Abducted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  “Can you send me the coordinates for both?”

  She did, and we punched them into the GPS. The cabin was located in a mountainous area that was riddled with trees, but the second was perfectly flat. There was nothing to be seen in the endless green fields aside from a large structure and a road to it.

  “This spot near Minas de Matahambre looks promising,” Ange said.

  “There’s nothing but rural farmland out that way,” Sanchez said. “There sure as hell aren’t any airports.”

  “Not an airport,” I said, “but land long and flat enough to take off a plane.”

  “You’re making a lot of speculations here,” Sanchez said.

  “That’s all we’ve got, Sanchez. Over and out.”

  I ended the call. Looking over at Ange for affirmation, I got a slight nod.

  It was like when a football team’s down by a touchdown with ten seconds on the clock and no timeouts. There was no downside to throwing a Hail Mary at that point in the game. If he wasn’t there, our final option would be to track down his remaining gang members and force them to tell us where he had run off to. Which was what we’d do if we didn’t cruise over to the property.

  Just before putting the Jeep back into gear, I heard the faint but unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors. We had the windows rolled down. The sound was growing louder. Ange heard it too. She leaned out the passenger window and peered up into the darkness.

  A low-flying chopper roared into view ahead of us. It was a solid black silhouette against the moonlit sky aside from two blinking lights. It flew in from the east and was heading west.

  It was on a direct course for the flat, massive property I’d marked as our destination. There was little doubt in my mind whose helicopter it was.

  Ange leaned back into the cab and plopped onto her seat.

  I hit the gas, kicking up mud as the off-road tires gained traction. We accelerated back onto the main road. GPS said we were ten minutes away. I was going to cut that time in half. I just hoped it would be enough.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Dante Salazar sat in the cabin of the Mil Mi-8 helicopter. He puffed a cigar to try and relax, but he couldn’t sit still. He brushed a strand of his long dark hair from his face and adjusted his headset. He peered out at the dark landscape below, then realized that his hand was shaking.

  It wasn’t fear that gripped him but anger. Anger and disbelief at the events that had transpired that day. Just before takeoff, he’d received word that the two Americans had infiltrated the Ranch, the tobacco farm that had acted as a base of operations for him and his sex-trafficking ring for years.

  Was it hubris on my part? he thought. Was it foolish not to have heightened the security even more?

  There had been eleven of his soldiers on site during the attack. Eleven armed and experienced gang members.

  How in the hell did two fucking people do all of this?

  The question puzzled him beyond comprehension. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. They’d bested him, taken down his operation, and freed an entire batch of profitable women.

  No, they haven’t bested me yet, he told himself. This is just a small faction. We will escape, meet up with comrades abroad, and we will grow larger than before.

  After all, he had friends in very high places. Rich and powerful. Elite and with connections.

  “We’re beginning our descent,” the captain said into the headset.

  Dante nodded.

  “Good,” he replied. “I want to be back airborne in under five minutes.” He turned to Kemar. “What’s the status on our cargo?”

  “They will arrive on site any second now,” he said. “The plane is in place, fully fueled. The pilots already performed all of their checks.” The big guy paused a moment, then added, “I received word from the security guard at the dock in Santa Lucía that police officers are on site and searching the place.”

  Dante smiled.

  They’d taken the bait. And it was a good thing too.

  So much had gone wrong in such a short period of time. There was no room for any more mistakes. No more margin for error.

  The pilots brought the chopper around and landed it in a field beside a large metal building. By all appearances, the structure looked run-down and abandoned. In reality, it was a secret hangar bay.

  Originally conceived and built by his late uncle, the property had been purchased and transformed to act as a last-resort airport in the event that a quick and seamless escape from the country was necessary. Dante had never used it before. But the time had undoubtedly come.

  Just as the wheels touched down, Kemar slid open the door and Dante hopped out. He was followed by Kemar and two of his personal bodyguards.

  The twin-engine small Soviet aircraft had been moved from the hangar bay and was ready at the edge of the makeshift runway. Two pickup trucks were parked just behind its tail. Doors were opened, and three gang members forced a blindfolded and bound woman toward the plane.

  Dante and his personal guards stormed over.

  “Get her on the plane, now,” the gang leader said. “Faster!” He strode over to the plane’s side door and hoisted himself up. He leaned into the cockpit where the pilot was seated, checking instruments and flicking switches.

  “Get the engines going,” Dante ordered. “I want us in the air now.”

  Just as the words left his lips, he heard one of his men call out from over by the trucks. Dante turned around and jumped to the ground.

  His men were looking in the distance toward a distant but rapidly approaching vehicle. It was flying through the field, heading straight toward them.

  “Motherfuckers,” Dante grunted. He raised his voice and added, “Take their asses down!”

  He had no doubt as to who it was. Sure as hell wasn’t the police. It was the two Americans. As his men took aim, Dante turned back to look at their victim. He recognized her dark flowing hair and her tall, lean body. Scarlett. The girl they were after. The one who’d already fetched an impressive sum from their black market buyer.

