Thorn opened his mouth to respond in the negative, but was cut off by his partner beside him. Stepping into the center of the trio he blocked the sightline between Thorn and Vanessa, the red hair on the back his head facing Thorn.
“A short one,” he said, his voice conceding defeat as he held a hand out towards Vanessa before turning back. “Robert, stay here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Biting back a retort, Thorn nodded and ducked into the guardhouse. He removed the .44 from his hip and laid it atop the table, his gaze following Cyrus and Vanessa as they moved away down the pier. The moment they were gone from sight he took the gun back up, fastening it to his hip and disappearing into the night.
There was no way of knowing exactly what the girl was up to, but the odds were it wasn’t good. Her performance was too forced, her insistence on luring them away too strong, just to ignore.
Staying along the water’s edge, Thorn avoided as much of the overhead light as he could, the straw-colored glow cast across the asphalt. His right hand pressed to his hip he continued along in near silence, the sound of Vanessa’s laugh drifting through the air, the smell of the sea in his nose.
Halfway down the main roadway, the distinct sound of metal touching metal sounded out behind him. The hairs along the nape of his neck stood on end as he twisted back towards it, drawing his weapon as he dropped to a knee. There he remained, waiting, pulling in slow breaths.
A moment later a second sound, an exact copy of the one before, found his ears, causing him to rise and head in the direction he’d just come from. Sweat rose from his pores as he took a shooter’s stance and moved forward, yards of pavement disappearing beneath his feet.
His concerns from the previous moments fell away as he pushed on, his mind clearing itself, focusing on the sounds emitted from the darkness. Ahead of him Pier Three jutted out to the right, extending into the ocean. The road opened up beside him, framed by even rows of containers, as he slipped around the side and sighted in on a target.
A hundred yards away, perched near the end of the pier, the spidery chassis of a crane rose into the air, silhouetted against the night sky. Walking heel-to-toe, Thorn kept his steps silent as he pushed in on it, a pair of shadowy figures just visible in the waning light.
Inching forward, he watched as they moved about before disappearing beneath the underbelly of the massive machine, the pier once again seeming deserted.
A moment later that illusion was shattered by the low rumble of the crane kicking to life.
Chapter Seventeen
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 towards 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 same 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 onto his feet, the gun still gripped 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 towards 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
It was the second time in three days Thorn found himself sprawled out on concrete, sputtering as frigid water sluiced from his body. He remained facedown for a long moment, letting the cobwebs recede from his vision before pushing himself up onto his knees and drawing the .44 out in front of him.
Under the dim light of the moon, gone was any sign of the two trespassers he had dispatched. In their place was a solitary figure, his body twisted in a grotesque fashion on the ground.
“Aw hell,” Thorn muttered, trudging up to his feet.
Keeping the gun in his right hand Thorn crossed the pier, watching for any sign
of movement, before kneeling beside Cyrus’s body. The left arm and right leg were both shattered and contorted at harsh angles. A bullet hole at the base of his skull oozed blood, just inches beneath lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.
Blowing a breath out through his nose, his body trembling from the air touching his clammy skin, Thorn crossed over to the crane and peered into the cab. As suspected it was deserted, the machine even turned off and the keys left on the seat. He gave a quick pass over the interior for anything that might be left behind, but it was barren.
With angry resignation, Thorn retreated back and dropped to the ground.
In front of him stood a man roughly the same age as he, his coal black hair wet and matted to his head. Sopping wet clothes hung lank over a wiry frame, his nose and chin both formed at sharp angles.
“Is this how you killed my father?” the man asked, his voice thick with contempt.
Thorn cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at the question, but said nothing. The heft of the gun weighed heavy in his hand, hanging by his side in plain sight.
“I said, is this how you killed my father?”
“Yeah, I heard what you said,” Thorn responded, his own voice hard. “I just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
The man circled to his left as he spoke, his body trembling with fury. “The other container. Is this how it went? You got them into the country just to drown them like mongrel dogs?”
Thorn matched the circling motion in turn, his own anger beginning to build. “If that was the case, why did I just save your ass?”
The man’s eyes blazed at the statement, defiance on his face. “You? Saved my ass?”
Thorn smirked, though there was no joy in the gesture. “What? You think it was a mermaid that shot the lock off the door? Or did you just power it open yourself?”
The man opened his mouth to speak but paused, unsure how to respond. Seizing the moment, Thorn motioned towards Cyrus lying between them, gesturing with his chin. “And then I came back up here and killed my partner, too?”
Again the young man remained silent, acrimony splayed across his features as he stared from Thorn to Cyrus and back again.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Thorn said, nodding for emphasis, droplets of water falling from the top of his head. He shifted away from the man, raising his voice so it carried into the night. “You can come out now, too. And bring Cyrus’s gun with you.”
Confusion passed over the man’s face as he stared at Thorn a long moment, the sound of heels clicking against the ground drawing his attention away. As it did so the look of revilement faded from his features, realization, shock, and finally chagrin finding their way in.
“Your sister, I presume, based on the resemblance,” Thorn said, watching as Vanessa emerged from behind a nearby container, walking straight for the man across from him, gun in hand.
Ignoring the statement, the man kept his attention on Vanessa as she grew closer, his jaw falling slack. “What the hell are you doing here, Isabel?”
The single sentence confirmed everything Thorn had thought for the last hour. The entire story of stumbling her way onto the docks was fabricated, including even her name. Remaining in place, he watched as she crossed to the man and wrapped one arm around his neck.
