Buried Beneath Read online

witch was usually a sound sleeper—the sleep of the innocent—but the blustery December night had tree branches demanding entry at her window. More than that, though, the air stirred, a silent disruption in the quiet.

  She sat up in bed. She should have screamed. Pulled the gun from the nightstand. Hit the security panic button. She didn’t. And she knew why.

  The silhouette moved closer and, as it passed the window, the intermittent moon lit his scars.

  “Finn?” She spoke softly. “What's going on?”

  He sat at the foot of the bed and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest and let him find the words.

  “I’m going away for a while,” he said.

  “How long?”

  She observed his unmarred left profile as he lifted his head and stared out the window.

  “I have to get right. I don’t know if I can, but I have to try.”

  She nodded in the darkness. “I’m glad.”

  “I don’t want you to hold out hope for me. Even if I manage some kind of normalcy, I’ll never be…” He tugged on his sandy hair. “I can’t be responsible for your happiness when I can’t even find my own. You have to take that burden off my shoulders.”

  She didn’t wipe her tears. Didn’t pause to ponder his choice of word, burden. She simply nodded again. “It's okay, Finn.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  “No.” She laugh-cried. “But it will be. I do have hope for that. I’ve always believed in you. That won’t ever change.”

  Finn shook his head slowly as if she had spoken in another language. He gently slapped both thighs and stood. Twitch lifted her face to him as he moved to the head of the bed and bent down. Then, ever so gently, he placed a kiss on her forehead. “You need to give all that love to someone who knows what to do with it.”

  She turned her head away. Too late.

  He squeezed her delicate hand, stood to his full height, and turned to leave. Twitch held on and quietly said one word. It was the last word spoken in her room that night.

  It was a word that said, I have faith.

  It was a word that said, I forgive you.

  It was a word that said, Goodbye.

  “Stay.”

  It was still dark as Finn McIntyre repacked his gear in the cheap oceanside motel room. He didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He just did. Clothes, Dopp kit, weapons, gear: everything went neatly into its place in the unmarked duffle.

  His cell buzzed on the end table.

  He read the text reply, tapped out another, and shut off his phone, hoping he hadn’t just made a colossal mistake.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Bishop Security Jet

  December 12

  “I

  accessed hospital records. Evangeline Cole was treated for a stingray sting and released.” Twitch's fingers flew across the keyboard. “She's a doctoral candidate in anthropology at Stanford, on Mallorca on an archaeological dig.”

  “I thought Mallorca was all beach hopping celebrities and royals on private jets,” Herc commented.

  “Look around you. You’re not exactly slumming.” Steady tossed a balled-up napkin at Herc's head.

  “And the women are topless,” Herc plowed on. “Beaches just filled with topless women.”

  “There were topless women on our beach, fool,” Steady chided. “Between that and the stash of porn you probably have on some old MacBook under your childhood bed at Gramma Maggie's, you should be set.”

  Herc flushed beet red and turned his attention to the travel brochure he was holding.

  The Bishop Security jet certainly rivaled any luxury craft in the sky. Tox and his wife, Calliope, sat side-by-side at the oval conference table. Steady, Ren, Herc, and Chat sprawled on cream leather couches and recliners. Twitch was perched at the head of the table, surrounded by tech, piecing together the last several days of Cam's life.

  “Actually,” Ren explained, “Mallorca is rich in ancient history. A civilization known as the Talaiotic people thrived in the region from about two thousand B.C.”

  “Exactly,” Twitch agreed. “A dig in 2013 unearthed some nifty Talaiotic stuff. Archaeologists have been flocking to the area ever since. Evangeline Cole is there with a team headed by Dr. Omar Emberton of Stanford and the University of Cairo.” Twitch activated the plasma screen on the wall and started a slide show of the excavation from the university's website.

  “I’d love to speak with Doctor Emberton. What a fascinating project,” Ren mused.

