He hung up and pocketed the phone in his torn-up denim shorts.
“When’s Jake coming?” said the chubby guy manning the tiller.
Skinny grabbed a soda from a cooler and popped the top. After downing the entire can, he smashed it on the deck.
“On his way.”
“Shit, he better be. We’ve been at this for hours. And it’s already hotter than the devil’s armpit out here.” The chubby guy lit up a cigarette. “There’s nothing out here.”
Skinny stepped forward and looked out over the water. For a moment, he looked right at us. But the overgrown branches and the dark shade they provided kept us hidden.
“Just crank it,” he said.
They continued their search, motoring along a quarter-mile line.
“Looks like we’ve found the killers,” Ange said.
I kept my eyes locked on the pair. “But Harper said that the man who got away from her uncle’s place was muscular. Neither of those guys come close to fitting that description. And who’s this Jake they’re waiting on?”
Ange sighed. “It can’t ever be simple, can it?”
Murders committed out of reckless anger are more straightforward. People don’t tend to think things through very well when their emotions have the wheel. They tend to leave trails that even rookie detectives could follow in their sleep.
But John Ridley hadn’t been murdered out of anger.
No, he’d been taken out as part of an orchestrated plan with a valuable goal in mind. Based on the conversation we’d just overheard, there were at least three guys still involved in the endeavor. And I was willing to bet that the number was higher than that.
I observed the two on the boat carefully as they finished up their current line, motoring right up to the opposite shore of the lagoon. When they turned to head back in our direction, I got an idea.
“Ange, stay here,” I said.
I spat in my dive mask, swirled the saliva around the lenses, then rinsed it in the water to help prevent it from fogging up.
“You’re not taking down these assholes without me,” she fired back.
“I’m not taking down anyone. Not yet. We need to figure out who they were talking to and where these guys are going after they’re done playing Dirk Pitt.” I slid my mask over my face and patted my wetsuit pocket. “I’m gonna place the tracker.”
If we’d been in open water, the idea would be ludicrous. I’d be spotted before I’d made it anywhere close to the boat. But inside the lagoon, the swirling sediment and thick seagrass made a stealth approach plausible.
“That’s a long breath-hold,” she said. “Even for you. And didn’t you just scold that kid yesterday about freediving alone?”
“I make an exception when taking down criminals.”
“You’re crazy, Logan Dodge.”
I dipped into the water, keeping only my head above the surface, and focused on the slowly approaching boat. I needed to time my entry just right.
“That’s why you married me.” I shot her a wink through the mask lens. “Just watch my six in case these guys do anything unexpected.”
She didn’t need to say a word. In her eyes, I could tell that she wanted to just paddle over, beat the two guys to a pulp, then hand them over to the authorities. As much as I liked the straightforward approach, sometimes I preferred the stealth route. And I had a gut feeling that the two guys were part of something much bigger, and I wanted to see what that was.
I shot Ange a smile, then looked back at my target, took in a deep breath, and dropped beneath the surface.
ELEVEN
The water felt good as I flattened out my body and rocketed with smooth, powerful fin cycles. The lagoon was teeming with life: varieties of fish, horseshoe crabs, and more nurse sharks than I’d ever seen anywhere else in the islands. As I’d planned, I stuck to the deeper water, finning just inches above the bottom.
I listened as the boat’s engine and spinning prop grew louder and louder ahead of me. Reaching the spot where I’d predicted them to make their turn, I nestled into the seagrass and looked up through the long green strands that swayed overhead like branches in the wind.
The current was surprisingly stagnant, and the water clear aside from the plant life. Lying on my back and letting the weights pin me to the bottom, I kept my eyes up and watched as the boat’s hull came into view. I was only in about five feet of water, so I kept perfectly still, letting the camouflage wetsuit blend me into my surroundings.
It was moments like those that took me back to my time in the Navy. Sneaking up on unsuspecting enemies, observing them for intel, and pouncing on them when they least expected it.
The boat motored closer. Thirty yards away. Then twenty. Then ten.
I grabbed the tracking device with my right index finger and thumb and pulled it free of the pouch.
Five yards.
When the dark hull of the boat loomed right overhead, I pushed off the bottom and dolphin-kicked as hard as I could. Accelerating to match the boat’s speed, I reached up and pressed the tracking device against the corner of its transom.
As quickly as I’d ascended, I kicked back to the bottom, using the bubbles of the boat’s wake for cover, then froze in the grass once more. The boat continued on, its occupants blissfully unaware of what had just happened.
I waited as the boat performed its expected turn, hooking back around with their magnetometer in tow to perform another pass. When the boat was within twenty yards of my position, it slowed suddenly, then idled.
There’s no way in hell that they see me, is there?
The thick seagrass made it difficult for me to see the dark hull, let alone for them to see me. But then why had they stopped?
I spotted sudden movement to my left. It was dark and big in my peripherals. As I turned my head to see what it was, I heard a muffled boom from the air above.
I watched as a swarm of pellets tore into the water, slowed after a few feet, then sank to the bottom just beside the boat. I reached for my dive knife instinctively and pulled it from its sheath. My eyes focusing on the hull, I spotted the movement to my left again.
