onto the top one and drawing himself up out of the water.
Emerging just a few inches at a time to ensure there was no loud splashing, Thorn lifted himself free of the ocean, the evening breeze touching his soaked exterior. A tiny shiver passed through him as he positioned both feet on the lip of the concrete and crept forward.
His heart rate increased just fractionally as he inched onward, the sound of footsteps growing closer. As he moved, he slid his grip on the gun from center mass to the barrel, holding it like a makeshift hammer.
The first intruder never so much as saw him, the gun crashing behind his ear before a sound could escape his lips. On contact, his entire form fell limp and crumpled to the ground, Thorn just catching him before he slammed back into the container. With one arm hooked beneath an armpit, he drug him in the direction he had just came from, tucking the man’s body behind the neighboring container.
Dropping to a knee, Thorn rolled the man to the side, finding the spot where the gun had connected. A thin tendril of blood extended down from the wound, moving in a jagged line through his short cropped hair before disappearing into the collar below.
Extracting the miniature tracking device Ingram had given him, he pushed it along the edge of the wound. No larger than a grain of rice, it slid beneath the scalp without opposition, disappearing from sight.
Leaving the man where he lay, Thorn took up his weapon and crept forward. Along the ground against the base of the container was a stack of what looked like brown paper packages, all of uniform size and shape.
“C4,” Thorn whispered, feeling his stomach tighten as he stared at the short pyramid. His previous experience with explosives was limited, but even at a glance it was clear to see there was enough present to send the container and the ones piled above it into the ocean.
Alternating glances between the pile and the pier beyond, Thorn weighed his options. From what he could see there was not yet a timer or cord attached, no way to detonate. It was obvious he had arrived in the middle of construction, the explosives still dangerous but not yet active.
The more pressing matter at the moment was whoever else might be nearby.
On one knee Thorn inched forward, peering out around the corner of the container. Ahead in the darkness he could see a single man moving toward the opposite end of the container, a stack of bricks in his hands matching the ones on the ground by Thorn’s feet.
Somewhere in the distance a sound resembling an engine idling purred along, though from his position he couldn’t be sure.
Reaching into his pants pocket Thorn removed Nio’s cell phone and flipped it open, hoping they could give him some detail on the situation he was facing. Water oozed from the implement as he held it in his hand and tried to shake it to life, the screen dark after his swim.
“Shit,” Thorn whispered, tucking the phone away and rising to his feet. With his shoulder pressed into the corner of the container, he once more scanned the pier for movement before springing from his hiding place. Keeping his back tight against the brown metal he stepped quickly to the opposite side, hearing the sound of explosives being stacked grow closer.
Once more he shifted the .44 into a bludgeon, slipping around the opposite end of the container without a sound.
This time he aimed directly for the man’s face, the silver butt of the gun glinting once as Thorn sent it hurtling down. The thick stock of the handle connected square with the exposed bridge of the man’s nose, shock just beginning to register on his features before the blow connected.
Heavy droplets of blood spatter cascaded across the ground, dotting the concrete and the tops of the brown packages as the man fell back. Thorn made no effort to catch him as he wilted into a misshapen heap, knowing full well that anybody else nearby had already seen him. Instead he shifted the gun into its intended position and turned back the opposite way, his body low and poised in a shooter’s stance.
To his surprise though, the gunfire that erupted was not from his weapon.
Chapter Thirty-One
Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel Page 32