CHAPTER THREE
Griffin Island, South Carolina
November 25
Camilo Canto sat on the deck of the beachfront bar and sipped a Modelo. Despite the slight chill in the autumn air, two bikini-clad women were frolicking in the surf. He wasn’t egotistical enough to think this little show was for him, but it was clear he was the most likely prospect when he looked around the deck. He was visualizing his usual come-on when a large body blocked the view.
Jonah “Steady” Lockhart set a beer and two red plastic baskets overflowing with clam strips and fries on the table and took a seat.
“Hermano, there are two other chairs here.” Cam gestured around Steady to the women who were now trying to remove each other's tops.
“Suck it up. I’m just as pretty to look at.” Steady winked.
Cam scanned his friend from his mop of sandy blond hair and lively green eyes down to—“That shirt is blinding me. What is that thing?”
Steady glanced down at the turquoise Hawaiian shirt exploding with pineapples and parrots. “I think it was my grandpa's.” He grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle. “Found a whole box of them in the attic.”
“Wear that to The Sand Bar tonight. The glare should send the ladies right to me.” Cam popped a french fry in his mouth.
“Yeah, yeah. We need to eat and get to the hardware store and the lumber yard. Ren and Chat are meeting us at two,” Steady replied.
Steady had taken over the beach house where he had grown up summering. As Cam understood it, no one in the family had used it in years, and Steady's parents had been content to rent it out. When Steady announced his return to the region, his overjoyed parents offered up the place without having to be asked. Last season, back-to-back tropical storms had done their worst, and the house was in disrepair. Fortunately, Steady had several able-bodied volunteers at the ready.
“How is there no Home Depot?” Cam complained.
“Small town living, my friend. This ain’t Miami.” Steady stretched his arm over the empty seat to his right and tipped back in his chair.
“No shit,” Cam agreed.
“And there is a Home Depot. It's just…” Steady gestured vaguely inland, “yonder.”
The Bishop Security team had officially made the move to South Carolina with great success. What the area lacked in box stores and Chinese restaurants, it made up for in charm and seclusion. On top of the picture-perfect setting, their offices were beyond anything the men could have imagined. Nathan Bishop had renovated an old elementary school and turned it into a state-of-the-art facility. From the outside, the building looked like an expansive colonial home. Inside was something else.
Steady polished off the last fried clam, wiped his fingers with the flimsy paper napkin from the stainless steel dispenser, and stood just as an unusual triple ping emanated from Cam's phone.
“Shit,” Cam muttered.
“What's up?” Steady asked.
“Nothing. Loose ends. I need to make a call. Why don’t we split up? You hit the lumber yard. I’ll get the supplies at the hardware store and meet you back at the house.”
Steady polished off his beer and dangled the empty by the neck between his fingers. “Sometimes I think you spooks use the ‘I need to make a call’ line to get out of doing shit you don’t want to do.”
Cam just shook his head, amused.
“All right. You go ‘make your call,’” Steady air quoted. “I’ll haul the wood.”
Cam headed for the side stairs that led from the deck to the parking lot. “I’ll pick you up on the side of the road. That Tonka toy you drive will probably collapse under the weight.”
Steady waved him off, then seemed to rethink. After throwing some cash on the table to match what Cam had left, he looked to the side parking lot and eyed his Jeep. At a glance, the old Wrangler looked like it had been stripped for parts. He ambled up to Cam and put the phone on speaker as he placed a call. Herc answered without greeting.
“Let me guess. You need my truck.” Hercules Reynolds was a former marine sniper and current Bishop Security operator. At the moment, he was breathing hard, and the wind was louder than his voice.
“Where are you?” Steady asked.
“Running on the beach. Where are you?” Herc answered.
“The Shack.”