The Conductor stared out at the calm, dark water of the Black Sea in contemplation. This world of international trafficking was not unlike a symphony. The politicians were the percussion, banging fists and pounding desks—law enforcement, the woodwinds: subtle and pervasive. The smugglers were the brass: bold and obvious, and the logistics were the strings, winding through every movement, every measure with beautiful complexity. And there, at the front of the stage, leading them all from sonata to rondo, was The Conductor.
Camilo Canto. He should have been eliminated a year ago with a bullet between the eyes. Now, the entire situation had to be handled with the utmost care. People died or disappeared every day in this world, but a CIA officer was a different story. The dead man down the hall would already be a catalyst for suspicion—no need to add to that. The spy couldn’t be killed until the evidence was found and destroyed, and Canto's demise had to be far, far removed from the myth of The Conductor. With Canto otherwise occupied, the journal and the video could be located and eliminated. Fortunately, a delightful way to divert suspicion had already presented itself. Camilo Canto, a.k.a. Miguel Ramirez, was going to put his stud services to use on Mallorca. On top of that, he was also going to take care of a particularly irritating problem that had sprouted—pulling two weeds with one yank, as they say.
A rustling in the adjacent bedroom and a flash of green fabric fluttering to the carpet seemed to indicate the long-legged assistant was showing some initiative. Well, it had been a long day; perhaps a little relaxation was in order. Soon, the baton would tap the music stand, and The Conductor would make the musicians play.
CHAPTER THREE
Griffin Island, South Carolina
November 25
C
amilo Canto sat on the deck of the beachfront bar and sipped a Modelo. Despite the slight chill in the autumn air, two bikini-clad women were frolicking in the surf. He wasn’t egotistical enough to think this little show was for him, but it was clear he was the most likely prospect when he looked around the deck. He was visualizing his usual come-on when a large body blocked the view.
Jonah “Steady” Lockhart set a beer and two red plastic baskets overflowing with clam strips and fries on the table and took a seat.
“Hermano, there are two other chairs here.” Cam gestured around Steady to the women who were now trying to remove each other's tops.
“Suck it up. I’m just as pretty to look at.” Steady winked.
Cam scanned his friend from his mop of sandy blond hair and lively green eyes down to—“That shirt is blinding me. What is that thing?”
Steady glanced down at the turquoise Hawaiian shirt exploding with pineapples and parrots. “I think it was my grandpa's.” He grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle. “Found a whole box of them in the attic.”
“Wear that to The Sand Bar tonight. The glare should send the ladies right to me.” Cam popped a french fry in his mouth.
“Yeah, yeah. We need to eat and get to the hardware store and the lumber yard. Ren and Chat are meeting us at two,” Steady replied.
Steady had taken over the beach house where he had grown up summering. As Cam understood it, no one in the family had used it in years, and Steady's parents had been content to rent it out. When Steady announced his return to the region, his overjoyed parents offered up the place without having to be asked. Last season, back-to-back tropical storms had done their worst, and the house was in disrepair. Fortunately, Steady had several able-bodied volunteers at the ready.
“How is there no Home Depot?” Cam complained.
“Small town living, my friend. This ain’t Miami.” Steady stretched his arm over the empty seat to his right and tipped back in his chair.
“No shit,” Cam agreed.
“And there is a Home Depot. It's just…” Steady gestured vaguely inland, “yonder.”
The Bishop Security team had officially made the move to South Carolina with great success. What the area lacked in box stores and Chinese restaurants, it made up for in charm and seclusion. On top of the picture-perfect setting, their offices were beyond anything the men could have imagined. Nathan Bishop had renovated an old elementary school and turned it into a state-of-the-art facility. From the outside, the building looked like an expansive colonial home. Inside was something else.
Steady polished off the last fried clam, wiped his fingers with the flimsy paper napkin from the stainless steel dispenser, and stood just as an unusual triple ping emanated from Cam's phone.
“Shit,” Cam muttered.
“What's up?” Steady asked.
“Nothing. Loose ends. I need to make a call. Why don’t we split up? You hit the lumber yard. I’ll get the supplies at the hardware store and meet you back at the house.”
Steady polished off his beer and dangled the empty by the neck between his fingers. “Sometimes I think you spooks use the ‘I need to make a call’ line to get out of doing shit you don’t want to do.”
Cam just shook his head, amused.
“All right. You go ‘make your call,’” Steady air quoted. “I’ll haul the wood.”
Cam headed for the side stairs that led from the deck to the parking lot. “I’ll pick you up on the side of the road. That Tonka toy you drive will probably collapse under the weight.”
Steady waved him off, then seemed to rethink. After throwing some cash on the table to match what Cam had left, he looked to the side parking lot and eyed his Jeep. At a glance, the old Wrangler looked like it had been stripped for parts. He ambled up to Cam and put the phone on speaker as he placed a call. Herc answered without greeting.
“Let me guess. You need my truck.” Hercules Reynolds was a former marine sniper and current Bishop Security operator. At the moment, he was breathing hard, and the wind was louder than his voice.
“Where are you?” Steady asked.
“Running on the beach. Where are you?” Herc answered.
