Beachcomber Investigation series
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.