Abducted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  She bit her lip. Her eyes were watery. She wiped a tear, then gasped as she looked down.

  “Hey,” I said, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find her.” I squeezed her tighter. Our eyes met. “We’ll find her, Ange.”

  I held her for half a minute. The whole thing was taking a huge toll on her. Seeing innocent young girls treated that way is enough to make you puke.

  She looked back up at me, then we both glanced at the other girls. There were six in all. Neither of us had to say a word. We could read each other’s minds. We’d go after Scarlett, yes, but first we were going to get those girls the hell out of there.

  I glanced at my watch. It was just after midnight. It had been ten minutes since I’d spoken to Sanchez. That meant we still had another ten minutes or so before the cavalry arrived.

  I glanced at Ange, who was reading my mind. We couldn’t just sit tight and wait. We had to move, to get out of there and close the gap between us, Sanchez, and her officers.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said, addressing the group of girls. “We can help you, but you have to do as we say. And you’ve got to keep quiet. Understand?”

  There were a few girls who clearly couldn’t understand English, so I repeated everything in Spanish. They nodded softly, and I motioned toward the main passageway into the cave system.

  “Okay. Let’s move.”

  I took the lead, Ange the rear. I kept my flashlight aimed forward, providing a beam of light to illuminate my way while Ange shined hers as well. We expected a flood of gang members to come pouring in at any second, so we both had our weapons at the ready.

  We soon reached the staircase.

  No sign of anyone yet.

  I halted the group and listened. The hatch was still shut and there were no sounds coming from inside the tobacco barn. I took the creaky steps slowly, then pushed up the trap door and had a look around. The room was empty. The cart, the stacks of tobacco, the tracks, the truck—everything was just as we’d left it.

  I pushed the hatch open all of the way, then motioned for the girls to follow. Making my way slowly across the room, I saw the shadows of the two sentries still standing just outside the large doors. Being so deep in the caves, they apparently hadn’t heard the gunshots. And obviously no alarm had been raised.

  As quietly as possible, we motioned the girls over to the back of the truck. It was the only way we could all get out of there fast. Use the gangsters’ transportation against them.

  Naturally, the girls were hesitant to get back into truck that had taken them to that hellhole.

  “It’s the only way,” Ange told them. “We sure aren’t all piling into the four-seater that we drove here in.”

  We helped them up one at a time. The dark-skinned girl who’d told us about Scarlett stopped at the tailgate.

  “Yuh wid di police?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Just a couple of pissed-off civilians.”

  She coughed and wiped her teary eyes.

  “Shh,” I said, placing a finger to my mouth. “There are guys on the other side of that door.”

  I spoke clearly, though in a whisper. The shadows of the two sentries didn’t move. They hadn’t heard anything, yet. I heard their occasional muffled voices. Shooting the breeze and combating the late-night boredom.

  Once the girls were inside and sitting down, we assured them again that we were getting them all out of this. We also told them to hold on, we were undoubtedly in for a very bumpy ride. Then we lifted the tailgate into place and secured the dark green canopy.

  Ange and I climbed into the cab. The keys were on the dash.

  I gave a quick call to Sanchez. She told me they were just a few minutes from the farm, and I replied that we were heading out to meet her. I told her to keep a lookout for a big truck with a green canopy. Before she could tell me to hang tight and wait for her, I hung up.

  The last thing I wanted was to sit there and wait. I didn’t know how many more gang members there were on site. For all we knew, there was an entire barracks of armed men just waiting for the word.

  “What do you wanna do about them?” Ange whispered, motioning toward the shadows of the two sentries just outside the doors.

  She was eyeing them through the side mirrors.

  Just as the words left her lips, I heard a loud voice coming from just outside. It was followed by a loud whistle. Right away I knew that the jig was up. Somehow they’d figured out what had happened.

  They must’ve found the sentry we took down.