  “Whoa.” Herc elbowed Steady when the next slide appeared. They both sat up in their reclined seats.

  “That's Evangeline Cole?” Herc asked.

  It was a promotional photo used to accompany journal articles and for faculty listings on Stanford's website. In it, Evan stood before a vast desert holding a small artifact, the dirt and sand on her face failing to obscure her evident pride at her discovery.

  Chat peered at the picture. “I can see why this woman threw him off his game.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Herc practically shouted. “Gemini March is on that island. Gemini-freaking-March. She was Miss March, and I don’t mean her name.”

  Tox begrudgingly agreed, “The kid has a point. The Cam we knew would go for the centerfold.”

  “I don’t know.” Chat moved his head side-to-side like a metronome. “The Cam we knew is not the Cam we know.”

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Herc remarked. “Goes undercover. I can’t even lie to my grandmother.”

  “None of us can lie to Maggie. She’d have our asses.” Steady's comment was met with general agreement.

  “Still,” Herc continued, “to pretend to be another person? I sure as shit couldn’t do it.”

  Ren leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his thighs. “It's actually a fascinating psychological study. CIA NOC officers and other deep-cover operators, the good ones anyway, actually create a full persona, an alter ego, if you will. It can take an operator months, sometimes years, to shed their legend after they resurface. Those men and women make a huge sacrifice doing what they do. They don’t give their lives, but they sacrifice who they are.”

  There was a moment of respectful silence before Tox, in true SEAL fashion, broke through the quiet with humor. “Well, maybe the undercover gods are smiling on our friend, and Miguel Ramirez is knee-deep in hot women and sandy beaches.” He gestured to the image on the screen.

  Calliope guided her husband's face from the picture of the woman to her. He kissed her with a smile.

  “What's the plan, fellas?” she asked, still staring at Tox.

  Tox leaned back in his seat and crossed his long legs at the ankle. “The March villa is located about ten clicks outside of Palma. We’ll set up surveillance and go from there.”

  A photo of the sprawling Mediterranean estate appeared, the sparkling water of the bay in the distance. “Twitch, get us a boat. Chat, you and Ren up for a little sport fishing?”

  “Always,” Chat said. They wouldn’t catch anything, but the cover would provide an unobstructed view of the entire back of the property.

  “Got the boat,” Twitch confirmed. At Tox's surprised glance, she shrugged. “They’re easy to book. Now, convincing the captain to take the day off is your problem.”

  “Not a problem.” Ren didn’t look up from the archaeological journal he had pulled up on his laptop.

  “Well, whadda ya know?” Twitch typed furiously as she spoke.

  “What's up, Twitch?” Tox asked.

  “As I was looking at the satellite imagery for the closest marina, I noticed a Zodiac that might prove useful.”

  Tox sat up. “Perfect, can you talk to the harbormaster or whoever's running the place about procurement?”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to. The owner may be willing to let us borrow it, seeing as she owes Cam a favor.”

  “She?”

  “I already contacted the harbormaster. The Zodiac bel
ongs to Evangeline Cole. I’ll see if I can track her down,” Twitch said.

  “Hot damn,” Steady exclaimed. “Most spooks have a network of embassy informants and back alley lowlifes; Cam has a little black book. He doesn’t love ‘em and leave ‘em; he Pied Pipers that shit.”

  Twitch ignored the remark. “I’m also getting you a van. And Herc? You up for a scenic bike ride?”

  “Hell, yes.” Herc rubbed his palms together.

  “I figured a motorcycle would give you the most flexibility if you, you know, need to climb a tree or find a perch somewhere,” Twitch added.

  Tox agreed, “Good thought. So, I estimate seventy-two hours of surveillance. Let's see if we can spot our boy.”

  “Or…” Twitch typed out something and finished with a flourish. “We could take advantage of Calliope's skillset.” She turned the laptop so Tox and Calliope could see the email she had just written.

