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"Got you now, you thieving bastard. I fucking knew it." The muscle-bound man pounded the keyboard triumphantly, freezing the offending image on the large monitor in front of him. He rubbed his eyes wearily. Sometimes, being head of security was a real bitch. But after more than five hours of pouring over surveillance footage, he had finally found the proverbial smoking gun.
As he stood and stretched, the man known as Max the Enforcer looked around the small, windowless room. He liked the isolation the bunkhouse command center offered. His own personal fortress of solitude, complete with shag carpet. Only the glow of two computer monitors and a bank of telephones kept him company. The small army under his command, the one that normally swarmed the bunkhouse, was off on their assigned duties and this allowed him the rare opportunity to escape the charade that was his current life. The melodic strains of Handel's Rinaldo swelled through the room, stirring his soul. He could speak six languages without a hint of an accent. The ability to understand Italian Opera was his reward for the effort it took to reach that level of proficiency.
Max the Enforcer was simply another language, a tool, a method for blending in. No one had called him by his real name in over fifteen years. To everyone who knew his true name, he was dead, lost in an operation deep in a godforsaken Columbian jungle. Now, for the time being, he was Max the Enforcer. From experience, he knew that if one looked the part and spoke the part, no one questioned who you really were. The CIA trained him to run black ops. Because of this, he preferred to be faceless, efficient and deadly. But his current position required people to know and fear him. The pay and power afforded him was worth the burden of playing this character.
He paused the music, pulled out his satellite phone and dialed a number he'd committed to memory long ago. Storing numbers in his phone was too big of a risk. His phone had been specially modified to erase any numbers the moment the call ended. Like the rest of the organization's phones, his connected to a Korean satellite using heavy encryption. It rang eight times before the man at the other end answered.
"Mr. Conroe? It's Max." He tapped his finger impatiently as the man responded. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't realize what time it was. I try not to bother you during church," he lied. "But since you're on the line already, I was calling to tell you that you were right. Some of those fucking miners are stealing from us." He paused. "Sorry sir, I'll watch the language." Max paced the room impatiently. "Anyhow, I caught one of them in action. I know how he's been getting away with it." Max stared intently at the image of a grizzled man holding a yellow plastic capsule, about the size of a thumbnail, in the palm of his hand.
"Yeah, after you pointed out that some of the miners had lower returns than the other guys, I put a bunch of security cameras around site 4. I caught the fuc – funny-looking punk in action. Looks like we have ourselves a colon smuggler." He flipped to the next image, where the man was holding the capsule up to his mouth. Max sat down in the ergonomic office chair and zoomed in on the image. He was constantly amazed at the quality that cheap security cameras provided these days. He could make out every feature on the ugly troll's face. Not even a mother could love this one.
"Yep, okay, Mr. Conroe, I'll personally take care of it. Don't you worry. After today, all the loads are going to be pretty fuc – uh, durn consistent." Max hung up the phone and shook his head. "What a fucking hypocrite," he muttered. "Doesn't mind telling me to kill some asshole, but I can't cuss? Talk about misplaced priorities." He flicked the music back on. Treachery and deception, as only Opera could deliver, filled the room.
He consulted the schedule lying on the cheap, steel desk in front of him. All of the gold miners were working at site 5 today. Their shift would be over in about two hours. "No point in wasting him before his shift is over. May as well get all the work out of him we can."
He saved the image to a secure, offshore storage system in Malaysia. Data that could be used as evidence was never stored locally. He logged off and headed out the door. There would be just enough time to finish the Opera while he ran five miles in the adjacent gym. Then it would be time to become The Enforcer once again.
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