  Instinctively, I grabbed hold of the keys and slid the big one into the ignition. I glanced through my big side mirror. The two shadows outside were moving back and forth; voices were yelling out orders. I knew they were about to move and wanted to catch them before they had the chance.

  “Ever read Mr. Mercedes?” I said, answering Ange’s question with one of my own.

  It was time for me to take a page right out of the Stephen King book about a deranged lunatic obsessed with plowing down pedestrians in his Mercedes.

  I flicked my wrist. The large diesel engine rumbled to life. I put the truck in reverse and stomped on the gas. The massive tires screeched on the wood floor. We accelerated as fast as the five-ton cargo truck could.

  The back frame of the truck shattered through the door, sending debris in all directions. I caught a brief glimpse of the two sentries. Their eyes were massive. Like deer caught in the headlights. They tried to move, but the back of the truck pummeled into them and the wheels bounced as we drove over their bodies like small speed bumps.

  I had one hand on the wheel and the other clutching my Sig. With the window rolled down, I was ready to fire off a few rounds just in case. But as we continued to rumble and pick up backward speed, I saw their motionless bodies lying in the dirt. Broken, battered, and no longer an issue.

  I let off the gas and braked us to a skidded stop. Putting the truck in drive, I floored it again and spun the wheel. I put us right in the center of the road, cruising out of the farm. I brought us up to sixty miles an hour as we roared through the dark open landscape. Soon, we heard the faint sound of sirens from far in the distance.

  We ran into trouble at the gate. We could see the sentry walking toward us with his rifle against his shoulder.

  “Ange!” I said, but she was already on it.

  She leaned out the passenger window, took aim, and fired a succession of bullets straight at the lone sentry. Even with us bumping and bouncing, she struck him in the side and he fell just as his finger pressed the trigger. I ducked and two bullets crashed through the windshield and buried themselves in the seat back beside me.

  The guy fell. He pressed a hand to his chest and reached for his dropped weapon. Not quick enough. I plowed into him at just over sixty miles per hour. I could hear his bones break from the force of the solid grille, his life taken in an instant.

  With the sentry down, I kept my foot on the gas and bashed through the metal gate with a loud crash. The truck shuddered from the impact and I nearly lost control. I let off the gas and braked as I spun onto the dirt road. I slid the big truck to a stop. A cloud of dust rose up into the headlights.

  I hit the gas again but soon slowed to a stop as a wall of police SUVs and ambulances headed straight for us. I pulled over and the blaring lights and sounds closed in on us. Three police cars stopped fifty feet in front of us, the two ambulances right behind.

  A Hispanic woman wearing black pants, a white button-up shirt, and a bulletproof vest stepped into view. She held a Makarov 9mm pistol in her right hand as she cautiously approached the driver’s-side door.

  “Logan Dodge?” she said, eyeing both of us through the windshield.

  She had a powerful presence. A commanding voice that was even more impressive than it had been on the phone. There was no mistaking her. She was everything I’d expected and more.

  I nodded.

  “You sure know how to make
an exit,” she said. “Out of the truck. Now.”

  “The girls are in the back,” I said as I climbed down, my boots squishing onto the muddy road.

  “Any more gang members nearby?”

  “Not that I know of. But there’s at least eight dead in the compound. A few unconscious.”

  She turned to face the other officers and waved them over.

  “Get the paramedics over here,” she yelled.

  We moved toward the back. Opened up the canvas. Dropped down the tailgate. Sanchez shined her flashlight into the group of twelve scared faces staring back at us.

  The paramedics ran over and climbed up into the truck. One by one they examined the women. Some were in worse shape than others. They picked five from the group and we helped them down to the road.

  “I want all of them taken to the hospital,” one of the paramedics said. He was a middle-aged man with glasses and an authoritative tone. “They all need to be checked. We’ll take these five in the ambulances.”

  Sanchez nodded.

