Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley
a pause, Lola said, “I’ve got it. Louise Clark. Isn’t this the new tenant?”
“Right, but she doesn’t exist. Neither does the address.”
“So Santaluce has her under wraps. What’s she done?”
“Nothing, but my radar is lit up.”
“Ouch. Never a good sign,” Lola said, her tone now serious. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
Jack scrolled through the security feed until he got to the camera on the front of Villa Alma and froze the image. No sign of the new tenant. What was going on behind that imposing gate? He decided to pay a little visit and see what response he got from the lovely Louise.
When he arrived at Villa Alma, he exited the golf cart and rang the delivery bell, staring up into the security camera. After a few moments he heard a breathy “Yes?” on the intercom.
“Ms. Clark?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“It’s Jackson Richards, Security Director.”
“Yes, Mr. Richards?” she responded, politely impatient.
“Just a courtesy call to see if everything is all right.”
“Everything is fine, Mr. Richards. Is there some problem?”
“None of my staff has seen you since your arrival, and we wanted to make certain you were okay in there.”
After a pause she said, “Thank you for checking, Mr. Richards, but please don’t concern yourself with me. You probably won’t see me around much.”
Thinking it awkward to have a conversation with a camera, Jack said, “I wanted to let you know there’s a weekly happy hour on Friday night in the clubhouse for all residents.”
“Thank you, but I’m here for some rest.”
“Happy hours can be restful.”
“Yes. Well, if there’s nothing else, I need to go.”
Go where? Do what? Jack’s phone sounded the alarm for an emergency text. He found a message from Ike Gamble: CODE 99.
An unknown boat was attempting to land on the island’s private beach.
Jack saluted to Villa Alma’s camera and remounted his golf cart. He needed to handle this situation but wasn’t overly alarmed. A beach landing wasn’t exactly a common problem, but every so often someone—usually a local cruising around Biscayne Bay under the influence of too many beers—decided to check out Collins Island on a whim. People were curious about the good life, and since there was no bridge from the mainland, a boat was the only method to arrive. The interlopers usually zoomed away with huge rooster tails when waved off.
And if they didn’t, they’d soon regret it. The developers had positioned huge rocks a hundred feet offshore to prevent any unsanctioned vessels from approaching. The rocks were submerged but clearly marked and on all nautical charts as a hazard.
But when Jack approached the beach he saw a thirty-foot Mako had been driven hard onto the sand, leaving an ugly trench in its wake. The white hull rested on its side and huge gashes from the rocks marred the fiberglass.
What? Damn fools. Unlikely that boat would ever float again.
Ike Gamble, assigned today as a roving guard, was involved in a heated confrontation on the beach with two thirtysomething bearded men wearing backpacks. Jack alerted the Miami Beach police, then jumped from his cart and hurried to assist Ike.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Ike said forcefully. “As I’ve explained, this is a private island. You’ll have to remain with your vessel.”
“The hell with that,” the larger of the men said, and brushed past Ike. “Come on, Smitty.”
“Hold it.” Jack extended both arms, displaying the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
The man cursed and stopped moving.
“Ike, use your phone to record this,” Jack called out. “Just in case the surveillance cameras don’t have a good view.”
“Got it, boss.” Ike raised his phone.
“What’s your name, sir?” Jack asked pleasantly, lowering his arms.
“Jeff Baldwin.” Baldwin met Jack’s gaze with a hostile stare.
“Didn’t you see the hazard warnings, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Didn’t see any warnings,” he spat out in a manner that made Jack’s alarm bells loudly sound off. This man had deliberately steered his boat over those rocks and onto the island. Why? Did he hope to pull some sort of scam on the wealthy residents with an expensive lawsuit? Others had tried it, and failed. Maritime law was clear on the subject.
“That’s hard to believe, sir,” Jack said. “There are at least ten markers on the other side of the rocks. Maybe you’ve been drinking? The Miami Beach Police are on their way.”
Baldwin shot a glance to the buddy he’d called Smitty, who waited beside Ike. Smitty appeared nervous. What did these guys have planned?
“I need to find a phone,” Baldwin said. “I’ll need help to move the boat.”
“Don’t you have a cell phone?”
Baldwin raised his chin. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll let you borrow mine,” Jack said. “You’re not leaving this beach until the police arrive.”
“But you can’t arrest me, can you, hotshot?” the man sneered. Baldwin again glanced to Smitty, who gave a quick nod.
Jack tensed.
“You can’t keep me here,” Baldwin stated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.
“Sir, I am requesting that you remain where you are,” Jack said. “You’ve been informed this is private property and that you are trespassing. We will render whatever assistance is needed, but if you attempt to leave this area, I will have no choice but to restrain you.”
“You and who else?”
“I don’t need anyone else.”
“Right. You’re going to shoot me?”
“Not unless you shoot first.”
Baldwin narrowed his eyes, obviously calculating. After another harsh curse, he rushed into Jack with his shoulder.
When he made contact, Jack grabbed Baldwin’s wrist with his left hand, twisted hard and flipped the trespasser onto the sand. He pressed a knee into his kidney.
“Hey,” Smitty yelled, stepping forward.
In one smooth movement, Jack withdrew his Sig Sauer and leveled it in the center of Smitty’s body mass. “Stay there,” Jack instructed.
Smitty halted. Ike’s eyes widened.
“Is your Taser ready, Ike?” Jack barked.
Smitty shot his arms into the air and stepped away from Ike. “Don’t tase me, man. I’ll wait on the boat.”
Jack nodded. Smitty had obviously been tased before.
“How about you?” Jack asked, looking down at Baldwin who was still eating sand.
“Yeah, sure,” Baldwin muttered. He raised his head and spit. “Just let go before you break my arm.”
An hour later, the trespassers stood on the deck of the Miami Beach PD’s patrol boat on their way back to the mainland. Jack sighed as he watched the boat’s wake grow smaller. So much for his peaceful month on Collins Island. The wrecked Mako remained on the beach, an eyesore that he’d definitely hear about from the home owners’ association.
Baldwin