Liberation Day

by Dustin Stevens

  Behind each of the smaller doors were a series of restored antique cars and motorcycles. Of no consequence to any of the men, together they walked past the collection to the far side of the garage where the roll-top was open and the afternoon sun streamed in.

  Several feet in from the edge of the garage stood a large wooden crate, measuring nearly five feet square. There were no marking of any kind on it, the wood fresh and rough hewn.

  Hardy walked them up beside the crate and pulled the letter he was holding from the envelope. “This letter was brought to me today by special courier. It reads:

  Dear Mr. Hardy,

  I apologize for communicating in such a manner, but unfortunately I am unable to make this delivery myself. I made a deal with Mr. Cardoza and Mr. Turner, and this is me keeping my end of it.

  At five o’clock this afternoon, you will receive a second delivery. A truck will arrive and deliver one unmarked wooden crate. Please trust there is nothing in it that is volatile or will endanger you in any way.

  Please convene with Mr. Turner and Mr. Cardoza before opening.

  Best,

  Thorn Byrd

  At the mention of Thorn’s name, both Cardoza and Turner nodded slightly, though neither said anything.

  “Emile!” Hardy shouted as a man materialized carrying a crowbar and mallet. He went to work on the side panel facing them with the tools, ripping away at the cross pieces adorning it.

  After five minutes, the sound of wood splintering could be heard and Emile stepped back as the heavy wooden panel fell to the ground. Without a word he melted back into the garage as the three men stood and stared into the box.

  Turner was the first to speak, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Cardoza nodded. “I like the way that boy does business.”

  In the box, lying in a ball on the floor, was Marc Tallo. His hands and feet were both bound behind him and he appeared to be unconscious. Hardy stepped forward and picked up a small box on the floor, opening it and pulling out a second white envelope and a large medical syringe.

  Dropping the syringe back into the box, Hardy placed it on the ground by his feet and opened the letter.

  Mr. Cardoza, Turner, and Hardy,

  Again, I apologize for having to make good on our agreement in this way, but pressing matters forced me out of town on short notice. Please don’t take it as any sign of disrespect.

  Per our agreement, here is Mr. Tallo. I hope you won’t think ill of me for spilling the beans too early, but before tranquilizing him, I did share with him what he had to look forward to when he woke up.

  The look on his face was priceless.

  Right now Mr. Tallo is infused with enough sedative to keep him tranquilized for another forty-eight hours. Use that time to take him wherever you choose and when you are ready, use the reversing agent in the syringe.

  He’ll be alert and ready for you within a half hour.

  With that, gentlemen, I hope you consider my side of the agreement fulfilled. Again, please excuse my absence and if there is ever anything I can do for any of you, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

  Thank you all for your assistance this past week.

  Best,

  Thorn Byrd

  The three of them walked to the crate and peered down at Tallo. His hair was a bit disheveled and a small bruise had formed near his left eye, but otherwise he looked just as he had the last time they saw him.

  “You’re right,” Turner said. “I like the way that boy does business.”

  A wicked smile formed across Cardoza’s face. “He certainly held up his end of the bargain.”

  “You know,” Hardy said, “this kind of thing is generally outside my purview. I have people on staff to do this stuff for me. This time, however, I feel like our friend Tallo may have earned a little special attention.”

  Cardoza smirked, his grin still in place. “I agree. I feel like this one may require a personal touch. You got any ideas, Billy?”

  A matching smile grew across Turner’s face. “Oh, I’ve got a few.”

  Epilogue

  A thin drizzle fell from the gray sky, pushing the humidity out of the air as a light breeze blew in from the ocean. Coupled together, they nudged the temperature to just shy of seventy degrees, unheard of for June in Miami.

  Thorn stood with the rain falling on his head and running in thin rivulets down his face. Several trees with ample leaves for protection stood nearby, but he remained stationary. He didn’t even notice the precipitation soaking his black suit and matting his dress shirt to his skin.

  His entire attention was aimed thirty yards in front of him where a small funeral was in progress.

  Two tombstones stood side by side, announcing the passing of Jorge and Antonio Garcia. An assortment of flower arrangements stood on either end, the rain beating them into misshapen orbs of color.

  From where he stood, Thorn could see Iggy and her mother sitting in the front row with a smattering of people lined behind them. He was too far away to hear what the pastor was saying, but he could see Iggy consoling her mother as her entire body shook with sobs.

