Chapter 7

Palm Beach, Preveli Monastery.

Crete.

Atlas glanced over at the glade of palm trees. It felt like someone watched from the shadows, and he sat up, latching his hands over his knees. Elana had been correct. They were the only people on the beach at such an early hour. Aside from a breeze blowing off the sea, the day was beautiful. A cloudless sky and turquoise ocean surrounded them. A tourist boat appeared on the horizon, and Atlas welcomed the sight. His neck prickled. Elana didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She lay on a wide beach towel beside him, her wrap covering her face as she snoozed in the morning sun. Instead of using her sports car, Elana had turned up at his hotel in a battered Land Rover. Another “family” vehicle. The drive had been a bumpy one over sandy coastal roads, but they’d arrived early enough to enjoy a few hours of peace.

Atlas ran his gaze over her supple curves. Long, tanned legs… smooth skin covered by a teeny pink bikini. He wanted to lick a path along her firm stomach… trace his fingers over her hips. Untie those bikini strings and straddle her warm body with his. Instead, he stood and stretched, taking his time to study their surroundings.

“You’re restless,” Elana mumbled from beneath her wrap.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?”

She pulled up a corner of the fabric and glared at him. “What? The beach boy doesn’t like the beach?”

“It’s totally rad, but I want to stretch my legs.”

“Grand theft abdominals…” Her eyes ran over his chest and stomach. “I’ll just lie here and admire your carved solar plexus.”

Snorting out a laugh, Atlas bent to pick up his t-shirt.

Sighing, Elana rose. “I thought you were more chilled than this. Fine. Let’s leave our towels and explore the monastery.”

She tugged on a flowing dress in a light fabric, dug around in her satchel and pulled out a cardigan, and Atlas raised his brows. The day was warm.

“My arms and shoulders should be covered. It’s a rule for many of the churches in Europe.”

Atlas bent to pick up his backpack, more comfortable knowing his weapon lay within easy reach. They headed along the gorge and turned onto a meandering pathway.

“The monastery was founded in the Middle Ages. It’s separated into an upper and lower quarters. The upper monastery is still functional and run by Greek monks.”

Atlas continued to listen as Elana spoke of its history, demonstrating a familiarity with the place that surprised him. Perhaps she’d visited the site as a child? He couldn’t imagine her Muslim father taking her on a tour of Christian establishments. Perhaps she’d visited Crete more often than Atlas first thought. What tied her to the island?

They wandered through the lower buildings, which sat in crumbling disrepair—destroyed in the 1940s by German forces. Mountainous hills and jagged cliffs surrounded them. Atlas admired the dramatic landscape. After migrating to the upper monastic buildings, they walked through the narrow, cobbled streets, winding between whitewashed buildings with terra-cotta rooves. Groups of British tourists had arrived and scuttled past with frenzied enthusiasm as their guide rattled off facts about the Ottoman Empire. Atlas turned to see a monk standing in an archway who watched Elana with a hawkish gaze. She wore the appropriate clothing… what was his problem?

Elana directed Atlas to a WWII memorial, and adjusted the strap on her cross-body satchel. “Do you mind waiting while I use the ladies’ room?”

“Sure.” Atlas smiled her way before glancing back to the monk. He’d disappeared. Elana entered the same doorway as the holy man, and the door shut behind her.

***

It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the dark as the lock clicked into place.

“Who’s the American?”

Elana turned to face the man standing in the shadows. “A friend on vacation. Why are you suddenly interested in my social life? Have you changed your mind about supporting the cause?”

The monk stepped forward. “No. But your organization is gaining a following. I had an interesting visitor last week. I redirected her to Sister Nikola at St. Lydia’s Abbey.”

“That’s all we ask of you. What did she want?” Elana cocked her head.

“To speak to the Kite… to contact PREY. She has valuable information.” Robes rustled, and a scent of sandalwood filled the air.

“The Kite is a silent partner.”

“You don’t want to turn her away. She’s the one you’ve been searching for.”

Elana considered his words before her gaze darted to the door. If she took too long, Atlas might get restless. A worried covert operator was never a good thing.

“What’s her name?”

“Sue.”

“Just Sue?” Elana asked. “No last name?”

“No—she was too antsy. She said to give the Kite this…”

A weathered hand reached out, and Elana took the offered slip of paper. She tucked it into the front pocket of her satchel bag.

The door rattled, and she inwardly swore. “I’ll circle to the front. Thanks for the intel.”

“Miss Sevil, be careful. That information could start a war.” The monk turned down a passage, and she followed.

“The war has already begun.” Her answer echoed through the chambered space.

***

The sturdy wooden door was locked. Atlas’s pulse ratcheted as he studied the sign nailed to the door. ”Restricted area.”

