by Matthew Rief
The Russian crumpled up the paper, then dropped it on the ground and pressed it into the mud under his boot.
“You will pay the agreed price,” he said. “Plus a bonus for pissing me off. Or you will not get your weapons.”
One of the soldiers grabbed his AK-47 and aimed it straight at the Russian.
“We’re taking the weapons,” he said. “Whether you are alive or dead is up to you.”
The other soldier raised his rifle as well, keeping it aimed straight at the Russian’s chest. At their backs, a small group of armed soldiers stepped out of the shadows and watched the scene unfold. The Russian was unfazed. He took another drag of his cigar, this one deeper, and blew the smoke into the two soldiers’ faces.
Despite his appearance, it wasn’t his stature that frightened his enemies most. It was the calm and sinister manner with which he spoke, the look he gave when his blood boiled, and the ease with which he pulled the trigger. He killed without thought or remorse, and at times even without provocation. The most terrifying part was that he appeared to enjoy ending lives, as if he were the devil himself.
Looking them both in the eye, the Russian spat into the mud, then said, “You have made a very grave mistake tonight. And… it will cost you your lives as well as the lives of everyone in this village.”
The two soldiers’ eyes grew wide, then they glared back at the Russian. They were about to squeeze the triggers of their AK-47s when heavy-caliber rounds suddenly struck each of them and sent them to the mud in an instant. The sounds were loud and ominous, like cracks of thunder waking the sleeping village.
The doors of the other freight cars screeched open, and a flood of well-armed and heavily trained soldiers came bursting out. They fired a storm of automatic rounds into the village, quickly taking down the other soldiers who’d come to help negotiate a better deal. The Russian didn’t even blink in the chaos. He looked out over the village, watching as men were mowed down, and continued to puff on his cigar.
When the village went quiet aside from the screams of women and children, a man dressed in full black tactical gear approached the Russian.
“We’ve taken them out,” he said. “Their soldiers are all either dead or have surrendered. Shall we make contact with their general?”
The Russian nodded. They called up the general, told him that they had his men hostage, and let one of the hostages speak with him. He was angry but consented to pay the agreed-upon amount.
Once the transfer of funds had been verified, the Russian turned to his second-in-command. “Now we send a message.” He looked deep into the guy’s eyes. “Kill everyone.”
The man nodded, gathered his troops, and moved into the village. Even when the soldiers dropped their weapons in surrender and pleaded for mercy, the Russian and his men didn’t relent. They killed everyone in the village, then set every structure ablaze.
Once everyone was dead, they unloaded the crates of weapons from the train cars and stacked them beside the tracks. The Russian stepped to the side and watched his men at work. His phone rang in his jacket pocket, and he answered it.
“What is your status?” a woman’s voice said.
“Minor complications,” he replied. “Nothing to be concerned with. The shipment has been delivered without problem. There was disagreement with agreed-upon terms, but we have resolved the issue. The funds have been successfully transferred to the account.”
“Good,” the woman replied. “I need you on a plane to Cuba.”
“Any details?”
“Kyle Quinn is in the Caribbean. I need you to take him out.”
The Russian smiled.
“I thought Webb and his team were taking care of it,” the Russian said.
“I’ve lost faith in their ability,” she replied. “I haven’t called them off, but I wouldn’t count on them coming through.”
The Russian smirked. He’d always disliked Webb and was happy to see that his team was disappointing their boss.
Webb is a good fighter to be sure, he thought. But he lacks a certain killer instinct, a ruthlessness that can only be attained from a lifetime of living as I have lived.
“I need a clean sweep,” she said. “Nothing left of him, understand?”
“That will not be a problem. I will contact you when it is finished. I am on my way to airport now.”
“No need,” she said. “I sent a chopper and it should be landing at your location any second.”
As if her words had summoned the helicopter, the Russian heard the sounds of distant rotor blades as they tore through the air.
