Navy SEAL Security. Carol Ericson
Amy squinted at the horizon, spotting another object in the fog-shrouded distance. That one had to be a boat.
She leaned the flag in the corner of the lifeguard tower and grabbed a broom. After sweeping the sand out the door, she dumped the hot water from the bucket onto the beach. They kept the hot water available in the tower to treat stingray stings, but with the kids back in school and the summer crowds gone, they didn’t really need it. She liked to follow the rules in case anyone challenged her. She didn’t need trouble. She’d had enough.
She lifted the receiver of the red phone and called the main lifeguard station up the coast. Zeke Shepherd picked up on the first ring.
“This is Amy Prescott in Tower Twenty-eight. I’m out of here.”
“Hey, Amy. Catch any excitement on your last day?”
“Not unless you count an older couple out for a walk with their metal detectors and a couple of joggers. This fog is starting to roll in pretty fast. It drove everyone away about a half hour ago.”
Zeke snorted. “I hate Tower Twenty-eight once the summer’s over. No people, no action. Do you want me to pick you up in the truck and give you a ride back to your car?”
“No, thanks. I’m jogging back.”
“You’re in such good shape you should’ve kicked that guy’s butt when you found out—”
Amy cut him off. “See you later, Zeke.”
Had every lifeguard in San Diego County heard she’d been duped by a married man a couple months ago?
She slammed the receiver back in its cradle. She might as well have Gullible Sap tattooed on her forehead. For all the precautions she usually took with relationships, Carlos had really played her.
Reaching up to unlatch the cover of the lookout window to swing it down, she glanced at the ocean. The animal on the water had moved closer to shore and now looked bigger than a seal. Amy snagged the binoculars from the hook and turned them toward the object.
A breath hitched in her throat. Two scuba divers had broken the surface and seemed to be struggling toward the beach. Had one of them lost air? Embolized?
Amy shimmied out of her sweat pants, yanked the sweatshirt over her head and dropped them both on top of her open backpack. With her heart racing, she lifted the phone off the hook and left it dangling. Of course, she’d already told Zeke she was leaving, but protocol prevailed. If someone did call the tower, the busy signal would indicate a rescue.
Grabbing her orange rescue can, she sprinted down the ramp of the lifeguard tower and churned up dry sand on her way to the ocean.
The divers, still struggling, had moved closer to the shoreline. Amy high-stepped over the waves and plunged into the chilly water, dolphin-kicking her way to the two people.
One diver had his arm around the other diver’s neck, the man flailing in his grasp. That technique would kill him, not rescue him.
Amy shouted as she neared the duo, and the stronger diver looked up. The person in his arms slumped and he released him into the water. Adrenaline pumped through Amy’s system as she shot forward and caught the disabled diver before the next wave rolled in, dragging him back out to sea.
She hooked one arm around his chest while offering the rescue can to the other diver. He shook his head and plowed through the water toward the beach with a strong stroke.
He seemed to have a lot of strength left; why hadn’t he helped his buddy? He might be disoriented or in shock. She’d call the station as soon as she got this one to shore and revived him.
Still clutching the unconscious diver, Amy rode the last wave onto the wet sand. The other diver had reached the beach ahead of her and now struggled out of his gear, dropping his tank to the ground.
Rolling the victim onto his back, Amy called out to the other man. “Are you okay?”
He ripped his mask from his face and tossed it onto the sand. “Don’t bother. He’s dead.”
His cold words felt like another splash of ocean water on her face. Then she took in his heaving chest and a jagged rip along the side of his wet suit. He probably needed medical attention for shock.
She flipped up the mask from the injured man’s face and tipped his head back, placing one hand on his chest. His companion spoke too soon. A feeble heartbeat struggled beneath the diver’s wet suit.
A warm, sticky substance oozed through her stiff fingers and she gasped. The man’s wet suit sported a huge gash down the front and blood seeped from the tear. What the heck had gone on out there?
Amy clamped both hands against the wound to staunch the loss of blood. The man’s body shuddered and jerked. His arms flew up and he grabbed her around the neck, his strong fingers creating a vise and grinding her gold chain into her neck. Choking, she clawed at his arms with her bloody hands, her nails skimming off the thick neoprene of the wet suit.
The diver behind her charged toward them and drove his knee into the man’s throat. Her attacker’s hands dropped from her neck and he slumped, a gush of air escaping from his lungs, a gurgle of blood spouting from the tear in his wet suit.
Amy hacked and tumbled backward, her hands hitting the sand behind her. She scrambled like a crab across the wet surface, leaving bloody indentations in her wake.
“Sorry about that.” The stranger pressed his fingers against the throat of the man who’d just tried to strangle her. “Thought I had him. He’s dead now.”
“W-what happened to him? Why did he attack me when I was trying to save him?” She raised her gaze to the other diver, now on his knees, peeling his wet suit from the top half of his body and toeing off his fins.
He cocked his head, squinting into the fog with a steely blue gaze. “I stabbed him.”
Then she noticed a knife plunged into the sand next to him. Screaming, she rolled onto her stomach and launched to her knees. A hand encircled her ankle, yanking her leg back, and she landed on her belly again. She spun around, kicking wildly with her other leg.
The man fell on top of her, covering her mouth with his hand, grinding salty grains of sand against her lips. She struggled to knee him in the crotch, but his body felt like a lead weight against her, immobilizing her.
His face inches from hers, he brought a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
A chill raced up her spine. Then she heard it—the low whine of a motorboat. Salvation. She bucked beneath her captor and worked her jaw to open her mouth and bite his hand.
His voice growled close to her ear, his briny scent invading her nostrils. “Stop fighting me. Those are some very dangerous men out there on that boat.”
His words sucked the already-diminishing air out of her lungs, and she slumped beneath his rock-hard body. She moved her lips against his palm in a silent question, the saltwater on his hand working its way into her mouth.
The maniac flashed a smile, rows of white teeth in a tanned face. They gleamed in the fog that now surrounded them like damp cotton. He winked. “Don’t worry. I’m one of the good guys.”
Her eyes darted to the dead diver slumped in a heap at the water’s edge.
“He’s one of the bad guys.” He shifted his muscular frame, giving her some breathing room. “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth and let you up, but you need to stay close to me and we need to get off this beach. Nice job on that rescue, by the way.”
Amy swallowed, not even minding the sand that scratched her throat. Two lunatics had invaded her beach and now one of them planned to kidnap her. The perfect ending to a lousy couple of months.
As soon as he removed his hand and his hold, she planned to scream bloody murder and run toward the sound of the boat. She could swim a long distance if she had to. Her gaze tracked over the muscled shoulders and corded arms of the man who held her, and