“Dude, this chick just pulled her friend's top off. Awesome,” Herc exclaimed.
Cam looked to the water, and sure enough, one of the frolicking women was running away from the water, waving a scrap of pink above her head while the other was laughing and covering her bare breasts with her hands.
“Where exactly are you?” Steady asked.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Herc replied.
They finally spotted Herc standing on the beach behind a closed lounge umbrella.
“Vacation attire.” Steady smoothed his hands down the front of the shirt.
Cam could see Herc's gagging gesture.
“Got half an hour to help me haul some lumber?” Steady asked.
“Sure, man,” Herc replied.
“Where are you parked?”
“Public lot half a click south. I’m going to invite these ladies to The Sand Bar tonight, and I’ll meet you there.” Herc gestured with his thumb toward the women.
Steady toasted his acknowledgment with his empty beer bottle then tossed it in the trashcan and headed to Herc's truck.
“You want a lift?” Cam asked.
“Nah, the public lot is right there. See you in a few, brother.” Steady waved over his shoulder as he walked off.
Cam split off, heading to his SUV. This was the second alert from the CIA in as many weeks—first that strange hang-up phone call from Crimea and now whatever this was. He tightened his grip on the phone. Would his Agency work ever really be over?
Scanning the parking lot, Cam's gaze paused on a blue Ford Explorer with a distinct splat of seagull poop on the hood. He’d noticed the same car in town the day before, not following him, just parked nearby. He hadn’t looked at the vehicle with suspicion, simply wondered idly why the person hadn’t cleaned the bird shit off the hood. Like most Teamguys, Cam was fastidious and organized. He kept his car clean. Resuming his pace, he climbed in his 4Runner and pulled out of the lot.
Cam drove inland for a mile or so, then pulled over onto the impromptu shoulder. Just as he was about to enter the number, his phone rang.
“Hey, ma,” he greeted.
“I love that I can just pick up the phone and call my son, and he actually answers.” His mother's melodic voice floated across the line.
Cam chuckled. “The new job is working out great.”
“Abuela is going crazy for your first Christmas home in ten years. You’ll have an entire new wardrobe, and her garage looks like she won a game show.” His mother's words danced over the line.
Between the Navy and the CIA, Cam hadn’t spent a December in Miami in over a decade.
“Oh jeez, tell her to stop. I don’t need all that stuff,” Cam protested.
“When has that ever stopped her?” his mother asked. “Remember when she bought you two bicycles that year?”
“In case one got a flat.” He smiled at the memory. “Yeah, I remember.”
“She's at least letting me handle the menu and the cooking.” His mother was more than a good cook in a “my mom's a good cook” kind of way. She was an actual chef.
“Don’t start talking about your food, or I’ll pull onto the highway heading south right now.”
He could feel his mother's pleasure through the phone.
His father's familiar baritone came over the line. “Your mother's been trying out new recipes in anticipation of your arrival. I think I’ve gained ten pounds.”
Cam's dad had either just walked into the room where his mom had the phone on speaker, or he had been listening the whole time.