But she wanted to.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Bishop Security
Somewhere outside Beaufort, South Carolina
December 11
T
he call for all hands on deck came via text. Steady and Tox, sweaty from the gym, met Herc and Ren coming off the gun range, and the foursome took the stairs to the second-floor war room. Nathan was sitting at the head of the rectangular conference table flanked by Twitch and Chat, who both had laptops open.
The men moved into the room as a unit, and each grabbed a seat.
Nathan held up a hand, stalling Ren's downward motion into the chair next to Twitch. “Move down one.”
Before Ren could ask, movement at the door caught his eye, and he looked up to see Sofria Kirk, laptop under her arm, striding into the room. Ren didn’t mask his pleasure. She had changed so much since he first met her two years ago. She had grown confident, and she had clearly found a friend judging by the way her amber eyes warmed when she saw Twitch. Ren pretended not to notice as Sofria slipped something into Twitch's pocket. As was their habit, in an effort to hone Sofria's “spy skills,” Twitch and Sofria had taken to passing jokes and amusing clips secretly via flash drive. While there were undoubtedly less cumbersome ways to share tech, flash drives were still prevalent in the world of espionage, where digital transmissions were easily captured. As a result, terrorists and criminals used devices without networks.
Nathan commenced introductions. “Some of you already know Sofria Kirk. She is an analyst at Langley and has been cleared by Cam's handler and the DDO to share pertinent information.”
Sofria gave a hesitant wave to the intimidating cadre. When her eyes met Ren's, recognition lit her face.
“Professor Jameson.” She smiled.
Leo “Ren” Jameson shot to his feet, knocking his phone into Steady's lap in the process.
“Hey, Sofria. It's just Ren these days. Or Leo. Ren's a nickname,” he clarified.
“So is Leo, I imagine. Short for Leonard or Leonardo,” she replied.
“Correct, but not short for those.”
“Leopold? Leon?” Sofria rattled off names.
Ren just winked.
“Uh, guys?” Tox clapped his hands. “Missing buddy? Ask her to fucking prom later.”
Ren cleared his throat and sat.
Twitch patted the table in the space next to her, beckoning her friend. Once Sofria was settled with her computer open, Nathan spoke.
“Sofria has information.”
A figure appeared in the doorway, and Nathan looked up to the dispassionate, scarred face of his friend. The men nodded, and Tox stood with arms outstretched.
Nathan continued, “Sofria, this is Finn McIntrye.” Nathan gestured to the brooding CIA officer and deadpanned, “He's in sales.”
Finn took a seat and gave Sofria his full attention.
“A call came in on Miguel Ramirez's cell phone. The caller left a voicemail. I think it's the lead we’ve been hoping for.” She entered a command on her keyboard, and a female voice filled the room.
This is… well, this is the woman you helped earlier. The stingray? Anyway, the medics gave me your number, and I wanted to, um, thank you… for helping me. So… thanks… you’re, um, you’re a good man.
Questions bubbled to the surface, but Ren started with the most important: “Where did this call come from?”
“Mallorca,” Sofria answered.
“Sounds like he rescued her after a stingray attack? I mean, assuming she's talking about the fish and not the torpedo,” Tox offered.
“Or it's not some criminal underworld nickname,” Steady added.
“I think those are both safe assumptions,” Nathan replied without inflection.
Chat added, “On a sanctioned op, he would have a prearranged means to contact his handler. This was a straight-up abduction. He needed a way to contact us without raising suspicions.”
“Giving this woman the phone number was a secure way to signal for help,” Steady added.
“So he's in Mallorca?” Herc asked.
Twitch took the ball. “Apparently. Operating on that information, I checked flight data from the day Cam went missing. A privately owned 737 took off from Teterboro airport in Jersey three hours after Cam's Harlem meetup. Destination: Barcelona. From there, the plane went on to Aeropuerto Palma de Mallorca.”
“Ding ding ding, and we have a winner,” Steady chimed in.
