Beachcomber Trouble
Beachcomber Investigations Series
Book 5
By Stephanie Queen
Beachcomber Trouble
Copyright © 2016 Stephanie Queen
Kindle Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Acknowledgment
With gratitude to the Name That Character contest winner, Diana Roan. Thank you for your assistance and support, and most of all—thank you for naming the treacherous CIA handler in Beachcomber Trouble, Floyd Parker.
Praise for Stephanie Queen’s Books
The Throwbacks
“Boston comes vividly alive in the first of Queen’s Scotland Yard Exchange Program series. Grace is an engaging heroine with charm, humor and sass. Resplendent in rich detail, laugh-out-loud moments, a fast-paced plot and spellbinding characters, The Throwbacks is a stellar not-to-be-missed standout!”
—Romantic Times Book Review
Playing the Game
“Reading Queen is an absolutely scrumptious experience. Readers will fall in love, get heated, laugh and have an energizing adventure. The story has sublime settings, smooth writing that melds into a well-developed plot and characters who come alive like Pop Rocks and carbonated beverages.”
—Romantic Times Book Review
“If you’re a fan of fast paced contemporaries, Playing The Game delivers one heck of a story”
—Storm Goddess Book Reviews
“A refreshing and fun romance story that swept my off my feet.”
—I Just Wanna Sit Here and Read
Between a Rock and a Mad Woman
“Absolutely delightful”
—RomanticLoveBooks.com
“I was riveted! The twists, turns, surprises & the love story that resulted were outstanding and I can’t wait to read more”
—HesperiaLovesBooks.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgment
Praise for Stephanie Queen’s Books
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A Note to Readers
Stephanie Queen Books
Chapter 1
Shana shouldn’t have opened that e-mail. It had been marked private but it had “Beachcomber Investigations” in the subject line. It wasn’t until after she’d read it that it became obvious it was meant for Dane.
It was also obvious to Shana that whoever sent it had not known she was Dane’s partner. She paced around the kitchen until she heard Dane’s Jeep lurch into the driveway. Dane had found out something was up. She went to the door as if there was no other choice, as if there was an irrevocable command sequence controlling her. She pushed the screen door open and wondered how Dane knew her old friend, wondered what kind of trouble he was in. Because it definitely meant trouble when a message came from the CIA. More precisely, it meant big trouble when a message came that was the exact standard operating procedure for emergencies, according to the CIA handbook.
Staying in shape was getting to be an ordeal—or so Dane’s right knee periodically reminded him. He looked ahead down the pristine length of State Beach, thought briefly about Jaws, and kept running. He had one and a half miles to go. Then he’d run the two miles back. It was May. Warm weather. No tourists yet clogging up the beach.
The mobile phone in the pocket of his cargo shorts vibrated against his right thigh. He didn’t stop running, but slowed enough to slip it out as it stopped buzzing and went to voice mail. He glanced at the caller ID.
He stopped short in the sand.
It wasn’t Shana. He recognized the number. A cold freeze went through him—the kind that slowed his heartbeat to calm him, the kind that demanded he slow the alarmed thoughts bursting in his head.
It was Oscar.
Or someone using Oscar’s phone. He remembered his old friend from his mercenary days. The only person outside his special ops team who’d saved his skin and who he trusted. He owed Oscar. And he’d been truly fond of the man. He clamped down on the surging adrenaline. Whoever called him on this line, Oscar or not, would know it was a call to action.
After one quick glance down the expanse of the waiting miles of the beach, he turned and sprinted back to his Jeep. There was no way to keep his mind quiet on the quick drive back from Oak Bluffs to his beach shack in Vineyard Haven, so he prepared himself for the worst and made a plan.
If the call was from Oscar, then Oscar was in trouble. Dane might need to leave the island. Immediately. If the call wasn’t from Oscar, then the trouble was worse. Because that meant someone had compromised Oscar and had contacted Dane in Oscar’s place, using his phone. Dane would need to leave the island either way. Without Shana. The twist of pain along his shoulder blade signaled Dane’s tension at the prospect. He would find out soon enough. He swerved the Jeep into the crushed shell drive, shoved the gearstick into park, and jumped out.
Before he finished sprinting to the back steps of his small house, Shana appeared in the doorway and pushed the screen door open. The look on her face spoke volumes. It said she knew there was trouble.
Chapter 2
“What is it?” Dane said. The adrenaline-induced thrumming of his pulse blipped to the next level. He took a breath and stopped on the threshold less than a foot from Shana’s warmth. Either the breath, his years of training and experience, or Shana’s warmth calmed him.
