Liberation Day Page 7

  For the first time some clarity began to settle in for Milton. He was here being asked a favor from one of the more powerful people in the state, a man with untold influence and extremely deep pockets.

  Hardy sat in silence, waiting for Milton, not bothering to further verbalize his request.

  As far as Milton could tell, there was little downside to offering assistance. While some enterprising reporter might catch wind of the meeting and decide to let his imagination run wild, the hit in the press at this point in his term would be negligible.

  On the flip side, holding a marker from Paul Hardy could be a game changer should he ever need it in the future.

  Holding his gaze on the wall above his guest, Milton went through the charade of debating the request a long moment before shifting his attention down to his desk. Sliding open the top drawer, he pulled a gold key from it before rotating his chair in a half-circle.

  Leaning down to the bottom of the credenza behind him he inserted the key, a small click sounding out as the door opened. Extracting an aging Rolodex from within, he flipped through the dense stack of contacts until he found what he was looking for and removed it.

  A card he prayed he never needed to use himself.

  Replacing the Rolodex, Milton spun back to face forward and extended the card across the desk, holding it between his index and middle fingers. Reaching forward, Hardy accepted it as Milton returned the key to his desk drawer.

  “The Company,” Hardy read aloud. “Plain white business card, one phone number, no address.”

  He fell silent, letting his raised eyebrows ask the question he was thinking for him.

  “Don’t let the card fool you,” Milton replied, raising his right ankle to rest on his left knee. “They have ample resources, they just prefer to keep a low profile. One of those ‘You have to be brought in by somebody in the know’ type of things.”

  “And you’re in the know?” Hardy asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Last term, outgoing Governor Travalli used them. It was official business, so the reference stayed with the office, not him personally.”

  “Will I be able to use your name if they ask how I came to have their number?”

  Milton nodded in the affirmative without saying as much. “Also, the name on that card is no longer with them. The man you’re looking for now is Bryce Stepoli, handles all requests personally.”

  Accepting the information, Hardy examined the card one last time before tapping it against the opposite palm. In one quick movement he stood, thrusting a hand across the desk.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  Milton stood and returned the handshake. “Good luck. I hope they can help.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Most years the island of Cuba enjoyed June temperatures that hovered somewhere in the mid 80’s. Warm and sunny, offset by the persistent blowing of an ocean breeze, it allowed for an active lifestyle without ever becoming oppressive.

  This was not most years.

  A shift in the weather flow of the North Atlantic Current had pushed the usual summer winds further out to sea, the sun beating straight down, heat reflecting off the concrete pad that was Havana. Foot traffic thinned to the point of non-existence, people seeking refuge from the heat, opting to wait until cover of darkness before performing their chores.

  Nio wasn’t fortunate enough to have that choice. Instead, he was trapped inside a shipping container on a wait that was stretching well into its second day.

  Despite the fact that he had moved little in all that time, his energy reserves were fast becoming sapped. The meager food rations offered did little to replenish him, the water no match for the perspiration pouring from his skin.

  More than once a fellow passenger fell unconscious from heat stroke and was carried away, never to be seen again.

  Wedged tight against one another the travelers sat in the darkness, the smell of sweat and urine permeating the air. After awhile the combined stench became too much and people began to vomit, the sound of their retching reverberating throughout, the scent of it soon following.

  Positioned in the far back corner, Nio kept his back pressed into the perpendicular walls, his knees raised in front of him, guarding as much personal space as possible. He could tell from the cooling metal against his shoulder blades that night had fallen, though beyond that it was impossible to know the time of day.

  Seated in the darkness, he did his best to ignore the assault on his senses as he sat deep in thought, preserving the remnants of his energy, trying to decipher what might have happened to his father.

  There was no doubt that Jorge Garcia would be considered middle-aged, but he was still quite a ways from being deemed elderly. His dark hair was only beginning to show signs of graying and he still possessed much of the muscle mass he had as a younger man.

  While the conditions Nio was now being subjected to were horrible, it was difficult to imagine them being his father’s undoing.

  Lost in his thoughts, Nio barely noticed the first sounds of metal scraping against metal. Not until the opposite end of the container opened wide, the entire side extending outward, did he draw himself into the moment, his pupils constricting as flood lights poured into the space.

  A murmur of fearful comments passed through the crowd as two fluorescent spotlights blazed forward, illuminating everything in harsh light, bodies bright with perspiration shining beneath them.

  A moment later the bulk of the light was blotted out by a trio of silhouettes, their uniforms and weapons framed against the bright glare. Nio watched as they stood three across, guns trained at the ready, their bodies blocking the opening and throwing long shadows over those inside.

  Seeming to relish the moment they stood in silence, watching the faces of the people wedged inside, before beginning to speak. In short, sharp commands they told everyone to move fast, stay quiet, and follow them outside.

