“Oh, God. This hurts like a mother.” She moaned.
“People compare the pain to childbirth, so hurting like a mother is pretty accurate.” Cam gave her a crooked grin.
“Thank you for helping me, but if you crack another joke, I’m going to punch you in the nose,” she threatened.
“You might punch me in a second anyway because I want to see if I can pull the barb out. Sometimes, it's too deep, but if it's sticking out, I can get it.” Cam waited for her permission.
She nodded, the fogged dive mask still covering her face bobbing up and down on her head. Cam steadied her on the edge of the industrial sink and pulled a long tan leg from the scalding water. He stared for just a beat at her painted pink toes before rotating her already swollen ankle. Below the edge of the wetsuit, the stinger protruded just slightly from the puncture, but it was enough. Fortunately, it was relatively short, about an inch and a half in length, and Cam employed the ripping-off-the-bandaid method pulling the jagged shard from the base of her calf. She cried out and, almost involuntarily, whirled her arm around, landing a surprisingly accurate blow to his right eye. Then she passed out.
The fishmonger poked his head out the door, assessed the situation, and returned with his phone. Moments later, as Cam cradled her cap-covered head, the whining hee-haw of an ambulance sounded in the distance. He extracted the snorkel from the rubber ring on the side of the dive mask and set it on the back ledge of the sink, leaving the fogged mask in place—better that she didn’t get a good look at him. Moreover, nothing could compare to the rescue fantasy he’d conjured in his head. He’d leave it untarnished for reenactments on lonely nights—long legs and pink toes and a faceless beauty. He’d edit out the puke and the soon-to-be black eye.
The ambulance pulled to a stop, and the paramedics hopped out. After confirming the diagnosis, they immediately injected her with what Cam assumed was the standard administration of a tetanus shot and an antibiotic. He explained as best he could in rudimentary Catalan—his Spanish was fluent, but Cam knew the locals chafed at the usage—that he did not know the woman and had merely pulled her from the water when he saw her struggling. Nevertheless, the two men insisted on his contact information.
That gave him an idea. He quickly scribbled the number of Miguel Ramirez's cell phone back at his apartment at Bishop Security. The CIA monitored all calls to that phone. If someone from the hospital happened to call, The Agency would be alerted to his whereabouts. The medic took the slip and turned to help load the unconscious woman into the back of the ambulance.
Just as she was about to disappear from view, she shot up on the gurney with a gasp and ripped the mask and cap from her head as if they were choking her. A massive tangle of dark hair was matted to her head, and her face bore the impressions of the mask. She made a panicked sweep of her surroundings, but before her wide eyes landed on him, she retched, and the paramedic placed a kidney-shaped dish under her chin. Her face contorted in pain and mortification as she emptied the remainder of her stomach into the bowl. Cam stood in the alley, watching, and, as the second paramedic pulled the rear doors closed, she lifted her hand without looking up and flipped him the bird.
Cam cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You’re welcome!” as the ambulance pulled away.
Still grinning, Cam scooped some water from the basin and washed the mess from his chest. With proper treatment, she would fully recover by the end of the day. Reining in his revelry, he ran through the events that had transpired, noting that he hadn’t done anything that a regular guy who knew how to swim and had some basic first aid wouldn’t do. He acknowledged that Miguel Ramirez probably would have lit a joint, sat back, and watched her thrash. Even so, no one had been paying attention, and even if they had, it wasn’t too out of character. He dove in the water to help a beautiful woman. What guy wouldn’t? Granted, he was assuming she was beautiful, all evidence to the contrary.
He thought about his dad's “zing test.” He hadn’t felt a shock or a jolt. There was no tingle or zap. Rather, he felt something else, something he hadn’t felt in so long, something so foreign, that it took him a moment to identify it. After a dozen years fighting wars in one form or another, Cam found himself standing in his underwear in a rutted alley, staring at a rusty sink filled with bloody water and puke, and feeling… peace.
A peace that was shattered a moment later when he noticed a man standing in an alcove half a block away watching his every move.
