New York City
April 17
Nathan Bishop sat behind his desk in his rarely-used New York office at Knightsgrove-Bishop. Although he had spun off this security arm of the defense contractor and moved their base of operations to South Carolina, Nathan still sat on the board of the company his family had founded and reluctantly maintained a presence. It took a lot to drag Nathan away from his wife, Emily, and their twin sons, Jack and Charlie.
Emily had been his next-door neighbor years ago. When she was eight, she had been abducted in a twisted revenge plot aimed at her father. She had been rescued but subsequently vanished from his life. When Nathan finally crossed paths with her again, fifteen years later, their destiny awaited. There had never been anyone else for either of them. A sense of sanguine satisfaction washed over him and tilted his lips. He spun the simple platinum wedding band on his finger. He now dedicated his career to providing resolution to those who had missing loved ones. Cases were mounting, but this strange situation with his wife Emily’s friend, Calliope Garland, bore looking into.
Chat had texted him from the car last night to apprise him of their status during the kidnapping op and that they had picked up an unexpected passenger. Nathan wouldn’t have thought much of it, but Chat’s final words got his attention: Something feels off. After years of both friendship and combat beside Chat, Nathan knew two things: one, Chat was a master of understatement, and two, if Chat had a feeling about something, don’t ignore it.
Most of the Bishop Security team knew Calliope through Emily. Calliope had told Emily’s abduction story to the world via The Harlem Sentry where both women worked. The sheer scope of the malfeasance Calliope was now investigating at Gentrify Capital could potentially put her in someone’s crosshairs. Nathan, for Emily’s peace of mind, was going to make sure that didn’t happen.
A soft knock on the doorjamb roused Nathan from his thoughts, and he glanced up to see Bishop Security operative Leo “Ren” Jameson and Ren’s former SEAL teammate Camilo “JJ” Canto. They had served on different squads, but the men knew and liked each other. Ren, short for Renaissance Man, had been Nathan’s go-to guy since their Navy days. With an eidetic memory and a list of interests that ranged from Sanskrit to neuroscience to contemporary art, Ren had a knowledge base that was as detailed as it was broad. Cam, on the other hand, operated on pure primal instinct. Ren could determine the background of a contact: the significance of his cultural heritage, the price of his suit, and the nuances of his body language. Cam could detect if he was a rat. The pair would make a good team. That was if Cam wanted the job. He had been a non-official cover, or NOC, officer, doing deep-cover, dark-ops for the CIA Special Activities Center/Special Operations Group (SAC/SOG) since leaving the Navy, and while Bishop Security had their fair share of excitement, it was nowhere near the level of intensity Cam was used to.
Nathan waved them in with polished confidence and extended his hand to Cam. “Welcome to the team.”
“Wow. Shortest job interview I’ve ever had.”
Nathan laughed. “What am I going to do? Ask about your experience? Half of it I know, and the other half you can’t tell me.”
“You have a point.”
“Ready to walk among the living?”
“God, yes. My poor mother was going to have a heart attack from worry. At least here I can see her more and, you know, use my real name…maybe meet a nice girl.”
Ren couldn’t let that slide. “You’ve met plenty, JJ.”
Cam’s nickname, JJ, was short for el Jefe de Joder, the boss of fuck. Their former teammate, Remy, coined it one night when Cam had entered a bar in Marrakech and left with a woman on each arm in under ten minutes. Remy had tipped back in his chair, and in his molasses-thick Louisiana accent said to no one in particular, “That boy is wilder than a fifth ace. The undisputed boss of fuck.” Tox had taken to Google translate and come up with the Spanish phrase. No matter how many times Cam had told them the Spanish wasn’t right, the initials stuck.
Cam clarified, “I said nice.”
“We’ll start you off with a relatively easy assignment.” Nathan looked up from his desk, spotted Steady, and waved him into the room. “Steady, good, I want you for this as well. End of the month, the UN is hosting a summit on art and antiquities smuggling. The former Prime Minister of Portugal is scheduled to attend.”
“Clemente Acosta?” Ren leaned forward in his chair.
Nathan lifted a hand to quell Ren’s unspoken protest. “I know you’ve been part of his detail in the past, but he’s such an easy client to work with, it’s a perfect assignment for Cam to cut his teeth. I’m going to bring Herc Reynolds in on this too.”
“Who’s Herc Reynolds?” Cam asked.
“Former marine sniper. He’s already down in South Carolina at the new HQ. He helped out on the Dario Sava case.” Nathan’s expression was impassive, but he methodically straightened items on his desk in an attempt to quell the inner turmoil Sava’s name still elicited. The arms dealer had been dead for over a year but he and Emily would bear the scars of his treachery forever. Steady’s exclamation brought Nathan back to the present.
“Dibs.”
Ren rested an ankle on the opposite thigh and scowled at Steady. “You can’t call dibs. This isn’t third grade. Plus, I’m in the middle of a chess game with the guy.”
“Children.” Nathan knocked on his desk. “I haven’t even received confirmation from his office that he’s actually attending.” He clarified for Cam. “He’s a fierce advocate for National ownership of artifacts as well as an art collector and apparently everyone’s favorite assignment. There’s a lot going on this month, Ren. I need you for something else. Steady, you’re on Acosta’s detail.”
Steady pumped his fist by his side just as Twitch barreled through the door with Tox hot on her heels.
“Things at Gentrify Capital have gotten weird.” Twitch parked in her usual spot at Nathan’s small conference table and booted up her laptop. Tox flopped onto the leather couch and listened as Twitch explained what had made her jump from her digital command center and sprint to Nathan’s office.
“A friend of mine at the SEC gave me the heads up.”
Nathan didn’t know if “a friend of mine” was a euphemism for some less-than-legal digital snooping, or if Twitch actually had a confidante at the agency.
“Last night at just before 11 pm, someone tried to download sensitive information from the Gentrify server and triggered a massive data wipe. All sensitive transactional data and account information was deleted.”
“What?” Nathan’s shout of disbelief had the other three men looking up. “That’s impossible. A financial firm’s transactional history can’t just be deleted.”