  He looked up at the vehicle roaring toward them. He needed a little insurance, just in case. She’d do nicely.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  We watched as the helicopter touched down in a field far off to our left. There was a large structure beside it. A handful of vehicles. And what looked like a…

  “A plane!” Ange exclaimed. “Logan, they’re loading onto a plane.”

  My heart raced. I kept my hands gripped tight to the wheel, my foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor. But it wasn’t enough. The road continued straight, then veered right. The plane was to our left. If I followed the road, we’d weave back around to reach our destination and lose precious time. Too much time. By the time we reached it, the bird would be in the air. I had no doubt of that.

  I looked out the open window to my left, examining the field and countryside. It was mostly flat and devoid of obstacles.

  “Hold on, Ange!”

  I let off the gas. Once we coasted down to fifty miles per hour, I eased us to the left and drove with reckless abandon over the muddy shoulder and into the field. The Jeep bounced and shook over the rough ground, but I still accelerated and maintained control. We had a quarter of a mile of ground to cover, and then we needed to formulate one hell of an on-the-fly plan to take all of them out and retrieve Scarlett.

  We were severely outnumbered. That much was clear. There were two trucks and a chopper. I expected no less than eight thugs in all. Each fully armed. Not to mention Dante Salazar, the leader of the gang, who had a ruthless reputation.

  Ange reached behind us and grabbed the hard case from the backseat. Unclasping the hinges, she opened it and began assembling her collapsible Lapua sniper rifle. It didn’t take her long to get it together and ready. Even in the fast-moving, shaking vehicle.

  I kept my eyes forward. The trucks, the plane, and the guys standing between them were getting clearer in my vision.

  “On my go,
” Ange exclaimed, “brake to a stop and give me ten seconds.”

  I nodded. She was already a step ahead of the game. We needed to even the odds, and she knew just the way.

  “Ready,” she said, adjusting her position and focusing through the windshield at our enemies. “Now!”

  I let off the gas. Pressing softly on the brake, I brought our speed down to twenty, then turned the wheel to the left and we slid to a stop with the Jeep tilted to the left so that Ange was facing the action.

  With her back against the seat, she raised her rifle. She stuck the barrel out the open window and pressed the butt against her shoulder. Focusing through the scope, she hovered her right index finger over the trigger as she took aim. She was like a professional musician. She knew the ins and outs of her tool of the trade blindfolded and backward. It was a smooth cycle of muscle memory actions.

  Just moments after I brought the Jeep to a stop, she pressed the trigger.

  A loud boom tore an ear-rattling hole in the peaceful evening air. She adjusted her aim less than an inch and fired a second time. A third shot. A fourth. Barely enough time to blink between shots.

  I peered through the side of the windshield. Watched the activity over by the trucks and the plane. The gang members scrambled for cover, carefully avoiding their fallen comrades lying prone in the field courtesy of Ange.

  The mental clock in my head ticked and ticked. Counting up to ten seconds. One thousand five. One thousand six.

  “Shit,” Ange said, lowering her rifle. “They’re grabbing a female hostage for cover.” She turned to me and added, “Time to step on it, Dodge.”

  She didn’t need to tell me twice. Though it had only been seven seconds, it felt like we’d been out in the open for an eternity.

  I stomped the gas pedal. The tires kicked up grass and dirt before gaining traction and accelerating us over the field. Just as we took off, the sound of automatic gunfire filled the air. Bullets whizzed by my window. A few slammed and sparked against the grille. One shattered through the windshield and nearly put a quick end to our attack.

  I cut to the right, keeping my foot pressed and the engine roaring with as much power as it could muster. I drove us parallel to the plane for a hundred yards before turning back to the left. I’d changed our approach angle, putting the large metal structure between us and the gang members.

  The hailstorm of gunfire that had been relentlessly barraging our vehicle stopped.

  Suddenly, the engine began billowing out black smoke. It was time to get out and take them down on foot.

  The engine sputtered and rattled. Our rpms plummeted. Our speed followed.

  I put us in neutral and coasted the rest of the way to the back of the building, then brought us to an abrupt stop along the back wall. In unison, we shoved our doors open and jumped out. Along with my holstered Sig and sheathed dive knife, I reached into the back and grabbed my M4 carbine assault rifle. Ange still clutched her Lapua. Her trusty Glock was holstered under the right side of her waistband. It was time to close in and finish the job.

  “How many are left?” I said as we moved side by side around the back right corner of the building.

  “I put down three. I’d say there’s four left. Not including the pilots.”

  When we reached the corner, I heard footsteps running toward us. I dropped down, kept to cover, then jumped out when the figure came into view. My right hand grabbed hold of the barrel of his AK-47 and shoved it up. He managed to fire a quick spurt of gunfire before I slammed the butt of my M4 into his face and knocked him on his ass.

  Three left.

  We peeked around the corner, then moved in. There was no activity along the right wall of the structure. But once we reached the end, we spotted two guys kneeling beside the trucks, aiming rifles straight for us.

  “In here,” Ange said as we jumped back to avoid a storm of bullets.

  Rounds whistled by, a few striking the metal walls as Ange grabbed hold of me and pulled me toward a rusty side door. It squealed open and we quickly surveyed the interior. It was a hangar bay. A large open and empty space with concrete floor, rows of tools, metal desks, spare parts, and a massive ladder. There were also two men standing in the middle.