Evan walked gingerly toward the exit of the Palma hospital, feeling a bit like a callow tourist. She was wearing hospital scrub pants over her swimsuit and a pair of flip-flops a nurse had given her. The stingrays had startled her, and, rather than remain calm and continue swimming, she had thrashed and flailed, inciting their aggression. The doctor had treated her injury successfully, and she should fully recover in a matter of days.
The doctor also encouraged her—in English that was surprisingly good and annoyingly parental—that she should be sure to thank the man who helped her to shore, as he had, in all likelihood, saved her life.
She toyed with the little slip of paper the paramedic had placed in a plastic drawstring bag with her mask and swim cap. Evan was uncomfortable playing the victim; it was a role she swore she would never play again, but she owed this man her thanks. God, he had charged into the cold bay without a wetsuit and swam through the angry rays to rescue her. What's more, she had felt safe in his arms. She limped over to the reception area to ask to use the phone but thought better of it, not wanting to speak to the man in the middle of a crowded hospital. Returning the scrap of paper to the bag, she made a mental note to call when she got back to her room. Her to-do list was getting long. In addition to tending her wound, she had to call Dr. Emberton and explain what had happened. Then she needed to formulate a plan to return to the caves and figure out the meaning of those markers. She wasn’t on Mallorca to embark on some Fifteenth Century treasure hunt, but she had tugged at a thread, and she was determined to unravel the mystery.
With her rudimentary plan in place, Evan hobbled to the exit and hailed a cab.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bishop Security
Somewhere outside Beaufort, South Carolina
December 3
T
he team sat at the granite-topped racetrack table in the large, glass-walled conference room of Bishop Security.
Tox leaned forward on his forearms and intertwined his fingers on the table. “Let me get this straight. We are saying that an unknown subject tracked down Miguel Ramirez's friend Luis, who then texted the phone Cam used as Miguel Ramirez, claiming,” he looked at the sheet that listed the transcribed texts, “someone was looking for him?”
Nathan nodded. “Correct.”
“So, I’m assuming Cam had some unfinished business with these men?” Chat looked to Nathan.
Nathan met Chat's knowing gaze. “He had unfinished business. We don’t know with whom.”
Nathan picked up Cam's leather journal. “These are Cam's notes, observations, and theories concerning the possible existence of The Conductor, a lone person or entity that controls nearly all global trafficking.”
No one spoke.
“Twitch has scanned the journal and uploaded it to your secure Bishop dropbox. No one above him at The Agency lends any credence to this. But I’m not ready to dismiss it. Before Cam went MIA, he was being followed by men hired by Senator Harlan Musgrave.”
“Musgrave has a good reputation,” Ren said.
“True, but he did business with my father, so he can’t be as clean as he appears.” Nathan crossed his arms over his chest. “I put out some feelers with some of the less than upstanding associates of Musgrave's and my father. Let's see if anyone knows what Musgrave is up to.”
“And these ‘less than upstanding’ people are just going to volunteer this information?” Tox asked.
Chat answered. “Having Nathan Bishop owe you a favor is good incentive.”
Natha
n crossed his arms across his chest. “I’m willing to work in a gray area here because we need to know Musgrave's interest in Cam, and we need to know now. Because if it's connected to Miguel Ramirez's disappearance—”
“Then Cam's cover has been blown,” Ren stated.
“Exactly,” Nathan confirmed. “At this point, all we know is that Musgrave hired a local security firm and that Cam spotted their car on three separate occasions. The job was terminated the day Cam went to New York.”
“That's two coincidences too many,” Tox said.
“I agree.” Nathan tapped the spine of the journal on the table. “But until we get more intel, we can’t proceed.”
Chat steepled his fingers. “I’m assuming you have a plan.”
“More than one, depending on how things play out over the next couple of days.” Nathan spun his chair slightly to face Tox.”Is your brother in the States?”
Tox's twin brother Miles was a fixer who worked for everyone from underworld figures to politicians. He operated using the alias Caleb Cain. Despite a dark past, Miles had proved very helpful to the team.
