Thorn

By J. Thomas Tobias

Thorn Gibor is a retired Coast Guard Sailor who owns and operates a very unique business. With a small team of trusted friends, Thorn collects, transports, and incinerates seized narcotics collected by various law-enforcement agencies along the central Texas coast.

When the new leader of a Central American drug cartel decides to take their property back, they'll stop at nothing to do it. When Thorn and his friends decide to fight back, they find themselves surrounded by enemies on both sides of the law. Without knowing who they can trust, Thorn and his team work outside the rules to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781716160523

Book preview

Thorn

By J. Thomas Tobias

The following is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or otherwise, is entirely coincidental.

Text Copyright 2016 J. Thomas Tobias

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art provided by Joseph Millhouse.

This is for the most amazingest wife there ever was.  She loves me and supports me.  She makes me spaghetti and brings me tacos.  My beautiful Lisa.  I Heart You, Hunny Bunny.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, 16-Mar-2016

It was another beautiful morning on Christmas Bay in the middle of the Texas coastline. At least it was going to be once the sun came up. The moon and stars were all that lit the calm coastal waters. A light breeze blew over the surface from the southeast and the high temperature for the day wouldn’t get above 76º.  The only sounds to be heard were the gentle lapping of the water against the side of the twelve-foot Pescador kayak and the rattle of the ball bearing skipping across the top of the water inside of a silver and blue Top-Dog.

One more cast here and then I guess I’ll move a little further inside that cut, the fisherman said quietly. With three trout already on his stringer, the action seemed to have died down over the past hour.  Reeling the lure in, he paused and took a quick look around. The sun had yet to break the horizon but there was enough light to see what he was looking for.  At the mouth of a small narrow inlet the water seemed to boil and roll over. Several small shad jumped clear out of the water in different directions.

That’s what I want to see, he said to nobody in particular. There was nobody else around for miles. He placed his rod-and-reel in a flush mounted holder and reached for his paddle. Four quick strokes gave enough speed and direction that he could simply drift the rest of the way.

Halfway to his destination, he retrieved his Ugly Stick with its mounted Curado reel. The fisherman pushed the button, slung the rod over his head and sent the lure through the air like a shot from a gun. The silver belly lure plopped down ten yards beyond where the disturbance had been. With a flick of the wrist, the lure jumped to the right.  Then another flick caused the bait to glide to the left. The man floating in twenty inches of water could ‘walk-the-dog’ just as easy as breathe. After only five short pulls, the water exploded. His lure was tossed clean out of the water and landed almost a foot from where it had been. He didn’t jerk hard on the line. It would have spooked the speckled trout that had just slapped his lure from the water. Instead, he simply continued his rhythmic short pulls and turns of the reel’s handle. Three pulls later the water exploded again. This time the line went taught.

Fish on, he said with a little more enthusiasm in his voice than before. With his right foot he reached up and tripped a homemade release lever to allow his small anchor to drop behind him. This fish was bigger than the previous three and was beginning to tow the kayak behind it. Leaning back and holding his rod high, he remembered his grandfather’s words: "Let the rod do its job." 

When the trout stopped swimming away, he began to reel it in. Several feet of line were reeled in before the fish took off yet again and seemed to take even more line with it. The fight between man and fish went on for what felt like forever. Five minutes later the fish was netted and lifted into the bow of the small craft. The hooks were carefully removed and replaced with the pointy end of the stringer. There was no need to measure for legal length. This beautiful fish was longer than the prosthesis attached to the fisherman’s left knee. 

One more or should we just go home? He looked down to his left side as the four trout beside him kicked against each other and splashed him with cold water. You’re right. Four is enough. Once again, he placed his favorite rod in its holder and reached for his paddle. A short pull on the anchor line freed it from the mud and brought it out of the water.

Only a few short strokes got the bright orange Pescador facing back towards the east and traveling in the right direction. That was when he stopped. He reached down, opened the dry storage bin, and pulled out a digital camera. By the time the sun had completely risen above the horizon, more than 50 pictures were taken. The Nikon D-600 was replaced in the small storage compartment and a half empty water bottle removed. After drinking the bottle and crushing it, it too was put back in the small hold. 

That’s just beautiful, isn’t it? he said. Once more he looked down at his catch. Again, the four fish fought against the stringer and splashed him with water. Eh. What the hell would you know about a nice sunrise? Why the hell am I talking to you anyway? You’re fish. Reaching down he pulled the fish out of the water and lay them on the front storage area of the kayak. With everything secured, he began his slow trek back to the launch ramp. 