“The Shack.”
“Dude, this chick just pulled her friend's top off. Awesome,” Herc exclaimed.
Cam looked to the water, and sure enough, one of the frolicking women was running away from the water, waving a scrap of pink above her head while the other was laughing and covering her bare breasts with her hands.
“Where exactly are you?” Steady asked.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Herc replied.
They finally spotted Herc standing on the beach behind a closed lounge umbrella.
“Vacation attire.” Steady smoothed his hands down the front of the shirt.
Cam could see Herc's gagging gesture.
“Got half an hour to help me haul some lumber?” Steady asked.
“Sure, man,” Herc replied.
“Where are you parked?”
“Public lot half a click south. I’m going to invite these ladies to The Sand Bar tonight, and I’ll meet you there.” Herc gestured with his thumb toward the women.
Steady toasted his acknowledgment with his empty beer bottle then tossed it in the trashcan and headed to Herc's truck.
“You want a lift?” Cam asked.
“Nah, the public lot is right there. See you in a few, brother.” Steady waved over his shoulder as he walked off.
Cam split off, heading to his SUV. This was the second alert from the CIA in as many weeks—first that strange hang-up phone call from Crimea and now whatever this was. He tightened his grip on the phone. Would his Agency work ever really be over?
Scanning the parking lot, Cam's gaze paused on a blue Ford Explorer with a distinct splat of seagull poop on the hood. He’d noticed the same car in town the day before, not following him, just parked nearby. He hadn’t looked at the vehicle with suspicion, simply wondered idly why the person hadn’t cleaned the bird shit off the hood. Like most Teamguys, Cam was fastidious and organized. He kept his car clean. Resuming his pace, he climbed in his 4Runner and pulled out of the lot.
Cam drove inland for a mile or so, then pulled over onto the impromptu shoulder.
Just as he was about to enter the number, his phone rang.
“Hey, ma,” he greeted.
“I love that I can just pick up the phone and call my son, and he actually answers.” His mother's melodic voice floated across the line.
Cam chuckled. “The new job is working out great.”
“Abuela is going crazy for your first Christmas home in ten years. You’ll have an entire new wardrobe, and her garage looks like she won a game show.” His mother's words danced over the line.
Between the Navy and the CIA, Cam hadn’t spent a December in Miami in over a decade.
“Oh jeez, tell her to stop. I don’t need all that stuff,” Cam protested.
“When has that ever stopped her?” his mother asked. “Remember when she bought you two bicycles that year?”
“In case one got a flat.” He smiled at the memory. “Yeah, I remember.”
“She's at least letting me handle the menu and the cooking.” His mother was more than a good cook in a “my mom's a good cook” kind of way. She was an actual chef.
“Don’t start talking about your food, or I’ll pull onto the highway heading south right now.”
He could feel his mother's pleasure through the phone.
His father's familiar baritone came over the line. “Your mother's been trying out new recipes in anticipation of your arrival. I think I’ve gained ten pounds.”
Cam's dad had either just walked into the room where his mom had the phone on speaker, or he had been listening the whole time.
“Hey, dad.”
“It's my son! With a clear connection and a phone call that lasts more than ten seconds.”
“It's good to be back in the States,” Cam affirmed.
His mother laughed. “You’ve got ten years of hugs to make up for.”
“Ma, I’ve been home. It's not like I was abducted by aliens for ten years and was suddenly returned to Earth.”
“I know, but this is Christmas,” his mother insisted.
“I get it,” Cam said.
“And the way these kids are growing. You won’t recognize your nieces and nephews.”
His father added, “The mayhem gets crazier every year.”
Kate Canto spoke to her husband. “Jamie and Theo set up a skateboard ramp in our driveway.”
Cam's dad's voice was muffled. “Maybe you and I should take a little vacation to prepare for the onslaught.”
“Oh, that's a perfect idea,” his mother agreed. “Let's go to that art fair in St. Petersburg I was telling you about.”
Cam shook his head. His parents tended to get lost in their own world.
“Mom? Dad?”
“We’re here!” His mother returned her attention to her son. “We can’t wait to see you, my heart.”
“Love you both. See you in four weeks,” Cam said.
“We love you, too, son,” his dad replied.
Cam ended the call, set the phone into the cradle on the dash, and embraced this feeling of… joyful frustration. Most thirty-five-year-old guys would have ground their teeth at the thought of a chaotic family holiday, but this was what had been missing from his life. After eight years in the Navy and another three with The CIA, screaming children and bickering over nonsense seemed like heaven.
After forty years of marriage, his parents were still deeply in love. Theirs was a fairytale romance. In 1980, Cam's father, Aarón, had been interning at a Miami law firm when he met a group of lawyers for lunch at a local bistro. Seated at the crowded table, Aarón had glanced past the half-wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room and locked eyes with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Equally smitten, the woman—the chef—shot him a warm smile, and thirty minutes later, she was helping the waitress place their lunches on the table. Aarón circled her wrist with his hand. He didn’t pull her or grip her; he simply touched her. When she met his distinctive gaze, he said, “I’m going to marry you.”
“Kate,” she clarified. “I’m going to marry you, Kate.”