“New York. He's there for a couple of weeks for a job.” Tox held up a hand. “I don’t ask.”
“Good. I may need a favor.” Nathan turned to Twitch. “Any word on Finn?”
“I’ve contacted him through the usual channels, but so far, nothing.”
“We could use his input.”
“I’ll keep trying, but you know Finn.” Twitch finished quietly, “He's impossible to reach.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Belgrade, Serbia
December 3
F
inn McIntyre leaned against the wall in the fetid alley, hidden behind a stack of crates. He took a hit of a joint and blew the smoke toward the black sky. A rat scurried across his boot. He checked his watch, listened. Nothing yet.
In twenty minutes Leonard Pippen, the CIA officer embedded with the U.S. embassy as a cultural attache, was due to meet Milo Sivik at the back door of the bar across from where he stood. Pippen was planning on making Milo an informant.
Plans change.
Milo Sivik was the worst kind of scum, a pedophile, a rapist, a trafficker. Pippen was willing to overlook those transgressions because Milo had access to a very big fish—his cousin Hugo was high up in Gabriel Lorca's drug cartel, and the CIA needed intel.
In his three years working as a NOC officer for the CIA, Finn had seen a lot of bad, had done a lot of bad. Operating undercover as an enforcer, he executed Gabriel Lorca's orders with brutal efficiency. But this, this he could not abide. He could not work for an agency that paid money to and overlooked the crimes of Milo Sivik. Yeah, he knew all about the greater good.
Fuck the greater good.
A tin can went clanking down the alley. Finn tossed the joint and poked his head around the crate. A shadowed figure moved toward him. Milo always arrived early, wary of an ambush. Short and round, Milo lured children by dressing as a clown. As a result, he always smelled of grease paint and candy. The smell made Finn sick. Everything about Milo made him sick.
Finn whistled, and Milo spun around to face him. He started for his gun, then relaxed when Finn stepped under a low-hanging light.
“Jesus, Scarface, you scared the shit out of me,” Milo snapped in a hushed voice.
Half of Finn's face had been ruined after an explosion while serving with his SEAL squad. Working in the cartels, he had been called Scarface in a dozen different languages.
“What are you doing back here, Milo?” Finn asked.
“Just passing by. Thought I’d grab a beer before I go home.” Milo thumbed over his shoulder toward the back door to the pub.
“Looks like you’re meeting someone.” Finn stepped forward.
“Nope. Just taking a shortcut.” Milo shot a nervous glance down the alley.
“Taking a shortcut or stopping for a beer? Which is it?” Finn prodded.
Between his cartel connections and his new CIA gig, Milo felt untouchable. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. It's not your business.”
“Pippen isn’t coming.” Finn tipped his head to the end of the empty alley.
Milo's eyes grew comically wide. “You know? You’re a fucking spook?”
“Not after today.” Finn pulled the magnum from his holster and blew a hole in Milo Sivik's head. He stood over the body and gave it a kick. “Better than you deserve.”
Headlights lit the scene, and Finn held up a hand to block the glare. He heard car doors open and footsteps. Even in silhouette, he recognized Gabriel Lorca.
“Scarface, you beat me to the punch.” Lorca stood flanked by two lieutenants and two bodyguards.
Unsure how the situation would play out, Finn remained silent.
“Take his tongue.” Lorca, Finn's current boss and the head of the largest drug cartel in Eastern Europe, instructed. “That's what we do with rats.”
Finn knelt down and pulled a vicious-looking knife from his boot. With a deft slice, he cut Milo Sivik's tongue out and tossed the piece of pink flesh to the ground.
“I received word Milo was going to betray us.” Lorca stared at the body, unmoved. “The CIA isn’t the only one with moles.”
Finn wiped the blood from the blade on his pant leg and sheathed the knife.
“I arranged for two people to learn that information.” Lorca withdrew his weapon and screwed on the suppressor. “You.” He pointed the gun at Finn. “And you.” He turned the weapon on the man at his side and pulled the trigger. Lorca turned back to Finn. “You were the one who acted.”