Twitch held up a hand. “It gets better. The plane was not a lease. It's a privately-owned craft, property of The March Conglomerate. They have a mining operation on Mallorca.”
Nathan added, “The mining operation is run by Atlas March, who took over the company after Ulysses March died last year.”
“What's his reputation?” Ren asked.
“Sketchy,” Finn spoke. “His name has come up a time or two. He was dipping his toe into the heroin trade when he ran March Mining's Colombia operation. Now that he's in Spain, there are some rumblings in the European cartels.”
“Could be a connection there,” Ren said. “Cam worked in South America. His cover identity, Miguel Ramirez, is from Colombia.”
“There's something else.” Nathan hesitated. “Sofria?”
“Atlas March's cousin is the model Gemini March.”
“No way.” Herc's jaw dropped.
“The files Cam's handler gave me indicate that Cam had an encounter with Ms. March last year on Ibiza,” Nathan added. “And that she has been trying to locate him ever since.”
Ren turned his attention to the table. “Tell me this is not about some girl.”
“Dude, not some girl, Gemini March,” Herc insisted.
“Herc,” Nathan scolded.
“Sorry, boss.”
Nathan stood leaning his palms on the table. “This is not the time to speculate. These are the facts. Cam was taken against his will to Mallorca. One or more members of the March family or employees of The March Conglomerate are involved. Cam's abductors know him by his CIA legend, Miguel Ramirez. He gave an unknown woman his phone number. Is there anything else?”
Tox stood, six and a half feet of determination. “We only needed to know the first one. Let's go get our boy.”
“Hooyah.” Steady joined Tox on his feet. The other men soon followed.
Nathan gave the order, “Pack your bags. Twitch and Chat handle tech and comms. Tox, you’re on weapons. Wheels up oh-six hundred tomorrow.”
Tox looked at Nathan. “You’re coming?”
“Not this time. Emily is too close to her due date. Plus, I want to help Miles put that sewer rat of a senator where he belongs.”
“Copy that.” Tox turned and headed to the armory.
“Uh, boss?” Herc scratched his head. “Do we have a plan?”
Nathan clapped him on the back on the way out of the room. “One Naval Intelligence officer, one Marine sniper, and four Navy SEALs. I’m sure we can come up with something.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
South Island, South Carolina
December 11
S
teady toed open the lockless, knobless front door of the beach house, a case of Coors Light under each arm and a plastic grocery bag filled with chips in his teeth. Ren and Chat followed him in with a whiteboard and a box of office supplies swiped from Bishop Security. Herc was next in line with folding chairs and a card table he had borrowed from Maggie and Charlie Bishop's garage, knowing his grandmother wouldn’t mind. Tox was picking up pizza. Twitch was on her way. Nathan had opted to go home to his family. Despite his evident concern, his wife's looming due date was an unavoidable distraction.
Steady had initially invited the guys over to strip the floors and do some demo, but with the op a go, the rehab project became a plan and brainstorm project. Steady figured the odds were pretty good one or more of them would punch a hole in the drywall by the end of the night, so the demo would get started.
Tox came through the door holding eight large
pizza boxes. He set the food on the kitchen counter, snagged two slices, and joined the group. Ren and Chat entered through the open front door and moved to help Steady pull the plywood from what was once a series of sliding glass doors. The missing fourth wall opened the living area to what was left of the deck and the ocean beyond.
Tox was already grabbing another couple of slices at the counter. “Hey, Steady, why don’t you just leave it like that? It’d be sort of like camping on the beach every night.”
“Because camping has such fond memories for me,” Steady countered.
Tox laughed around his pizza, immediately recalling a disastrous subzero night perched on a narrow cliff in the Hindu Kush. “You got me there.”
“I was kicking around the idea of attaching the nose cone of a Hornet to the opening. How cool would that be? Watch the sunrise from the cockpit?”