“You will receive a briefing on the jet,” she said. “His current location is Key West, but I suspect he won’t be there for much longer. You will fly into Playa Baracoa Airport in Cuba. I have a boat waiting for you there that’s fully loaded with arms and explosives.”
The Russian smiled. “Consider him dead.”
EIGHT
I woke up at 0800 to the sound of my cellphone vibrating to life. After I reached over and turned off my alarm as well as the security system, my head dropped back onto my pillow and I lay in bed for a few more minutes. Morning light radiated through the hatch over my head as I stared at the blue sky above. The hatch was cracked open a few inches, allowing a fresh breeze to sneak in and brush against my face. I could hear the sounds of the marina coming to life, the distant caws of seagulls, the puttering of diesel engines, the muffled voices of boaters as they went about their mornings.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I thought over the events of the previous day and couldn’t help but shake my head at just how unexpected life can be. One moment you’re living your life, feeling like you’ve got a pretty good handle on things and then wham! The universe throws you a curveball that would make Sandy Koufax proud.
Rolling myself out of bed, I pressed my bare feet onto the deck and slid into a pair of cargo shorts and a gray cutoff tee shirt. I stepped into the head, twisted the faucet, then filled my cupped hands with cold water and splashed it against my face. After toweling off, I moved aft and pulled open the door leading into the lounge. To my surprise, Kyle was already awake. He sat beside the dining table wearing the same thing he’d been wearing the night before and was reading an old framed article from the Keynoter.
“Were there any bodies still intact?” he asked as he glanced up momentarily from the newspaper. Seeing my confusion, he turned the article around so I could see it. “This Harper Ridley is pretty good. I’m surprised she hasn’t been offered a better gig in a big city.”
The article was about U-3546, the German U-boat my dad had found just hours before he was murdered. I’d rediscovered it a few years after, and the photograph was of Jack, Professor Murchison, and me as we dove around its crusted hull 130 feet underwater.
“I’m sure she has.” I stepped towards the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “The Keys attract many people willing to trade deep pockets for sandy pockets,” I added, stealing a line I’d heard from Charles when we’d first met. “And, yes,” I continued, “there were parts of bodies still intact. The enclosed stagnant water in different sections prevented some from decomposing completely. We strived to be as respectful as possible and never released any photographs of bodies.”
Kyle only nodded and continued to read as I sat down on the other side of the couch. I took a few sips of the warm coffee, then set the mug in front of me.
“How long you been up?”
“A few hours,” he replied.
I was surprised I hadn’t heard him since I usually woke up at the slightest disturbance.
He set the framed article on the table and paused for a moment.
“Well?” he said, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Well, what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Dodge. I don’t have time for it. Are you going to let me use your boat or not?”
The salon went quiet. I’d been thinking it over all night and, despite how foolish and reckless it was, had come to a decision.
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br /> “If you think for a second that I’m going to let you take my boat, you’re out of your mind,” I said, then leaned forward, grabbed my mug, and took another sip.
Kyle shook his head and rose to his feet.
Just as he was about to tear me a new one and stomp off, I added, “Without me too, that is.”
He paused, then tilted his head and looked me in the eyes. I saw the makings of a potential smile, but he quickly wiped it away.
Nodding, he said, “Alright.”
“But I have conditions,” I said. “Mainly, I’m in charge. We’ll work as a team to find this plane, but I’ll have the final say.”
“Fine,” he said, though he didn’t exactly sound excited. “What else?”
“I want to know everything that you do about the situation. Everything you’ve heard about our mission in Colombia, and everything you know about Carson Richmond and Darkwater’s involvement.”
“That it?”
I nodded and finished off the rest of my coffee. Rising to my feet, I stepped starboard and opened the fridge.
“You hungry?”
I warmed up a few poppy seed and blueberry muffins from Key’s Knees Bakery, then blended up a strawberry, mango, and banana smoothie with a few scoops of whey protein powder. While we ate, I grabbed a rolled-up chart and spread it out on the table in front of us. I also snatched my laptop from a nearby locker and booted it up.