He was afraid it was her. Afraid because, as well as she could calm him with her presence, she could rile him up with her iciness—or her absence.
She didn’t answer him, but stepped aside and retreated into the kitchen where she proceeded to pace in a tight circle around the small space of the linoleum-floored room.
Dane took another breath.
“I got a call,” he said.
She stopped her pacing and whipped around to face him.
“You also got an e-mail.” She stepped up close and lifted her chin, not to look at him, but in her usual defiant way—the way she did when she figured she’d hit a snag with him. His pulse went back to blipping a hair too fast for good health.
She stood with her br
easts heaving a little too close to his chest for him to not feel the discomfort of holding off a distraction. She paused long enough for him to get that oh, no feeling welling up in his gut.
“Tell me about it.” He kept his face blank as a spike in acid assaulted his gut.
“I’ll show you.” She went to the dining table, where they kept the computer, and turned the monitor to face him. They both stood and looked at the curt e-mail. It was meant for Dane’s eyes only. There was no indication that whoever sent it was sending it to Shana or to both of them, although there was a reference to Beachcomber Investigations in the subject line. It was from Oscar’s emergency code e-mail address. Dane knew that didn’t necessarily mean that Oscar had sent it. But someone who knew he’d started Beachcomber Investigations less than a year ago had sent it. And that someone also knew their emergency system. The message was clearly written per their Trouble Protocol. It said:
“It’s hot here. I could cook on the ground, but I’m using a pan. Nic is home now.”
Dane said, “It’s a call to action. Standard Operating Procedure.” His mind ran through the possibilities, which seemed infinite. If the reference to the hot weather wasn’t enough, the word pan followed by Nic and then now was not good. In fact, it was the worst kind of trouble code of all. Immediate panic.
“SOP for the CIA, you mean. You were in the CIA?” Shana asked.
He ended the train wreck of possibilities running through his head and looked at her. He had not considered the possibility that Shana George had worked with—or maybe for—the CIA.
He said, “I’ve worked with the CIA. Sometimes against them. But never for them. Not unusual in my previous line of business.” He eyed her. He didn’t ask her for the explanation of how she knew it was CIA SOP, but he saw her come to the realization that she ought to tell him.
“I worked with them—with the CIA. Once.”
He stood straight from his bent posture leaning over the computer and kept his eyes on her. She also stood. He didn’t nod. He didn’t prompt. He, most of all, did not let her off the hook.
“It was back in Sydney. I was on the team assigned to run down a gun-smuggling operation. We ran into the CIA and ended up joining forces. I helped them and they helped us. After the operation was successful they were the ones who recommended me to Scotland Yard. I mentioned I had ambitions. I’d like to cooperate with them now if we can help.”
“Oh, I’m helping all right. This is a call to action that I can’t refuse. It’s from an old friend. Oscar.”
“Oscar is in trouble?” Shana went from serious and businesslike to clearly alarmed. Her spine went rigid, her shoulders popped back, and her eyes widened. She looked like a warrior princess who’d just found out her best friend had been wronged.
“What the hell? Now you’re telling me you knew Oscar? He was your CIA connection in Sydney?” Dane shook his head as the pieces fell into place about how Shana had come into his life. David Young was the common denominator.
“Yes, I worked with him—”
“No wonder David hired you. Did you know that David and Oscar were childhood friends?”
Her eyes went wide and her hands went to her hips and he saw the boulder-size chip settle on her left shoulder as her posture changed.
“No, I didn’t. What of it? I deserved the job—”
Dane waved her defensiveness aside. “Never mind, Shana. The problem is that Oscar is presumably in trouble and I’ve been called to action. He evidently doesn’t know that you’re with me, but he does know about Beachcomber Investigations.”
“You’re right.” Her lush mouth flattened as far as such a mouth could and Dane allowed himself a beat to watch her breasts heave in distress, watched her wrangle to control her emotions.
“If you know the protocol, then you know I need to make a call over the secure line. Whatever is needed, I’ll need to do.”
She nodded. He thought again about the near certainty that he’d have to leave the island. Without her.
“I understand the Trouble Protocol. The call to action,” she said. She took a deep breath and followed him.
Dane marched into his office where the living room was supposed to be. The blinds were permanently drawn to keep out prying eyes. He flipped the light switch on to illuminate the semidarkness of the workspace and headed for the desk where the secure phone sat. It looked like an old-fashioned dial phone except that it had state of the art scrambling security installed for this exact kind of occasion.
What kind of life did he lead that he’d have these occasions to need high-security communications on a regular basis? That wasn’t what he’d dreamed of as a kid.