Lorca holstered his gun and held his gloved hand out to Finn. “Thank you, my friend. Your loyalty will be rewarded.”
“Thank you, el Jefe.” Finn shook Lorca's hand.
“What do you need? Money? A car? Name it.” Lorca stepped past the body and stood with Finn.
“I need time,” Finn said.
“Explain,” Lorca insisted.
“My girlfriend is pregnant. I want to go to Mexico City to be with her,” Finn lied smoothly.
Lorca nodded. “You love this woman.”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Good. That's good. Come back when you’re ready. I owe you.” Lorca met Finn's gaze. “That's no small thing.”
“Thank you, el Jefe. You’re very generous.” Finn turned and strode down the alley at an even pace, walking out of a world where the villain rewarded him for doing the honorable thing, and the heroes would punish him.
Just as he was about to reach the street, Lorca called out to him. “Did I kill the right man?”
Finn turned around and, after a moment, replied, “I hope so.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miramar, Mallorca
December 3
C
am entered the villa salty, itchy, and exhausted. A butler met him in the front hall with instructions to change and meet Miss March on the east patio. Cam lumbered past the grand staircase that bisected the central gallery and wandered back toward his assigned quarters on the main floor. He mapped the floor plan as he moved through the home, noting the large living room with a portrait of Gemini, standing with her head turned in profile, wearing a strapless black gown. The painting bore a striking resemblance to Sargeant's Portrait of Madame X. He passed a library, solarium, and billiards room before crossing into the more utilitarian section of the house, noting a storage room, a catering kitchen, a mudroom, and servants’ quarters. In his bedroom, he spotted the clothing laid out on the bed and brushed past it without a second look. No one had dressed him since he was a small boy. Opening the bathroom door, he flashed to the memory of Gemini March floating up out of the pool and across the room like a goddess in an Olympian palace.
On paper, it was the sexiest thing most men could imagine. Why it left him feeling decidedly turned off, he had no idea. He stepped into the massive spa and had to admit, even in his wildest imagination, he couldn’t have conjured such a place. Everything from the walls to the counters to
the floor was marble, iridescent grey with subtle veins of gold. Inspired by the region's Turkish-style baths, the rib-vaulted ceiling and built-in benches that ran across the wall were reminiscent of a lavish hammam. After that, the twenty-first century took charge. From the steam room to the soaking tub, Cam could have lived in this room and been a very happy man.
He stepped into the open jetted shower and scrubbed the day from his body. As the lather ran down, his thoughts wandered to the woman from the ocean. He touched his tender eye, relieved she hadn’t blackened it. She had punched him, kicked him, puked on him, and flipped him off. Yet, when he pictured those damn pink toes and the desperation with which she had clung to his back as he swam them to safety, well, the shower took a bit longer than planned.
With a towel low on his hips, Cam paused at the ensemble on the bed, a cream linen suit, blue button-down, and woven loafers. He huffed. Ensemble. That's precisely what it was. Without a second thought, he moved to the closet and retrieved a pair of dark wash jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He knew how to handle Gemini March, and he’d be goddamned if someone tried to dress him like he was a toddler getting ready for school.
Miguel Ramirez was a yes-man. He did what he was told when he was told. But the one thing Miguel Ramirez and Camilo Canto had in common: nobody told them what to do in the bedroom. Ever.
Thirty minutes later—and twenty minutes after he was instructed to arrive—Miguel Ramirez sauntered barefoot onto the east patio. The elegant space was surrounded by a waist-high limestone balustrade that in the spring would be obscured by vines bursting with gem-colored blooms. To his right, a path opened to the pool and an expansive, impeccably manicured lawn. A mirroring walkway on the left led to the front of the villa. And in the center, Gemini March sat at a round glass table laden with fresh fruit, cheeses, a Spanish-style baguette called pan de barra, and a whole lobster sitting atop a steaming bowl of paella.
Cam noted Gemini's look of disapproval at his clothing before her face morphed into a cover-girl air of pleasure and seduction. She looked like she wanted to eat him for dinner and knew exactly where she wanted to start.
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