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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Copyright © 2012 Bill Myers. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2012.08.22

  1

  I never planned to be that guy.

  You know the one. The guy at the beach with the metal detector. Looking for treasure, but finding mostly bottle caps and pull tabs.

  Being that guy was never part of my plan. But it happened. Thanks to Sarah.

  See, we were sitting on the boardwalk at Manasota Key beach, late one Wednesday afternoon.

  I was watching a group of college girls play volleyball when Sarah said, "You should get one of those."

  I nodded, "Yeah, right."

  She continued, "I'm not kidding. If you had one of those, you could have a lot of fun."

  I was pretty sure Sarah wasn't talking about the college girls so I turned to see where she was looking.

  It was an older man with a metal detector.

  We'd seen him here on the beach many times before. With his silver hair and sun wrinkled skin, he looked to be about seventy years old.

  In his right hand, he carried a metal detector. In his left, a long handled shovel-like scoop.

  Around his waist he wore a tool belt, on which he'd hung a white plastic trash bag, a black belly pack, and a dark green canvas bag with 'Garrett' printed on it.

  On his head, a tan ball cap with a 'Laurence of Arabia' flap covering the back of his neck. A set of large black headphones covered his ears. A coiled cable ran from the headphones to the metal detector he held in his right hand.

  The overall impression was of someone who was serious about what they were doing. Someone who didn't care what others thought about how he looked.

  As we watched, the man followed an invisible path along the beach just a few feet above the waterline. He'd take a step, swing his metal detector left to right, then take another step and repeat the process.

  His movements were fluid and natural, like that of an athlete who had been training, refining and perfecting the mechanics of the motions for years.

  Every few moments he'd stop, swing the detector twice over a spot on the beach, then use his scoop to dig up a bucket of sand.

  He'd shake the scoop left to right, sifting out the sand until the only items left were those too big to fall through the round holes in the bottom and sides of the scoop.

  Then he'd reach into the scoop, retrieve an object, look at it closely and either put it in his trash bag or his pants pocket.

  After he'd filled the hole he'd dug in the sand, he'd start the process all over again.

  Sarah elbowed me, "See, he's finding stuff. You could do that."

  I shook my head, "You want me to get a metal detector? And come out here on the beach and spend my days picking up other people's trash? Are you crazy?"

  "No, not crazy. Just thinking that since you're the luckiest guy I've ever met, if you had a metal detector you'd probably find treasure in no time."

  "Me? Lucky? I don't think so. In the past three months I've lost my job and my house, and my wife divorced me. I'm unemployed, and living in your backyard. That doesn't sound very lucky to me."

  Sarah smiled. "Okay, let's review.

  "Three months ago when the company you worked for moved their plant to Mexico, you got laid off, but somehow you ended up with a big fat severance check and a free motorhome.

  "You drove the motorhome down here to Florida and immediately found a free place to live, close to the beach. My backyard.

  "The first day you're here, you buy a lottery ticket, and it turns out to be a winner.

  "And then three weeks later, the company that laid you off, pays you a half million dollar whistle blower settlement to keep you quiet.

  "So yes, I'd say you were lucky."

  I nodded, "OK, I admit buying the winning lottery ticket was pretty lucky. But I gave the ticket to you. So you were the winner. Not me. That makes you the lucky one.

  "And the ticket wasn't the grand prize winner. Just sixteen thousand dollars.

  "And it was your sister who arranged the motorhome deal. It was part of her secret plan to get me to deliver Mango Bob to you.

  "As for living in your backyard for free, you offered that in return for me bringing Mango Bob.

  "And finally, the company offered me a settlement just to protect their stock value. I didn't ask for it, didn't even know it was in the works.

  "One of their bean counters figured it was good insurance to pay me off instead of taking the chance that I might be required to testified about what I knew."

  "So it's not like I'm especially lucky. It's just how things work out sometimes."

  Sarah smiled, "Call it what you want. But winning the lottery? Getting a half million dollar payoff? Living free in Florida? I call that lucky."

  Rather than argue with Sarah, I kept quiet. It was possible she was right. I did seem to be on a lucky streak lately.

  She pointed at the man with the metal detector. "Look, he found something!"

  We watched as he bent over and picked up a small object from the sandy beach.

