Every bulb along the length of Pier Two was busted, the entire area cloaked in darkness. The only light at all was the ambient glow of the city as it refracted off the ocean. Leaving Nio behind, Thorn moved forward, his knees bent into a crouch, crossing one foot in front of the other. Keeping his back just inches from the containers lining the pier, he maintained a steady pace, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness around him.
The purchase order Schiff had found originated in Murmansk, Russia, the number on the outside KW-834. In his haste earlier Thorn had forgotten to account for Chekov’s accent, the name Kaiserwald sounding like Kaiservald. Cursing himself for the gaffe he continued going onward, a low persistent rumble reaching his ears.
Pausing, he pressed himself back against the closest container and listened, the sound continuing, low and even.
Beginning anew, Thorn rose to full height and ran forward, letting the sound serve as his guide. Without glancing at cargo numbers he sprinted onward, the noise growing closer, never wavering.
As he drew closer Thorn slowed his pace, moving silently along the concrete. Ahead he could pick out the muffled noises of feet scraping against pavement, of crates being unloaded.
Inching forward, he nudged his head around the edge of the closest container. There in the darkness, oblivious to anyone around them, were two men in gas masks unloading cardboard boxes. Beyond them in the harbor sat a boat with two men arranging the boxes passed to them.
Tucking himself back behind the container, Thorn rotated his grip to the barrel of the .44, waiting as the sound of footsteps grew closer.
Once they seemed to be only inches away, he swung out from his hiding place, swinging the butt of the gun down in a half arc.
The man stood paralyzed at the sight of Thorn lurching toward him, unable to even raise his hands as the gun crashed into his cheekbone. It smashed into the thick rubber of the gas mask, embedding it in the man’s face as he fell limp to the ground.
From the water, one of the men onboard the boat saw the burst of movement, his arms rising and waving in panic above his head. “Hey!”
Flipping the gun in his hand, Thorn stepped forward over the body of his first victim, firing two rounds into the front windshield of the boat. The loud boom of the gun echoed across the water as the bullets smashed into the Plexiglas, shards of it exploding across the interior of the boat.
At the sound of gunfire, a second man rushed out from inside the container and hurling the box he was carrying at Thorn. The full weight of it slammed into his shoulder, twisting his upper body to the side as dozens of small silver packages spilled across the concrete with a clatter.
Following the path of the box, the man stepped forward and threw a quick jab at Thorn, followed by a looping hook. Thorn ducked the jab and grabbed the man’s arm as he threw the hook, raising his knee into his solar plexus. The man made a gasping sound as the wind rushed from his lungs, remaining bent at the waist as Thorn whipped the barrel of the Magnum across the back of his skull.
The moment the metal connected with the exposed backside of the man’s head he wilted to the ground, landing atop the lower half of his cohort.
From the water, the boat engine sprang to life. Without rising into view, the driver reached up and dropped the throttle, steering them away, driving blind into the night.
For a moment Thorn stood poised with his gun extended, ready to pump the rest of his clip into the retreating boat. Just as fast he let the notion fade, watching as twin trails of churned water appeared, the boat speeding away into the darkness.
“Dammit,” Thorn muttered, tucking the gun into the back of his pants. Starting with the man piled on top, he stripped away the gas mask and pulled a handgun from his waistband, tossing it into the harbor. Pushing his limp body to the side, he did the same with his partner, removing the same items before dumping him in a heap alongside his mate.
Once his opposition was neutralized, Thorn shifted his attention to the container. Shoving the doors open wide, he stepped inside to find the entire space stuffed full with pallets, each one filled with identical cardboard boxes.
Uniform in size and shape, not a single insignia or notation of any kind could be seen from where he stood.
Glancing down to the box that had been thrown at him, Thorn picked up one of the small silver packages, turning the stainless steel box over in his hands. Rectangular in shape, a nozzle on one end and a small red blinking light on the other served as the only defining features.
“You must be a Vaporizer,” Thorn whispered, turning it over once more.
A wave of anger rose deep within as he stared at the tiny silver implement. For a moment, he thought of Schiff lying dead nearby, of Iggy stretched across his bed at home.
He thought of everything Yuri Chekov had told him.
Years before Thorn had seen atrocities committed by rulers to their own people. As tragic, as horrendous, as they were, not once did the oppressed feel the need to take that fight global, to destroy millions of people decades after the fact.
Wheeling on the ball of his foot, he flung the object far into the harbor, long beyond the distance where he could have heard the sound of it splashing under. Feeling the animosity within only grow, he grabbed up two more strays from the ground and flicked them behind him, taking up the box and hurling it as well.
Using the side of his foot he slid the remaining few stragglers over the edge, stepping forward and watching as the entire group disappeared beneath the darkened surface of the water. Once they were gone from sight he drew his cell phone from his pocket, dialing from memory.
A moment later it was answered, Ingram on the other end.
“You find it?”
“All present and accounted for,” Thorn said, “minus a box that is now sitting at the bottom of the harbor.”
“Good work,” Ingram replied, his voice belying the slightest hint of relief.
“Not just yet,” Thorn replied. “We’ve got an entire container full of aerosol weapons that can be activated from anywhere.”
“Right,” Ingram said, the same terse voice from before reappearing.
“And they know we have them,” Thorn said, not bothering to fill in the remainder of the details.
“On it.”
“Pier Two, KW-832,” Thorn said. “Fast.”
He disconnected the call, turning to close the container up tight. Once it was shut and locked, he took out his cell phone a second time, scrolling through his recent incoming calls before finding what he was looking for.
This time the line rang only once before being snapped up, Turner’s voice on the other end of the line. ”You find them?”
“Yeah,” Thorn said, turning and resting his back against the container door, staring down at the two men lying motionless before him.
“I hear they got Kenny Schiff,” Turner said, a tiny hint of somber present.
“They did,” Thorn said, lowering his voice to match the tone. He knew there were many more things he could say, condolences he could offer, but opted against it.
Right now his part in the evening was not yet over, his focus still required.
“Listen, I hate to ask this, but is there any chance your friend with the blowtorch is up for a field trip?”
A moment of silence passed, Thorn almost able to envision the look of confusion on Turner’s face. “What?”
“I got two here alive and I need an address. Whoever’s in charge is close, I just don’t know where.”
“You’ve got two there with you now?” Turner asked, his voice rising several decibels.
“Yep.”
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Chapter Sixty-Two