Buried Beneath

by Debbie Baldwin

  Gemini set the teacup in the saucer without taking a sip and finished answering the question on a laugh. “And the buckles! I mean, the man is a genius, but getting into some of the garments can take hours.”

  The man in question was New York designer Marcus Arroyo. Gemini March had plucked him from obscurity by wearing his gowns on red carpets two years ago. She and Arroyo had both made tabloid headlines when she arrived at the Grammy Awards in an Arroyo original made entirely from fig leaves. Since then, the designer had experienced a meteoric rise as an avant-garde formal wear designer.

  “I’ve walked his shows in Milan, Istanbul, Bangkok, Paris—there's always some ‘incident’ with those damn buckles,” Gemini continued.

  Calliope giggled along with her host. “He has repeatedly called you his Muse.”

  Gemini's smile bloomed. “Marcus is like that best friend girls have in middle school. We’re joined at the hip. We’re always texting and FaceTiming. We travel together. He's deathly afraid of flying, so I send a March jet for him in New York. He picks me up in Palma, and off we fly. That way, I can hold his hand—and get him good and drunk.” She winked.

  “Is there a romance brewing?” Calliope held up her tablet, making a show of preparing to jot down Gemini's juicy response.

  “Oh, God, no. He's like a baby brother to me. He's happily sowing his wild oats. I don’t see him settling down for a while. I prefer a man with a little more…” She spun her teacup in the saucer. “Maturity.”

  Calliope grabbed the opening. “Looks to me like you’re talking about someone in particular. I’m sure our readers want to know what's new in your love life.”

  With calculated restraint, Gemini reached for the small silver tongs and pinched a sugar cube. “Well, I do have some news on that front.” She summoned the maid. “Renata?”

  The unobtrusive woman stepped forward. “Yes, miss?”

  “Is Miguel on the property?” Gemini inquired.

  Calliope masked her excitement by returning her gaze to her tablet and tapping out some notes.

  “Yes, miss. He's in the gym,” the maid replied.

  “Perfect.” Gemini's lips parted.

  Calliope could practically see the salacious thoughts flash through the model's mind as she imagined him working out—back on the bench, bar above his glistening chest.

  “Tell him his presence is requested. No need to shower or change.”

  The maid hastened from the room, and Gemini returned her attention to Calliope.

  “Miguel?” Calliope probed.

  “It's new.” Gemini applied coy like a layer of makeup. “Well, not new exactly. We met last year, shared one explosive night, but life took us in different directions. We reunited recently, and things are going…” She looked at her lap with a girlish sigh. “Really well.”

  “Sounds like things are progressing quickly,” Calliope encouraged.

  “I’m at the point in my life where I know what I want,” Gemini replied.

  Calliope hummed her understanding, but her next question was halted by a knock on the open door and a thickly accented, “You wanted to see me?”

  Calliope turned in her chair and took in her friend. His face registered no recognition as he stood leaning against the jamb in a sweaty gray T-shirt with a towel draped around his neck. She concealed her elation with less prowess than the trained NOC officer, but she managed.

  “Miguel, say hello to Calliope Buchanan. She's a reporter with The Harlem Sentry. We were just talking about you,” Gemini beckoned.

  Without sparing Calliope a glance, Cam sauntered into the room and tipped Gemini's chin up with two fingers. “And what were you saying, camaleón?”

  He called her chameleon. Calliope registered the odd… endearment? It made sense, she guessed. Gemini March was in the business of changing her appearance as the occasion required. Nevertheless, chameleons also blended with their environment to inconspicuously lure their prey. Cam was telling Calliope in as subtle a way as possible that Gemini March had a hand in his disappearance. If Gemini took offense, she didn’t show it; her face glowed, serene.

  Calliope smoothly interjected, “Gemini was just telling me about your romance.”

  “Was she?” Cam gazed at Gemini, still holding her chin.

  “And what did she say?” he asked.

  “Just that it was new. And promising,” Calliope answered.

  “I think she is right about that. This beauty has captured me,” Cam said, never taking his eyes off of Gemini.