  They both were dressed in dirty gray coveralls. They raised their arms in the air the moment they spotted us. The wrenches they’d been holding fell from their hands. The solid metal tools rattled against the floor as we moved toward them.

  They weren’t angry or threatening. They just looked scared. A few stray bullets tore through the thin metal walls. We dropped to the concrete floor and moved to the other side of the hangar. We were pinned down, and we needed a plan. We needed a quick distraction.

  “On my signal, open the doors,” I said to the mechanics in Spanish.

  They stared at me for a few seconds, terror gripping them at their core.

  I repeated the order, and they nodded and stepped toward what I hoped was the door’s controls.

  Turning to Ange, I said, “Alright, now you—”

  “Way ahead of you,” she said as she stormed toward the door beside her.

  I hoped that when the big doors opened, the gang members would aim toward the opening, giving Ange and me the perfect opportunity to catch them off guard on their flank.

  I locked eyes with the older mechanic. I gave Ange a five-second head start to get into position, then counted down.

  “Uno…dos…tres!”

  The man pressed a button on the controls. I heard the groan of mechanical components, then the screech of metal against metal as the massive doors began to slide apart from each other.

  I took off through the side door. I expected gunfire to erupt, for the gang members to take the bait, but I heard only the opening of the doors. Ange was kneeling beside the corner of the hangar, aiming toward the trucks and airplane. She wasn’t firing either.

  As the doors opened, they cast a bright light over the scene. I could clearly see the trucks parked behind the plane. The three remaining guys were standing. The one in the front held a girl in his arms. He also had a pistol pressed against the side of her head.

  By the ever-intensifying light, Ange and I could see her perfectly.

  It was Scarlett.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  My eyes focused in on Scarlett, looking her over from head to toe. She appeared to be alright. No visible injuries. No bloodstains. But she was scared. She was shaking, tears were streaking down her face, and she was hunched over.

  She looked up. For a brief moment, we made eye contact. She mouthed something to us.

  They were far off, roughly fifty yards. But that didn’t matter. I knew what she was saying.

  Help me.

  Ange and I moved in side by side, she with her Lapua raised and me with my Sig. We quickly closed the gap. The guy holding on to Scarlett looked about my height, lean and with long black hair.

  He looked familiar, and I decided that this was the relative of Benito Salazar. This was Dante, the nephew who’d decided to join in the family business.

  “Not another step!” he yelled out over the sounds of the engines and spinning propellers.

  He had a thug standing beside him. Another behind him beside the open plane door. They both had rifles aimed straight at us.

  Ange and I froze in place. We still had our weapons raised and locked in. Dante held Scarlett in front of him, blocking his body. We’d have a shifting target only a few inches wide if we were going to take a shot.

  “Drop your weapons, now!” Dante barked.

  It wasn’t gonna happen. Our weapons were the only things keeping us alive. If we dropped them, there was no doubt in my mind that the two thugs with the rifles would fill us with lead seconds after they hit the ground.

  “Let her go!” I yelled. “Do it now and we won’t kill any of you. You can fly out of here and we won’t try and stop you. Just let her go, now.”

  Dante gave a sinister smile and shook his head.

  “You will never
have her back,” he stated. “You have come all this way, you have come so far only to fail now. This bitch is already sold. Business is business.”

  Dante forced Scarlett toward the side door of the plane. Just as they were about to reach it, Scarlett looked up again. Her expression had shifted from fear to intense rage. In an instant, she yelled out wildly.

  She grabbed hold of Dante’s arm with both hands, bent her knees, then snapped her hips back and rolled him over the top of her. Dante was so caught off guard by the attack that he had no choice but to go along for the ride as Scarlett slammed him hard onto the grass.

  Ange and I wasted no time. The moment Dante’s gun was forced from Scarlett’s head, we fired a succession of well-placed rounds into the thug right beside them. The rounds struck through his body and sent them down hard.

  The moment his bloodied body hit the grass, the guy back by the door opened fire. A stream of automatic gunfire screamed toward us, forcing us to dive behind the nearest truck for cover. Bullets pounded the metal and glass, shooting sparks into the night air.

  We kept low, our bodies pressed flat to the grass. I rolled left. Ange rolled right. Just as we peeked around, the plane’s engine groaned louder and the propellers picked up speed. Dante was back on his feet and forcing Scarlett through the plane’s open door.

  The big guy was right at his side, his aim still directed toward the truck we were taking cover behind. He fired again, pelting the grass and tires and dirt around us. We wanted to retaliate, but Scarlett was too close. The last thing we wanted was for a stray bullet to catch her and put a tragic end to the entire thing.

  Dante climbed in first, the big guy right behind him. Using Scarlett as a shield, they carried her up, then pulled her out of our view just as the plane began to accelerate.

  I rolled around the corner of the truck, jumped to my feet, and took off in a full sprint toward the plane. With the only men still standing out of sight inside the plane, I kept my Sig lowered and pumped my arms. My left leg hurt like hell from being struck by the pellet earlier that day, but I ignored it and forced my body to move as fast as it could.