Liberation Day

by Dustin Stevens

  “Should that be a problem?” Gold asked, his left eyebrow arching upward a tiny bit.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Good,” Gold said, dropping his face back towards the computer monitor. He fell silent a long moment as he stared at it, his lips moving just slightly, no sound escaping them.

  “Is that all, Mr. Gold?” Ling asked, placing his hands on the arms of the chair and beginning to rise.

  Gold raised a finger towards the ceiling, holding it out in front of him, signaling for Ling to wait.

  “I apologize for the delay. I am expecting some important information to arrive.”

  Ling nodded, but said nothing. He slid his hands away from the arms of the chair and rested them back in his lap, letting his hands hang down between his knees.

  “I have some guests coming in. Some very important, very influential guests,” Gold said, his attention still aimed at the monitor before him.

  Ling nodded again, accepting the information without much thought. His employer was known to occasionally pass through the social scene, as was required from a man of his wealth, but he never entertained.

  If he was receiving guests, it was for a very specific reason.

  “These men also have a keen interest in our little project.”

  And there it was.

  “You will be receiving the men here?” Ling asked, wondering in silence what role the men would play, but knowing better than to voice the question aloud.

  Gold continued working the mouse, his right index finger maneuvering it with practiced precision as a smirk tilted his face towards the ceiling. “No. I will be hosting them on Cape Cod.”

  Ling’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “I purchased a villa just this morning for the occasion.”

  The crown of Ling’s head rose in understanding, the information more in line with what he expected from his employer.

  “They arrive in three days. I would like for you and your men to perform all necessary preparations.”

  “Of course,” Ling said, again asking for no further details.

  “The sooner and more inconspicuous the better.”

  “It shall be done by this time tomorrow.”

  A thin smile grew on Gold’s face. “Excellent.”

  “Will our presence be needed during the meeting?”

  Gold shook his head. “It was agreed by all that no security would be necessary. In fact, guests are encouraged to bring their families for the evening.”

  Ling arched an eyebrow and looked expectantly at Gold.

  “This is an actual business meeting, not a ruse to lure them here,” Gold said, sensing the question Ling’s look was meant to ask. “That being said, I do think it would be prudent for you to be on hand as a precautionary measure.”

  “Personal valet?” Ling asked.

  “I thought about that, but decided against it. A fit Asian man pushing around my wheelchair may arouse suspicion. Jasper will be my valet for the evening, per usual.”

  Gold paused, a satisfied smile crossing his face as the information he was waiting for appeared before him. He stared a long moment at the screen, savoring what it told him before shifting his attention back to Ling.

  “Tell me, have you ever carried a serving tray before?”

  Chapter Ten

  Icy needles traversed the length of Thorn’s body, the last of his nervous system fighting to maintain itself. They jabbed at his skin in an uneven pattern, working at his body with unrelenting persistence.

  Standing chest deep in a pool of frigid water, all color had long since drained from his skin. Beneath the surface his form shined with a ghostly pallor, a striking contrast to the dark blue bottom.

  Across from him, red numbers on a digital thermometer told him the water was thirty-nine degrees, his entire form pulled in as tight as possible in an effort to perverse even the tiniest bit of body heat.

  “How...much...longer?” Thorn muttered, pushing the words out one at a time, his mouth moving no more than a millimeter as he spoke.

  Kneeling beside the thermometer was Ingram, a stopwatch in his hand, a whistle hanging down from his neck. “Just a couple more minutes, then you can go home and rest.”

  Under different circumstances scads of angry retorts would have flooded through Thorn’s mind, all with increasing animosity. As it was he stood hunched forward at the waist, his body shivering uncontrollably, the cold sapping his ability to hold a thought on anything beyond the icy hell he was in.

  “I know you’re miserable,” Ingram said, his body poised along the edge of the pool. “Hell, I feel miserable just watching you go through this.”

  The words barely registered with Thorn. He didn’t bother to respond.

  “Right now,” Ingram continued, “it’s the most important thing we can do. We need to know how much you can endure and we need you to know how much you can endure.”

  Growing up, his father had regaled him with stories of military initiation weeks, rites of passage designed to weed out those unable to persevere. Six years before he had gone through a pared back version himself, avoiding the worst of it when opting to go to college instead of SEAL training. What those events had taught Thorn was they nothing to do with training, but were rather the world’s most intense stress test.

  Apparently his new employer felt the need to call upon similar measures.

  Since leaving Mt. Auburn Cemetery, Thorn had not ate or slept. His entire world had been reduced to a timeless environment, a training center with no clocks and no windows. Somewhere between bouts of being thrust into cold pools and hot saunas he had lost all semblance of the hour, focusing only on the next round of calisthenics before him.

  At times, he worked under blinding overhead lights. During others, he operated in complete darkness.

  If breaking him down was their goal, they had nearly succeeded. He was exhausted, he was overwhelmed, and he was hurting.

  Across from him Ingram held the stopwatch out, his lips moving as he silently counted off the last few seconds.

