Betrayed in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  In the early morning, she made a phone call that she knew she probably should have made the night before. Scott Cooper was one of Logan’s best friends, and as a senator representing the state of Florida, he had connections that could prove useful in discovering his whereabouts.

  “What do you mean, Logan’s missing?” he said in a serious tone. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Yesterday, early afternoon,” she replied. “He went jet skiing with a friend and never came back.”

  The line went quiet for a moment. Angelina could hear him shuffling around, could hear a few keystrokes on a computer.

  “Did he say where they were going?”

  Angelina sighed. “Not exactly. I mean, I know they were racing on the Gulf side of the Lower Keys at first.”

  After another short pause, Scott said, “I got it,” then paused a moment and added, “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is Logan not wearing his watch?”

  Angelina was surprised by the question and wondered what his watch had to do with anything.

  “He is,” Angelina replied with noticeable confusion.

  “Well, then, he must have gotten a new one recently,” Scott said. “I put a tracking device in his watch a year ago, and right now it’s saying it’s right at his slip at the Conch Harbor Marina. Maybe there’s a problem with the tracker.”

  Angelina paused for a moment as she glanced down at the black-and-silver Suunto Core digital dive watch strapped around her left wrist. It had used to be Logan’s, but he’d given it to her a few weeks earlier, preferring to wear the one he’d given his dad on his last birthday before he died.

  “Ange? You there?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the tracker,” Angelina finally said. She then explained how Logan had given her the watch, so it was on her wrist and not his.

  Scott sighed and said, “Well, shit. That’s going to make things a little more difficult.”

  After talking for half an hour, Scott assured her he’d do everything he could to help, and then they hung up. Ange sat out on the sunbed as the sun came up. She tried to think through the situation clearly but had a hard time keeping still. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had to move, that there was somewhere she needed to be to help Logan.

  “He’s a big boy,” she said. “And he’s a damn good fighter.”

  She reminded herself that Logan wasn’t an ordinary guy and that it would take a well-orchestrated and executed attack to bring him down. By 0900, she was sick of sitting still and decided to take matters into her own hands.

  She moved to the outdoor dinette and pulled up her laptop. Bringing up Google Maps, she searched the areas of the Lower Keys that Logan and Ben often mentioned after their trips. She started calling every marina and beachside restaurant in Big Coppitt Key, Waltz Key Basin, and the Saddlebunch Keys, asking them if they’d seen anything suspicious or any sign of Logan, Ben, or the jet skis.

  She spent half the day on the phone and the other half driving around the Keys, talking to anyone and everyone she could find and looking for any sign of them. It was a long day and a long night, and she felt discouraged when she finally hit the sack. But the following morning, while continuing to make seemingly hopeless phone calls, she spoke to a waitress named Josephine at Sammy Creek Landing.

  “Our dishwasher said he thought he heard gunshots yesterday afternoon,” Josephine said. “He said it was hard to tell, though.”

  For the first time, Angelina felt like she might actually have something.

  “Okay, will he be working today?” Angelina asked.

  “Gets here at eleven,” she replied. “That is, if he’s on time.”

  After ending the call, Angelina put the location into her phone, then got ready, locked up the Baia, and headed down the dock. She started up Logan’s Tacoma, drove down Caroline Street, and thirty-four minutes later, she pulled off Old State Road onto a sandy driveway.

  The restaurant at Sammy Creek Landing was little more than a shack, and after laying eyes on the small tiki-style hut with worn paint and a few scattered plastic tables and chairs, Angelina was surprised that they even had a phone.

  There were a few people sitting along the water, eating and enjoying the quiet. The place was unique and isolated, she had to give it that. And if the food wasn’t half-bad, she’d probably be back.

  “Go ahead and have a seat anywhere,” a young woman with short red hair said. “I’ll bring you over a menu in a sec.”

  Ange glanced at the girl’s name tag.

  “Hey, Josephine,” Angelina said. “We talked on the phone. Any chance I could have a word with your cook?”

  “Right,” Josephine said, nodding and motioning towards the restaurant. “He’s just inside. I’ll go and get him.”

  A few seconds later, she returned alongside a skinny Jamaican man wearing a black apron. He moved towards Angelina with light steps, then wiped his hands with a rag and extended his right.

  “I’m Kymani,” he said. “Are yuh wi duh police?”

  Ange shook his hand, then said, “No. My name is Angelina, and I’m looking for a friend of mine that disappeared yesterday afternoon.”

  Kymani thought it over for a moment, then pointed towards the road.

  “I wuh rite dere,” he said, walking alongside Ange. “Wi kip di trash cans ova by di road an while mi did taking it out mi tink mi hear gunshots.”

  “Where did the sounds come from?” Angelina asked.

  They stopped alongside the quiet paved road, and Kymani pointed to the other side.

  “Tru dat way,” he said. “Deep inna di mangroves.”

  Ange stared off into the thick vegetation, then said, “Is there anything over there?”

  He shrugged. “Mi don’t tink suh. But dere an old dirt road jus dat way.”

  He pointed up the road, then Angelina nodded and glanced over at the parked Tacoma.