“Alright,” I said, swallowing a bite of warm muffin. “Where are we heading?”
Kyle leaned forward and placed a finger on the chart. He was pointing at a stretch of blue ocean between Southern Florida, Cuba, and the Bahamas.
“Cay Sal?” I said.
He nodded, and I wasn’t surprised. After their flight had crashed ten years ago, the US and Bahamian governments had spent months searching for the wreck. Though a few pieces were recovered, including a good-sized chunk of its tail, most of the plane was never found. The plane had been on a course for Miami, if I remembered correctly, and it had lost contact with air traffic controllers just north of Cuba.
“It’s a good thing my armory’s stocked,” I said.
Cay Sal Bank, the westernmost of the Bahamian Banks, is a long way from nowhere. It’s a modern-day No man’s land, a place frequented by pirates, poachers, and refugees, where only the brave and well-prepared dare venture.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Kyle said with a grin. “Haven’t you been fighting the FARC? I’d take on a band of modern-day pirates over Colombian rebels any day of the week.”
He was referring to the six years I’d spent as a mercenary after getting out of the Navy. Though I’d been hired for various jobs around the world, most of my time had been spent in Colombia and other South American countries.
“You’re forgetting about Darkwater,” I said. “They’ll follow us and it’s only a matter time before we’ll have to fight them off.”
We finished the rest of the food, then formulated a plan of action. We both agreed that we should leave as soon as possible and made preparations for the long voyage ahead of us. Though Cuba oftentimes tries to claim Cay Sal as their own, the bank is considered part of the Bahamas. In order for us to cruise into Cay Sal legally, we’d have to clear customs, and the closest place to do that was the Bimini Islands, 170 miles northeast of Key West. From there, we’d refuel and cruise over a hundred miles south to Cay Sal.
Before casting off, I checked over all of my gear, including specialty salvage gear like my magnetometer, underwater metal detectors, scuba equipment, and my two sets of Draeger rebreathers. The Baia has built-in side-scan sonar, which, though designed to allow me to navigate through shallow cuts and reefs, would also be useful during our search for the wreck. Fortunately, my onboard safe contained many of my firearms, including an extra Sig, an MP5N, and my Lapua sniper rifle. I also had a good supply of ammunition and stacks of various currencies, including a stack of Bahamian dollars and Cuban pesos, just in case we made it that far south.
Once I had all my gear in order, I filled up the freshwater tank, then removed the mooring lines and started up the engines. Cruising slowly, I brought the Baia over to the fuel station and filled up the 370-gallon tank. Though it was still expensive in the Keys, I knew that fuel would cost an arm and a leg in Bimini, so I wanted to minimize the amount purchased there. Since the maximum range of the Baia at cruising speed was just short of three hundred miles, I decided to fill my spare tank as well. It would be nice to have an extra supply on hand just in case.
As I filled the spare fifty-gallon tank, Gus walked over and handed me a package.
“That’s strange,” I said. “I didn’t order anything. Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t have a return address,” Gus said, pointing at the label as he handed it over to me. “Going on a trip?” He eyed Kyle skeptically.
He was standing beside the cockpit, leaning over the dinette as he scanned over charts.
“Yeah. Hey, have you seen Jack this morning?”
Gus nodded. “We had breakfast at the Pelican. He should be over on his boat.”
When I finished filling up, he told me he’d add it to my monthly bill. I thanked him, started up the engines, then pulled away from the fuel station and up alongside the stern of the Calypso. I spotted Jack as he was preparing his boat for an afternoon charter, setting up fishing rods, filling coolers with ice and beverages, and rinsing the deck. His fifteen-year-old nephew, Isaac, was up on the flybridge and called to us as we approached.
Jack, who was wearing nothing but a pair of boardshorts, turned and set a fishing pole along a row of others.
“Good morning, Jack,” I said.