  Gemini removed his hand from her face and kissed his fingertips. “You mean captivated, darling. Not captured.”

  Cam turned to the door. “I need a shower.” He nodded to Calliope. “Enjoy your visit.”

  “We were just finishing up,” Gemini said.

  Calliope seized the opening. Gathering her things, she directed her comment to Gemini as Cam headed out the door. “Oh, that reminds me. My assistant mentioned a restaurant on the water outside of town, La Sirena? Do you recommend it?”

  Gemini followed the bow and flex of Cam's backside as he walked from the room then returned her attention to Calliope. “La Sirena? I don’t think I know it, but you can’t go wrong with most beachfront bistros. They catch the fish right there. Try the caldereta. It's a local seafood stew. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Calliope passed Gemini a business card and stood. “Be sure to keep me updated—on the fashion and the romance.” Calliope leaned closer. “From the look he just gave you, I’m betting there will be more to the story.”

  Gemini did not mask her pleasure at the observation as Calliope continued, “And best of luck with the runway show in Jakarta.”

  “I’m thrilled to be doing it. Marcus is showing his line all over the world in the coming months. Indonesia is our first stop, then on to Tokyo, Beijing, and Kuala Lumpur. The days of fashion hubs being limited to New York, Paris, and Milan are over. The top new designers are coming onto the scene in places like Budapest and Stockholm. It's an exciting time to be in fashion.”

  Calliope made note of Gemini March's Asian itinerary. “I’m sure his new designs will be amazing. New Yorkers will be waiting for his return with bated breath.”

  Gemini escorted Calliope to the villa's main entrance. They exchanged air kisses and pleasant goodbyes as the sedan pulled up.

  Calm and composed, Calliope waited until the car was out on the main road before she squealed.

  Cam entered the bathroom and stripped off his sweaty clothes. With perfunctory efficiency, he started the shower and stepped in. For a long time he stood, face in the stream, soap in his hand. Then he laughed out loud.

  They had found him.

  Cam was used to being on his own. If his cover were blown or he were taken, he would simply vanish. If he were killed on an op, his family would receive word that he died in a car accident or a plane crash, and that would be that. A new NOC officer would be put in place; the silent war would wage on.

  This new reality brought him back to his SEAL days, a squad of brothers—all of them willing to lay down their lives for their country or their teammates. Cam had forgotten what that felt like until he stood in the doorway of that room and saw Calliope.

  There had been times in his work for the CIA when Cam had nearly broken cover—an informant had been outed, or a woman was being assaulted. However, he had remained stoic, repeating the mantra that kept him sane: the greater good.

  His work went beyond the emotional toll of merely living as someone else; it rattled the foundation of what made him moral. It hollowed out his soul. It had isolated him in a way far beyond simply being alone. And now here he stood, naked in a shower, secure in the knowledge that Calliope was right now reporting her findings to Steady, Tox, and the team. Cam had to pull his lips into his mouth to stifle the Hooyah! that wanted to burst from within him.

  He lathered the bar with renewed vigor and formulated a plan. He didn’t need to be rescued; Atlas had repeatedly said Cam could leave any time. Al
though, he wasn’t convinced Gemini echoed that sentiment. What he needed was support, and the men and women of Bishop Security had come to provide it. Cam imagined this feeling was something like when a bully corners a kid in the schoolyard and threatens to kick his ass, and out of nowhere, the kid's friends appear behind him and say, “We’d like to see you try.” The Conductor was orchestrating some dark scheme that involved Cam. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise in the morning. Well, now he had his team at his back. We’d like to see you try.

  As he ran his hands over tired muscles, his thoughts strayed to Evan. Evan and her little golden box—he almost laughed at the double entendre. She was so perfect in her flaws, so sexy in her naivete, so beautiful in her passion for her search. Cam hadn’t felt that fire for his work in years. He swallowed the regret that threatened to choke him. Evan would never know Cam; she knew Miguel, a man without conscience and incapable of redemption. Cam might have loved Evan, but Miguel knew only apathy. Miguel had excavated compassion from his hollow soul.