  “Thank you,” Angelina said.

  “No problem. Mi hope yuh find yuh bredren.”

  Ange stepped inside the truck, started it up and pulled back onto the main road. After less than a minute of driving east, she spotted an overgrown dirt road that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Ange didn’t hesitate. She turned the wheel sharply and bounced down the sorry excuse of a road, heading through the thick mangrove forest. The road seemed to get worse the farther she went, with potholes everywhere, low spots flooded with water, and fallen branches that cracked under the Tacoma’s off-road tires.

  Soon the road opened up, and Ange spotted a building in the distance, along with a large dock along the waterfront. She put the truck in park along the dock, then killed the engine and stepped out. She stopped for a moment and listened, hearing only silence as she looked around, surrounded on all sides by either bay or mangroves. She grabbed her Glock from its holster on her waistband, then stepped onto the old, creaking dock.

  The rotted planks creaked beneath her shoes as she moved towards the old rust-colored building with a partially caved-in roof. The place reminded her of an old mining ghost town she’d visited in Arizona while on a cross-country road trip. A place once full of people and life, and now left for nature to reclaim.

  Once inside, she strode through the middle of a large open room and spotted broken bottles on top of a windowsill. As she moved towards them, she stepped on something small and hard, and glancing down, she realized that there were brass bullet casings scattered on the ground.

  “Nine-millimeter,” she said as she bent down and picked up one of the casings.

  As she looked at the other casings, she noticed something strange about the floor. Most of it was covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but portions were wiped away. As she examined the floor closer, she realized that someone had fought and fallen to the floor. Her eyes suddenly grew wide as she spotted something else on the floor, something that pieced the entire confrontation together for her.

  Reaching down, she picked up an empty tranquil
izer dart and whispered, “Holy shit.”

  Her heart began to race, and she reached for her phone, knowing that she had to call Charles and let him know right away what she’d discovered. But before she’d pulled it from her pocket, she heard the distinct sound of a vehicle’s engine growing louder just outside a broken glass window to her right.

  With her Glock still clutched in her hands, she moved towards the window, looked out towards the road, and watched as a blacked-out Jeep Wrangler Renegade flew into view and parked right beside the Tacoma. Moments later, four guys stepped out wearing ski masks and carrying submachine guns. One of them said something to the others that Ange couldn’t hear, then they spread out and approached the building.

  Angelina’s adrenaline pumped as her body instinctively went into fight mode. She crouched down, keeping her eyes trained on the four guys as she strode quietly to the other side of the building. Moving into an adjoining room, she kicked open a rusty metal door and stepped outside, keeping out of sight.

  Watching her footing, she moved around the outside of the building and watched through one of the massive shattered windows as the four guys entered and searched the place. Angelina’s mind went to work, going over scenarios and planning the best course of action to take them all out.

  “She’s here somewhere,” one of the guys said in a thick Spanish accent. “Spread out and search the place.”

  He waved his arms, and the three other guys branched off, walking in separate directions and holding their various weapons chest height. One of the guys, a short and stocky thug wearing jeans and a black tee shirt, moved in Angelina’s direction. He held a stocked Uzi in his right hand and scanned his head back and forth, his eyes peering through his ski mask.

  Angelina moved quietly over to the metal door she’d kicked open, then holstered her Glock and crouched down. Just as the thug stepped outside, she sprang to her feet, wrapped one arm around his neck and the other around his mouth, then dragged him silently to the ground. He struggled to break free, but in just a few seconds he went limp, unconscious in her arms.

  She set his body down, looked up, and heard a second thug walking with heavy steps around the outside of the building and heading straight for her. Not wanting to give her position away to the others, she kept her Glock holstered and moved swiftly toward the corner of the building.

  Just as the thug rounded the corner, Angelina knocked the sawed-off shotgun out of his hands, causing it to rattle onto the old beams at their feet. Before the thug knew what was happening, Angelina punched him square in the throat, causing him to gag loudly and his head to jerk forward.

  He threw a punch in retaliation, swinging wildly while struggling to breathe. Angelina stepped back, ducked down, and swung her left shin hard into the back of the thug’s knee, causing his legs to sweep out from under him and his back to slam against the old wooden planks. A few of the planks shattered under his weight, and Angelina, seeing that the two other thugs had heard their confrontation, kicked the thug across his face, then stomped him in the chest. The remaining planks, which had been clinging to dear life, shattered, and the dazed thug broke through, splashing into the water below.

  Angelina reached for her holstered Glock, and as she raised it to engage the remaining thugs, the loud sound of automatic gunfire erupted across the quiet afternoon air. Bullets whizzed through the air just inches over her head as she dove for cover behind the wall. They rattled relentlessly against the metal, creating a symphony of tings and loud thuds that showered sparks all around her.

  Rising up into a crouched position, she moved swiftly along the wall, trying to flank the thugs, who were still firing round after round in the direction where she’d sent their buddy into the drink. She moved within a few feet of one of the thugs, who was aiming out the window above her.