  Thorn stood rod straight and watched the proceedings from a distance. He wasn’t hiding from them, remaining in plain sight, but something inside kept him from walking any closer.

  Thorn watched as the pastor spread his hands and bowed his head before falling silent and gripping his Bible in front of him. One by one the mourners walked by the caskets, each of them placing a handful of dirt or running their fingertips along the rain soaked caskets as they passed.

  The entire affair lasted less than half an hour.

  Thorn stood and watched as many of the people drifted to their cars and drove away. Iggy and her mother thanked each of them and when the last had departed, she made her way towards him.

  Her face still bore the effects of her time in Gold’s basement and her walk was stiff and purposeful.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said as she approached.

  “I’m sorry there was reason for me to be here,” Thorn responded.

  Iggy crossed her arms in front of her black dress and shivered, a splint covering the bulk of her right hand. After a moment, she moved to Thorn’s side and slid her arm through his. She rested her head on his shoulder and wept as Thorn placed his lips against her curly hair and let her cry.

  “You know, we’d have had to do this anyway,” Iggy said. “My father was gone before either one of us even got to Boston.”

  Thorn remained silent.

  For three days he had tortured himself with the fact that Nio should not have been in that house. He’d played it back a hundred times, knowing that in the moment there was no place to drop him, no way Nio would have been dismissed, but that didn’t make things any easier for him to digest.

  “I did some research,” Iggy said, drawing Thorn’s attention into the moment. “In mythology, a Thornbird is a song bird that gets its name because the moment it is born, it begins looking for a perfect thorn. When it finds it, it impales itself upon it, unleashing the most beautiful sound ever heard.”

  Iggy fell silent for a moment, her intention implied.

  “The plan was to name me after my grandfather,” Thorn said. “After my mother died giving birth though, my father thought the name seemed more fitting.”

  They stood in silence for several long minutes, each drawing warmth from the other.

  “I still really dislike you,” Iggy whispered.

  One corner of Thorn’s lips creased. “I’m aware.”

  Iggy turned and slid one hand around Thorn’s waist and the other behind his neck. Thorn returned the embrace, the two hugging for several long moments before pulling apart and looking at each other. Tears streamed from Iggy’s eyes as rain dripped down Thorn’s face.

  “Don’t let this be the last time I see you, okay?” Iggy whispered.

  “You call me if you ever need anything,” Thorn said. “And even a few times when y
ou don’t.”

  Iggy nodded once as she released Thorn and backed away. After several steps, she turned and made her way on to the gravesite. She and her mother stood together for several long minutes over the two caskets before they too went to their car and drove away.

  Thorn waited until their taillights had faded into the distance before approaching the caskets. Steady rain continued to pour down upon them, beading up and running to the sides in thick streams.

  “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  Thorn recognized the voice without turning around and said nothing as the owner appeared beside him.

  “Sorry to come here like this,” Ingram said.

  “Why should you be sorry for showing up? The company paid for it; I’m sure the family wouldn’t mind you being here.”

  “Nio helped us out. Paying our respects was the least we could do.”

  Thorn nodded. “It was a nice gesture. I appreciated it.”

  Ingram matched the nod. “When I spoke to the company about doing it, I asked them how things had gone in the other cities. Everything went well. Over ten thousand Vaporizers were disabled and confiscated, and nearly that many were disposed of right away.”

  Thorn accepted the information and said, “I spoke to Turner this morning. They received our package and said we are more than even. If we’re ever in need again don’t hesitate to call. Cardoza said the same.”

  Together, they stood in the rain, staring down at the scene before them. After a moment, each started to back away.

  “What is you’re not telling me?” Thorn asked, already sensing that Ingram’s presence carried far more with it than just paying respects.

  Ingram exhaled and said, “When I spoke to the company, they informed me we’ve been given a new project.”

  A flash of heat passed through Thorn as he stopped walking and looked at Ingram. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “They know where I am and why I’m here. They couldn’t wait one more day before finding us another assignment?”

  Ingram too stopped moving, his stance matching Thorn’s. “We weren’t assigned. This time, we were requested.”

  About the Author

  Dustin Stevens is the author of The Zoo Crew series, Motive, Krokodil, Quarterback, Be My Eyes, Scars and Stars, Just a Game, 21 Hours, Liberation Day, and Catastrophic. He is also the author of several short stories, appearing in various magazines and anthologies, and is an award-winning screenwriter.

  He currently resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.