Steady had the extremely rare distinction of being both a naval aviator and a SEAL. He had grown up flying small aircraft and had trained in Pensacola for two years, flying multiple missions before switching over to the SEALs as an officer. Like the SEAL acronym: Sea, Air, Land, if it moved, Steady could fly it, fix it, or drive it.
Tox nearly jumped for joy. “Dude, you have to do it. I call shotgun.”
Steady laughed, “My dad already had a heart attack. I can’t give my mom one too.”
Chat and Steady were sitting at the rickety card table organizing the additional, heavily redacted files Sofria had provided when Steady looked over his shoulder to the front of the house.
Twitch knocked on the open door and stepped into the house.
“What took so long?” Steady asked, handing her a can of soda.
“I was next door,” Twitch explained.
“What were you doing next door?” Steady asked, a little too interested.
“Visiting Very. We went to college together.”
“Very?”
Twitch confirmed. “Very. Her real name is Verity, but everyone calls her Very. It suits her. She is very, very.”
Steady concentrated on listening to Twitch and trying to control the blood flow in his body. God, why was the notion of this Very woman such a turn-on? All he knew about her at this point was that she went to college with Twitch, had bright pink hair, and liked The Ramones—all big pluses but still, not much to go on.
Twitch continued, “She just moved here to work for a lab in Ridgefield. She's a chemist.”
“What lab in Ridgefield?” Ren cocked his head.
“Exactly.” Twitch winked.
Behind her, Finn McIntyre appeared in the doorway. The mood in the room shifted. Dressed in faded jeans, a hoodie, and trainers, darkness loomed around him like an additional garment. The hood of his sweatshirt shadowed the scars on the right side of his face, but even the casual observer would have sensed they were there. It was as if the injury had subsumed his entire aura. Finn had grown comfortable in his cocoon of grief and rage, a state of being that unfortunately aided his “legend” when he was on assignment. Like Cam, Finn was a NOC officer with the CIA. Unlike Cam, he seemed to have lost his center. Nevertheless, his team was his family; when they needed him, he showed up.
Finn walked to the pizza boxes. Tox, the man who had rescued him from that cave three years ago, slapped him on the back. Then he left his big hand on Finn's shoulder as if he too sensed the shift in his best friend. Finn shrugged it off.
“Have we learned anything new?” Finn asked.
“Just diving in.” Ren held up a stack of files. “Your employer is not the most forthcoming when it comes to information sharing.”
“Former employer,” Finn corrected.
The announcement had Ren's eyebrows hitting his hairline.
“What happened?” There was concern in the question, but Tox didn’t even try to hide his happiness at the announcement. Even Chat, who in the most stressful situations was inscrutable, looked pleased.
“I accidentally killed a trafficker they were trying to turn.” Finn flipped his palms up in a what was I supposed to do? Gesture.
“How’d you accidentally kill him?” Herc asked, grabbing a fresh beer from the cooler.
Finn gave an evil grin. “Shot him in the face.”
“Well, that would certainly do it.” Steady crossed the room to hug his friend.
“And I may or may not have punched the Assistant Deputy Director of Operations. Also in the face.”
“Whoa.” Tox ran a hand across his five o’clock shadow. “That's a lot of fucking up faces.” He instantly regretted the comment seeing Finn's own scarred profile, but it was Finn's reply that silenced the room.
“Yeah, well, when Gabriel Lorca, the most vicious cartel leader in Eastern Europe is patting you on the back for killing an informant—a guy who makes a living selling children—and the CIA is hauling you in for disciplinary measures, it kind of skews your reality.” He poured straight bourbon into a red cup and took an unhealthy swig.
“You were embedded with Gabriel Lorca?” Ren asked.
“Classified.” Finn finished his drink and poured another.
“The CIA put Lorca in power fifteen years ago. He kills his rivals and blows up their operations with enough C4 to put a crater in the ground. Then he went rogue. Now he's their biggest problem,” Ren said.
Finn clapped both hands together. “So, what's on the agenda tonight, boys. I need to get laid.”