  Soap trickled into his eye, jarring Cam into the now. Rinsing quickly and drying off, he made his way into the bedroom to change. He needed to go another round with Gemini March, a task that was proving more exhausting by the hour. More importantly, he needed to find a way to get to the restaurant Calliope had mentioned, La Sirena, and explain to the team what was happening.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Beaufort, South Carolina

  December 13

  D

  ressed in worn jeans and a fisherman's sweater, Miles Buchanan stood before Nathan and Emily Bishop's refurbished Victorian home and took in the scene. On the front lawn, there was a child's toy that popped balls under a plastic dome when pushed by its long red handle. A small sneaker sat beside it. Dormant peonies lined a path that led to a wraparound porch. A coffee mug sat on a small end table next to a porch swing. This was a home.

  Miles loped up the front steps, but before he could knock, the door swung open. Nathan Bishop greeted him wearing lounge pants and a henley. He whispered, “Everyone is napping. Let's head around back.”

  Miles hiked the strap of the leather messenger bag over his shoulder and followed Nathan around the porch to a patio bathed in the afternoon sunlight. Nathan took a seat at the teak dining table, and Miles joined him opposite. Uncomfortable with personal small talk, Miles ventured, “Family good?”

  If Nathan noticed Miles's awkwardness, he ignored it. Nathan Bishop had a way of putting those around him at ease regardless of the situation. “Charlie climbed the shelves of the refrigerator earlier. Pulled down a dozen eggs and a pint of blueberries.” He shook his head with a laugh. “That kid.”

  Miles laughed too. “That was me. Miller was the lookout. He was always way more concerned with right and wrong when we were kids. The idea of getting into trouble terrified him. Meanwhile, all I did was get us into trouble.”

  Nathan chuckled. “That sounds about right.”

  “Especially considering how we turned out.” Miles shook his head in amusement.

  Despite the ease and flow of the conversation, Miles was eager to share his ideas. He reached into the bag and withdrew a leather-bound book. “How does that look?”

  Nathan nodded. “Nearly identical to the actual journal.”

  Miles pushed the book across the table. “I had a bit of fun filling it in. If Musgrave bothers to read the thing, he’ll never know it's fake, but the contents are gibberish. Fake names, dates, I threw some Nirvana lyrics in there when I got bored.”

  Nathan flipped through the pages. “This is a fucking work of art.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nathan fished a flash drive out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here's the copy. I’m not sure what The Conductor thinks is on this footage. It's just the arms dealer Cam was tracking, two security men, and a couple of party guests and topless women sunbathing on the deck. Other than the name of the ship, The Maestro, there doesn’t appear to be anything incriminating in this video.”

  “Maybe just the name of the yacht is enough.” Miles took the drive and tucked it into the spine of the lookalike journal.

  “All right then,” Nathan clapped once. “Let's sting a senator.”

  The top half of the Dutch door opened, and Emily Bishop leaned her forearms on the ledge. “I was going to make some tea. Can I get you anything?”

  Nathan leapt up as if an alarm had gone off. Miles failed to see the emergency until his host pushed open the door's bottom section to reveal his wife's pregnant belly.

  “You sit, Emily, love. I’ll make the tea. Are the boys still asleep?”

  Emily yawned. “One of them.” She jerked her head to indicate the unnoticed toddler holding two of her fingers and going to town on a pacifier.

  Nathan swept Jack up into his arms. “Come here, buddy.” He turned back to Miles. “Something to drink?”

  His first instinct was to decline and be on his merry way, but something had him smiling up at the little family and saying, “Sure.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Miramar, Mallorca

  December 13

  C

  am volunteered to pick up a romantic dinner for two to enjoy with Gemini.

  La Sirena was a small but bustling seaside restaurant. The bar crowd gathered inside and out, and diners sat at tile-topped tables with postcard views. Even at this time of year, the place still drew a crowd, and the mild day allowed for the french doors that skirted the building to be kept open. Cam stood next to the Mercedes he had taken from the March garages and eyed the establishment from a distance, walking casually like any other traveler exploring a beachfront restaurant. A deep happiness swelled within him.