  “Time!” he called, tossing a towel at Thorn’s head, the warm cotton almost burning his skin. “Very impressive. Might not mean much, but very few have made it as far as you just did.”

  Thorn didn’t respond as he trudged to the side of the pool, his numb legs moving just inches at a time, his feet never leaving the tile floor. He came to a stop along the side and attempted to flail an arm over the edge before Ingram grabbed hold, wresting his stiff form out. A wave of ice and water came with him as he rolled onto the deck, his limbs all extended in front of him, too rigid to move.

  Tufts of gray fog drifted into the edge of Thorn’s vision as Ingram pulled a rolling chair over and placed it beside him. Putting his feet just above either of Thorn’s shoulders, he hooked his hands under his armpits, hefting him to a seated position.

  “Come on, let’s get you into the showers before hypothermia sets in.”

  Thorn wanted to tell him it was too late but his jaw refused to work as he was lifted into the chair, his body forcing the bottom down several inches as he fell into it. The moment he was seated Ingram rolled him on towards the locker room, tracks of water following them along the dry ground.

  At no point did Thorn offer to aid or hinder the assistance in any way. Crossing his arms over his torso he pulled himself into a ball, his teeth chattering, his entire body quivering. He remained that way as Ingram rolled him straight into the showers, placing him between two showerheads and turning them both on.

  The first drops of water felt like fire against his skin, the spray washing over him. Still he remained motionless as it did so, staring at the wall, not yet even bothering to check the status of his fingers and toes.

  After a few minutes, Ingram stepped forward and adjusted the dials, the new temperature again setting his skin ablaze.

  There was no way for Thorn to know how long he spent in the showers, though his best guess was somewhere north of an hour. It took three t
emperature adjustments from Ingram before he regained feeling enough to begin doing it himself, remaining seated in the chair and raising it incrementally to a degree or two below scalding.

  Not until his skin glowed bright pink did he begin to move his extremities, his body protesting as blood forced its way back into his capillaries.

  Ingram was waiting for him in the locker room as he emerged, tossing him a towel as Thorn stood shivering without the benefit of the hot water, droplets dotting the floor around him.

  “Take as much time as you need. Your clothes are clean and a car is waiting outside to take you home as soon as you’re ready. Food will be there when you arrive.”

  “Where are you headed?” Thorn asked, a scowl on his face, his voice relaying the same.

  “South, to HQ. I need to get my end of things set up before our first assignment.”

  Thorn nodded. “Does this mean I passed?”

  Ingram paused and considered the question before simply saying, “I’ll see you soon,” and leaving without another word.

  Ten minutes later an older man with short gray hair nodded as Thorn fell into the backseat and the car pulled away. The sky overhead indicated night was coming, by Thorn’s best guess two days since he’d last been outside. Sitting in the backseat he watched with detachment as they navigated the thin evening traffic, winding through residential neighborhoods before coming to a stop.

  Shifting his focus to the house in front of them, Thorn’s eyebrows pushed together in confusion. “Where are we?”

  “Your new home,” the driver answered, his tone relaying extreme boredom. “Your dog and your possessions are waiting for you.”

  A flash of concern passed through him at the thought of Abby inside alone. Ingram had told him she would be taken care of when they first departed the cemetery, though no mention of her had been made since.

  “Your keys,” the driver said, handing them over the front seat, prompting Thorn from his thoughts, urging him to exit the car. Offering only a grunt in response, Thorn accepted them and climbed out, the car pulling away the moment his feet touched the front lawn.

  Before him stood a two-story structure built entirely from brick. A half dozen oversized windows were spread across the front façade, light spilling out, casting long shadows across the ground. In a day or two Thorn would have reams of questions to ask his new boss, but for the time being all he could think of was the deep-set weariness gripping him.

  The scene inside was much the same as out, the space equipped with hardwood floors and furniture pieces of a simple design. Swinging the door shut behind him he was greeted by the sound of toenails, Abby jogging towards him, body twisting with delight. Side by side they surveyed the downstairs together, finding a small bedroom, an office, and a bathroom on one side of the house offset by an expansive living room and kitchen on the other.

  A row of wooden stairs jutted out from the wall opposite the living room and he ascended to find the entire floor to be a master suite, outfitted with an oversized bed and a sweeping bathroom.

  Seeing the bed before him, the profound exhaustion within again pawed at Thorn. “Five minutes,” he mumbled, forcing himself back down the stairs and into the kitchen, finding his dinner waiting for him on the stove. He ate standing at the kitchen counter, taking in food in great bites, washing it down with Gatorade from the fridge.

  True to his word, five minutes later he was back upstairs, face down on the bed, Abby curled up tight against his hip.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are you sure you want to take this meeting, sir?” Eric Olson asked without preamble as he strode through the double doors and into the governor’s office. He carried a sheaf of papers against his chest and his tie was loosened beneath his collar.