One hour and two miles later he was making the last turn towards the small pier from which he launched. On the pier were three men laughing at four elderly gentlemen trying to get their boat out of the water. The kayak drifted the last few feet to the low sitting pier and was tied off to one of the cleats. Lifting himself out and onto something solid, the fisherman had to nearly push his way through the three drunks to help the four men with the spinning tires.

Having some trouble? he asked.

You could say that. We must have been 100 yards out before we realized the bilge plugs weren’t in and we were taking on water. I’m surprised we made it back. Now she’s too heavy to pull out.

We asked those assholes over there for a hand, another man cut in. They just stood there and started clapping.

I’ll deal with them in a minute, the fisherman said. There was a hint of determination in his voice. Right now, let’s get you guys out of here.

Son, he just told you we’re too heavy. That boat is full of water. My back tires just keep spinning.

You’re not too heavy, sir. You’re just not heavy enough in the right place. I need you to stay here, he said to the driver. The rest of you please join me in the back. He lowered the tailgate and asked each of the men to take a seat. When all four men were sitting down, he asked the driver to slowly drive forward.  With the extra 800 pounds centered over the back axle, the tires caught, and the truck began to pull forward.  Finally, clear of the water and the ramp, the fisherman aided the elderly men down off the lowered gate.

Gimpy boy came to save the day! one of the drunks shouted, which was followed by more laughter and another round of applause. The fisherman and his four new friends did their best to ignore them.

I can’t thank you enough for your help, friend, the driver said reaching for his wallet. I don’t know why any of us didn’t think of that.

Please, sir. Put your wallet away.

Are you sure, son? the smallest of the four men asked.

Yes, sir. If my Pops was stuck somewhere, I’d want someone to give him a hand. How did you manage to forget your bilge plugs?

His jackass son took the boat out last weekend. Took the plugs out and must have eaten the damn things, one of the other men replied. We could have gotten stuck out there and been in some serious trouble.

We could have been out of here an hour ago if the assholes over there would have helped out instead of just poked fun at us, the boat owner added.  Damn, he said pointing towards the pier, I’m sorry.  The fisherman looked back and instantly became upset.

Would you mind staying away from my kayak? he shouted.

Blow me, Gimpy, was the response he got.

Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, he said as he walked away from the truck.

The one-legged fisherman watched as two of the drunken men crushed their beer cans and threw them in the water. The third crumpled his and dropped it into the kayak. 

Sir, I’ll ask you again to stay away from my gear. And please remove your trash. He was now only a few feet away from the nearest of the three.

And if he don’t? the nearest man asked. He was the same height as the fisherman and at least 50 pounds heavier. The smell of beer and body odor grew stronger with every step. The second man was four feet behind him.  This one was several inches taller and was nothing more than skin and bone. 

Yeah, Gimpy. What you gonna do if he don’t?

When the two men began to laugh it was obvious that between the two, they still couldn’t come up with a full set of teeth. The fisherman made a move as if to step around the two drunken men. It was just a gesture.

The bad thing about a stray dog, the fisherman said, is that you don’t know how hard he bites.

The fat man reached out and put his hand on the fisherman’s left shoulder. The fisherman grabbed the hand and leaned to his right. As he did, he bent at the knee and swung his body down and rotated as he pulled. The momentum was enough to pull the fat man off balance. The fisherman let his attacker’s hand go and spun on his back. Everyone watched as the big man fell off the pier and into the water. Continuing to spin and with his left leg extended he caught the second man across the shin. He heard the bone crack when the titanium prosthetic connected. The tall skinny drunk instantly burst into tears and fell on top of the fisherman. He used his good leg to kick the man off and then rolled him into the water. Getting to his feet as quickly as possible, he looked for the third man. He watched as number three held his favorite rod in both hands.

You don’t want to do that! he shouted. It was too late. The man broke the rod over his knee and dropped it on the pier. When the man began to reach behind his back, the fisherman shouted again, "You REALLY don’t want to do that!" 

I’m gonna kill you, Gimpy! he said as he pulled a knife from his back pocket. 

The two men stepped towards each other. The fisherman watched the blade as he continued forward. When he was within reach, he saw the blade come straight at his left side. Shifting to the right and reaching out he grabbed the attacker with his left hand. Before the man knew what was happening, the fisherman raised his right elbow and connected just below the ear. The fisherman twisted his elbow and brought his right hand to the left side of his attacker. He delivered yet another blow to the man’s jaw, just below his ear.