  Tox slapped the flat of his hand on the conference table. “Twitch, you’re a genius.” He turned to his wife. “What do you think, Cal?”

  Calliope gave the group a Cheshire Cat smile.“I think I’d like to show you boys how it's done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Valldemossa, Mallorca

  December 12

  E

  van knocked softly on Omar Emberton's door. He opened it dressed in his usual work attire: khaki pants, a button-up shirt, and worn boots. He had his canvas jacket draped over his arm.

  “Evan,” he greeted her. “I was just headed to the site. What brings you by?”

  She beamed at him. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, of course.” Emberton seemed to sense her excitement because he didn’t hesitate to pull the door wide and extend a hand to the small couch and pair of chairs in the cozy living area.

  “We found something, Doctor E.” Evan perched at the edge of the sofa and pulled her messenger bag onto her lap.

  Emberton took a seat, looking strangely out of place in the chintz slipper chair. “We?” Emberton squinted behind his glasses.

  Evan quickly covered her misspeak. “I mean ‘we’ the team.”

  Emberton nodded, pleased. “Continue.”

  “I mapped the markers and realized they seemed to surround a small cave that had been sealed off. When I entered, I found a deteriorated mound.” She pulled the GoPro from her bag. “I recorded what I discovered.”

  Her mentor leaned forward on his elbows and intertwined his fingers. “And what was that?”

  She withdrew the items from the cave. She set the gold box and several coins on the coffee table. Then she sat back and waited.

  Omar Emberton pulled a monogrammed linen handkerchief from the back pocket of his khaki pants and methodically cleaned his glasses. He replaced them on his nose and shifted his chair slightly to face the table fully. Donning a pair of thin cotton gloves—and managing to scold Evan for not doing so with merely a look—he made a cursory examination of the coins. He quickly moved on to the box, examining the exterior, running his fingers along the engravings with care.

  Evan sat still as a statue. She knew this discovery was significant, but she had never seen her mentor rendered speechless. Then, from beneath his glasses, a tear slid down his cheek.

  After a time, he commented absently, “My grandfather is from this village.” He indicated an inscription on the side of the box.

  He opened the box and poked through the coins looking more like an old woman searching for a dime in a coin purse full of pennies than an archaeologist examining a find. He withdrew the medallion and thumbed the void. “This is wonderful, Evan. Was there anything else in the box?”

  Evan was taken aback by Dr. Emberton's misdirected enthusiasm. She would have thought he would have been excited by what was in the box rather than what was not, or the box itself for that matter.

  “No. Just the coins and the necklace,” she replied.

  He set the box on the small table and ran a hand over it reverently. He spoke to Evan with his eyes on the box. “This is one of the great joys of this work, Evangeline. Finding something from the past that takes your work in an entirely different direction.” He looked at her then. “This box is Moorish, late Fifteenth Century, no doubt hidden when the Moors fled the Crusaders.”

  “Yes, that was my estimation as well,” Evan agreed.

  “You remember Joseph Nabeel from our dinner. He's not an archaeologist by trade, but he knows more about artifacts from this period than any colleague I’ve ever encountered. He would be very interested in examining this box and accompanying you to this secondary site. Your other work can wait.” Emberton gestured vaguely in the direction of their primary dig site with a flip of his hand as if it hardly mattered.

  “Of course. I’ll map it out. I stumbled on it quite by accident.”

  Emberton laughed. “Isn’t that always the way?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “As a graduate student, I got lost driving to an excavation in Niger. I pulled to the side of the road and explained to a local woman, in the most rudimentary sign language and broken French, who I was and what I was looking for. She took me by the hand and pulled me to a field where her husband had been digging a well. He had unearthed a small statue, and they didn’t know what to do with it.”

  “The Aterian Culture discovery?” Evan's jaw dropped.

  Emberton winked. “Let's keep that our little secret.” He picked up the gold box with both hands and held it out. “This goes in the vault.” He gestured to the standing safe in the corner. “Let's photograph and catalog it and see that it's securely stored.”

