Buried Beneath

by Debbie Baldwin

  Cam turned down another dark hall and found himself back in the old storage room. Well, not a room but a cave. The mine shafts occasionally intersected with the dozens of cave systems that crisscrossed the island. Cam stifled a shudder. He wasn’t claustrophobic or afraid of the dark, but this dank space with rows of limestone formations that dripped like rabid jaws was downright creepy. He mapped the room's layout, the one egress, and items of note. Through experience, he knew that anything could have significance, from the crate marked “demolition” sitting by the entrance to the small stack of rocks by the back wall.

  Out-of-commission coal carts lined one wall like errant grocery carts in a parking lot. The men probably used them to transport heavy equipment then simply sent them careening across the room when they were finished. Tools and crates were stacked against the other wall. A battery-powered lantern flickered and hummed. He cocked his head; there was another sound. It was a nearly inaudible tap tap tap emanating from the far corner. Grabbing the lantern by its mangled wire handle, he moved closer to investigate. There. Setting the light closer, he could just make out a deviation in the surface of the wall, a sealed opening. Tap tap tap. There was that sound, clearly man-made. Was someone trapped? Were those faint taps the last effort of an oxygen-deprived man?

  Cam walked the two steps to the tools lining the adjacent wall without further forethought and grabbed a sledgehammer.

  Evan was examining what appeared to be a symbol scratched into the side of the opening when wham. She was thrown backward as a blow from the other side of the wall crashed through the rock, a lethal sledgehammer stopping just shy of her chin. She scrambled back on her backside and the heels of her hands, her thoughts too scattered to form a plan. Through the settling dust, a face emerged, distinctive golden eyes scanning the confined space. Familiar golden eyes. This was the bully who had chased her from the beach—the gorgeous bully who had chased her from the beach. She sorted through the mosaic of emotions forming in her mind: outrage, apprehension, unease. She settled on anger.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Evan looked at the man who had so frightened her earlier. He looked… dangerous.

  “I could ask you the same thing, chica. This is private property.” The man spoke with a heavy accent, his callous persona apparent. His astonishing eyes traveled a path down her body and settled on the spot where her pant leg had slid up above her boot, revealing her bandaged injury. She pushed the fabric down to cover it.

  “I’m an archaeologist. You’re disturbing a dig site.” She protested.

  “You’re a trespasser. You’re in the March Copper Mine,” he growled.

  “This is part of the mine?” Evan questioned.

  “March Copper Mine,” he repeated.

  “I see. Well, um, I better not mess with it, then.” She dusted off her pants and turned to leave.

  “You mean you will come back when no one is around,” he challenged.

  Evan spun to face him. “These caves are public land. Where does the mine start?”

  The man gestured over his shoulder, then did another tour of her body as she stood. “What are you doing down here, ratoncita?”

  She blanched at the insult, little mouse. “As I said before, I’m an archaeologist, here with a team. I’m due to meet them very soon.”

  “This team? They are in the next cave? Or waiting for you on the beach? Or did the little mouse smell a treat and go off on her own? Because that would be a big mistake.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

  “Then you have made two mistakes,” he said.

  Evan took a moment to assess his threat, his words so at odds with his face. He looked boyish and handsome, poking his head through the hole he had made. A leering smile revealed straight, white teeth, a curl of dark hair artfully flopped on his forehead.

  And those eyes. They were the color of wheat.

  She silently cautioned herself to look away before she got lost in their mesmerizing depths. She chided herself for getting drawn in by his looks. Satan was once God's most beautiful angel.

  When it was clear she wasn’t going to respond, the man goaded her further. “What did you find, chica? Buried gold? A mummy's tomb? Was there a treasure map etched on the wall?”

  “I won’t really know since you took a wrecking ball to it.” She gestured to the debris below his head.

  “Hold that thought.” He backed out of the aperture, and a moment later, the sledgehammer was back, obliterating the entire sealed-off entrance.

  He shouldered through the rocks and debris and stood to his full height, a head above Evan's five-six. When he met her gaze, Evan had the strangest sensation. Maybe it was his oddly guarded expression; perhaps it was his marigold eyes. Whatever it was, she sensed a strange duality in this man. He loomed above her, yet the action seemed more protective than threatening. Something about him confused her.

  As if sensing her assessment, he stepped back. And just like that, the warmth she had felt was gone, not from the distance but from a cold aura that suddenly seemed to blanket him. She reflexively glanced over her shoulder.

  “We are alone, puta.”

  Whore. The word hit her like a slap.

  “Don’t call me that.” Her gaze was steady, her tone implacable.

  He didn’t acknowledge her, but his sudden interest in the cave wall told her that her message had been received.

  “The cave on the other side of that wall where you came from. I’d like to look at it,” Evan explained.

  “What's it worth to you, chica?” he asked.

  “I don’t have any money.” Evan fisted her trembling hands and stood her ground

  “I don’t need money,” he said.

  “What then?” Her eyes widened as he adjusted his crotch. “I won’t do that either.”

  “You sure? I’ll show you a good time. I promise.” He leered at her.

  “I’m sure. Very sure. Just… I’m going to go. Let's just forget this ever happened.” She backed away.

  “I don’t know, little mouse. You’re very memorable.”

  “Yeah, well, try.”

  “This little mouse hunt is a secret, yes?” He kicked the small marker at his feet.

  “Don’t do that!” she scolded.

  He kicked it again. “Why not?”

  The usual caution that would have tempered her words was absent as she pulled him away from the rocks by his forearm. “I’m not sure what I’ve found. It certainly wasn’t what I was looking for.”

  “This little stack of rocks points the way to your fortune?” he asked.

  She knelt by the small formation. “No. It doesn’t, but I estimate these little stacks were created over five hundred years ago. And I doubt they were just put here for decoration.”

  He gave a low whistle. “How do you figure? Did you do some fancy doctor test?”

  “I did some fancy sixth-grade math. Stalagmites grow at a rate of about one-half millimeter per year. That little stack had a one-foot formation on top of it.” She extended her hand in a simple-as-that gesture.

  “Did I knock it off with the sledgehammer?” he asked.

  Evan suddenly found the far corners of the cave fascinating. “No, uh, I did it. I fell and knocked it off when I was here the last time.”

  His smile lit the cave. “So, I’m not the only bull in the glass shop around here.”

  Her lips lifted reluctantly. “Apparently not.”

  “What are these rock blobs anyway?” He toed the nearest one.

  “I don’t know. It's a marker of some kind,” she said.

  “Well, I have some good news for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Evan replied, curious.

  He just stared, his gaze piercing as though he could see all her secrets. She looked away, shuttering the damn metaphorical windows to her soul. When she looked up again, Evan was met with an unexpected sight. The mystery man was smiling.

  “There's another,” he declared. “In the storag
e area.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the cave from which he had come.

  “Another marker?” she clarified.

  “Sí.”

  Evan weighed her options. It wasn’t as though looking in the next room would make them any more alone. “Can you show me?”

  He nodded once.

  “I’m Evan, by the way. Evan Cole.” She had read somewhere that telling your captor your name was important; it humanized you. Not that this guy was a serial killer or anything, but better safe than sorry and all that.

  When he didn’t reply, she prompted, “And you are?”

  “Nadie.”

  “Nadie?” she repeated.

  “It means nobody. I’m nobody.” He turned to the small opening,

  “Well, that's not true. If anything, you’re two people,” she grumbled.

  He spun around and faced her then, his eyes two yellow flames.

  Cam quickly schooled his expression, but his rage still burned. Rage directed at himself. His undercover abilities were exceptional; his facility for crawling into the skin of another persona was nothing less than extraordinary. This woman, with her throwaway comment, had shaken his confidence.

  Why had he even volunteered to show her the stack of stones in the first place? He pushed everything he was feeling out of his mind and slammed the door.

  He gestured to the opening.

  Seeing her wary expression, Cam took a step toward her, his Miguel Ramirez persona fully engaged. “Chica, if I wanted to force you, I could do it right here just as easily.”

  She paled at the remark and retreated. Unaffected by her distress, he tapped the face of his watch. “Come on. Let's go. El perro que no camina, no encuentra el hueso. The dog who doesn’t walk doesn’t find the bone.”

  Evan seemed to gather herself. She moved toward the opening. “That's very folksy.”

  “My abuela.” He paused for a moment, remembering his grandmother swatting him off the couch when she would visit. “It's an old Chilean proverb.”

  She met his gaze with determination in her eyes. Then she dropped to her knees next to the hole he had bulldozed.

  “You first,” she commanded.

  Cam stepped in front of her kneeling form, then he turned and ducked his head through the opening, the image of her sinking down before him stilting his movements.

  Cam scolded himself for injecting part of Cam's reality—his grandmother's adage—into Miguel's legend, but he shook it off. He scanned the storage cave and found the little stack of rocks he had noted and dismissed earlier just as a cinnamon-colored ponytail popped through the ingress. When he rescued her from the stingray, he hadn’t been able to discern her hair or eye color. The fogged mask hid her face, and when she finally ripped off the cap, her hair was wet and matted. On the beach, he was more concerned with impressing Atlas March than inspecting this woman. Today he noted her hair was a warm russet, her eyes, a soft, light brown that nearly matched her hair. It suited her. Despite her clumsiness and their inauspicious encounters to date, something about this woman was centered. She was comfortable in her own skin, something Cam hadn’t felt in years.

  She stood dusting off her cargo pants and T-shirt, and Cam was momentarily caught up in the way her hands moved across her body. It was a practical, practiced motion, yet Cam found the action of her palms traveling over the hills of her breasts and around the cinch of her waist oddly erotic. The sexiest thing about this woman was her complete lack of awareness of her innate sensuality. He fisted his palms. Miguel would invade her personal space, hit on her, give an unwelcome squeeze to her ass. He took half a step toward her, and, for the first time in the three years he had assumed the identity of Miguel Ramirez, he couldn’t do it. Cam couldn’t do it.

  He was jarred from further introspection by the clap of her hands.

  “Well?” She tapped the face of her watch, mimicking his action from a moment ago. Cam's gaze moved to Evan's hands. They were small, the nails unpolished. She wore no jewelry. Like the rest of her body, her hands were beautiful unadorned.

  “Well?” he repeated.

  “The marker?” She blew a lock of hair upwards off of her face, exasperated.

  “Oh, right. Over here.” He moved to the right of the opening he had created with the sledgehammer. There, in the corner, was another pile of rocks. Like the others, they were fused by the eroding limestone.

  “I’m surprised you even noticed this,” she commented.

  “I notice everything.” He scanned her body, observed her blush. She rubbed down the goosebumps on her arms. Cam wanted to raise them again. He wanted to lick the nook of her neck, leave a mark of possession.

  “Do the mines and caves interconnect throughout?” she asked.

  “I’ve only just started exploring the mines. My job is new. From what I’ve seen, yes. I imagine the miners use the caves as natural tunnels. As the mine shafts move higher into the mountains, there are probably fewer caves,” he noted.

  She assessed him, a bit of suspicion in her cocoa eyes. “You know a lot about geology for a miner.”

  Cam met her gaze. “I know a lot about a lot. And I’m not a miner.”

  “Then what are you doing down here?” she questioned.

  “Security,” he replied.

  She blanched.

  “Don’t worry. You can look for your treasure. My job does not include chasing mice.” He smirked.

  She was apparently so relieved at his declaration, she ignored the insult. “Thank you.”

  “What's so interesting about piles of rock?”

  She waved for him to follow her to the marker in the corner. Evan knelt beside the pile. Using a small tool, she separated two stones, revealing a bit of metal embedded in the center.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Some kind of links from a chain. All the formations have two of these pieces set between the second and third rock in the stack.” She removed the pieces and held them in her open palm.

  Cam sat on his haunches beside her and ran his index finger over the two connected, rectangular links. “Looks like gold.”

  Cam's finger strayed to her skin. Evan closed her fist, but Cam didn’t miss her shiver at his touch.

  She cleared her throat and stood. “I agree, but I’ll need to test them. Thank you for showing me. I’ll check with the mine executives if my team thinks this warrants further investigation.”

  She was adorable. Did she really think he was buying that load of crap? She wasn’t going to get permission from the March Mining higher-ups; she was trying to get rid of him. Cam forced his face to neutral and played along. “The executives are in Palma. I’m sure you can figure out how to get in touch.”

  She nodded, half-listening, her mind no doubt already racing with plans for her search. He threw her a bone. “The mine is open until midnight when the last shift leaves and reopens at 6 a.m., but the executives in Palma keep regular hours.”

  “All right.” She extended a shaky hand. “Thank you. It was nice to meet you.”

  When he didn’t take it, she turned and scurried through the hole they had entered. Cam almost laughed. She really did look like a little mouse, and just like the shy creature, she would wait until no one was around to sniff out a prize.

  He knew he shouldn’t get involved, but he had four days until Gemini March returned, and he did need to map these mines. He pictured Evan's angelic face with those wide eyes the color of chestnuts, full pink lips, and her blush of innocence. Then he envisioned his alter ego, Miguel Ramirez spending hours and hours alone with her, making lewd comments and treating her like every other woman he encountered.

  Cam rearranged some crates to hide the hole and returned the sledgehammer to the row of tools against the far wall. When he was satisfied the room looked relatively undisturbed, he walked to a free-standing wooden closet the men had brought in to use as a pantry, took a deep breath, and plowed his fist through the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

&nbs
p; Washington, DC

  December 5

  H

  arlan Musgrave stared out the front window of his Capitol Hill brownstone. A stretch limousine idled at the curb. He turned and grabbed his overcoat, muttering, “Fucking Federov. Why can’t he just show up in an Escalade like a normal mobster?”

  Musgrave knew better than to keep the man waiting. Aleksi Federov was soft-spoken with a kind smile, but the stories of his brutality were well-known in the criminal underworld. Federov never spoke of the Bratva, but Musgrave had met him once at his home gym and seen the star tattoos that marked his shoulders, designating him not only as a Vor but as the head of a family.

  Lifting his collar against the biting cold, Musgrave hurried down the steps and into the limo. It pulled away from the curb as he shut the door.

  Federov was in his late fifties, with thick, dark hair, a lantern jaw, and the physique of a much younger man. Under a cashmere overcoat with a fur collar, he wore a custom three-piece, pin-striped suit. A diamond clip held his purple tie in place. The man did like a bit of flash.

  “Our nation's capital during the holidays, is there a more beautiful city?”

  Federov always started with small talk. It was cultural. He could be planning to put a bullet in a man's brain, but he would always ask about family or the weather first.

  “Your wife is well?” Federov inquired.

  “She's in Florida. Our daughter just had a baby.” Musgrave replied.

  “Congratulations.” Federov said, then repeated it in Russian, “Pozdravleniya.”

  They drove down Constitution Avenue while Federov poured vodka into two large shot glasses and passed one to Musgrave. The Russian toasted the air and downed the shot. Musgrave followed suit.

  “You need a man. I have a man,” Federov said.

  “It's a very delicate matter,” Musgrave insisted.