  Instead of putting it in his white trash bag as he had done before, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses.

  Putting the glasses on, he inspected the item carefully. He smiled, then looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Satisfied that he wasn't being observed, he put the object in his shirt pocket.

  Sarah elbowed me, "See! He found something good. Maybe a diamond ring!"

  I shook my head, "It's probably just a nickle or quarter. Loose change on the beach."

  Shaking her head, Sarah said, "I think you're wrong. I've been watching him and he puts different things in different pockets.

  "When he finds a bottle cap or pull tab, he puts it in the trash bag around his waist. When he finds a coin, he puts it in his pants pocket.

  "This is the first time I've seen him put anything in his shirt pocket, so it must be something good."

  Sarah stood, "Let's go talk to him."

  2

  Sarah brushed the sand from her shorts and headed toward the man with the detector. I followed, catching up with her quickly.

  "Sarah, slow down. We don't want to scare the guy off."

  She stopped, and gave me the look. The one that says, "You're not the boss of me."

  Then she turned and began walking more slowly in the man's general direction. Maybe she decided I was right. No need to scare him off by running up to him.

  Sarah is my age, mid thirties, and single like me. She's about five foot four, with the slender build of a runner. Her healthy tan gave the impression of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.

  Today she is wearing a white Columbia fishing shirt over a pair khaki shorts, the kind with lots of pockets. This outfit is part of her 'beach casual' look.

  Her chestnut brown hair is pulled back into a pony tail. A pair of sunglasses hang on a cord around her neck. Even a stranger could have guessed she lived near the beach.

  Sarah operated Dolphin Kayak Tours, and until recently, she'd been spending eight to ten hours a day giving paddling lessons in the waters of Lemon Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.


  As the company's owner and only employee, Sarah had been working hard to build her kayak tours into a profitable business. That meant long hours, low pay, and lean living.

  Her office was located in the old Mango Street boatyard, just off Dearborn, in Englewood, Florida.

  The boatyard had been vacant for years, and Sarah had been able to work out a deal with the owner for low rent, in return for maintaining the property and keeping it from being vandalized.

  It wasn't much, a small concrete block building with an office up front and a tiny apartment in the rear, where Sarah lived.

  To the left of the building, a wide gated driveway led into a hard-packed dirt parking lot. Surrounded by a tall, weed-choked chain link fence, the lot consisted of a few decrepit old sheds, where the boats were once stored.

  It was there, in the old boat yard, that Sarah allowed me to park and live in my motorhome.

  While it wasn't paradise, the old boatyard did have the water and power connections I needed for the motorhome. And the overgrown fence surrounding the lot provided privacy and a sense of security.

  I offered to pay Sarah rent, but she said no. Instead, she suggested I help her in her business. She said I could help her load and unload the kayaks for each tour she gave. And paddle along with her group and be there if she needed me.

  To me, it really wasn't work. It was a chance to be out on the water in Florida. With Sarah. Everyone else had to pay for that experience.

  So I couldn't complain.

  There were other benefits as well. Working out in the sun and paddling all day over the water had gotten me back in shape. Tan and lean, I now looked like I did when I returned from my first tour of duty in Afghanistan.

  Only now I was happier and wearing civilian clothes.

  Speaking of clothes, Sarah felt it important we project a professional image while working with her clients, so she picked out the clothes I wore on duty.

  That's why today, I too wore a white Columbia fishing shirt over a pair of khaki shorts.

  Together we looked like the perfect beach couple. A matched set.

  But looks can be deceiving.

  Even though we spent almost every waking hour together, our relationship had yet to move beyond a close friendship.

  That was part of the agreement we had.

  When we'd first met, I was coming out of a bad marriage, and Sarah had just gotten away from a jerk of a boyfriend. Neither of us was interested in jumping into a new relationship.

  So it was agreed I would be permitted to park and live in my motorhome in the boatyard, as long as I abided by Sarah's rules.

  The rules were simple.

  1. I wouldn't bring uninvited guests onto the property.

  2. I wouldn't use drugs or drink excessively

  3. I wouldn't play loud music

  4. And I wouldn't do anything to attract attention to the fact that I was living in a motorhome in the boatyard.

  The most important rule was I had to agree that whenever Sarah told me it was time to go, I'd pack up my motorhome and leave, no argument.