“Isabel, huh?” Thorn said. “I knew you were full of shit.”
“Worked on you two,” she retorted, the saccharine tone from earlier gone.
“No, you took advantage of my partner’s embarrassment,” Thorn replied. “But you didn’t have to kill him.”
Isabel flicked her gaze from Thorn to the body on the ground between them. “I didn’t kill him. I hid until they were gone, then grabbed the gun before you came stumbling back up here like a damned water buffalo.”
Thorn cast her a wary glance, pausing to let her cool down, knowing that anything he said now would only be met by another smart retort.
“So then why are you here?”
His original assessment was correct, as she opened her mouth and raised a finger towards the sky, about to unleash a verbal barrage. Just as fast she stopped, taking pause at his straight-ahead question.
“Yeah, why are you here?” the man beside her asked, his attention shifted her direction. “And dressed like a damn streetwalker?”
A look of pure venom passed over her face as she glared at her brother. “You know why I’m here. It’s the same reason you came up a week ago, the same reason Mama will be here this weekend if she doesn’t hear from me.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” the man snapped. “I can take care of myself.”
“So could Papi.”
Sensing that the situation was fast devolving, Thorn cleared his throat. His skin was now dry to the touch, the ocean breeze having pulled the moisture away, though he could feel his core temperature continuing to drop in his wet pants and boots.
“Not to break up the family moment here, but...” he said, leaving the statement open ended.
The pair across from him remained in a faceoff for several long moments before shifting towards him, the male taking the lead.
“My name is Antonio Garcia, this is my sister Isabel,” he said, motioning between them. “Since you work here, I’m sure you know what goes on after dark. Our presence shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.”
Folding his arms across his chest, the gun still held in his right hand, Thorn looked each of them over.
Given everything that had just taken place, it wasn’t hard to ascertain what Antonio was alluding to. Still, he would rather hear the words then have to go on any conjecture.
“I’ve worked here a total of four hours,” Thorn said. “Let’s pretend I don’t know anything.”
Across from him Isabel snorted, but said nothing.
“So you don’t know that you’re standing on one of the pre-eminent ports in all of America for smuggling Cubans into the country?” Nio asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Cubans?” Thorn asked. “As in, illegal immigrants?”
“No, cigars, you idiot,” Isabel blurted.
Thorn leveled a hardened glare on her, but remained silent.
The truth was, even now looking at the two of them, their features unmistakably Hispanic, he never would have guessed that he was standing at the endpoint for a pipeline from Havana. Everything he had ever heard was that Cubans tended to flood in through Florida, assimilating into society there without so much as a passing glance.
“A steady line of ocean traffic runs from Galveston to Boston,” Nio said, lifting his soaked shirt overhead and dropping it to the ground with a heavy slap of saturated material against concrete. “With the embargo on Cuba, the easiest form of entry is to have a ship swing a little wide along the way.”
There was much Thorn wanted to ask, holes that needed filled in, but he let it pass. There would be time for that later.
“So the two of you just came off the island?” he asked.
Isabel smirked. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
For a moment Thorn thought of telling her to find a corner somewhere to stand on, but held his tongue. Right now they were divulging information, something he sorely needed. It was best to keep them talking, no matter how many times she spouted off at him.
“No,” Antonio said, taking a half step forward, extending a hand towards his sister. “That’s a fair question.”
He turned his head towards Thorn. “And the answer is no. With the exception of myself for the past few days, neither of us has ever been on the island.”
Thorn remained rooted in place, waiting for him to continue.
“Several weeks ago our father went to visit. At some point between departing and arriving here, he disappeared.”
Again Thorn got the impression there were parts of the story that were being left out, but he let it pass. Instead, he turned over his shoulder and examined the few handfuls of people scattered along the pier, some trudging in the opposite direction, others huddled togethe
r nearby.
In total, there appeared to be no more than a dozen.
“How many boarded?” Thorn asked, nodding towards the people drifting away from them.
“I don’t know,” Nio replied. “Better part of a hundred anyway.”
Thorn again scanned over the thin crowd dispersing in front of them, shaking his head at the numbers still trapped on the harbor floor. “What happens to them now?”
Nio shook his head. “The same thing that happens to every illegal immigrant that survives the trip. They’ll find family or friends if they have them, find work if they don’t.”
“Damn,” Thorn muttered.
“Still a hell of a lot better than the island,” Isabel said, earning a nod of agreement from her brother.
Thorn shifted his attention from the refugees to Nio and Isabel. “And what happens to you?”
Nio lowered his head to the side and looked at Thorn with a sideways stare. He remained that way for a long moment before saying, “Eventually, we’ll find our way back to Miami.”
The insinuation was none-too-subtle. “Eventually?”
“You know we can’t leave without knowing,” Nio said, raising his head back up to look straight at Thorn.
“I can respect that,” Thorn said, “so long as you respect that isn’t my problem.”
Across from him Isabel took a half-step forward, again raising her finger, ready to berate him. Once more she was cut off by her brother, him stepping forward, putting a hand on her wrist.
“Meaning?” he asked.
“Meaning this is my job,” Thorn said. He motioned to Cyrus growing cold between them. “And any second now I have to phone this in. Within a half hour this place is about to be crawling with pissed off Irishmen.”
The top of Nio’s head rose in a slow nod of acceptance. “We’re Cuban. We’re good at disappearing when we need to.”
Again the implication was clear, if completely unstated. “I get the feeling I’ll be seeing you both again soon.”
Liberation Day Page 9