When the man fell unconscious, the fisherman picked up the knife. He took hold of his pants and made three cuts. First went the belt. The next two cuts were down the side of each leg. The fisherman folded the knife back up and stuck it in his pocket. Then the fisherman stood up and began to walk to the end of the dock.

He untied his kayak and pulled it towards the ramp. The four elderly men helped him lift the kayak and carry it to the back of his truck. 

That was mighty impressive, son, the boat owner said.

Sure was. You might want to get going before the cops get here. We thought you were going to take an ass whoopin, so we called 911.

It was too late for that. As the words were being spoken, a Galveston county patrol car pulled up. The fisherman dropped his head when he saw the six-feet four-inch-tall black man get out of the car. Before the fisherman could say anything, two of the four old men were already going to his defense. The deputy didn’t even have to ask what happened. They told the whole story. When they were done talking, the deputy leaned against the back of the silver Z71 crew cab and looked at the fisherman.

Is that what happened, Thorn?

If that’s what these gentlemen are willing to testify to, then yeah. That’s what happened.

The tall Lieutenant Rodney Jameson shook his head and laughed. You’re killing me, he said. We’ll talk about this Friday out at the range.

Roger that, Lieutenant.

You know this man? the owner of the boat asked.

Gentlemen let me introduce you to Thorn Gibor. The richest homeless man you’re ever going to meet. You couldn’t ask for bigger pain in the ass or a better friend. Two more Sheriff Deputies showed up and were directed to the end of the pier. 

Statements were taken, and arrests were made. Nearly a half hour had gone by before it was all said and done. After having double checked that all his gear was where it should be, Thorn dug his keys out and opened his truck. He was about to back out of his parking spot when he realized the four men were blocking him in. He stuck his head out the window and the driver yelled out at him.

It’s nearly lunch time. Think we could buy you lunch and a beer for your trouble?

How can I refuse? I’ll be right behind you. Thorn looked in his rear-view mirror before driving away.  Lieutenant Jameson was yelling up a storm. When the other two deputies got the big man to his feet, his pants had fallen completely off.

That’s my cue, Thorn said to himself as he pulled away. Several hours and a six pack later the five men were still seated at the table. The lunch crowd had come and gone but the conversations continued.

So, if you have a place to live, why did the Lieutenant call you homeless? Randy, the owner of the boat, asked.

He and the rest of the team think it’s weird that I travel around so much. I like my freedom. It works for me. I get to come and go as I please. I work when I want to work, fish when I want to fish. Everything I own is mine and I don’t owe anybody anything. 

The short chubby man to his left, named Jack, started to laugh. And here I was thinking that the days of traveling gunmen were over. How did you manage to get into this line of work?

I’m not a gunman. I consider myself more of a traveling security consultant. I spent five out of my seven years in the Coast Guard on small drug interdiction vessels, Thorn said sipping his cold Shiner Blonde. I got volunteered for a boarding party down in Port Isabelle one day. Turned out that I liked the job and it liked me. When I had my accident and lost my leg, the Coast Guard gave me a medical separation and let me keep my E-5 salary. Now I travel up and down the Texas coast and teach teams the right and wrong way to properly board and search a vessel.

So, what exactly is the wrong way to board a boat? Randy asked.

The way that gets you shot in the leg with a twelve-gauge shotgun, Thorn replied quietly.  Every man on the team has to know their part. There is no place for heroes when you’re on the job.

It had been eight years since it happened. Thorn and four others stopped a 200 foot shrimp boat that was headed north out of Mexico. His partner had never been on a boarding party before and was a little too anxious.  Thorn took him below deck to inspect the small ship. Despite having been told to wait, his partner chose not to listen. 

They were inspecting the cargo areas and found two of the four holds full of shrimp and ice. Thorn insisted on having both men present at each door before it was opened. His number one rule was that no man worked alone. When the rookie moved to and began to open the third door, Boatswains Mate Second Class Thorn Gibor knew something was wrong. It wasn’t something he saw. It was something that he didn’t see. When the two previous doors were opened, the temperature difference between the rooms caused a fog usually associated with walk in freezers. Half a second was all it took to realize that this particular freezer was not freezing. 