His smile quickly shifted when he spotted Kyle sitting beside me.
“Oh, Jack, this is James Evans,” I lied. “He’s an old friend from the Navy.”
Kyle stood, walked over to the starboard gunwale and shook Jack’s hand.
Jack looked at me, confused. “Good to meet you. Where are you guys off to?”
I moved just a few feet from Jack and said, “We’re gonna do some diving near Cay Sal.”
Jack’s eyes grew wide and his confusion only increased. Having spent his entire life in the Keys, Jack knew as well as any man alive the dangers associated with boating around Cay Sal. Though by no means a guarantee, the chances of encountering criminals were greater there than just about anywhere else in the Caribbean.
“Look, I don’t want to lie to you,” I said, keeping my voice low enough to be muffled by the sound of my idling engines. “But I also don’t want you to know the truth. For your protection and for…” My eyes shifted towards Isaac, who was messing with the electronics up on the flybridge. “There’s something that we’ve got to do. Just do me a favor and don’t tell anyone where we are. Just say we’re in the Gulf for a few days or something.”
“Should I be worried, bro?” he said.
“About me?” I laughed. “No. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll have my sat phone with me and I’ll try to give you a call once a day.”
“What about Ange?”
“She doesn’t need to know,” I said. “She would come down here right away if she knew what was going on, and I don’t want that.”
“I had breakfast with Gus this morning and he said that you two were brawling last night,” he said, glancing at Kyle. “And now you’re going on a trip together to Cay Sal?”
My mouth opened to give a reply, but I knew that it would be impossible for me to explain everything. It was difficult for me to comprehend myself, let alone try and get someone else to.
“We have a history,” I said. “But we need to do this. I need to do this.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep in touch. If all goes well and we don’t run into trouble, I should only be gone for a couple of days.”
I stepped back onto the swim platform of the Baia.
“You know, questioning whether or not you’ll run into trouble sounds pretty funny coming from you,” Jack said with a ch
uckle. “Just try not to get captured by a drug cartel.”
Kyle looked at me questioningly.
I smiled and said, “I’ll do my best.”
NINE
At just after 1000, we cruised out of the marina. It was a slightly overcast day, and even though it was March, the temperature was already over seventy degrees. When I brought us out of the no-wake zone, I hit the throttles, causing the propellers to tear through the water and rocket us up to our cruising speed of forty knots.
Off the port bow, we passed by Mallory Square, the bustling waterfront plaza known for its street performers, sunset celebrations, and carts selling everything from conch fritters to natural sponges. To starboard, the tiny Sunset Key blurred past as we cruised south. We flew around Fort Zachary Taylor, then headed northeast along the Keys, making a beeline for the Bimini Islands across the Straits of Florida.
The prevailing wind blew in from the east at just four knots, allowing for a smooth passage as we tore over the Atlantic.
Kyle grabbed the mysterious package and cut into it beside me.
“Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, grabbing and pulling out a stack of folded clothes from the package.
I shook my head. “You always did bag me on how predictable I was.”
“Yeah, well, I hoped for the use of your boat. You tagging along is a surprise.”
He dropped down into the salon and took a shower in the guest head. In the solitude, I looked out over the water and thought briefly about my life. I’d moved to the Keys to get away from the action and relax, and yet again I found myself venturing into an unknown that promised nothing but danger. Maybe it’s true that you can’t escape who you are, that the universe clutches you and pulls you back just as you think you’ve drifted on to something else. Or perhaps blaming destiny is a cop-out, and my experiences have been a result of decisions I’ve made. I’ve always preferred the latter, believing wholeheartedly that I am captain of my soul.
Half an hour later, Kyle appeared wearing a fresh cutoff tee shirt and a pair of grey swim trunks. We spent most of the five-hour voyage getting reacquainted as best as we could. I gave him a brief history of everything I’d done since we’d last seen each other in Venezuela, and he told me more about where he’d been and how he’d managed to survive the plane crash.