The flash of his dream—the last wistful dream he’d ever bothered entertaining—intruded. His eyes automatically darted upward to the attic. Where he kept the guitar his father had given him. He virtually flung thoughts of the guitar aside and grabbed the receiver off the cradle of the all-but-extinct phone. He didn’t bother sitting in the old desk chair, which was more for show. He never sat at the scuffed metal refugee from the old John Hancock Insurance Company offices—back when his mother worked there and the offices were bullpens with rows of bulky metal desks and typing stands before being converted to cubicle farms. He’d never succumbed to either. His life suited him after all. He was too unruly, too defiant for anything else. Except maybe playing guitar…
He punched in the fail-safe number only Oscar knew—or only Oscar should know. The flick of concern screeched along his back between his shoulder blades. After a beat the trill of the line ringing on the other end shrilled through him in a pulse, one ring after another. Six times. He hung up.
It was the way they’d planned it. Oscar would call him back. Or not. The sharp slicing between his shoulder blades pulsed in time with the seconds. Shana watched him. Silent. She knew him well enough to remain blessedly mute and not ask questions. He ought to appreciate that more. A tic in his left jaw now accompanied the pain in his back to track the seconds until nearly a minute went by. A long slow excruciating minute during which he met Shana’s stare.
She scowled back with a mere hint of concern—and maybe a little guilt—shadowing the familiar look. None of it marred her goddamn gorgeousness. She must have sensed his snapping point because just as he was about to reach out and touch her hair, she spun around.
“How about a drink.” She went into the kitchen, reached cabinet, pulled two glasses out, and slammed them on the counter. He followed her.
The jaw tic intensified into a clench as he opened the freezer and yanked the bottle of tequila from the crusty ice tomb. His only show of tension—aside from the almost invisible muscle tic—was the slamming shut of the freezer door.
Dane held out the bottle to her and ignored the knowing lift in the corner of her mouth that would have been a smirk under less dire circumstances. She sloshed the tequila into the two glasses and he grabbed one up off the counter before she had a chance to give it to him.
“To goddamn Oscar. He’d better be in deep shit or I’ll find him and put him there myself,” he said by way of a toast. Then he slugged the drink down in one knock-back of his head. The liquid burned down his throat and into his gut until his insides felt like the churning of hell. Perfect for the occasion.
Shana watched him before knocking back her own shot. Then he watched her. He enjoyed the fact that her eyes watered slightly after she slammed the glass on the counter. Dane contemplated pouring another shot, but the jangle of his secure line turned him around. In less than two heartbeats he’d returned to his office, grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear.
“Blaise.” He waited. He didn’t breathe. His heart must have stopped. It felt like time itself stopped in the silence.
Shana had joined him and shifted to listen. The strain to hear something felt like a physical twisting of the tension bar controlling his facial muscles. Two beats passed and then five. He counted eight beats in the silence—blasts to his patience in the form of mind warfare.
“How the hell are you, Dane?” The voice was distant but clear and familiar.
It was not Oscar.
“Floyd Parker.” Dane’s mind sprinted through the possibilities before he dared ask a single question of this man. He knew Floyd. He knew he didn’t trust him. Even if he was with the CIA. Especially because he was with the CIA. Dane squelched the paranoia born of the knowledge that Floyd had been Oscar’s handler for a long time off and on. There was no telling if Oscar was on or off with the CIA now or whether he was conducting his supposed import-export business, or up to some other no-good—unless and until he heard it from Oscar directly. Dane held the silence. He could out-mind-game Floyd Parker if he needed to and it appeared he would need to.
Unfortunately, Shana didn’t feel the same way. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dane was fast. Reaching around her head with his arm, he clamped a hand over her mouth before she managed more than a startled sound.
“What’s that?” Floyd asked. Dane drilled Shana with his eyes, willing her into compliance. Even if she got why he wanted to keep her from talking, she might do it just to defy him. That was his Shana. He held on while she squirmed and struggled with her decision.
“Where is Oscar, Floyd?”
“Good old Dane Blaise. All business—”
“Cut the crap, Floyd. You sent a trouble code—panic level. What’s going on—where is Oscar?” Dane raised his voice a notch the second time he asked the question.
“I won’t lie. He’s in trouble. I don’t know where he is. That’s why I called you. You’re the best at finding people.”
“Who has him?”
“I’m waiting for a call.”
“What makes you think there will be a call?”
“That’s what the note said—sent by messenger in lieu of Oscar when we were supposed to meet yesterday. I checked on him. Didn’t find him. Found his phone—this phone. Luckily, I knew where to look—and I called you.”
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