“The important thing,” Sam said, “is that we caught you in time.”
“Zoe,” Remi said. “Your arm. You’re hurt.”
She looked down at the dried blood on her elbow and forearm. “I didn’t even notice. I slipped when I was climbing up to the trail from the boat.”
“The boat.” Remi looked at Sam. “Wasn’t the key in the boat when we found it?”
“Now that you mention it . . .” They both turned toward the trail, searching.
Dimitris was nowhere in sight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dimitris, blinded by his need to exact retribution against the man responsible for killing Zoe’s grandfather, had hoped to find some proof that Kyril was counterfeiting olive oil. His plan had been to blend in with the workers during the harvest, take a few photos, then get out of there with no one the wiser. At least that’s what he and Zoe had told themselves when they’d concocted this idea.
But now, hearing about the drugs changed everything. Knowing full well that Sam would protect Zoe, the moment Dimitris saw their attention on her hurt arm, instead of returning back up the trail, he slipped down the side of the hill. It was steeper than he’d thought, and he fell twice, scraping his hands and bruising hi
s backside. He earned a couple of odd looks as he weaved his way into a group of men once he reached the lower trail. Twenty minutes later, they neared the warehouses. Here, everything came to a stop as the workers with their mules formed a line, waiting for the scales.
One of Dimitris’s cousins owned a much smaller olive orchard, which was why he and Zoe thought they could easily blend in. But on his cousin’s farm, harvesting was a family and friends affair. Everyone showed up, picked olives all day, then celebrated at night. This, however, was something completely different. At first glance it seemed as though the Kyrils had simply taken an old-fashioned business and expanded and updated it with modern technology. He looked into the vast, overhead doors of the building where the olives were milled. Large, gleaming stainless steel storage tanks stood just inside, waiting to receive the newly pressed oil, where it would need to sit for weeks to allow the sediment to settle before it was bottled for sale.
Dimitris looked past the tanks, but didn’t see anything that might indicate any improprieties in production. He turned his attention back to the workers. One was leading a mule, its back loaded with full sacks of olives, toward the scales in front of the two warehouses. Those turning in fruit to be weighed had to produce a key card, which was scanned as they unloaded their bags onto a scale. From there, they were directed to another area, given a slip, which they turned in to a cashier for payment, then herded down a long graveled road out to the port to await a ferry that would return them to one of the larger surrounding islands.
It was all very impersonal. Big business.
But now that Dimitris had heard about the possibility of drugs being run, he had a feeling that the key card given to the harvesters was also a way for the Kyrils to know who was where and when. No one except those wearing tan coveralls with the Kyril logo seemed to have access to the milling facility, or the other buildings.
It wasn’t until he saw the armed guards in their gray uniforms that he began to regret his rash decision to leave Sam and the others to come here on his own.
But he thought of Zoe. The look in her eyes when she’d come to him after learning that her grandfather had been found at the bottom of the cave.
Even if he and Remi hadn’t been kidnapped the same day that Tassos had disappeared, he would’ve questioned the police theory that Tassos’s death must have been accidental. Tassos had spent decades exploring every corner of Fourni, and knew it better than anyone there. He would never have put himself in a position that might lead to an accidental fall.
Dimitris knew it.
He intended to bring the Kyril kingdom crashing down. Whether he found evidence of drug running or counterfeit olive oil, Dimitris didn’t care. All he needed to do was get inside that other building and find something that proved that Adrian Kyril was breaking the law.
Dimitris, certain Sam would do the right thing and take Zoe back to the boat, paused at the bottom of the hill. After glancing up toward the trail, not seeing Sam, Remi, or Zoe, he worked his way through the men and women who waited in line at the scales. His eye on the warehouse, he saw one of the overseers exiting through a side door, then stop suddenly, the door landing against his foot as he patted his pant pockets. He started to turn back, apparently found whatever he was looking for, then continued out, the door falling shut behind him.
It did not, however, completely close—and the man walked off, never once looking back.
Seeing his chance, Dimitris edged his way out of the line past the hopper, hearing the rattle of olives landing inside it.
Encouraged when it seemed no one noticed him, he walked toward the warehouse door, unable to believe his luck when he reached it. He pulled it open, then slipped in, taking a quick look out before he closed the door behind him.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark surroundings. The only light inside came from a row of windows high up on the north side of the warehouse, but it was enough to see. This building, apparently, was used for storage. Full pallets of cardboard boxes marked ONE LITER were stacked on metal shelving up to the ceiling.
To the right he saw an office built into the corner, its window overlooking the interior of the warehouse.
He decided to start his search there. The door leading into it was locked. He moved around the corner, seeing a window, hoping he might be able to get in. Unfortunately, it was also locked. Cupping his hands against the glass, he looked inside, seeing a desk and chair, file drawers and shelving.
About to turn away, his eyes caught on the desktop, where he saw what at first looked like pencils with wires sticking out. He knew nothing about explosives, but he was pretty sure that’s exactly what those things were.
That was the evidence they were looking for.
Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he opened the camera app, placed the lens side against the glass, and took a photo. He was just about to take a second shot when a motor near the front of the warehouse hummed to life. Light flooded in as the massive overhead door started rolling upward.
Startled, he backed into a telephone mounted on the outside of the office wall, knocking the handset from the receiver. He managed to catch it, returned it to its place, and ducked behind a pallet stacked with boxes as two men entered. The phone on the wall rang. They stopped, one of the men answering it. “Giorgio . . .” He held the phone out.