Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel

by Dustin Stevens

“How the hell do you find anything in this place?” Thorn asked, ripping open a file cabinet as a wave of dust flew up in his face.

  “Pretty damn easy if you know what it is you’re looking for,” Kenny Schiff said.

  Thorn looked at the older man with white hair and couldn’t help but smile at the pure and simple logic he proffered.

  For hours on end he, Nio, and Schiff had been in the room digging through every invoice from the last six months. In most instances it would have been an easy task, nothing more than a few keystrokes and a simple computer search.

  Here, the computer-based system had been tossed aside five years before when some bored college students hacked in and sent ships bouncing all over the globe for fun.

  Once it was discovered what had happened, Billy Turner arranged for two things. First, he got rid of the computers and demanded that all transactions be printed and filed.

  Second, Turner had sent parts of the hackers bouncing all over the globe.

  For fun.

  The new system was slow and painful, a point Schiff had made a dozen times over, but it always ensured prying eyes were kept far away. The tedium of the system had been on full display throughout the day, the process starting with a half dozen men combing through the files. As the hours passed the number had dwindled to just three, the combination of frustration and narrow working space becoming unbearable for all.

  To remedy the situation, a scheme was devised where anything that looked even remotely promising, whether it was a shipping origin or an unusual name, was piled up on a table by the door. Shortly after noon the other men in the room were sent out to begin peeking in containers, following up on the leads.

  From that moment on, Thorn was certain to always have a few new ones in place, no matter how mundane they might have appeared.

  Hour after hour passed in the cramped confines of the file room, Nio growing increasingly vocal about getting home to Iggy. Coming along had not been his idea or Thorn’s, instead a not-so-subtle prod from Dr. Whittle.

  Ignoring the incessant comments, Thorn kept his attention aimed downward, rifling through untold stacks of invoices. Unlike most common tasks, he was unable to detach his active mind, forcing himself to stay focused and alert long past the burning in his eyes and nose from assorted invoice dust.

  Outside the sun began to dip low in the western sky and the lights of Boston danced off the water as they continued to pound ahead. Fifteen thousand documents were already accounted for, many more lying in wait as they worked, tension growing with each passing moment.

  “So, how long you been doing this?” Nio asked, his voice the first break in the silence in more than an hour.

  “Almost twelve hours now. You?” Schiff said.

  Hearing the conversation behind him, Thorn raised his eyes toward the ceiling before cracking a smile.

  “About the same,” Nio replied. “How long you been on the docks?”

  “Started in ‘71, fresh out of high school,” Schiff said, no small amount of pride in his voice. “Guard, dock hand, on up into management. Turner moved me over here five years ago after we went back to paper. Said I was the most organized man he knew or something like that.

  “Don’t care for the cold the way I once did, so moving in here was just fine by me, even if it is a little boring.”

  The wry smile fell away from Thorn’s lips as his rifling through the file cabinet came to a stop. Pulling out the sheet before him, he scanned the length of it, his heart rate picking up just a bit. “I think I’ve got something here.”

  “Put it on the pile,” Nio said.

  “No, I mean I think I’ve got something here,” Thorn repeated.

  The sound of shuffling paper fell away as Thorn became aware that both men were staring intently at his profile.

  “We’re listening,” Schiff said.

  “Invoice here for a container full of air fresheners from a company called Living Decorations, Inc.”

  “So?” Nio asked.

  Thorn looked up, seeing the confusion on both their faces. “Living Decorations. Port of origin is Emden, Germany.”

  “LD. Liberation Day,” Nio said, piecing together what he was being told. “How many invoices from them?”

  “Just the one.” Thorn said, turning the paper over once in his hand before tossing it atop the file cabinet. “That has to be it, right?”

  “Doesn’t hurt to look,” Nio offered.

  Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Thorn nodded in agreement. At a quarter past nine in the evening, they had been trapped inside the space for more than twelve hours. If nothing else, drawing in some fresh air and clearing his head before a long night would be a needed respite.

  In the event this was the container they were looking for, he didn’t want to leave it sitting active any longer than necessary.

  “Pier Five,” Thorn said, “container number KV-117.”

  Saying the words out loud, something Chekov had told him clicked in Thorn’s mind, the name of the concentration camp his brother had been sent to at Kaiserwald.

  “Come on,” Thorn said, leaving his cabinet standing open as he turned and strode from the room. He could hear Nio running to catch up behind him as they both moved for the Explorer parked outside.

  The piers filed past in quick order as Thorn gunned it for the opposite end of the docks, sliding to a stop along Pier Five. Piling out they both took a side, checking each of the containers in turn for the number in question. As they worked, Nio carried the Glock he received the night before while Thorn opted for the big .44 and a folding knife tucked into his rear pocket.

  Halfway down the dock Nio spotted the container in question, calling Thorn across to join him. Sitting at the bottom of a stack of three, they did a quick revolution of the area, finding it desolate.

  “Thoughts?” Nio asked.

  “Could be a remote detonator,” Thorn said, pulling the oversized gun from its holster and aiming it at the padlock hanging from the door before pulling the trigger. Bits of steel exploded into every direction, flecks of it catching the overhead light, as the lock disintegrated to the ground, the sound carrying out over the water.

  “Anything?” Thorn asked, pressing his chin to his shoulder and looking back at Nio.

  Behind him Nio had his back pressed against the container, the Glock held in both hands. “Nothing. Go ahead.”

  The container was new and the lever easily slid up in a ninety-degree arc, offering only a small groan in protest. Thorn grasped one side of the door with his left hand and held the .44 in his right. In one fluid motion, he threw back the door of the container and stepped inside, his gun raised, his eyes doing their best to adjust to the dim light.

  At first glance the container was lined with pallets, each of them loaded high with cardboard boxes emblazoned in Living Decoration logos. Sliding the folding knife from his pocket, Thorn stepped to the closest one and cut a vicious slice through the plastic encasing it.

  Pulling free a plain cardboard box, Thorn set it on the ground and sliced away the top. Feeling a tiny prick of adrenaline enter his system, he peeled back the cardboard sheet to find a series of smaller boxes, each packed tight.

  Printed on each one were pictures of air fresheners and the words “Cinnamon Stick Scent.”

  Adrenaline gave way to irritation as Thorn lifted one of the boxes free, tearing it open with both hands. Inside was nothing more than an air freshener, the name Living Decoration emblazoned on the side.

  “Son of a bitch,” Thorn muttered, staring down at the item a moment before hurling it against the side of the container. On contact it smashed into tiny plastic bits, the sound of the impact reverberating through the enclosed space.

  “What?” Nio asked, his silhouette appearing in the doorway.

  “It’s legit,” Thorn said, stepping outside and slamming the door shut. “Nothing but air fresheners.”

  Side by side they started back up the pier, both shaking their heads, bitterness on their fa
ces. They strode in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until a sound drew their attention upward.

  Standing at the end of the pier was Schiff, his hands extended overhead. Back and forth he waved them, yelling something that wasn’t quite discernible from where they stood.

  “What?” Thorn called out, cupping his hands to either side of his mouth as he increased his pace to a jog.

  Ahead in the distance he could see Schiff make a similar gesture with his hands, though the only sound to be heard was the single crack of a gunshot piercing the night air.

  Chapter Sixty