Sharon Hartley - Accidental Bodyguard

And she couldn’t get sick. She didn’t dare go to a doctor, hospital or even a clinic and use her insurance.

Carlos’s Warriors had expert hackers among the faithful.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER, Jack still wondered about the enigmatic Louise Clark who’d disappeared behind the walls of Villa Alma and hadn’t emerged once. He knew that for a fact because he’d reviewed the surveillance camera on the front gate. Not even a solitary walk on the beach.

What was she doing in there? Writing a book?

He didn’t have access to the feed from any security cameras inside the compound. If they were even turned on.

He’d expected Santaluce to arrive on the island by now. So far that hadn’t occurred, although Santaluce’s assistant phoned to confirm Ms. Clark had moved in. When Jack had inquired about the arrival of the villa’s owner, he’d been informed that information was on a need-to-know basis, as if Santaluce was part of some covert op.

No question something funky was going on, and as the security director he needed to know what.

So where had Ms. Clark lived before arriving on Collins Island?

Jack booted up the computer. Every visitor had to provide proof of identity to board the ferry, and the guard always scanned that ID into a database. Curious about what he’d find, he clicked the file for the date of her arrival. When her driver’s license appeared on the screen, he zoomed in.

The address was in the southwest part of Miami-Dade County, a settled, middle-class area, full of homes that held their value even through the recession. So why the junker car?

He placed the address into a search engine, and discovered it didn’t exist. He confirmed the digits to be sure he hadn’t made a mistake. He ran the address through Miami-Dade County’s database and got the same results.

The address on her driver’s license was fake.

Was the license itself?

Jack studied the image. If it was a phony, it was a damn good one. Made by people who knew what they were doing. He needed the license itself to confirm its authenticity.

Well, well, well. Jack leaned back in his chair, considering. His instincts had been right on, as usual. Ms. Clark wasn’t what she seemed. Did her appearance on Collins Island have something to do with Mr. Santaluce’s “questionable” business?

Was she cooking meth behind the walls of Villa Alma? Or doing something else equally dangerous?

He entered her name into a search engine and hundreds of results materialized. But Clark was as common as Smith. He narrowed the options to Florida, waded through them, but didn’t find the Louise Clark living in Santaluce’s cabana. So that likely wasn’t her real name, which explained the woman’s confusion when he’d first addressed her.

He called Lola in the Alliance office.

“Yeah, Jack?” she answered in her throaty voice.

“I’m going to email you a driver’s license. Run the image through our facial-recognition program and see if you get a hit.”

“Something going on?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” He hit the send button.

“I know you’re bored, Jack, but don’t go looking under rocks for trouble.”

“Noted.”

After 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?