  She took a deep breath, and in the blink of an eye she popped to her feet, raised her Glock, and pulled the trigger twice, sending one bullet exploding into his forehead and the other into the base of his neck. Blood splattered out as his body lurched backward, twisted awkwardly, and slammed facefirst onto the old creaky floor.

  The fourth and final guy took notice and had her right in his sights. Holding the trigger, he sent a stream of bullets in her direction. As fast as she could, she dropped down onto her stomach, rolled over three times to her left, then poked her Glock around the corner of a partly open doorway. Before the final thug could change his aim, Angelina fired, sending a 9mm round screaming through the air and shattering his left kneecap into pieces. His body twisted, and with his left leg out of commission, the thug fell to the ground, his right shoulder slamming hard on to the wood.

  As the thug wailed violently in pain, she propped herself up onto her knee, keeping the thug right in her sights. As she stood and walked towards the guy, who was struggling in an ever-growing pool of his own blood, she watched as he reached for his revolver, which had tumbled out of his grasp when he’d fallen. Just as his shaking hand gripped it, Angelina pulled the trigger again. This time the round struck right through the palm of the thug’s right hand, causing him to yell out even louder and drop his firearm once again.

  “Not so fucking fast,” Angelina said as she moved up to him, her body hovering over his. “You try reaching for that piece one more time and you’ll never walk again. You understand, asshole?”

  She aimed at his remaining intact kneecap, and even through his wailing and agony, she saw him quickly make eye contact with her and nod. Stepping around his mangled body, she gave his revolver a kick and it slid halfway across the dirty floor.

  “Alright,” Angelina said, her voice a dangerous combination of anger and resolve. “Now you’re gonna tell me where they’ve taken Logan, or not only am I gonna blow away your other kneecap, but I’m gonna rip your fingernails off one by one. Is that clear enough for you?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “It’s here,” I said, pointing to a location on a massive high-definition display that also acted as a table. “We’ve found artifacts scattered all around the seafloor here.”

  After agreeing earlier that morning to show them the location of the wreck in exchange for my possible freedom, I’d gone to bed in a modest stateroom and been brought back to see Felix around noon. Now it wasn’t only the two of us. The big guy with the tattoo around his right eye, whose name I’d learned was Cesar, was standing beside us.

  “What kind of artifacts?” Felix asked.

  “How much gold have you found?” Cesar added.

  I took a sip of coffee using both hands, my wrists still cuffed together.

  “We haven’t found any gold yet,” I said. They looked at each other, but before they could reply, I added, “I don’t think Shadow’s treasure was on his ship when it sank.”

  Felix laughed and shook his head, his mood shifting noticeably from hopeful to agitated.

  “Great,” Felix said. “Then where the hell is it?”

  I stared down at the large digital map that displayed all of the Florida Keys, from Dry Tortugas to Key Largo and from the Atlantic coast up to the Everglades. My gut told me that he would have buried it somewhere in the Keys, but that meant one hell of a search area.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Our best chance of finding it is to keep salvaging the wreck. Maybe we’ll find a clue.”

  “Or maybe we should just forget the whole thing,” Cesar said, slamming a fist into the table. “Felix, may I have a word?”

  I stayed at the table, left alone as the two men stepped out of the room. My mind ran wild, wondering where the treasure could be and whether I’d ever get an opportunity to escape. I knew that these guys were criminals, murderers, and backstabbers. I knew that if I ever got an opportunity to get away, I’d have to jump on it.

  The door opened behind me, and the two men returned. Felix stepped into view and looked at me with his fierce green eyes.

  “Okay,” he said. “We have forty-eight hours. My captain tells me that we will reach the locations you have told me
in just over an hour. We have dive and salvage gear ready to go.” He stepped closer to me and narrowed his gaze. “That is all, Mr. Dodge. Forty-eight hours. If we haven’t found it by then”—he raised his hands into the air—“well then, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  I nodded and told him I understood perfectly, then felt a pang of hunger that was followed by my stomach grumbling. How long had it been since I’d eaten? I thought back and realized that I’d gone over twenty-four hours without sustenance.

  “You can stay in here until we reach the wreck,” Felix said. “I’ll have some food brought up. I suggest you use your time in here wisely.” Felix stepped towards the door, then paused, turned back to me, and added, “By the way, if you decide to do anything stupid, just know that none of my men will hesitate to put a bullet in your leg.”

  I nodded and Felix stepped out, leaving just Cesar and myself still in the room.

  “This laptop is for you,” Cesar said, motioning towards the Toughbook on the table. “It’s unable to access any email, forum, or social networking sites. In addition, our team of IT guys will be monitoring everything you do. You will research the wreck and that is all, understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good,” he replied sternly.

  Without another word, Cesar walked out, replaced soon after by a pair of tall, round-bellied guys that stood stoically on either side of the door and watched every move I made. Ten minutes later, a middle-aged woman with long raven-black hair and dressed in a white crew member’s outfit set a tray of food in front of me with shaking hands. She didn’t say a word or even make eye contact with me for an instant. She just set the food down, then walked away, her face filled with fear. Seeing her up close, I’d noticed the embroidery on her shirt pocket said Yellow Rose.