  Massachusetts Governor Brian Milton looked up from the document he was reading, making no effort to hide his annoyance at being interrupted. “What?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?” Olson asked, his body bent forward at the waist.

  “Do what?” Milton pressed, his eyes narrowing.

  “Meet with this guy. This Paul Hardy.”

  Milton leaned back in his chair, keeping his face neutral, staring up at Olson. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why would you?? You were elected to this position by being no-nonsense against crime. If it got out that you’re consorting with his type, think of the damage it could do.”

  Milton allowed his gaze to pass from impassive to malevolent to condescending.

  “Paul Hardy and I have been friends since I was a lowly state representative from the South Shore,” Milton said, his tone reflecting the look on his face. “He has never been linked to organized crime in any way, his dealings have been searched and researched and he’s always come out clean.”

  As Milton spoke, Olson seemed to wilt before him. Sensing his target’s weakness, he leaned forward in his chair, ready to drive home his point.

  “Paul Hardy is a hell of a businessman that has done a great deal for this community, this state, and this office. If he requests fifteen minutes of my time I’m going to give it to him, regardless what some boy two months out of Dartmouth seems to think.”

  The verbal castration complete, Milton dismissed Olson with the flick of his hand, leaning back in his chair and taking the document up from the desk.

  “And another thing,” he called, Olson slowing without turning to look back at him. “It’s not your place to question who I meet with, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Olson mumbled, his voice barely audible. He paused long enough to make sure Milton was done before opening the door to exit, coming face-to-face with Hardy on the other side. At the sight of him his jaw dropped open and color bled from his face, his mouth working up and down, trying to place the right words. “Um, Governor Milton, will see you now.”

  He kept his gaze turned down and kept the stack of papers clutched tight against his chest, turning his body to the side and standing rigid in the doorway.

  Hardy ignored Olson entirely as he stepped past him into the office. A large grin grew across his face as he kicked the door shut behind him and settled into the leather chair opposite the governor’s desk.

  “Damn fine performance,” he said as a greeting, the smile still in place as he crossed his legs and settled back in the chair.

  Milton remained seated, a matching smile on his own features. “God, that never gets old.”

  “And the good thing for guys like us is, the years may pass but there’s always going to be little shits like him that need put in their place.”

  “Best part is he’s the son of an old acquaintance I never really cared for. Now I get to bawl the kid out and accumulate favors at the same time. Almost isn’t fair.”

  Hardy laughed, a deep booming sound, and offered a wistful shake of his head. “No, it really isn’t.”

  Milton let the moment linger before shaking the smile from his face. “So, what can I do for you, Paul?”

  Lacing his fingers atop his knee, Hardy began, “I think we both know that some of my business dealings are not with what would be called the cream of the social crop.”

  Milton nodded in understanding. He had long since operated under that assumption, having heard as much from many trusted sources. As he’d just told Olson though, the man had always supported him, and he had therefore tried to do the same.

  Still, it was an interesting place for the conversation to begin.

  “That being said, allow me to approach this from another angle,” Hardy said. “As I’m sure you well know, a great deal of my business is derived from the Dorchester docks.”

  “You’re a shipping mogul, it makes sense.”

  “Of course,” Hardy said, raising his eyebrows in agreement, “though what you may not know is that I’ve been able to gain such unfettered access to those docks by working with the people controlling them.”

  Milton pursed his lips and mulled the info, nodding. “Makes sense. They’re too proud to let
you freely operate in their backyard and you’re too shrewd to even try.”

  “Without going into too much detail, suffice it to say this is quite a lucrative arrangement for all parties involved.”

  Milton had a pretty good idea who was involved, but decided not to ask. If his assumption was right, such an arrangement controlled a decent percentage of the city and, in turn, the state.

  At the moment none of active players were enemies, which was a good thing for everybody, him as governor included.

  “For several years now we have enjoyed healthy interaction and even healthier bottom lines,” Hardy continued, pausing for Milton’s reaction.

  “And something is now threatening both?” Milton prompted.

  “Yes and no,” Hardy said, giving a non-committal shake of his head. “The bottom lines for all have been hit, though for the moment our pact is intact. Right now no one is pointing any fingers. Needless to say though, it would benefit everyone if this was solved sooner rather than later.”

  Milton nodded, processing the information he had been given. The sudden dump of it was quite unusual compared to his previous dealings with Hardy, though from the sound of things the situation was a bit unique, even for him.

  “I’m sure you realize that right now I have a great many questions that out of respect I am refraining from asking?”

  “It is realized and appreciated,” Hardy replied.

  “So then let me ask just one. How do I, or rather this office, fit in?”

  Hardy weighed the question for a moment. “It is my understanding that men in your position have people, investigators, things of that nature, at your disposal.”

  Unsure if it was a statement or a question, the words caught Milton by surprise. “With all due respect, I would think the same of men in your position.”

  Hardy smirked, his entire upper body rocking back an inch. “You assume correctly, though such people come with strings, strings that could ultimately connect them back to me.”