“Sorry to hear about your father,” King said, his tone detached as he reached out and turned the first page of the application over, skimming through it.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Says here you went to college for a few years,” King said, glancing up to Thorn. “Decided it wasn’t for you?”
“Couldn’t afford it. The farm was already in the red when pop took sick.” The remainder of the story was left intentionally vague, allowing King to draw his own inferences, to fill in the blanks for himself.
A long moment passed as King seemed to be doing just that, weighing the information. “So this would be a temporary gig for you?”
“Not at all,” Thorn said, twisting his head at the neck. “Eventually I would like to finish my degree, but I have no immediate time frame.”
King nodded again and gave the application a final once-over. “That’s a hell of a lot more than most of the guys commit to. You have a preference for days or nights?”
Deep down, Thorn knew he needed the night shift to provide him with the flexibility to actually accomplish what he was there for. At the same time, he couldn’t be that overt, needing King to get there on his own so as to not arouse suspicion.
“I’m well aware of my spot in the pecking order,” Thorn said. “I’m okay with graveyard until I earn my stripes.”
A small smile tugged at the right side of King’s mouth. “When can you start?”
“When can I start, sir?” Thorn returned.
“Tonight at eight work?”
Chapter Fifteen
It didn’t take Nio long to discover the only thing worse than sitting immobile in a container parked in Cuba was sitting in one bobbing with every whim of the Atlantic Ocean.
For the better part of a day the transport barge worked its way up the eastern seaboard, the facets of the metal container groaning with each roll of the ocean. Halfway through seasickness began to grip the people inside, reducing them to retching on the floor as those nearby tried to ignore it.
Among them was Nio, breathing through his mouth as much as possible, trying to keep the scent out of nostrils, fighting the rise of bile in the back of his throat.
The container was the same exact dimensions as the previous one, though somehow the accommodations were even tighter. Folded up tight each passenger was able to find just enough floor space to sit, many fighting for the outer walls, pressing their backs against them and attempting to find some bit of sleep.
Outside, matching containers were stacked above and to either side, shielding most direct sunlight, keeping the metal of the side walls somewhat cool. Being the last one on board afforded Nio another corner perch, his shoulders pressed into the perpendicular walls, the top of his head resting back into the crook they formed.
Seated in that position, Nio was able to put his body on auto-pilot, his eyes glazing over. Ignoring the stench around him and the perpetual groaning of the ship and its cargo, he allowed his mind to drift, his body drawing back as much strength as it could.
As hours passed by, the perpetual rolling of the ship began to take a toll. Many inside the container were unable to resist the pitch of the sea any longer, motion sickness setting in. Coupled with the cumulative odor of urine and feces, the air became rancid, heavy vomiting ensuing.
By the time the ambient glow peeking through the cracks of the door began to fade, the floor was covered with a thin layer of viscous fluid. Nio could feel it splashing against the side of his shoes with each roll of the ship, ebbing and flowing in time with the waves outside.
For a brief spell he could sense people making an attempt to avoid it, their objections echoing through the space, bodies pressing against each other. Soon the discord faded away though, the passengers resigning themselves to the night ahead.
Rising to his feet, Nio kept his body positioned in the corner, locking his knees to brace himself upright. He stood with his eyes still closed and lifted his face towards the ceiling, praying the journey would end.
Just as the first pangs of seasickness gnawed at his stomach and dry heaves began to rack his body, the ship slowed to a crawl. The container ceased to sway, the sound of men shouting outside replacing the incessant groaning of the metal box.
With the sounds came a flicker of life passing through the container, a low murmur of recognition setting in. Pulling himself awake Nio glanced around, watching as others did the same, their eyes bloodshot, their clothes stained with various bodily fluids.
More people worked their way to their feet, letting out loud moans, their bodies protesting as they fought for purchase on the slick floor. They waited in silence as the ship came to a complete stop, the omnipresent rumble of the last twelve hours mercifully falling silent.
While the loading on the front end a few days before had been an easy affair, Nio couldn’t help but wonder how the unloading would take place. Nobody in harbor customs seemed too concerned with whatever was leaving the country, though it bore to reason that they would be a bit more concerned about a load of refugees attempting to enter it.
Judging by the people around him he was the junior man by at least a decade, the only one looking like he might be capable of running for it if he needed to. His wallet and identification were both in his back pocket, though that wouldn’t necessarily help him if a customs agent demanded to know why he was attempting to reenter the country through such nefarious means.
As he stood and tried to piece together what might occur in the coming hour, the sound of ramps being attached to the side of the boat rang out. Heavy slaps of metal against metal reverberated through the space, many inside covering their ears, their faces twisted up in agony.
Pushing aside any thoughts, any trepidations, anything that might block his conscious mind, Nio remained still, listening as forklifts began passing over the ramps, the whine of their engines rising and falling. A few moments later the hydraulic pulleys of an overhead crane could be heard joining them, containers scraping against one another as they were hefted into the air and moved ashore.