He was already in love. “Kate.”
“Why don’t you take me on a proper date first?” She patted his shoulder and continued serving the food.
Six weeks later, they were married.
For better or worse, Cam's parents’ example had an unintended side effect: he refused to settle for a relationship that paled in comparison to his mom and dad's. He didn’t expect the lock-eyes-and-instantly-know-she's-the-one lightning bolt, but he did need…something. He had come to refer to it as his dad's “zing test.” Cam didn’t know what that zing was, but he figured he’d know it when he felt it. And until then…
He started to merge back onto the road when he remembered why he had pulled over in the first place. Leaving the phone in the holder, he entered the number. Just as the call connected, Cam glanced out the window. The same Ford Explorer with the bird crap on the hood drove by at about ten miles below the speed limit. That was one sighting too many. Cam switched the phone to camera function and snapped a picture of the plate. The voice on the line prevented further speculation.
“Operator.”
Cam stated his username and unique code.
“The phone assigned the following number received two text messages in the past twenty-four hours. They have been cleared, and the messages are available to access.”
“Acknowledged,” Cam confirmed.
The call ended with a soft beep.
After leaving the SEALs, Camilo Canto had been recruited by the most elite and covert division of the CIA as a Non-Official Cover, or NOC, officer. The Special Activities Center/Special Operations Group (SAC/SOG) conducted highly classified paramilitary and covert ops. Prior to his departure from The Agency, Cam had spent nearly a year in Suriname in the employ of the notorious arms dealer, Dario Sava. Sava's obsession with the now-wife of Bishop Security leader, Nathan Bishop, had brought Cam to his current job.
Nathan Bishop had contacted Cam—who was embedded in Sava's organization as Miguel Ramirez—for information to help protect his wife from the madman. Once Dario Sava was dead, Cam maintained his cover for another year hunting down weapons and intelligence Sava had sold. Cam had intercepted a Javelin en route to Boko Haram in Somalia and recovered stolen research on silencing blade vortex interaction in U.S. helicopters. He had also gathered intelligence on an elusive underworld figure known as The Conductor.
The Conductor.
Cam had firmly believed no such man existed. He was a myth cobbled together by internet trolls, media extremists, and conspiracy theorists. The notion that one man controlled all international black market shipping was, well, it was preposterous. Yet the more Cam moved through the underworld, like Dante exploring the circles of hell, the more he began to notice a pattern. Export methods were too similar, logistics too uniform, procedures too sophisticated for the gunslinger smugglers and ham-handed traffickers he came across. A theory began to form.
Why couldn’t one man consolidate the criminal shipping enterprise? People certainly did it in the legitimate private sector. It was an idea that his superiors had considered and dismissed, but Cam wasn’t so sure.
Telling no one, for fear of being accused of running down rabbit holes, Cam—operating as his cover identity, Miguel Ramirez—began keeping a log of leads, shipping schedules, persons of interest, and financial transactions that pointed to one master puppeteer. After six months, the journal looked like the ravings of a lunatic. Still, he continued to make entries, documenting the tenuous threads that supported his theory.
Then, on a balmy afternoon in February, in the coastal city of Rabat, Morocco, he had captured video of a weapons smuggler he was tracking boarding a yacht. It wasn’t an unusual sight; underworld buyers and sellers met in locations ranging from back alleys to palaces. It was the name of the ship, however, that caught Cam's attention: The Maestro.
The following day, Cam had met with his contact, a fellow NOC officer named Raymond Greene, and to his surprise, Greene had similar suspicions. Cam share
d what he knew, including the meeting on The Maestro, and he and Greene agreed they would continue to gather information. They were a long way away from approaching their superiors with anything more than conjecture. After chasing shadows to Marrakech and Ibiza, Cam temporarily abandoned his search for The Conductor.
Three weeks later, Cam had come across a small village burned to the ground by a drug cartel. He had been feeling the crush of this work, and that was the final straw. He had wanted to make a contribution, to help the powerless, but not at the cost of his sanity. He was tired. Tired of espionage. Tired of being so damn alone. Tired of giving his body and his mind and his soul to combat a never-ending stream of violence and corruption. Then and there, amid the smoldering rubble and corpses, he had called Nathan Bishop and accepted his job offer. The Conductor may be real, but someone else could hunt him down.
The moment he had stepped into Nathan Bishop's office in New York, and Nathan had greeted him with an extended hand and a welcome to the team, he knew he had made the correct decision. Everything about the job felt right, most of all, the camaraderie.
Cam and Steady had been on the same SEAL team but in different platoons, so they hadn’t worked together often or had the same deep bond as Steady and Cam's other new coworkers, but they all knew each other; it was a small community. The Teamguys at Bishop Security certainly all knew how he got his nickname, “JJ.” They called him El Jefe de Jodor: the nonsensical Spanish was intended to translate to “the boss of fuck.” He had certainly earned it. At six-one, with a thick head of auburn hair and the striking golden eyes he’d inherited from his father, Cam never suffered from a lack of female attention. The moniker, however, was a burden he was all too happy to shed in civilian life. Like many military nicknames, “JJ” was not something he wanted to explain to his mother.
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