  So far, the agreement had worked out well.

  Especially for Sarah, since she now had me as free labor to help her in her business.

  But again, I'm not complaining.

  Working with the kayak tours meant I spent a lot of time with Sarah. And the more time I spent with her, the more I hoped our relationship would turn into something more than just friendship.

  So far, I hadn't gotten any signal from Sarah that it would.

  We were about a hundred feet from the man with the metal detector when I saw them.

  Two men, coming down the boardwalk steps onto the beach. They were walking quickly in the same direction we were heading. Toward the man with the metal detector.

  Normally I wouldn't have taken noticed of these guys, but they stood out from the rest of the beach crowd. It was the way they were dressed.

  Instead of t-shirts and shorts like everyone else, they both were wearing long black pants, black boots, and black long sleeve shirts. And one was carrying what looked like a tire iron in his right hand.

  Not what you expect to see on the beach in the sleepy town of Englewood, Florida.

  I reached for Sarah and nodded toward the two men, "See those two guys? Something's up. Let's hang back and see what happens."

  As we watched, the two men closed in on the man with the metal detector and stood directly in his path.

  When he looked up and saw them, he attempted to walk around the pair.

  They stepped into his path again, blocking him.

  I looked at Sarah, "Stay here, I'm going to get a little closer."

  Sarah whispered, "Don't hurt them."

  Sarah knew about my days in Afghanistan. And she'd seen me in action before. She knew I could handle trouble. She knew I could hurt people if necessary.

  As I began walking toward the two men, I stopped, bent over and filled my hands with wet sand. Then I continued in their direction, coming up from behind.

  As I got closer I could hear the taller one say, "Give us your trinkets old man, or we'll hurt you."

  3

  The man with the metal detector ignored the threat. He stepped around the men and walked away.

  The two men quickly caught up with him, again blocking his way. The taller of the two put his left hand on the man's shirt, in his right he flicked open a six inch knife and said, "Your money. Now!"

  The older man calmly set his metal detector down on the sand, picked up his long metal scoop and held it in front of him, as if he were preparing for battle.

  "Get out of my way. I don't want trouble."

  The men in black laughed. Moving closer, the taller one flashed the knife, "Give us your money, or get cut."

  Instead of giving up his money, the detector guy swung his metal scoop at the taller man, narrowly missing his face.

  That's when the shorter man, the one holding the tire iron, put one foot behind the old man's leg and pushed him backward, causing him to topple onto the sand.

  At that point I was close enough to take action.

  From behind, I walked up and dumped a hand full of sand down the back of the shirt of the taller man.

  I'd learned this trick early on.

  Distracting and confusing an opponent gives you the advantage. And in this case, sand down the back of the shirt was the perfect distraction.

  Feeling the wet sand, the taller man slapped his neck with one hand as if trying to swat a bee, and then used his other hand to reach around and feel the small of his back where the sand had accumulated.

  The man was now defenseless, with both hands behind his back.

  I turned and repeated the move with the shorter man, dumping sand from my other hand down the back of his shirt. He reacted the same way as his partner.

  Both hands behind his back, trying to figure out what was going on.

  The man with the detector took this opportunity to swing hard with his long handled scoop, catching the short man on the left side of his knee.

  I could hear the knee pop when the heavy end of the scoop connected. Screaming, the short man fell to the sand, dropping his tire iron.

  I picked it up.

  The taller man started to move toward the detector guy who was now trying to get back on his feet. I stepped between them, tapping the attacker on the chest with the tire iron.

  "You really don't want to do this. Too many witnesses."

  I pointed to the gathering crowd. "Now would be a good time to leave. While you still can."

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the metal detector guy raise his right arm. In his hand, a small pistol.

  4

  The beach is no place for a gun. Especially when there is a crowd of potential witnesses and victims.

  Turning to the metal detector guy, I said, "Put the gun away. "

  I pointed to the two attackers, already leaving the beach. One was limping, the other mumbling obscenities in our direction.
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  As the crowd of witnesses scattered, Sarah walked up, "You okay?"

  "Yep, no problem. Just a misunderstanding."

  I turned toward the metal detector guy who was still holding the gun. "Put it away. If the police show up, you don't want to be holding a gun."