Rapidly emerging out of the grass, a crocodile appeared, swimming as fast as it could right beside me. Fortunately, the deadly prehistoric reptile either didn’t see me or didn’t mind my presence, for it kept up its pace, vanishing from view just as fast as it had appeared.
I calmed myself and looked back at the boat as the propeller fired up again. My heart rate had picked up. Glancing at my dive watch, I saw that I’d been down for almost three minutes. My lungs had been throbbing for thirty seconds already.
After the boat passed, I kicked out of the seagrass and made a beeline back toward the shore. My lungs begging for air, I kicked again and again, ignoring the plea. My vision was beginning to fade when I finally spotted Ange’s body in the tangle of branches. Moments later, I exhaled as I rose up beside her. I performed three quick, silent inhales and exhales.
“All right,” I said after catching my breath, “that was a little too long.”
“Four minutes by my count. Did you place it?”
I nodded.
“Nearly without a hitch. That shotgun blast sure woke me up.”
“I had my Glock ready when he snatched his twelve-gauge from the deck. Then he yelled, ‘Croc!’”
We waited until the guys came back our way, then turned around for another pass, before making our stealthy escape. Once around the point and out of sight, we kicked toward the kayak. After removing all of our gear and peeling off our wetsuits, we untied the line and I shoved us off.
“I got a message from Jane,” Ange said, peering at her phone.
“You have a signal?”
“One bar somehow. She says the coroners have identified the body. She says she emailed me the full report.”
I gripped tight to my paddle and turned us around.
“Let’s get back to the Baia and check it out.”
We hugged the inner shor
e again, then paddled our way back into the opening in the shrubs. We relaxed a little once in the narrow channel. No one was going to spot us in there. The mangroves rose up around us and reached overhead, making it feel like we were paddling through a tunnel.
We weaved in and out of the unique landscape, cutting the distance faster the second time around. The incessant humming of the distant engine continued at our backs. My mind drifted from John Ridley to the Civil War treasure William Sawyer and his Key West Avengers had supposedly tossed overboard nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. If the two sweat-covered trigger-happy guys on the boat were searching in the right spot, they’d have most likely found it by then. A big metal-framed chest full of valuable contents would make a magnetometer sing louder than a church choir on Easter Sunday.
As we closed in on the Baia, we both froze mid-paddle as a new sound echoed across the water. It was engines. A whole orchestra of them. And these ones were bigger than the one groaning at our backs. And they were coming from up ahead.
We picked up our pace, pulling hard on the paddles and launching ourselves through the waterway. As we neared the opening in the channel, the engine sounds stopped. But they were soon replaced by a much more unnerving sound.
My sat phone buzzed to life in my lap. Glancing at the screen, I saw an alert from the Baia’s security system. Somebody was on the boat.
TWELVE
Ange and I picked up the pace, pulling our paddle blades through the water as fast as we could while keeping in rhythm. After we’d just gotten her out of the boatyard the previous day, the thought of some stranger wandering aboard made my blood boil.
If there’s so much as a scratch on the hull, I thought, tightening my grip on the paddle.
Avid boaters know better than to wander onto somebody else’s craft. It carries the same legal weight as trespassing onto someone’s property. A big no-no.
We flew through the narrow waterway, winding our way back to the opening out into Old Rhodes Channel. When the Baia came into view, we spotted a pontoon boat right up against its stern. It was old and raggedy, like something straight out of the movie Waterworld. But it had three big, shiny Mercury engines clamped to the stern that looked severely out of place on the leisure craft. The boat also had an aluminum cabin cruiser tied off behind it, a utility-style craft that you often see near marine job sites.
We spotted three guys, two on the pontoon boat and one on the deck of the Baia. We couldn’t get a good look at the guys on the unknown boat, but the one on the Baia had a full dark beard and wore a ballcap.
“What’s the play here, Logan?” Ange said. “And please don’t tell me you want to freedive again.”
“No stealth approach this time, Ange. We paddle up and respectfully tell them to get the hell off our boat.”
We kept up the pace, making quick work of the distance between the edge of the channel and the two boats. As we approached, one of the guys on the pontoon boat spotted us and yelled out to his friend snooping around on the Baia. The guy with the beard and ballcap spun around, then stepped against the Baia’s port gunwale and eyed us suspiciously.
Ange and I both had our handguns within arm’s reach, ready to snatch them, take aim, and fire off a few rounds in less than a second if need be. If any of them so much as raised a weapon, they’d be riddled with bullets and floating facedown in the water before they could take aim.
“What the hell are you two staring at?” the guy with the beard yelled.
The nerve of this guy.
“Our boat,” Ange fired back. “And some loser who climbed aboard it without permission.”
He shielded the side of his face from the late-morning sun. We kept paddling, heading straight for the Baia’s stern.
“This is yours?” he growled.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice raised a few levels above his. “And you’ve got three seconds to get your trespassing ass off it.”
The man bellowed.
I climbed onto the swim platform, stepped over the transom, and strode right into his face. I had a few inches and about twenty pounds on the guy.
His laugh went away, replaced by a twitch of fear.