Before the rookie sailor could open the door all the way the first shot rang out. Thorn was hit in the chest with a 9mm hollow point.  Luckily, that round hit him in the ballistic vest he was issued before boarding the small boat. 

Thorn managed to recover and quickly raised his twelve-gauge shotgun to hip level. Two rounds were fired into the room blindly. Luck caused either one or both of the buck shot loads to find their mark. Shaking off the pain in his chest and clearing his thoughts, Thorn found the rookie standing beside him. Mouth open and bug-eyed, he stood there speechless. Thorn turned to the sound of footsteps running down stairs in his direction.

What’s going on here, Boats? asked the boarding team leader.

I’m good Chief. Speed Racer here, jerked a door without any back-up and I took one to the vest. Thorn looked at his partner who was still standing there in a trance. He grabbed him by the collar and gave him a shake. When that didn’t work, Thorn slapped him. Get your head in the game or take your ass back upstairs! Thorn yelled. We’ve got one more compartment to check.

With his rookie in tow and an extra man behind him, Thorn grabbed the handle on the last door. He lifted the door about two inches and stopped. No fog. The two men took a step away from the door and raised their weapons to the ready. When the rookie lifted the door the rest of the way open, all hell broke loose. 

And the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital four days later, he told the men at the table.

That’s one hell of a story, son.

I don’t think about it too much. I can’t wade-fish anymore, so I got the Yak. I get to fish all I want, and I work when I want. Business is good, life is easy, and every day above ground is a good one.

That’s a great philosophy. What kind of business do you have? Jack asked. 

You mean besides being a traveling gunslinger? Thorn chuckled as he glanced at his new friends.  I transport and burn narcotics for several surrounding counties.

What? they all asked at the same time.

OK. Let’s say that each of you is a county sheriff, he paused as they all nodded their heads. Thorn pointed his finger at the first man to his left. You have a drug task force that confiscated 50 pounds of marijuana and 20 kilos of various other narcotics. Could be cocaine, heroin, or meth, right? he watched again as everyone nodded. Now let’s say that’s about average each month of the year. It would only take about three months for you to fill up an entire twenty by eight-foot shipping container. What do you do with it?

I lived through the sixties, Thorn. I’d roll another joint and order a pizza, Randy replied. Everyone laughed. 

So, what do you do with it? the man to his right asked.

I load it up into an armored truck, transport it to my incinerator plant and burn it all.

And how much does something like that pay? Randy asked.

Two and ten percent, he answered.

I don’t follow.

The state pays the county for taking the drugs off the street. The county gets to keep any money confiscated during the deals. My contract gives me two percent of the state payout and ten percent of the take. When the trials are over, and the bad guys are in jail, they put it all in storage. When the storage is full, they call me.

That can’t be very steady work. Randy said.

And that’s why I love it, Thorn said smiling.

The conversations carried on for another half hour until Thorn decided it was time to leave. He thanked his new friends for the drinks and excused himself from the table. He got back in his truck and made his way down the road. 

Thorn got into his business by pure luck. At a rifle range down near Freeport, Texas, he made a friend. That friend happened to be the original owner of the narcotics destruction business. A man named Gary Leonard showed up and pulled a Bushmaster AR-15 out of its case. A Colt Commander hung on his right hip. 

Thorn was there shooting his own custom-built AR. He practiced transitioning between the AR on his shoulder, and the 9mm Browning HP on his left side. He stood in a crouch and fired three rounds then dropped the rifle from his right shoulder. Using his right hand to push the weapon behind his back, his left hand was free to pull his pistol. Three rounds were fired from the pistol in rapid succession. To his right, the old man stood waiting for a clear range, so he could hang his target.

Thorn stopped shooting and waited.

When the two men were happy, shooting resumed. Before too long Thorn found himself competing with an old man who appeared to be in his mid to late fifties. An hour passed, and Thorn found himself sitting on his tailgate drinking a cold bottle of water. He watched as the man continued to shoot. When the older man decided to take a break, Thorn offered him a bottle of water. Within a month, Thorn found himself with a new part-time job.

Two years later Gary was killed when a junkie, running from the police, lost control of his car and crossed the yellow line. Gary just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The two cars collided at a combined speed of 168 mph. They were both killed instantly. 

It was the largest funeral Thorn had ever seen. The church, that had a maximum seating capacity of 400 people, was standing room only. There wasn’t a man or woman in attendance who didn’t have either a law enforcement or military background or both. 

A month after the funeral, Thorn was contacted by a lawyer from Houston.