Page 12 of Beachcomber Danger

The Secret Service wanted Dane and Shana to play a distraction at best and a target at worst, if Dane’s suspicions were correct.

“Let’s go visit the Gables’ and take a ride in their boat.”

Shana nodded. “Andrews will be royally pissed if we don’t show up in ten minutes as commanded.”

“An extra bonus.” Dane smiled.

Shana didn’t argue or even accuse him of being a smart-ass or lecture him about how this was the kind of attitude that got him in trouble. She was smart enough to know that this meant he suspected with a high degree of certainty—his normal paranoia aside—that the Secret Service or other federal law enforcement agency had the beach shack and their other usual hangouts bugged. That included their phones.

And now that Agents Andrews and Goodley were installing themselves at the beach shack, they’d probably find a way to compromise their secure phone too. As Shana had smartly pointed out, why else bother to stay in such close quarters?

He jumped into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. Shana jumped into her side and turned up the radio as soon as he started the car. Then she leaned over and whispered loudly enough he shouldn’t have bothered.

“Are you going to evade when they follow us?”

He nodded.

“No. It won’t do them any good once we get out on the boat.”

“Not worried about involving the Gables?”

“Risk we’ll have to take. I suspect the agents know all about our ties with the Gables if they’ve done their homework with any degree of competence.”

Dane drove slower than usual so he could spot their tail. He didn’t figure it would be Andrews or Goodley and he wanted to get a look at who else the Secret Service had on them.

He drove the whole way with the windows wide open blowing a mind-numbing breeze through the vehicle. He hoped whoever was listening enjoyed the sound of rushing air and loud music because that’s all they would hear.

They arrived at the Gables’ estate-proportioned home, pulling up along the curved drive stopping under the portico at the front door. Dane signaled for them to leave their cell phones in the car. Shana nodded and removed hers from her small bag and tossed it next to Dane’s on the seat. He hoped they didn’t melt in the heat inside the car, but he shrugged it off. Cost of doing business.

Instead of ringing the front doorbell, Dane took Shana’s hand and pulled her around the house to head out back to the expansive patio overlooking the ocean. As he suspected, they found Gable and Mrs. Gable dressed in white and drinking something frothy as if they were waiting for the cameras to arrive to shoot a scene from The Great Gatsby.

“Look who’s here. I know from experience this is not a social visit,” Gable spoke as he stood. He took his glass with him, celery stalk and all. There was nothing but excitement sparkling in the man’s eyes. Or it could have been the effects of the morning’s bloody Mary.

“Don’t pretend you’re offended by the imposition,” Dane said.

Laura Gable swept her arm toward the chairs, inviting him and Shana to sit. They remained standing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gable said. “I’m offended that you think I was pretending to be offended.”

“Enough of the silliness,” Shana said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

If Dane didn’t know better, he’d think Shana had Big Ben clanging away on her shoulder, urging them on.

“I need your boat. Shana and I need to go for a ride.”

Gable stood there sipping his drink, apparently waiting for more, but Dane wasn’t inclined to give him an explanation.

“Now.” He didn’t mind bossing the billionaire movie mogul around a little. The man was a deep-down fan of his and not a bad guy behind the curtain of fame and fortune. His wife was a peach. She looked unsure of the situation and looked at her husband to answer.

“Okay. Under one condition. I pilot the boat.”

He would have argued, but Shana jumped in, squeezing his arm to hold off his objections.

“That’ll work. Let’s go.”

Gable looked smug enough for Dane to punch his face if he hadn’t remembered he normally liked the man. He had to get his surliness under control. He didn’t have Big Ben on his shoulder, but he felt the weight of short time and high stakes—and something else—setting him on edge. It wasn’t the usual tightrope walk of obvious danger he was used to. This was the kind where something wasn’t quite right, something was out there, but not visible, and he knew it but went out there for a walk anyway.

Once they lit a fire under Gable he was all business. He grabbed his coat and a mail pouch full of small yacht essentials, then headed down to the water and the dock where his dinghy was tied. The yacht was moored less than 100 yards off the end of the dock.