  Without further instructions of any kind they shifted their weapons, holding them by the barrel with one hand while using the other to begin grabbing passengers and jerking them forward into the night. Many of the people within arm’s reach were older, their strength fading from the day spent in the makeshift sauna. As the brusque handling hurtled them forward they were unable to control themselves, sprawling across the ground, the passengers behind them stepping right over their fallen bodies as they moved forward.

  From his perch in the far back Nio was one of the last to exit, affording him a few seconds to stand and work some of the feeling back into his body before beginning his journey into the night. Upon departing the container he attempted to offer a hand to those that had fallen on the front end of the procession, realizing upon first sight that they were already gone, their frail bodies trampled by the masses. Bloody footprints extended away from their battered corpses, their unseeing eyes staring into the distance.

  Free from the container for the first time in almost two days, the night air passed over his skin in a cool rush. It met the perspiration on his skin and dropped his body temperature within seconds, a shiver running down his back as he marched forward.

  The path before him was outlined clearly, flanked by loose rows of armed guards on either side. Bearded and reeking of body odor, they stood with weapons at the ready, waiting for somebody to dare cast a glance in their direction.

  With his gaze aimed downward Nio shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched, his entire body braced for an attack that never came.

  Five minutes after leaving the holding container Nio negotiated his way along a narrow wooden gangplank, walking across the open deck of a barge and into an exact replica of the storage space he had just left. Made of corrugated metal and painted mud brown, it had no identifying marks, matching every other container stretched the length of the ship in both directions.

  The last thought that passed through his mind as the door was closed behind him was to wonder how many others carried the same cargo as the one he was now in.

  Chapter Thirte
en

  The black marble table was much larger than the last time Ingram was there, but otherwise the room was exactly the same. The men that comprised the board sat in a single file along the far end, spaced equidistant apart and branching from one side of the room to another. Each wore some variation of the same uniform, dark suits with white shirts and power ties of assorted designs.

  The only difference Ingram noticed at all was the fact that the men seemed to be wearing a bit more strain, even though they had been seated for just a couple of minutes.

  The summons had seemed a bit unusual to Ingram, arriving just moments after his return to the capitol. A voicemail was waiting on his phone as soon as he stepped off the plane, a sharp automated whippoorwill call letting him know it was waiting.

  The directive had been simple enough, requesting that he come in person to headquarters that evening for a meeting. He was told it would be brief and that business attire would not be necessary, though he knew better than to fully believe either.

  Now seated before the board, he still had no idea what purpose his being there was meant to serve. Just days into their official employment, both he and Thorn were both still getting their feet under them. They each had extensive training yet to complete, a new base of operations and communication pattern to establish.

  Given that, the only thing he could figure was that the board had changed their minds, opting to cut things short before anybody became too vested. The thought brought a roiling sickness to his stomach as he sat and stared at the men settling in before him, heightening as he pondered having to break such a decision to Thorn.

  Ignored by the others in the room, Ingram was left alone with his thoughts, his suit jacket becoming hotter with each passing moment. He could feel sweat beginning to line his back, his dress shirt sticking to it each time he moved even a fraction of an inch.

  His wait ended at eight o’clock sharp, cut off by Stepoli raising his right hand, waiting as the room fell into silence. Once he had the complete attention of all present he cleared his throat, a small guttural sound in the quiet room, before beginning.

  “Thank you for being here. We realize the request came rather suddenly, but I assure you it is with good reason.”

  Ingram dipped his head forward just a fraction of an inch, enough to acknowledge the comment without saying anything.

  “As I’m sure you are aware,” Stepoli continued, “the people that contract with us are assured of the utmost privacy, something that is best preserved by meeting in person whenever possible.”

  A hint of confusion passed over Ingram’s face as he stared back at them. While he and his charge were by no means ready to begin, it sounded as if a case was being assigned to them.

  Before he could voice a question or await further explanation, the sound of the wooden double doors opening behind him could be heard. Through them passed the clear din of high-heeled shoes walking along marble floors, the steps rhythmic and even.

  Without turning around, Ingram waited as the steps grew closer, culminating in a raven-haired secretary appearing by his side, a single folder in hand. She passed it over to him without comment and took three steps back, waiting with her hands clasped before her.

  Turning to face front, Ingram fought to keep his face neutral, placing the file down on the table.

  “Please,” Stepoli said, extending a hand out before him, motioning for Ingram to open it and take a look inside.

  Very thin, the unmarked blue folder held but a single piece of paper. It was attached to the folder by a pair of folding metal clips, a generic letterhead spanning the top.

  His heartbeat increasing again, Ingram glanced up at the board before skimming over the page.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  On June 9th, our company was contacted about possible employment. The contact originates in Boston, Massachusetts and was referred to us by a reliable client. The referral has been cleared from any suspicion of foul play.