  “We’ll take them in squad cars.” She looked up at the remaining girls and motioned for them to come down. “Alright, let’s go. You’re all safe now. Nobody’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

  The three of us stepped away as a handful of officers flooded over to help the girls down.

  “Any more in the farm?” Sanchez asked.

  “Not that we saw. But maybe.”

  “The cave system is extensive,” Ange chimed in.

  After a moment, I glanced at my watch. We were losing time, and we hadn’t had much to work with in the first place.

  “We’d love to stay and chat, but we need to get moving,” I said. “We got a vehicle parked about a mile and a half from here. We could use a ride.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Santa Lucía,” Ange said. “There’s a private dock there that was marked as part of the gang’s network.”

  “They could very well already be gone,” she said. “I have a contact in the Havana underworld who’s informed me that Salazar’s chopper just took off from his house in Havana. Heading west. By the time you reach Santa Lucía, it could be too late.”

  “Or we could be just in time to take him down,” Ange snapped. “Either way, we’re going. And if you could give us a lift to our Jeep, it would be greatly appreciated. If not, then quit stalling and just tell us. I could use a good run anyway.”

  She stared back at Ange. Felt the fire burning within her.

  “Wilson told me you two were the most determined people he’d ever met,” she said. “I hadn’t believed him at first.” She turned and motioned for us to follow her. “Come on. I’ll have someone drive you to your Jeep.”

  One of Sanchez’s subordinates drove us over to where we’d parked the Jeep and dropped us off. We sprinted for the doors and jumped inside. I started up the V-6 engine, put it in gear, and hit the gas. It was just under an hour to Santa Lucía. An hour that we didn’t have.

  I thundered the Jeep full speed. It tackled the bumpy dirt road with ease. I’d always felt that Jeeps drove better off-road. It’s their bread and butter, and boy do they savor it.

  Once we were on the highway, I pulled out my sat phone and punched in Jack’s number.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jack Rubio sat at the stern of the trawler. He sang along to Jimmy Buffett’s “Son of a Son of a Sailor” while leaning back and watching the two poles with their lines paid out. The engines were running on cruise control. Ten knots.

  After dropping off Logan and Angelina earlier that day, he’d sweet-talked his way past the Cuban Coast Guard and headed out to the open waters of the straits. He’d told Logan he’d stand by in case they needed a lift back home. With nothing else to do, he rigged a few poles and had been trolling along for a few scattered hours throughout the day.

  Atticus lay on the deck beside him. He was tired after a long day of playing fetch in the water. His eyes closed occasionally, then popped open when Jack would join Jimmy in a high note.

  Just as he was belting out the end to one of his favorite verses, his phone interrupted him. He slid off the chair, turned down the music, and grabbed it from the bench.

  “Yellow?” he said.

  “Jack?” a strong male voice said through the speaker. “Are you drunk?”

  Atticus jumped to his feet and wagged his tail.

  “Logan? Damn, it’s good to hear your voice, bro,” he said. “Ange there?”

  “I’m here, Jack. You doing alright by yourself?” Ange’s voice came over the speaker.

  “I’m not alone. I got Atty to keep me company. Plus a few marlins.”

  He quickly explained how he’d been deep sea fishing in international waters all day.

  “You find her yet?”

  “Getting there, Jack,” Logan said. “The snakes keep slipping through our fingers. But we’re right on their asses.”

  “Good. You need me for anything yet?”

  “How’s the fuel?”

  “No problemo. She’s still got just over half in the main. Pegged aux and backup. I could do a solid three hundred miles at cruising.”

  He didn’t need to get up and step into the pilothouse to check. He’d looked them over half an hour earlier and knew the burn was minimal at his current speed.

  “Good,” Logan said, “’cause we’re gonna need pickup.”

  “Just tell me when and where, bro. Though it might be tricky now that I’m on Cuba’s radar.”

  “Head for a spot on a twelve-mile straight northern line from Santa Lucía.”

