Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel
Page 19
The low rumble of the diesel engine carried down the concrete way, filling Thorn’s ears, igniting his senses. Abandoning the silent walk, he moved into a double-time pace, transitioning the gun to his right hand, his fingers wrapped around the thick barrel of it.
For the first time in years he could feel a dormant part of himself come alive, that inner flicker that was only ignited by impending combat. It grew stronger as his pace increased, the line on the crane growing tight, the metal of the container groaning as it wrenched itself free from the ground and began a slow ascent.
Leaving the container to swing like an oversized pendulum, Thorn aimed his run at the base of the crane. His arms cocked at ninety degree angles, his boots slapped at the pavement as he sprinted forward, drawing in deep breaths.
The sound of him approaching drew both of the infiltrators out as he approached, one emerging from either side, pinching in toward him. Slowing just slightly, Thorn pointed himself to the right, squeezing the gun barrel in his hand before unleashing a vicious chop at the bridge of the attacker’s nose.
The butt of the gun connected square, the bone disintegrating beneath the impact. A single moan escaped the man’s lips before he crumpled to the ground, a plume of blood spatter cast across the concrete.
Allowing his momentum to carry himself two steps past his target, Thorn planted his right foot, using it to launch himself back at the second attacker. Halfway there he feigned as if he might attempt the chop again, using the movement to freeze his opponent in place just long enough to smash center mass into the man’s body.
The improvised shoulder block sent both hurtling across the concrete, Thorn rolling twice before popping to his feet, the gun still tight in his hand. Three feet away, his prey was slow to get up, struggling over onto all fours, a pained grunt escaping him.
With two quick steps Thorn closed the gap between them, raising the gun to his shoulder and swinging it like a hatchet at the base of the man’s skull. It connected just behind his right ear, pitching the man forward onto the concrete, his motionless body landing just feet from his partner.
Behind him the sound of heavy, uneven footsteps grew closer, Thorn shifting toward them, his body poised. He relaxed just a bit as Cyrus made his way forward, flailing to a stop as he drew in deep gulps of air.
Overhead the container continued its ascent, moving in a steady path up from the ground, oblivious to what had just taken place. As it did so a new sound found their ears, echoing across the water, drowning out the pervasive din of the engine beside them.
“What the hell is that?” Cyrus asked, still bent at the waist, fighting to catch his breath.
Thorn glanced from the operation booth of the crane to the container as it moved out over the water, the sound growing steadily louder. It continued in a steady pace, high pitches mixed with deep bass thuds.
“People,” Thorn said, the realization pulling the air from his lungs. “That thing is filled with people.”
At that moment the container came to a stop, hanging motionless over the calm, dark waters of the harbor. Just as fast the tension on the line was released, the entire thing splashing into the ocean like an oversized fishing lure.
Saltwater sprayed up onto the pier as Thorn took off at a full sprint, hurtling himself over the edge, falling headfirst into the sea foam lying where the container had just disappeared. The icy cold Atlantic exploded against his skin like a thousand tiny needles as he entered, the suction of the sinking container drawing him down after it. Just three hard strokes after entering the water his fingers found metal, using the hard surface to draw his feet up under him.
Thorn opened his eyes for a split second to be greeted by inky darkness in every direction, his eyes burning from contact with the brine. Clamping them shut, he jammed the barrel of the gun into the back of his pants, using both hands to work his way to the side of the container.
An eerie cacophony of sounds drifted out of the container as inside people continued to cry for help, banging against the metal walls with great aplomb.
Working in the dark, Thorn moved his way to the side edge, using strict feel to find a latch and ultimately the heavy padlock sealing it shut. Removing the .44 from his waistband, Thorn pressed it tight against the latch piece and pulled the trigger.
The sound was muffled underwater, the kickback almost non-existent for a gun of that size. With his free hand he grabbed hold of the implement and jerked on it, bits of shrapnel drifting through his fingers.
As he worked, Thorn could feel the last of his air evaporating in his lungs, tiny pinpricks beginning to jab at his insides. Little sprigs of bright light started to flash behind his eyelids as he lifted the lever on the door, banging twice on it before pressing his feet into the harbor floor and hurtling himself upward.
Chapter Eighteen