Chapter One Callum
Smack.
The high-pitched buzzing in my ear persists as my palm makes contact with my neck. Pulling my arm away, I already know I’ve come up empty before I look down at my hand. We landed in Florida less than an hour ago, and I’m sure I already have half a dozen bug bites.
“I’m waiting three more minutes. That’s all he gets.” The threat in my tone is clear. I consider myself a patient man, but I have my limits. After a certain point, tardiness bleeds into blatant disrespect.
I don’t tolerate disrespect.
Roscoe, my right-hand man, looks down at his watch to take note of the time. He nods in understanding, but says nothing as he widens his stance beside me. Stoic as usual, I don’t miss how he tugs at his suit coat against the humidity that’s unseasonably heavy, even for this climate.
Waiting on the runway—if you can even call it that—for my contact has my irritation growing.
The sounds of the Everglades increase in volume as the sun lowers past the tree line.
Plant life dots the unpaved airstrip as nature slowly swallows the strip until it appears abandoned—I’m sure that’s the point.
It’s a tactic often used by smugglers, much like the man I’m waiting for.
Not for long. Two more minutes, then I’m gone.
Headlights shine through the trees as a vehicle breaks through the brush and approaches where we stand waiting.
As the SUV slows to a stop a few yards away, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket.
Pulling it out, a quick glance shows me an incoming call from an unknown number with a New York area code.
As the driver’s door opens, I silence my phone to send the call to voicemail.
If it’s important they’ll leave me a message.
The man who steps out from behind the wheel is not the one I’m expecting. Clamping down on my irritation, I address the newcomer.
“You’re not Antoné Batista,” I state the obvious as he walks closer to where Roscoe and I stand.
Louis offers a smile that’s almost apologetic, his shoulders lifting in a shrug.
If I didn’t recognize him as one of Antoné’s men, he’d already have a bullet in his head.
Last-minute changes like this come with risks bigger than what I’m willing to accept.
In my line of work, I like to be prepared.
“He got held up and sent me to collect you.” Louis runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then readjusts the thick framed glasses on his sharp nose.
The sparse white facial hair on his chin makes him look older than his late forties, and he’s dressed like a Floridian tourist on a night out.
The floral print of his teal shirt is one limping step away from looking like he bought it off the clearance rack in a Hawaii gift shop.
“I didn’t come to be collected,” I point out, gesturing to the folio in Roscoe’s hands. “This was supposed to be a simple hand-off.”
Just when I thought I was going to make my dinner reservations.
The best-laid plans.
“And it will be,” Louis assures me, his eyes latching curiously on the black, leather-bound package before returning to mine. “Allow me to take you to him, you can do the exchange then.”
“Where is he?”
“The Reserve.” Of course he is. I look over at Roscoe as I weigh my options, but there isn’t really another way.
If I refuse to go meet Antoné, I don’t get paid.
The job is already done; this final meeting is all that’s left of our contract.
And the last thing I need is to be right back here in a few days waiting in the bug-ridden swamp.
“Tell the pilots to stand by until we get back,” I instruct, holding out my hand to take the book. Roscoe nods before heading back to my waiting private plane.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say when I catch Louis eyeing the book in my hand for a second time. “This is for Antoné’s eyes only.”
“Oh, I know better than that.” The way his tone falters belies the confidence in his words. He’d take this book without thinking twice if he got the chance—so I won’t give him one.
Louis swats at a bug as it flies around his head, gesturing to the SUV. “You can sit in the car, the air is on. It’s already hot as balls out here.” As tempting of an offer as that is, I wait for Roscoe to return before approaching the vehicle.
Just because I can be flexible doesn’t make me careless.
The drive through the Everglades is rough, as the SUV plows through the underbrush along the almost nonexistent road that tests the vehicle’s shocks. I feel sorry for any passenger who might have a weak stomach; this back seat would need to be reupholstered.
