Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel

Without pausing to try the handle, Thorn slammed the heel of his foot into the door. It exploded backward on contact, sending splinters of wood and sawdust flying as it swung open and he stepped through.

  With the Glock raised in one hand and the shotgun in the other, Thorn emerged onto a long hallway. The walls were made of solid concrete block, a row of single bulbs hanging from the ceiling casting an eerie glow. Every five or six feet stood a plain steel door, many appearing to have not been opened in years.

  “Sonuva...” Thorn muttered, stepping past the first few doors slowly, his pace picking up speed.

  A dozen doors filed by on either side as Thorn reached a break in the hall, a wider thruway extended out to the left. Peering the length of it, he could see there were no doors, but rather a series of hallways like the one he had just traversed.

  Feeling his pulse increase, Thorn positioned himself in the middle of the lane and walked forward. Going as slow as the situation would allow he walked forward, his shoes making no sound against the brushed concrete floor.

  Every ten yards a new hallway extended to either side, Thorn approaching slowly and extending a glance in each direction. His only hope was somewhere in the labyrinth there was some sign of where Iggy might be located, some small indicator to point him in the right direction.

  Otherwise there was no way he could hope to check every door, simple math adding into the hundreds as he pushed past one hallway after another.

  The indicator he was hoping for came on the fifth hallway.

  Twenty yards down on the left a lone guard sat on a metal folding chair, his legs extended before him, feet crossed at the ankles. He didn’t so much as glance up as Thorn peered around the corner and spotted him, his attention aimed on a magazine open on his lap.

  Retreating back a few steps, Thorn pressed his body back against the wall, drawing in even breaths through his nose as he cast a look around. There was no way for him to cover the open ground between he and the guard without putting himself into the open for too long a period of time. He could attempt to shoot the man where he sat, but in the event he missed, he would be alerting the guard to his presence, starting either a shooting match in an enclosed space or a true hostage situation as the man stepped inside with Iggy.

  The thick concrete construction and position beneath ground had served as sound insulation for him thus far, stifling his entry through the front door and any stray noises on his approach. Assuming that he was now close enough to be heard, Thorn unstrapped the heavy Kevlar vest and pulled it over his head, hefting the thick black material in his hand. Bouncing twice on the balls of his feet he raised it high above his head and smashed it down against the concrete floor, the wicked sound echoing down the hall.

  Leaving the vest on the floor, Thorn pressed himself back against the corner of the intersection. Measuring the seconds, he waited as the sound of steps appeared and grew closer, gripping the barrel of the shotgun in his right hand. Waiting until the sound was so close it threatened to overtake him, he spun out on one knee and swung the shotgun as hard as he could, lashing out just a foot and a half above the ground.

  The stock of the gun connected square with the guard’s knee, the sickening crunch of splintered wood and bone ringing out. A pained cry shot from the man as his legs crumbled beneath him, his body pitching forward across the floor. Screams of anguish rolled through the tunnel as Thorn stepped forward and drew up the shotgun, smashing the butt of it into the man’s jaw. On contact, the man’s eyes rolled back as his head dropped to the floor, a string of bloody spittle oozing from his mouth into a pool by his ear.

  For a moment Thorn stood over him, feeling the wrath within, aching to send another decisive blow at the man, before taking a step back. With the toe of his shoe he kicked the man’s weapon away, the gun disappearing into the darkness, the sound of metal scraping over the ground fading within seconds.

  Leaving the man lying in the center of the intersection, Thorn turned and ran for the chair positioned along the wall. Grasping the metal handle on the door beside it he wrenched upward, the groan of rusted metal echoing out as the lock disengaged and the door cracked open a few inches.

  Using his shoulder, Thorn pressed his upper body through and forced the door all the way open, the sight before him bringing another stab of anger to his stomach.

  Lying in a heap in the middle of the floor was Iggy, still wearing barely more than a bathing suit. Water dripped from pipes lining the room and stood in pools on the floor, drenching her body. Twin shackles were secured to either wall, keeping her arms extended from her side, forcing her to hold a pose like a macabre crucifix.

  “Jesus,” Thorn muttered, dropping the shotgun and stepping inside. He reached Iggy in three short steps, pushing back wet hair from her face. “Iggy?”

  There was no flicker of life as Thorn stared into her face, taking in the black and purple bruising that marred much of her, the lines of dried blood that ran from both nostrils and painted her lips maroon.

  “Iggy?” he repeated, pressing his index and middle finger to her throat, just the slightest hint of a pulse present.

  Drawing his mouth tight to keep from screaming in anger, Thorn stood. For a moment he considered going back to the guard for the keys to the shackles before thinking better of it and lifting her right arm from the floor. Placing the muzzle of the Glock against the last link in the chain he pulled the trigger, the shot like a cannon blast in the tiny room, reverberating off the walls as it clattered to the ground, water splashing against Thorn’s legs.

  Holding Iggy’s limp body against him, Thorn moved to the opposite side, pulling her a foot to his left to raise the chain from the floor. Pressing her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, he removed the second chain in the same way, the shot leaving his ears ringing.

  Not once was there the slightest hint of a response from Iggy.

  Chapter Fifty-Three