For the first time in the ongoing history of their partnership, Luis Cardoza was the first to arrive. He pulled up to the mansion ten minutes before seven, directing the driver to idle past the front door and park off to the side. There he remained seated in the car, a small box of Cuban cigars in his lap.
Three hours earlier, Cardoza had been out on his boat with his wife and children. He and his son were fishing while his wife and daughter sunbathed on the deck. The call came in from Hardy himself, immediately cutting the day short and sending them headed for shore.
Hardy was very cryptic in his message, stating just that something had come up and it was urgent that they convene. Cardoza knew him to be a prudent man that never used hyperbole and if he said the meeting was a necessity, it was a necessity.
Five minutes later, Billy Turner pulled into the driveway and came to a stop a few feet behind Cardoza. The late afternoon sun was just beginning to slide down in the western sky, throwing a harsh glare as the two men emerged from their respective vehicles at the same time.
Cradling the cigars in his left hand, Cardoza extended his right to Turner. “Good to see you, my friend.”
“Good to see you as well,” Turner said, shifting a small cask of whiskey into his left hand and returning the handshake. “Any idea what this is about?”
The two men walked to the front door and passed through as it swung open without a sound.
“I can speculate, but nothing concrete,” Cardoza said. ”You?”
Turner shook his head. “Same here. I tried to press him on the phone, but he wouldn’t say a word.”
Together the pair walked through the main foyer of the house and into the dining room. To their surprise, there was no food or drink waiting for them, instead just Paul Hardy seated at the head of the table.
At the sight of them he rose and said, “Luis, Billy, thank you for coming.”
“You said it was important,” Turner replied.
Hardy picked up a letter from the table in front of him and held it up. “Oh, believe me, it is. Please, come with me.”
Cardoza and Turner cast each other a quick glance and placed the items they were holding on the table before following Hardy through the house and out into a large garage. A row of metal doors fitted for automobile use lined one side of it and a large roll-top door over fifteen feet across and twenty feet high outfitted the other.
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 early evening 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 roughhewn.
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 unload 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
Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel Page 68