What the living hell? He tried the latch again, and it refused to budge. Stepping back, Atlas studied the external layout. He walked the perimeter, trying every door he came across.

“Sir.”

Atlas turned. One of the tour guides smiled patiently. “Those doors lead to the monks living quarters. No tourists allowed.”

“My friend walked through that door, and now it’s locked.” Atlas pointed up the path before skirting the wall at a brisk pace.

“Is your friend one of the monks?” The guide hurried to catch up.

Atlas bit down his impatience. “No. A tourist.”

“Perhaps next time, she should read the signs. I’m sure someone will lead her back to your tour group.”

“We’re not with a group, and I’m gonna get real mad if I can’t find her.”

Something felt off with the situation, and Atlas had learned never to ignore his instincts. He wanted to tear apart the walls—stone by stone. Clamping down on his unreasonable panic, Atlas rounded the corner.

Calm down. It’s a monastery on a safe island. You’re freaking out for no reason.

Manicured rose gardens encased a path that led to sturdy double doors. Atlas walked to the doors and pulled at the handle before rapping on the wood. Sweat dampened his shirt, and he shoved his hands on his hips while turning to survey his surroundings. The tour group had wandered off, and the tour guide seemed torn between herding his visiting lambs or trailing after Atlas. Swearing under his breath, Atlas raised his fist to knock again, when Elana called from his right. She’d entered the square from a smaller courtyard and waved a hand in his direction.

Atlas paused before meeting her halfway. Her energy seemed off—tinged with nervous exertion.

“Are you okay? Where did you disappear to?” He noticed the same monk from earlier standing inside the adjacent courtyard.

With a forced smile, she hurried to explain. “I told you—the ladies’ room.”

“In the monks living quarters?”

“I got a little lost. This fine gentleman showed me the way to the nearest bathrooms.”

Atlas studied her expression, realizing she was a lousy liar. He couldn’t recall her ever lying to him before. It suddenly dawned on him that she knew this monk. He didn’t know how, but Atlas zoned in on every small detail. The way she babbled and turned to wave a hand in the monk’s general direction… the way her hand returned to the front pocket of her shoulder messenger bag. Her eyes seemed to dart between the satchel and the monk.

The signs were subtle, and most civilians wouldn’t detect her discomfort. Atlas was trained to watch hand and eye movements—a skill honed to predict a target’s intention.

He offered a warm smile, pretending that he hadn’t just sniffed out their subterfuge. “Dang it. For a second, I thought you’d entered the convent and taken the habit…”

Elana smiled. “I don’t look good in black. Sorry to disappoint.”

Atlas grabbed her hand and led her out the square. “But you do look good lying on a beach in that teeny pink bikini. Should we head back to the beach for a swim?”

“Let’s fetch our towels, and grab lunch at a nearby resort before heading back down the coast.”

They did just that, and Atlas enjoyed his Greek salad and moussaka. He offered to drive them back to Agios Nikolaos. An hour into the journey and Elana finally drifted off to sleep. He waited another ten minutes before making his move. She held her bag in her lap, clutching it to her chest protectively—even in sleep. Her head was turned away to the window and lolled with every bump. Atlas knew she was a deep sleeper. He’d spent enough time with her in Morocco. Once they hit a flat stretch of road, Atlas eased over and slowly turned the small latch. Her arm lay above the pocket, and he was careful not to brush against her as he worked the flap open.

Suddenly, she turned in her seat to resettle herself against the door. Atlas returned his hand to the wheel. She hadn’t opened her eyes, and he watched her body relax back into its new sleeping position.

Leaning away from the wheel, Atlas divided his attention between the satchel and the road. With two fingers, he reached inside the flap and felt around. The back of his fingers brushed against a piece of paper, and Atlas withdrew the prize. His gaze darted back to Elana. She hadn’t moved. A lock of hair had worked its way loose from her ponytail and now fell over her face. With every breath, it stirred across her cheek. Resisting the urge to tuck it behind her ear, Atlas opened the folded piece of paper and read the few words.

Darius Mikos.

I prove myself and await instruction.

Committing the words to memory, Atlas eased back over and slid the note back in the pocket. He paused, feeling a stiff business card. Withdrawing the black card had him frowning. No details, except the letters “PREY.” It took an uncomfortable amount of time to slip the card back and re-latch the damn flap, while concentrating on the road, and once done, he wiped his palm on his shorts. Elana hadn’t stirred, aside from the cute snores now escaping from parted lips. Atlas smiled. He remembered that she snored. She’d never admit that, but he’d heard those noisy puffs on their North African adventures.

His smile slid as he went over the intel scrawled on that slip of paper. Who was Darius Mikos? Was he a threat to Elana? Why was the man interested in reaching out to a supposed college student, who spent her days living it up on her daddy’s various properties around the world?