  Enticing aromas wafted on the bay breeze. Patrons ate and talked. Ren and Chat sat at a high-top table on the porch. Seagulls trolled the beach for scraps. Steady and Herc were chatting up two women waiting for a table. A waitress stopped at a group of laughing women to take an order. Twitch nursed a martini at the bar. A group of kids threw a ball and chased each other on the beach. The team had woven themselves seamlessly into the tapestry of the scene.

  Cam entered La Sirena and snaked through the crowd to find an empty, wicker-backed bar stool. He took a seat and ordered a beer in Catalan. “Una cervesa, si us plau.”

  The bartender set a bottle of Estrella and a frosted glass in front of him. Cam handed him some Euros, glanced at the chalkboard menu on the wall, and ordered two of the sea bass specials to go. The man nodded, took the cash, and moved on.

  To his knowledge, Twitch had never done any sort of undercover work, but she was playing her part well, sitting in a floral-print dress, scanning a sightseeing pamphlet, and eyeing him as a likely prospect for a vacation fling. He tilted the glass and poured the beer, shooting her a receptive smile. Martini in one hand, brochure in the other, she slid off the high seat and slinked over to him—sort of slinked. Twitch clearly wasn’t used to walking in high heels and stumbled, sloshing vodka over the rim of her glass. She composed herself quickly, though, and finished the short journey, setting the drink down next to his.

  “English?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Cam replied.

  “Are you a local?” Twitch continued.

  “No. It's a beautiful island, but I’m hoping to get home to my family,” Cam said.

  “My family is here with me,” she commented. “I thought I’d explore the nightlife.”

  “I haven’t seen much. It's the off-season,” Cam countered.

  “Oh, there's plenty going on. The beach at Ca’n Pastilla is wild at night. We’re staying on a boat, The Orion. It's pretty cool. I’m a Pisces, so I guess I’m drawn to boats. Are you into the Zodiac?”

  Cam lifted his beer to his lips, committing her coded words to memory. “Not really.”

  “Yeah, I guess it's just superstition.” She mimicked him and sipped her drink. “Anyway, we’re going to try fishing tomorrow.”

  “Good luck,” Cam said.

  �
��I was just reading more about deep sea fishing in this brochure. My brothers are really into it. They pull the craziest stuff out of the water. It gets really active an hour or so before sunset. You should check it out.” She forced a fairly convincing giggle.

  She slid the brochure in front of him. He picked it up and examined the front photo: a group of men on a beach, each holding their catch.

  “Maybe.” He slipped the brochure into his back pocket. “Thanks.”

  The bartender placed the two dinners Cam had ordered wrapped to go on the bar.

  “So, can I give you my number? Maybe we can set up a fishing date,” Twitch flirted.

  Cam held up a hand, broadcasting his rejection to anyone who may be watching. “Sorry, I’m spoken for.”

  Twitch nodded. “Okay, well, if you change your mind, just look for the bright pink umbrella. Nice talking to you.”

  “You too. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Cam grabbed the bag of food and worked his way around tables and patrons to the exit. As he passed the table where Ren and Chat were perched, Chat gave his dinner companion a discreet nod. A moment later, Ren hopped off his seat and bumped right into Cam.

  “Perdón, señor,” Ren slurred.

  “No hay problema,” Cam replied, then skirted his friend without acknowledgment and left. Back in the car with the food in the passenger seat, Cam felt in his exterior pocket and touched the GPS locator Ren had slipped in when they collided. He reviewed his conversation with Twitch and noted the relevant information. The team was anchored off the coast near Ca’n Pastilla. There would be a Zodiac beached near a pink umbrella. The meet-up was an hour before sunset.

  Atlas March had told Cam at their first meeting that he could leave at any time. Gemini might disagree. Plus, there were too many strange happenings for Cam to take what was going on at face value.

  As the questions piled up, he had one answer that he knew with certainty: he needed his team.

  After a few more minutes, and a few more beers, the Bishop Security team filtered out of the restaurant and piled into the rented SUV.