Chapter 501

Harry Jacobson was at the cars watching people coming and going. He sent a text that a group of six teenagers was coming, headed our way. We had ear wicks for all of us. I motioned for the girls to put the wicks in.

I could hear them coming over the dune, all mouthy with a Mid-Eastern accent. I guessed they were arrivals to the area from one of the many relocation programs that had been in effect.

All the terrorism raids had put a cold shoulder on those programs for the time being. People were beginning to have second thoughts about open unrestricted immigration. It was too little too late; the terrorists were here - and from everything we had learned - some had been here prior to 9-11.

They stood on the dune line for a few minutes before walking towards us and the beach. They walked to the water then turned around and walked back to the dune and to the cars.

At the car they unloaded several cameras and tripods and started up the dunes with the equipment. Gordon had alerted us to what was going on. At the top of the dune they set the cameras up recording us.

As soon as they started our way, “Gordon; disable or destroy the cameras, strip the memory cards out of them,” I instructed.

The group came to where we were and sat down, “Hey, you want to party with us?”

“No! Get lost,” I replied.

“Don’t you like young Arab men, we can treat you right,” one of them said.

“This is a private beach by invitation only, and I know you have no invitation. It is also a nude beach and you are dressed. I know Arab men are ashamed and never expose their bodies to be ridiculed. So again, get lost,” I replied.

“We don’t take orders from anyone and certainly not women. You American women need to learn respect and your place,” he said.

The four guards were on the way. The teenager closest reached to grab me by the boob but I was faster. I grabbed the fingers on his hand and quickly broke several with a twist. At the same time a fist to the side of his neck near his Adams apple left him stunned and gasping.

Vicky was applying similar treatment to one of the other teens. He was on the sand screaming like a banshee.

Their buddies decided they needed help only to be grabbed by Gordon and our other three guards. Our guards walked them back to their car on their tiptoes, screaming the whole way. They would have sore elbows for several weeks.

“Don’t ever come back here!” they were told; “This is your one and only warning,” Gordon said and they were shoved into the car.

Everything returned to normal; sand, water and suntan lotion that had now become playful fun as it was applied.

Running around naked, the boys also learned they could pee on the grass and anything else and how to aim. Progress? Maybe, but we would have to see if the potted flowers in the house paid the price.

It was 1600 when Gordon spoke into the ear wick, “You have company coming; four of the teens are back with two men whom I suspect are their fathers, along with a police officer.”

“Cover up girls. Men, come in and join the party,” I instructed as I was pulling on both the light body armor and a pair of shorts.

The hand was wrapped in bandages and the fingers in splints; three other young men each had an arm in a sling.

An older man who was walking with the boy with the broken hand spoke in an Arab dialect that I recognized as from North East Africa, most likely Tunisia or Libya.

“Which one of these despicable women broke your hand for no good reason?” one of the men asked the boy in his native tongue.

“She did,” he replied as he pointed at me with his good hand.

The adult with him started yelling and screaming in a mix of English and Arabic at the policeman, thinking no one could understand him. He was raging about how innocent and pure his boy was and how a decadent immoral woman was corrupting his children. He was trying to get the officer flustered.

“Ma-am, I need to see your ID; these teens have alleged that you assaulted them,” the officer said as he was looking at my men holding their MP5s.