I don’t care about the situation. I don’t care if I’m facing off against a bigger opponent or overwhelming odds. I won’t be intimidated. Just not in my character.
As expected, the bully wasn’t accustomed to having his own behavior shoved back into his face. He swallowed, regained his fragile composure, and eyed me like an opposing fighter seconds before the bell.
Up close, the guy’s beard looked even worse, with straggling hairs and what looked like an attempt at a handlebar mustache.
Handlebars on a toddler’s bike, maybe.
“And what if I don’t get off, huh?” he snarled. “What then?”
“Oh, you’re getting off. One way or another. Whether you do it under your own strength or by me throwing you is your decision.”
His breath was nasty, like he hadn’t brushed in a week.
“What are you two doing here anyway?” he asked.
“We’re investigating a murder,” I said, catching the guy off guard. “Happened two evenings ago in Key Largo. Know anything about it?”
The man froze. “You police or something?” he spat.
“No. We’re worse than the police. When we find the killer, we’re more likely to deal with him our own way. Then, once we’re done, we might consider handing whoever’s responsible over to the feds.” I shrugged. “Depends if we’re feeling generous or not.”
“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. But those kinds of words won’t fly with me without serious repercussions.”
“Get off my boat.”
“Forget these fools, Jake,” a bald guy on the pontoon boat spat.
I thought back to the phone conversation we’d overheard back in the lagoon. I guess this is Jake.
Jake held his hands in the air in mock submission, then strode past me. The self-identified macho man thought he was being clever. Pretending like I’d won the argument. When he reached for the knife hanging from his waist, I was already a step ahead of him.
I snatched his wrist before he could pull the blade free, then jerked his arm back while shoving a heel behind his left knee. His lower body buckled, allowing me to use his own weight to twist his arm back even more. Right on the brink of a broken bone.
He grunted in pain and flailed like a fish tossed onto dry land. I looked up just as Ange smacked the guy closest to her on the pontoon across the head with her paddle. As he fell to the deck, she snatched her Glock and put the bald guy in her sights before he could grab his weapon. He froze like a deer caught in the headlights.
“What the fuck?” Jake shouted. “Let go of me.”
Forcing him into submission, I pulled out his knife and tossed it into the water. Then I did the same with his Colt handgun. It was only fair. He’d trespassed onto my boat and tried to slice me up with a cheap shot. He didn’t deserve to be armed.
I eyed the guy Ange had struck with her paddle as he stumbled to his feet. Squeezing my left arm tight around Jake’s neck, I pulled out my Sig and aimed it at the guys on the pontoon.
“This is your last chance to leave in one piece,” I declared. “Drop your weapons.”
The two guys obliged right away, then pleaded for Jake to stop. The hot-headed guy grunted, then finally said that he’d get off. I loosened my grip, then kicked him in the back. He fell forward, slamming onto the transom, flipping over, and splashing into the water.
He thrashed as his buddies helped him onto the pontoon boat. Glaring back at me with soaked clothes, he ordered the bald guy to fire up the engines. He hit the gas, accelerating the old decrepit boat and turning west away from us.
Jake didn’t take his eyes off me. When they were a hundred yards off, he yelled, “We’ll meet again, asshole.”
THIRTEEN
“I’m surprised you let him go,” Ange said as we watched the boat grow smaller and smaller as t
hey scurried off into the bay. “He trespassed on your pride and joy, threatened you, and practically admitted to murder.”
“He didn’t admit to it,” I said. “But he certainly knew about it. These are our guys. The question is, how many more are there?”
As I lashed the kayak back to the stern, Ange pulled out her smartphone.
“Well, I can think of one way to get some answers,” she said.
“The email from Jane?”
She nodded. “Why don’t we learn a few things about these guys over lunch at Alabama Jack’s?” she said. “It’s just across the sound, and all this making new mortal enemies has worked up my appetite.”
I smiled. I’d worked up quite the appetite as well, paddling, freediving, paddling some more, and then threatening. A blackened grouper sandwich from Jack’s would surely hit the spot.
“You check out the email,” I said, tightening up the nylon straps. “I’ll get the anchor up and pilot us out of here.”
We made the jump across Card Sound in just over ten minutes. Motoring up to the Monroe County Toll Bridge, we turned west into the canal that ran parallel to the two-lane road, then tied off to a dock half a mile inland. After changing, we flip-flopped to shore, then across Card Sound Road.
Alabama Jack’s looks more like a roadside shack than a building and is a perfect example of why you shouldn’t judge a place by its appearance. It had an old wood lattice covering the road-facing wall, a second-story room painted to look like the sky, and a simple red-painted sign indicating the place’s name. There was a row of motorcycles out front that always seemed to be there. Jack’s was a middle-of-nowhere local spot where bikers, couples, and families with little kids all congregated to relish the delicious and funky experience.
We strode inside, and a host led us through the dining area with license plates from all over the country hanging from the ceiling. We picked a spot away from the main groups, a two-seater high table in the corner of the porch overlooking the channel. It wasn’t too bad with the sunshade and the breeze off the sound.
Avenged in the Keys Page 6