A renewed wave of energy crept up in the darkness, encircling the passengers as the crane worked outside. It swelled into a palpable buzz, gripping the people inside, every last one rising to their feet, fighting for the few narrow strips of light that were visible.
It took almost an hour for the crane to work its way to their container, many inside speaking in hushed whispers as above them footfalls could be heard echoing above.
After what seemed an eternity to the eager crowd inside, the crane beeped three times and wrenched the container from the barge. The sensation of uneven flight settled in as it swung through the air, tossing it from side to side, those inside finding no traction against the vomit-coated floor.
Throughout, Nio remained in his corner, wedged tight between the perpendicular walls. In the muted darkness he could hear the muffled sounds of people falling about and occasionally feel their fingers tugging at him in an attempt to steady themselves, all careful to remain as quiet as possible.
The container swung free for almost ten full minutes, ending with a heavy jolt as it was deposited on the dock. There it stayed as the workers outside unlatched the levers from the crane, already moving on to their next target.
Chapter Sixteen
“Do we have to walk around with these cannons strapped to our hip like this?” Thorn asked as he and his new partner, Cyrus Cooper, stepped from the guard station into the warm night air.
The cannon he referred to was an aging .44 Magnum in a cracked leather holster that was assigned to him just hours before with the instruction to put it on and never walk about the docks without it. Large and unwieldy, it tugged at the belt used to hold it in place, much different than the smaller side arms he’d carried in the service.
“I told you, son, when we’re in the guardhouse it can come off. When we’re making the rounds, it has to be on,” Cyrus responded, drawing out the vowel sounds and rounding off the R’s in an accent that evoked the Bos
ton stereotype.
“I’m not complaining about following the rules, I’m really asking the question,” Thorn clarified. “Are they necessary? Seems pretty quiet around here.”
Cyrus smirked, his entire upper body rocking up an inch. “That’s what I used to think, too. Course, that was four friends and a visit from big brother ago.”
As they walked, he flicked his gaze to a camera mounted to the top of a nearby light pole and nodded towards it. “If they want me to wear it like some Wild West cowboy, then yee-haw, I guess.”
Thorn nodded a silent agreement, his gaze scouring the camera on high. “And who’s doing the watching?”
“Damn fine question,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “One day I came in and my buddy Mikey was working. The next I came in, he was gone and the cameras were here.”
“Huh,” Thorn said, filing away the information, making mental notes to determine where the videos were stored and how he could access them.
“Yeah,” Cyrus agreed, drawing his clipboard up in front of him. “I’ve got two kids at home to feed. I don’t ask questions.”
As partners went, Cyrus was on the high end of what Thorn had been expecting. While he had the distinct Boston drawl and the grizzled red hair and beard of an Irishman, his demeanor seemed more school teacher than dockworker. He had an affable, easy going manner that belied a man with young children and had been more than willing to show Thorn around the grounds, explaining in excruciating detail how things worked each day.
A single roadway extended the length of the docks, beginning with their guardhouse and ending a half mile away with a cluster of outbuildings that housed the business affairs. In the distance Thorn could see the one he had been interviewed in that afternoon, the lights within blacked out for the night.
Extending from the roadway like fingers from a palm was a series of piers, each one as wide as a three lane road. On the outer edge of each were metal shipping containers and wooden pallets of various size and cargo, all sitting quiet in the darkening night air, ready to be moved about first thing in the morning.
Side by side Thorn and Cyrus walked to the end of each pier, checking over the freight, making sure everything was in order. Every so often Thorn made a point to ask some inane question, almost always already knowing the answer. As Cyrus in turn prattled on about this or that, Thorn checked over each of the cameras, never once finding a light on or a cord attached to indicate they were active.
They finished their third trip of the night at twenty minutes after eleven and began their journey back towards the guard station. After the non-existent spring the warm night air was a welcome respite, small talk passing between them. Each remained on semi-alert as they went, watching for anything unusual, discussing the Red Sox pitching rotation as they rounded back onto the main roadway.
Within three steps both fell silent, each one staring at what lay before them.
Four hundred yards away, standing as a perfect silhouette beneath the security light of the guardhouse, was a single figure.
“You see that?” Thorn whispered, his pace rising.
Already he could feel the breath tighten in his chest and tiny beads of sweat form along his lip and lower back. Years of training had taught his body to react with adrenaline, not apprehension.
On pure muscle memory his hand lowered itself to his hip, fingertips grazing over the cracked leather of his holster.
“Yup,” Cyrus responded, his tone clipped and sharp. His breathing became loud as he increased his pace to keep up with Thorn, needing five steps to the taller man’s three.
In silence, the gap between them and their intruder closed to one hundred yards, pace quickening another half step. Together they approached through the darkness, both ready to draw their weapon if need be, when the silhouette stepped forward and threw an arm in the air, waving it from side to side.
“Hey there!” a syrupy voice cooed out at them, both men slowing their pace.
The voice was not what either had expected, a far cry from the mysterious man in black they had heard so much about.
This wasn’t a man at all, but a woman. A young one at that.
“The hell?” Thorn hissed, turning his head sideways so the low-pitched question was just audible between them. He made no effort to hide the confusion on his face, his right eye bunched up so tight it was almost closed.
