Somewhere outside Beaufort, South Carolina
April 26
Charlie Bishop, Nathan’s uncle and mentor lived in the quiet fishing hamlet of Royal Beach, South Carolina located on the northwestern tip of Pritchett’s Island, a South Carolina barrier island. It was Charlie who had found the location ten miles inland that would be the new home of Bishop Security. The school, built in a farming community in the sixties, had been abandoned when districts consolidated and mandatory renovations were deemed cost-prohibitive.
Nathan Bishop stood in the back of what was once the Samuel Henry Dickson High School, watching the workmen hang the cargo net for the obstacle course. After nearly a year of planning, additions, and renovations the Bishop Security compound was nearing completion. His self-appointed foreman, Hercules Reynolds, directed the men carrying fitness equipment into the gym. Herc was a recently discharged marine sniper who had been instrumental in helping Nathan and his team bring down an arms dealer. He also happened to be his Uncle Charlie’s step-grandson. So, that made him Nathan’s...first step-cousin once removed? Step-second cousin?
What it made him was Nathan’s employee. Herc was an exemplary Bishop Security operative: taciturn and good-natured but with the laser-focus and intelligence of an elite sniper. His nickname in the Marines, Shorty, derived from his love of his grandmother Maggie’s shortbread, and Herc, at just under six feet, endured endless ribbing about it. He was an easy guy to be around. Plus, he could send a bullet through a garden hose at three hundred yards.
The old school was in the final stages of its transition to becoming the Bishop Security base of operations. Nathan had purchased the eighty acres of land surrounding the structure on three sides, and the three-story brick building was expertly tailored to their needs. The first floor housed a reception area, gym, locker rooms, full-service dining hall, non-weapons equipment room, and a game room. There was also a basketball court, mixed martial arts ring, pool, sauna, and training simulation pods. The second floor held offices and conference rooms, and the third floor had temporary apartments, a visitors suite, a medical center with full physical therapy, lounge, catering kitchen, and formal and informal dining areas. Every inch of space had been designed to Nathan’s specifications. His favorite part of the building, a nearly nonexistent feature in this part of the country, was the basement.
Designed as a bomb shelter in the sixties, the full basement had walls of three-foot cinder block, and while it couldn’t withstand the nuke for which it was designed, it was a fortress. Nathan assumed the Red Scare prompted the architect and engineers to attempt excavation rather than build upward, which was the conventional regional design.
Despite hurricane-related flooding and sandy soil, the basement remained sound. It currently housed a weapons room, a lab where a team could run their own DNA and evidence analysis, a secure conference room, an indoor gun range, and their cybersecurity center. Twitch had already purchased a cozy bungalow nearby with a room over the garage, known locally as a frog—family room over garage—for her apprentice/surrogate little brother, Teddy.
The facility’s security made the Pentagon look like a shopping mall. The perimeter was marked by cameras, thermal scanners, and guard posts. The building was circled by a twenty-foot-high interchange fence comprised of alternating sections of smooth stone and laser-cut steel. Nathan’s wife, Emily had chosen it after Nathan had given her his requirements; she said she wanted to make sure the place didn’t look like an asylum. The gated interior perimeter had duplicate measures. The building itself was equipped with biometric scanners—retina and palm, full-body millimeter-wave scanners, coded room entry, cameras, and motion sensors. Twitch had been given free rein to design the cybersecurity, and she had gone to town creating a virtual Vietnamese jungle of landmines, trip wires, and booby traps ready for any hacker arrogant enough to take her on.
Nathan was interrupted from his supervision by the vibration of his secure encrypted cell phone. He fished it from his pocket and, assuming it was Emily, answered without checking the screen.
“Hey, love.”
“Nathan, I like you tremendously, but that’s going a bit far.”
“Clemente?”
“How are you, my boy?”
Clemente Acosta was the former Portuguese Prime Minister and current Ambassador to the UN. He was also one of Nathan’s all-time favorite people. Bishop Security had been protecting Acosta for over fifteen years. He was accommodating and cordial, quick with a story, and always seemed to squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of life. How a man like him had survived five decades in government, Nathan would never know.
“Never better.” Nathan turned his back on the work crew to focus on the call.
“So I hear. I don’t speak to you for eighteen months, and you go from o devasso to a family man.”
Nathan chuckled. Clemente was absolutely right. He had been a playboy, but behind the false front lived the man he was today, a committed husband and father.
“Guess I found the right girl.”
“I’d say so. You know I was married three times before I found my Elara. Fifteen years of bliss.”
Nathan smiled. Clemente Acosta’s wife was a renowned beauty, twenty-three years his junior. By all accounts, they were deliriously happy. Nathan turned to business.
“You’re coming to see us I take it?”
“Yes. The UN summit on art and antiquities smuggling. I also have several meetings. Do you have a team available?”
“Knowing your propensity to call at the last minute and your passion for the topic. I took the liberty of setting it up when I saw the summit on the UN calendar.” In addition to his public service, Acosta had an art collection that rivaled many small museums.
“You’re like a son to me, Nathan.”
“I appreciate that, sir. I’ll reach out to your assistant for your agenda and forward the security parameters accordingly.”
“Obrigado, meu filho.” Thank you, my son.
Nathan ended the call and waved Hercules over. Herc dropped the tire he was placing in the obstacle course and jogged over.
“What’s up boss?”
“Long time client, Clemente Acosta. You know who he is?”