  He stepped into the cockpit. He already had a chart of western Cuba out on the table and weighted down with a few full Coke cans and a book. He quickly found Santa Lucía. He was only about thirty miles northeast from where Logan wanted him.

  “Twelve miles off Santa Lucía. Alright, I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

  “Steer clear of the territorial waters. Just stand by there for now. We’ll call you. Oh, and keep an eye out for a cargo ship heading out away from the mainland. If you see one, call us right away.”

  “You got it, bro.”

  They ended the call, and he set his phone back on the bench. Grabbing his poles one at a time, he quickly and efficiently reeled them in, broke them down, and stowed them in the port compartment.

  Petting Atticus, he said, “Alright, boy. Let’s go save your parents.”

  He stepped into the cockpit, where he grabbed hold of a mug and downed what was left of the coffee in it. It was cold, but that didn’t matter. He just needed the caffeine boost.

  He punched his desired destination into the advanced GPS system. Once it popped up, he eased the throttles forward. The big engines grumbled and the boat accelerated. He swept into a wide banking turn, then brought the trawler up to forty knots, motoring into the darkness.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I hung up the phone and placed it on the seat between us, glancing at the speedometer. We were flying down the road at just over ninety miles per hour, my heavy foot pushing the vehicle to its limit.

  “How far out?” I asked, glancing over at Ange.

  “Thirty,” she said.

  She had her phone in front of her.

  I willed the Jeep to go faster. I thought about Scarlett. How we’d managed to just miss her back at the farm. She was scared and mistreated and alone. We needed to get to her before…

  My phone vibrated. Ange answered it. She quickly put it on speakerphone.

  “Logan, this is Officer Lopez,” the rigid voice said. “We’ve got local officers on scene at the Santa Lucía maritime shipping facility. The place is cleared out. I repeat, no sign of Salazar or his gang members.”

  I braked, pulled us to a stop along the side of the road.

  “Coast Guard on it?” I said, my voice raised. “They could’ve already left.”

  “That’s a negative. No cargo ships in the nearby offshore area.”

  Shit.

  Ange handed me my phone and I bro
ught up the pictures I’d taken of their transport network. Based on the maps, it was clear that the shipping facility at Santa Lucía was their primary extraction point.

  If they aren’t getting out from there, then where?

  “Salazar’s spooked,” Ange said. She was staring out through the windshield, lost in thought. “He needs to get out of Cuba as quickly as possible. And he knows it. A ship just won’t cut it.”

  We fell silent for a second.

  “He’s gonna try and fly out,” I said.

  Ange nodded.

  She scooted beside me and peered at the image of the map. There were a few lines sprouting out from the farm. None led to an airport.

  “Sanchez, you still there?” I said.

  The line was still live, but she hadn’t spoken in a while.

  “Roger that,” she said. “The closest airport is in Pinar del Río. About fifteen miles in the opposite direction from the farm.”

  We went quiet again. The opposite direction didn’t make sense, and there was no location on the gang’s map marking anything near Pinar. But we couldn’t help getting the sinking feeling that we were wrong. If we were, we were dead wrong. The plane would take off any minute and we’d never make it in time.

  I gazed down at the screen, hoping to spot something I’d missed. There had to be another option. There had to be something closer that we could close in on.

  I thought back to our first conversation with Sanchez earlier that day. When Dante’s uncle Benito had come up, she’d mentioned how he’d owned properties all over Cuba. Houses, farms, and seemingly random plots of land.

  “Sanchez,” I said, “can you give me the location of the other properties that were formerly owned by Benito?”

  There was a brief pause.

  “I’ll need to call you back. Give me a minute.”

  She hung up without a reply. The seconds seemed to stretch painfully long. Thankfully, it didn’t take her a full minute.

  “Aside from the tobacco farm and the dock,” she said, “he owned two more properties. A cabin near Punta de la Sierra, and hundreds of acres of nothing just east of Minas de Matahambre.”