“First time I ever seen her,” Cyrus said, his lips never moving as he kept his gaze straight ahead, his breathing still heavy.
Feeling his heartbeat slow just a tick, Thorn again grazed the tip of his holster. Two years of slogging through places that weren’t even on maps had taught him to never assume anything on outward appearances, knowing the girl could be nothing more than a decoy, a plant to get their guard down.
Slowing his pace, Thorn passed his gaze over the ground around them, peering into the shadows, looking for signs of anybody lurking. He watched for any stray bits of light refracting off of metal, for any show of movement in the night.
Across from them the young woman stepped away from the guardhouse, stopping in the middle of the cone cast downward from the security light above. There she waited, framed in the center of it, her body in plain view.
At first glance she had long, dark hair that hung in tight ringlets and framed a face with large mellow eyes and well-shaped lips. Her frame was a bit on the thin side, adorned with a bright colored skirt that swung from her hips and a yellow shirt that sat low off both shoulders.
She stood with one hand resting on her hip and the other fingering her hair, an expectant look on her face. “I said, hey there,” she purred, her voice equal parts sultry and naivety.
“Um, miss, I’m not sure what you may have heard, but this isn’t the place for that sort of thing,” Cyrus said, eschewing any sort of formal greeting. His cheeks were tinged red and his gaze darted about as he addressed her, embarrassment plain.
A cloud of confusion passed over the girl’s face. “What sort of thing?”
Cyrus wagged a finger at her, again refraining from looking directly at her. “You know, that sort of thing.”
The girl glanced down, the same look in place on her face, before raising her gaze back to Cyrus as realization set in. “Wait, you think I’m...”
She raised a hand to her mouth and clamped it over the bottom of her face, colored fingernails showing up against her skin, muted chuckles causing her body to quiver.
Cyrus’ face went an even deeper shade of crimson. “I’m so sorry, I just, uh, well, I…”
The girl pulled her hand down from her mouth and laughed, her entire body shaking with heavy guffaws as she leaned forward and rested a hand on her knee. She stayed that way for several long seconds, her voice carrying out over the deserted docks.
For their part, Thorn and Cyrus both stood and watched, Thorn remaining silent while Cyrus fidgeted with discomfort.
“No need for apologies,” the girl said, pushing herself to full height and drawing in a deep breath. “Honey, that’s the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. You wait until the girls back home hear about this!”
She laughed as Cyrus started to breathe again, the bright color receding from his cheeks. He gave a quick glance to Thorn, who responded with a shrug of uncertainty, his gaze fixed on the girl.
“My name is Vanessa,” she said, stepping forward and thrusting her hand out.
“Cyrus,” Cyrus said, returning the gesture.
“Robert,” Thorn mumbled, taking her hand, the grip stronger than he expected.
A moment of silence passed after the introductions.
“So, uh, Vanessa, what brings you down here?” Cyrus inquired, trying his best to steer the conversation and put his gaffe behind them. “This isn’t the place for a lady.”
The left side of her face curled upward at the smile, the look somewhere between coy and sly. “So now I’m a lady, huh?” She held the pose a long moment before swatting at Cyrus, her hand connecting with the meat of his arm. “The reason I
came down here is I was hoping to watch the ships for a while.”
Thorn and Cyrus exchanged glances, uncertainty on both their faces.
“Watch the ships for a while?” Thorn asked.
“Yeah, you know, the ships. I’m here visiting and was told they are just the prettiest things to see all lit up at night.”
Thorn’s faced contorted with confusion. Cyrus matched the expression and said, “Ma’am, I think you have this confused with the marina. This is a working dock, there won’t be a ship enter here for another ten hours.”
“And there’s absolutely nothing pretty about a barge,” Thorn added.
A light passed behind her eyes as she scanned Thorn, fleeing just as quickly as she leveled her gaze back on Cyrus. “Well, now, don’t I feel silly?”
In that brief instant Thorn recognized something he had seen a hundred times over in a different life. For the first few minutes her performance had been over-the-top, but having just enough sincerity to give her the benefit of the doubt. After that though, her act became too transparent to buy any longer. She was putting on a show, trying to get their guard down, hoping to draw them away.
The only question remaining was why.
“Not a problem,” Cyrus replied, “happens all the time.”
“It does?” Vanessa asked, a bit of hope in her voice.
“It does?” Thorn echoed, his own belying disbelief.
“Sure does,” Cyrus lied, casting a sideways glance to his co-worker as the color resurfaced on his cheeks.
“You know, I’ve never been to a working dock before. Since I’m already here and it’s such a nice night, you think you could give me a tour?”
The feeling of mistrust rose stronger within Thorn, his gaze hardening. He stared across at her, no more than a handful of years younger than him, wanting her to know just from his gaze that he saw through her.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Like Cyrus said, this is really no place for a lady.”
The vehemence on his voice hung in the air as she stared back at him, the skin around her eyes tightening. “Really? Not even one exception?”
Liberation Day Page 8