Five dumbfounded faces stared back at him.
Chat stood. “We find our brother. We don’t rest until we do.”
Finn laughed awkwardly. “Oh, come on. There's nothing to do. Nothing in those files will shed any light.”
Chat stepped away from the table and stood toe-to-toe with his friend. “It doesn’t matter. We work with what we have. We dig. Cam isn’t resting, so we don’t rest. That's how this works.” He grabbed Finn's forearm. “Every time.”
Finn closed his eyes against the memory. Chat continued, undeterred, “We didn’t sleep for three days straight looking for you. Ren made the connection between the insurgents and a local man. Tox held a knife to his wife's throat until he gave up the location of the cave.”
Tox's face was expressionless, but his gaze was unashamed. Steady, nicknamed for his composure, released a rare burst of temper. “What did you think, Finn? That we hit the town and waited for Nathan and OpNav to get us intel? It was combat naps and MREs until we found you.”
Finn set the bottle of booze on the kitchen counter. Shame, rage, sadness simmered beneath his skin. With an anguished cry, he grabbed the bottle and threw it against the far wall, whiskey and glass bleeding down the wallpaper. Grabbing his hair in both fists, he stormed past the men out onto the deck, where he stomped onto the decayed boards…
And promptly fell through the wood onto the sand ten feet below.
A tormented “Fuuuuuck!” rose up.
Tox lifted both hands to stop his brothers and turned to the deck. He gingerly worked his way around the rotted boards and fresh hole to the stairs and descended. He found Finn sitting under the deck, head in his hands, weeping.
Tox took a seat beside him and waited. A minute passed, then another. Finally, Finn looked up, making no effort to hide the tear tracks that ran through the sand on his face.
“Something's got to change, Miller.” The fact that Finn had called him by his name spoke volumes.
“Yes,” Tox agreed, “it does.”
“What the fuck do I do? You think I want to be this way? Last month I put a guy in the hospital because he called me Two-Face. Before that, I smacked a woman. I was in the middle of fucking her. I don’t even remember what she said.” He rested his forehead on the heels of his palms. “I used to be a good guy.”
Tox rested a hand on his back. “You still are a good guy, Finn, but you’re not invincible. There's no shame in asking for help. Shit, I get therapy to work through what happened to you.”
That had Finn looking up. “Get? Still?”
“Yeah, still. Look around you,
brother. Look at the Spec Ops guys who struggle. You faked your way through mandatory psych evals, and those demons don’t just die,” Tox said.
“I thought I was fine.” Finn half-laughed.
“You’re not fine,” Tox replied.
Finn picked up a fistful of sand and let it run through his palm. “I didn’t realize…” He looked above him.
“Every minute you were in that cave, we were looking for you. How could you not know that?” Tox rested a hand on his best friend's shoulder.
“I’m pretty fucked up, huh?” Finn spoke to the sand.
“You just need help,” Tox said.
“We need to find Cam,” Finn insisted.
Tox stood and offered a hand to help Finn.
“You’re missing too, Finn. Everybody understands. Let's get you some help.”
Finn clasped Tox's outstretched hand and rose, dusting the sand from his jeans. “Yeah, okay. I need to do something first. I’ll be in touch.” He didn’t miss Tox's concerned expression. “Don’t worry. I’ve had a muzzle to my chin a hundred times and haven’t pulled the trigger yet.”
The half-joke didn’t help.
“Relax. I just need to see someone. I’ll be in touch.”
Tox just nodded and unconsciously rubbed his stomach to ease the pit forming. Finn slapped him on the arm. “Calm down, Sasquatch. We’ll continue the hair braiding and pillow fights tomorrow.”
Tox chuffed, “Sounds good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Finn started to walk off, then turned back to his best friend. “I love you, you know.”
“Oh, fuck you, asshole. Now I’m worried all over again.”
He could hear Finn's laughter even after his silhouette had disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Beaufort, South Carolina
December 11
T
Buried Beneath Page 16