Finally, the trees part to the open skies and water as far as the eye can see. The car slows to a stop at a private dock. Climbing out of the back seat, my eyes scan the surrounding area—not a soul in sight. Louis takes the lead as we walk to the speedboat waiting at the end of the dock.
The wind off the Gulf as we fly across the water is a welcome reprieve from the suffocating humidity.
Louis navigates around the dense patches of weeds that float just off the coast—swerving and revving the engine like an overzealous teenager being allowed behind the wheel of the boat for the first time—until we’re out in open waters.
An island dots in the distance, slowly growing as we approach.
Antoné calling his private island the “Reserve” is like calling a dog-fighting ring an animal rescue.
He’s what they call a collector—vintage cars, rare art, limited edition designer watches, the list goes on.
But his true passion, to the point of obsession, is animals.
Exotic and endangered animals, specifically.
He bought this island and had it registered as an animal reserve to keep the public and local government oversight from stumbling across his little hobby. Then he built his massive compound here, housing more animals than a small zoo—most illegal to own.
But just because you have a private island doesn’t mean government agencies like the US Fish and Wildlife Service won’t investigate you for poaching and smuggling endangered species.
That’s why I’m here.
Pulling up to the island, there’s another dock and another SUV. Fortunately, this road is both level and paved, making the ride up to the residence a lot smoother.
At the end of the long, winding drive, Antoné’s estate spreads across manicured lawns with imported palm trees and ornate fountains. Pulling up to the front door in the circular drive feels more like a small resort than a private residence.
If there’s one thing to say about Antoné, the man lacks subtlety.
Louis escorts us inside the flashy mansion full of brightly patterned furniture, gaudy gold fixtures, and decorated with animal pelts and taxidermic game.
Just like everything else he does, Antoné’s house makes a statement.
Each element—between the peacock feather chandelier, elephant tusk archways, and bold Picasso paintings—is a visual assault on the senses.
Spending more than ten minutes here could cause a seizure.
Just walking through is giving me a migraine.
I can hear Roscoe’s huff of relief when we walk out the back door into the evening air.
The sound of bird calls carries across the garden as we walk past caged enclosures filled with colorful, exotic birds. I’m not an expert, but I do recognize the distinct blue of the Spix’s macaw, and fluffed feathers of a yellow-crested cockatoo among them—both illegal to own.
Walking past a few more enclosures housing animals of questionable legality—I’m sure Antoné has permits for the rarer species in plain sight—we approach the densely hedged wall that marks the end of the garden.
But instead of stopping or turning around, Louis leads us along the hedge until we’ve turned a blind corner where a door sits hidden in the foliage.
Punching in a code on the keypad beside the door, Louis waits for the lock to audibly unlatch, before pulling it open and stepping aside to wave us in.
I enter first with Roscoe at my heels. The door clicks shut behind our guide as he joins us in the spacious, concrete tunnel leading down into the ground.
Lights dot the walkway every few feet, illuminating the way.
The tunnel stretches a quarter of a mile before ending at another locked door.
This time the door opens to a warehouse.
Enclosures stretch as far as the eye can see, sectioned by terrain and species.
The entrance is lit by the red glow of heating lamps.
I stride past terrariums full of reptiles and amphibians basking in the warmth.
Some are so small you can’t see them hidden amongst their camouflage, but I spot the bright colors of dart frogs in the leaves.
The Burmese python is impossible to miss, a snake that looks like a tree trunk stretching out the length of a car.
Not to mention the Komodo dragon that’s basically a goddamn dinosaur still roaming the earth.
As we move through the building, the enclosures grow larger—each professionally staged and fully equipped to rival most zoos.
I’d never admit it, but I don’t recognize half of the animals we pass. As we move towards the back of the bunker, the enclosures suddenly expand to hold large predators—a panther, a leopard. Even a fucking tiger is pacing its pen, licking its lips like it longs for a taste of our blood.
Past a break in the pens, the animals turn aquatic. Tanks of colorful fish, eels, and a box jellyfish. Just like the land dwellers, these tanks grow larger, holding barracudas and sharks.