Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel

by Dustin Stevens

The moment the plane touched down at Hanson Air Force Base, Thorn’s cell phone began vibrating against his leg. The number was one he didn’t recognize, ignoring it as he thanked Thompson for his help.

  It rang again.

  Thorn bypassed it a second time and drove from the base, thanking the guards at the exit station and easing back into midday traffic.

  The third time it rang, Thorn fished it out and answered.

  “Where the hell have you been?” barked Billy Turner.

  “Upstate New York,” Thorn said. “I was on a plane with my phone turned off. What’s going on?”

  “How fast can you get over here?”

  “Twenty minutes?” Thorn said, computing the route in his head, looking out at the traffic around him.

  “We’ll be waiting,” Turner said and hung up. Thorn stared at the phone for a moment in confusion before dropping it on the dash.

  The drive took only seventeen minutes, the lunch traffic a bit lighter than Thorn expected. He pulled up to the main gate outside of Turner’s and was motioned through by Melvin without so much as a second glance, a smirk crossing his face as he noticed the splint still in place.

  Thorn felt his insides tighten as Turner and Cardoza were waiting for him by the garage, both still wearing the same clothes as the night before. Behind them the garage door was shut tight.

  Thorn parked the Explorer and climbed out.

  “I’m guessing it was important?” Turner said by way of an opening.

  “Extremely,” Thorn said. “This thing is a lot bigger than just some guys moving in on your docks.”

  Turner shot a look to Cardoza, both looking grim.

  “That’s why we called you,” Cardoza said.

  The feelings of anticipation and dread climbed a bit higher in Thorn as he glanced between them. “What have I missed?”

  “You have a weak stomach?” Turner asked.

  Thorn had seen things that no person should ever have to, the kind of things that one wouldn’t think humans capable of doing to one another. “Not at all.”

  “Come with us,” Cardoza said, leading the crew inside.

  A putrid smell was the first thing to hit Thorn, a sheen of moisture coming to his eyes. For a moment, he paused just inside the door to let his gaze adjust before stepping forward and taking stock of the situation.

  Lined before him were six men, all seated in a row, each tied down to a steel chair. All were in various states of disarray, physical violence worn plainly on their features. Of the half dozen two were unconscious, the others avoiding eye contact.

  “You guys have been busy,” Thorn said, scanning the group before looking to Turner and Cardoza. “Who are they?”

  “Four boats tried to get away last night,” Turner said. “Fifteen men in all. We gleaned through them and took care of the ones that didn’t know anything. No need to bother sweating the minions.

  “These guys were a little higher on the food chain.”

  Again Thorn looked at each of the men in turn. “They look like they wish they were dead right now.”

  “Yeah, and how’s your friend?” Cardoza asked.

  Knowing the implication that was being made, Thorn turned his attention back to Turner and Cardoza. “Commenting, not condemning.”

  Both men nodded slightly, openly surveying him, trying to decide some unspoken question between them. Sliding the photos from his pocket Thorn stepped forward, holding them at arm’s length.

  “Any bastards that would do this to a woman deserves whatever he gets.”

  Once more the two exchanged a glance, both nodding.

  “Good man,” Cardoza said.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Thorn said, “but I was just handed a ton of new information.”

  He let the statement end there, hoping it would be picked up that he had precious little time and needed to be back on the road soon.

  “That’s why we called,” Turner said, looping out around the line of prisoners and walking along behind them. “When we first got them back here, they all tried the tough guy routine.

  “We beat them with fists. Not a word. Whips. Nothing. Once

  my friend over there went to work though, they couldn’t talk fast enough.”

  As he talked, a thick, bullish man with a bald head and red beard stepped from the shadows into the open. Around his neck he wore a welder’s apron, the front speckled with blood. In either hand he carried a blowtorch and pliers, both also stained red.

  Moving slowly behind them Turner extended a finger, pointing out various body parts among the captives. “What you smell is charred flesh and what you see are fingers, ears, and noses removed with pliers.”

  Thorn gave no outward reaction as he looked at the group, having seen much worse in his day.

  Turner continued his march along the line, stopping halfway down to run a knuckle along the back of one man’s skull. At the touch of his hand the man cowered in his seat, squirming as much as his bindings would allow.

  Clearly whatever had happened in the previous hours had left a mark.

  “What have you found out?” Thorn asked.

  “Bits and pieces at best,” Cardoza said. “None of them know too much, just enough to paint a jumbled picture for us.”

  Turner started on the far end, returning the same way he’d just come. “This guy here said that yesterday teams were dispatched all over the world to pick up shipments.”

  He moved forward to the second man in order. “This one said that the guy he works for found some plant in South America called Brugmansia and was trying to weaponize it.”

  The heels of his shoes clicked against the floor as he continued onward. “This third guy took it a little further and said it wasn’t that bad as a plant, but their boss figured out a way to vaporize it so it was lethal.”

  Turner walked up behind one of the unconscious men and smacked the back of his head. “This one here just kept running his mouth, telling them to be quiet, and that some guy named Ling would kill them if he knew they were talking.”

  “So you knocked him cold to shut him up?” Thorn asked.

  “No,” Cardoza said, shaking his head. “He’s dead.”

  Turner moved on down the row and tapped another guy on the shoulder. “This one claims to know nothing for certain, but that he heard the teams weren’t just going to pick up a delivery. Seems they had some dispatching to do as well.”

  Thorn nodded his understanding, motioning toward the man on the end, his chin resting against his chest. “And the last guy?”

  A thin smile crossed Turner’s face as he swatted the crown of the final man’s head. “This guy just cried like a bitch, so we knocked him out to shut him up.”

  Cardoza and the large man both chuckled. Thorn couldn’t help but crack a smile as well. “Thank you for the information. I appreciate it.”

  “You brought us in on what was happening, we felt the need to return the favor,” Turner said.

  “Which is why I should tell you, from what I just learned, your docks are going to be a part of this thing,” Thorn said.

  Turner nodded. “I figured as much.”

  “And since the teams have already been dispatched, I have to believe it’s happening soon. I’m thinking tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?” Cardoza asked.

  “They sent the teams out yesterday, anticipating going live tonight. Our invasion last night took out their control center, set them back a day.”

  “What do you need from us?” Turner asked.

  “I need to figure out how the weaponized plants are being shipped. If we can determine how they enter the Boston docks, we can alert the other cities ahead of time.”

  “Meet me at the docks in the morning, I’ll show you everything I’ve got,” Turner said.

  The last thing Thorn heard as he headed back toward the Explorer was the sound of a blowtorch kicking back to life.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven