The small Zodiac puttered around an outcropping of rocks and headed toward the secluded shore. The woman piloting the craft gave a tentative look around, then focused on the beachhead. Suddenly, Cam recognized the woman he had pulled from the ocean the day before. Her slight limp as she pulled the boat to shore confirmed it.
Atlas was nearly outraged at the sight. “That woman has returned.” He raised a hand to the two guards flanking him, and both men withdrew their sidearms from their holsters.
In an uncharacteristically forward move, Cam raised a hand. “Sir, allow me. It is not necessary to shoo away a fly with a cannon.”
Seemingly pleased with his initiative and the metaphor, Atlas extended his arm to allow Cam to impress him. “By all means, Miguel.”
Cam knew the woman would not recognize him. She had been delirious, and her dive mask had been fogged. Moreover, when he had rescued her, he had been Cam, a charming, kind-hearted good Samaritan. Now he was Miguel, a callous, menacing enforcer. A man even Cam himself didn’t recognize when he looked in the mirror.
As he made his way down the sandy path, he knew the exact moment she spotted him. Before his very eyes, she transformed from a determined, competent professional into a naive, ditz. She spun her ponytail around the tip of her finger and turned in a slow circle as if lost.
When his feet hit the flat of the beach, she pretended to see him then, her face forming a comically exaggerated expression of relief. She waved both arms over her head like she was signaling a plane.
“Hello! Hello! Hola!!” She pronounced the “h” in hola. “Can you tell me how to get to Port de Sóller? I think I’m lost.” She spun around again for good measure. Cam fought the urge to laugh. Miguel, however, was not amused.
She stopped her twirl and faced him. Her cocoa-colored eyes widened, and she took a half-step back. Cam was used to the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling across her face—dread, apprehension, fear.
He walked over to the Zodiac and looked down, spying a professional-looking pack, a flashlight, a first-aid kit. The woman wasn’t here to sunbathe.
Cam spun to face her. “This beach is restricted. Go. Now.”
He watched as the eddy of emotions swirled and drained, leaving one: fear. It peeked out from behind her mask of self-assurance, but it was there.
“Okay, okay. Jeez. You guys aren’t big on hospitality,” she mumbled.
Cam stepped forward to match her retreat. He was a mere foot away when he explained, “Parts of the island are dangerous, chica.” He touched the placket of her blouse, and she recoiled. “Now, thank me for keeping you safe, then go.”
“Um,” she hesitated.
He took a half step closer until they were toe-to-toe.
“You heard me,” he said.
“Thank you?” she squeaked.
“You’re welcome, mouse. Now go before a cat comes and eats you.”
Without a word, she spun on her heel, hurried to the Zodiac, and shoved it into the water. She attempted poise, but her fear had her stumbling as she threw herself into the boat. As she piloted out of the bay, she turned back to Cam and yelled her thanks again—while flipping him the bird.
For the second time.
The March Mining operation was nestled deep in the Tramuntana mountains in the northern part of Mallorca. The main office was in a Mediterranean-style building on a tree-lined street in Palma. At the actual site, a renovated farmhouse served as the foreman's home base and business office. Low grass, brown for the winter, blew gently around the quaint structure. A blanket of dormant poppy fields lay in the distance. Only the stacked interlocking “M”s above the door, the March Mining logo, gave any indication this was a place of business.
The sedan coasted to a stop in a paved parking area, and Atlas, Cam, and Joseph emerged.
Men milled about, some eating lunch, some laughing and talking on a smoke break. Two Andalusian mares frolicked in the field, the sounds of machinery merely a distant grumble. It was… idyllic.
Cam had a hard time imagining anything nefarious going on in this utopia. Hell, he had a hard time imagining a mining operation here. When he thought of mines, he pictured the coal mines from his high school history classes—men with dirty faces and troubling coughs pushing coal carts and riding in deathtrap elevators deep into poorly ventilated shafts. This place was a pair of animated birds away from mining paradise.
A hundred yards behind the farmhouse office, the entrance to the mine was large and well lit. Broad stairs led into a cavernous mouth, and men filtered in and out in gray coveralls with white helmets. Off in the distance, terraced land led down to an open quarry.
Cam was taking it all in when Atlas slapped a hand on the roof of the car and announced, “Welcome to March Mining.”
Under normal circumstances, Miguel Ramirez would remain silent, perhaps acknowledge the declaration with a nod, but Cam sensed Atlas March's need for validation, so he spoke up. “Very good.”
Puffing at the affirmation, Atlas continued. “Just wait, Miguel. There's more to see. Much, much more.”
Entering the converted farmhouse, Cam was impressed with the state-of-the-art equipment. One section was set up to oversee health and safety; the mines were outfitted with security cameras, emergency tunnels, and devices to monitor oxygen and carbon dioxide levels. Another area was administrative, and another—based on the satellite imagery of shipping and trucking routes—looked like logistics.