  Emberton spoke his instructions without ever taking his eyes off of the box. Evan thought he might have actually stroked it. When he did look up, he was all business.

  “Your next task is cartography. Create a detailed map of the path you took, document markers and focal points, anything and everything of note.”

  She nodded. Emberton's instructions, if overly enthusiastic, were standard for a new find.

  “Would you like to take someone to assist you?” he asked.

  Evan instantly thought of Miguel. How she would have loved to recruit the March Mining security guard to be by her side, but that wasn’t what Omar meant, and the suggestion would be wholly inappropriate. Moreover, while Emberton did not seem overly concerned about their timeline, she knew that if the team hadn’t made any significant discoveries—any significant Talaiotic discoveries—by the end of the year, their grant money would evaporate. “No, you need your people working. The mapping should be easy. It won’t take me long.”

  “Excellent. Keep me apprised of your progress. I’ll reach out to Joseph Nabeel and set up a meeting.” As a dismissal, he dug his phone from a deep pocket and began scrolling his contacts.

  She turned to go, but Emberton called her back. “Evangeline.”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful in those caves,” he warned.

  She assured him she would and set to work on her long list of tasks.

  After the golden box had been documented and stored in the safe in Dr. Emberton's rooms, Evan returned to her quarters, gathered her gear, and prepared to set out. Map-making was a far cry from a compass, binoculars, and a spring divider. Her cartography equipment was in the form of a portable scanner and software. As she was zipping her bag, a gentle fist tapped on her door.

  “Evangeline?”

  She looked up and found a fairy of a girl standing in her doorway. Her copper hair hung over her shoulder in a long braid. Evan could tell they were about the same age, but with her jeans, backpack, and hoodie, the woman could have passed for a middle-schooler.

  “Can I help you?” Evan asked.

  “God, I hope so.” The woman bounced into the room and sat at the desk chair, balancing the backpack on her lap. She blew out an exasperated breath. Evan liked her immediately.

  Rocking forward on the chair and pushing up on the balls of her lime-green Converse, the woman asked, “Do you happen to remember a guy saving
you from a stingray?”

  After thirty minutes and phrases including the behest of the United States government and decorated US Navy SEAL, Evan gave Twitch permission to use her Zodiac; apparently, this woman's colleague, a man named Cam, needed it for a critical mission. After they exchanged contact information, Twitch thanked her and said she’d be in touch.

  With her equipment packed and ready, Evan headed out on her mapping expedition.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Miramar, Mallorca

  December 13

  I

  n an ice-blue suit that matched her eyes, nude peep-toe stilettos, and her dark hair in a neat chignon, Calliope Buchanan was every bit the polished entertainment reporter she claimed to be. She sat in the back of the Mercedes and tapped a short pale-pink nail on her iPad screen. Steady pulled up to the guardhouse of the March villa and announced her. Sensing her disquiet, he spoke over his shoulder as he pulled through the gates. “You doin’ okay back there?”

  “I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Calliope confessed.

  “It always means more when it's one of our own. Just stay mission-focused,” Steady instructed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, do the interview. You probably did a dozen when you actually worked at The Harlem Sentry. This is just one more. You’re a reporter getting a fashion story from a supermodel. Ask the questions you prepared. If you happen to notice our boy or anything else interesting, you know what to do.” Steady kept his head forward, navigating the winding drive with ease.

  If Cam was within earshot, Calliope would mention the beachfront restaurant, La Sirena.

  Calliope steeled herself with a deep breath. “I got this.”

  Steady kept his head straight as he pulled up to the imposing estate. “Yeah, you do.”

  A camera-ready Gemini March crossed one mile-long leg over the other and blew on her tea in a move that was both practiced and seductive. Calliope sat dutifully at Gemini's elbow at the small, glass table in the solarium and hung on the model's every word.