  The case presented would be conducted in the greater Boston area. It would involve working the shipping and receiving docks of Dorchester Harbor and hinge on negotiating a place within the cartels found there. As with most of our jobs, there is a high level of danger attached.

  All relevant details will be rendered once acceptance is made. At that time, a full briefing and access to all necessary resources will be made.

  There was no closing of any kind, just three short paragraphs of text. Ingram scanned it twice before closing the folder and sliding it across the table as the secretary stepped forward and took it back up. She exited without comment, her shoes echoing through the room before being swallowed by the banging shut of the heavy wooden door behind her.

  Leaning forward, Ingram laced his fingers atop the table, staring back intently at the men across from him. Each one met his gaze in full, their expressions ranging from impassive to forceful.

  Once the secretary was gone, Stepoli began anew.

  “We know you and Byrd are both just days into the company, but this came about rather suddenly. It is bad for business for us to have operatives sitting idle, but it does call for the occasional moment such as this.”

  Ingram waited a long moment for more explanation and when none was offered prompted, “A moment such as this?”

  “They need somebody, and they need them now,” Stepoli said, shoving the words out without pause. It was apparent he was the only one to do any of the talking, the other men looking between him and Ingram like a crowd watching a tennis match.

  Just hours before Ingram had been sitting on the plane, thinking of how he wanted to structure Thorn’s training. Unlike many of the recruits that were brought in, he had the benefit of military training behind him.

  Contrary to them, that meant his skills were of a markedly physical nature.

  Even more than that, the last time Ingram had seen Thorn he was in no state to be starting a first assignment.

  Across from him Stepoli waited, seemingly assessing Ingram, watching for a response. When none came he pulled a matching folder over in front of himself, this one much thicker than the one Ingram had been given. He flipped it open and removed the top page, holding it at arm’s length and reading aloud.

  “Preliminary research indicates that this is a case calling for a young male with a maximum age of thirty-seven years old. No additional language proficiencies are needed, nor are any technological skills. Assignee will, however, need to be competent in physical combat and the handling of a firearm.”

  There he stopped and looked up, pausing for emphasis. Running the list in his mind, it was obvious Thorn fit the bill thus far, though that did little to quell the apprehension within Ingram.

  “Also, the assignee must be a person of Irish heritage, or have the ability to assimilate therein.”

  Stepoli paused again, folding the file closed before him. He shoved it a few inches away and folded his hands, staring back at Ingram.

  “Obviously, based on the early assessment, you can see why we had your team in mind.”

  Unsure if it was a question or a statement, Ingram nodded his head, remaining silent.

  “After discussing matters, the board determined that Mr. Byrd’s skill set, as one-sided though it may be at the moment, was very well suited for this kind of assignment.”

  Again Ingram nodded, already thinking what Stepoli had said. Apparently the other aspects of Thorn’s skill set would have to be shored up in the future.

  “Due to the extremely fast nature of this request coming in though, and the fact that you two have not had time to properly assimilate yourselves,” Stepoli continued, “this one time you have the right of refusal.”

  The poignancy of the statement wasn’t lost on Ingram, who fought back a smirk at the wording of it. In the future, they would do what they were told when they were told, but for the time being they could at least pretend to have some say in the matter.

  Ingram waited a long moment to see if Stepoli was done before pressing his lips t
ogether and scanning the length of the board. While he and Thorn were just getting started, and they had had very little contact over the preceding years, this case seemed to be the best possible place for them to start. It was housed on familiar ground, using skills that should come naturally to Thorn.

  All six men sat in silence as Ingram ran the paces in his mind, only Birkwood giving any sort of outward response, a small sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Defiance rising within him, Ingram met the look, matching it with an unmistakable glare.

  “Neither one of us do well with down time,” Ingram replied. “This is as good a place to start as any.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam King looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He held the falsified application just inches away from his face and scrutinized it, his eyes red and bloodshot, looking as if he was struggling to focus, before dropping it down on his desk. He ran a hand over his face, loose skin tugging from his cheek, and stared at Thorn across from him.

  “Robert Myers,” he said, his voice belying exhaustion, “what brings you down here?”

  Settled into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Thorn stared directly back, unflinching at the new moniker he’d been given.

  “New in town, was told you might have some work available, sir.”

  King regarded Thorn for another moment before flitting his gaze back to the application. “Says here you were a long-time resident of upstate New York.”

  A long nod dipped the top of Thorn’s head down low. “Yes, sir. My father owned a small farm south of Syracuse and we worked it together. When he passed, I sold it and cleared out.”

  Thorn looked King in the eye as he spoke, expelling the fabricated history as if it were the gospel truth. He and Ingram had refined and rehearsed it so many times the day before it came out almost as naturally as his real background.