Revenge in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Kneeling down and holding on to the corners of a large rock, I turned to Jack. “This is it.”

  He nodded, and just as I looked up he said, “What’s that?”

  I noticed it too. There was a small groove only about half a foot wide, and there was something foreign sticking partway out of it. Keeping myself steady on the rock, I straightened my body, reached out my hand and grabbed a yellow plastic container. As I brought it close and examined it by the light of my flashlight, I realized that it was one of those small waterproof cases used to store valuables you don’t want to get wet while out on the water.

  I felt both excitement and confusion at the same time. This was what my dad was trying to keep out of the drug runners’ hands? This was the secret he had taken with him to his grave?

  Sitting on the rock across from Jack, I unclasped the two plastic locking devices and hinged open the lid. Inside, there was nothing but a small folded-up piece of paper, which I grabbed with two fingers and unfolded. Flattening it out in front of both of our lights, I saw that the paper had lines of text written in my father’s handwriting.

  Written in blue ink on the first line were the words “A Lone Wolf. A Toxic payload.” The lines that followed contained a series of various questions, all with answers that corresponded to a certain number. He’s giving me coordinates, I thought as I read over the questions that no one on Earth would be able to answer but me.

  I read the first line aloud and then handed the piece of paper to Jack, running the words over and over again in my mind. I knew I could figure out the coordinates, but the first line left me puzzled. One thing was certain, whatever my dad was trying to keep hidden wasn’t inside the cave.

  Jack handed it back to me, then shrugged, “Any idea what it all means?”

  I nodded. “It’s coordinates.” Then, looking back over towards the main section of the cave, I thought about Ange and how those two guys I’d taken out probably weren’t the only bad guys nearby. I folded the paper, closed it back into the container I’d found it in and stowed it in the pocket of my wetsuit. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The trip back was slower since we had to perform a safety stop at fifteen feet beneath the surface. Safety stops are vital to prevent depressurization sickness, a condition which can lead to severe headaches, numbness, dizziness and even death. We’d made quick work of the cave, though, navigating down past the two dead guys and weaving our way through narrow rocks and coral before reaching the open ocean. After three minutes of neutral buoyancy, Jack and I nodded at each other, then finned eagerly towards the blue sky above.

  My boat was still anchored in the same place, just ahead of the forward section of the Thunderbolt wreck, and rocked leisurely in the calm morning water. We surfaced slowly, peeking through the water and doing a quick survey of the boat before rising all the way out. Ange had slipped out of her jean shorts and my old tee shirt and was wearing only her white-and-blue bikini as she lay on her back on the sunbed. Her toned and tanned skin sparkled under the Caribbean sunshine as she eyed us through a pair of dark aviator sunglasses.

  I kicked over towards the swim platform, then slid my mask down. “Ange, everything alright?”

  As Jack and I approached, she stood up and watched us from the other side of the transom. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Those two divers dropped down over there about a hundred meters away. I watched them but thought they were just locals. That is, until the boat came over this way.”

  I slipped out of my fins and climbed up the small ladder onto the swim platform. After lending a hand to help Jack up behind me, I slid out of my gear and dried off with a fresh towel Ange handed me.

  “What did they do?” Jack asked as we climbed over the transom.

  She grinned. “What did they try to do is the better question. There were two of them, and they cruised up along the port side, yelling at me to put my hands on my head.” I smiled, already knowing where the story was going. “Instead I put my hands on something else and fired a few rounds in their direction. When they tried to fire back, I took out the first guy and wounded the second. He managed to cruise full throttle into the horizon like the little chicken that he was.”

  Jack and I both laughed. I wished I could’ve seen the look on their faces when they’d realized just how much more there was to Ange than met the eye. At first glance, she looked like a Victoria’s Secret model. But she was just as deadly as she was attractive, and her enemies usually learned that the hard way.

  “What kind of boat were they on?” Jack asked.

  “A damn fast one. Looked like a Cigarette.”

  Jack and I made eye contact and shook our heads. A Cigarette is a specialty go-fast boat designed from the ground up for speed. Used as racing boats by many people around the world, they can typically accelerate up over eighty knots, making them look more like a blur than a boat when they cruise past. As fast as the Baia was, I knew she’d be no match against a Cigarette in a boat chase.

  “So, what did you find?” she said, her eyes glancing back and forth between us. “I don’t hear any treasure clanking in your pockets.”

  I grabbed the waterproof container from my wetsuit pocket and handed it to her. “There’s a message in there written to me from my dad.”

  Ange held the container out in front of her for a moment, then looked up at me. “Mind if I read it? If it’s personal, I understand.”

  I waved her off, telling her that I wanted her to. I appreciated the fact that she’d asked, though.

  Grabbing a pair of binoculars, I climbed up onto the bow and took a look around. A few more boats had shown up and were anchored near the wreck buoys, along with a few sailboats far out in the distance and a pair of Jet Skis racing a few miles away from us, closer to the shore. None of them looked suspicious, but it was hard to tell. I thought it was doubtful that they would only send one boat. Surely they would have learned their lesson after what had happened in Curacao.

  After seeing that the coast was relatively clear, I climbed back down into the cockpit and helped Jack unstrap and stow all of our gear. Ange was sitting at the dinette, staring intently into the unfolded piece of paper.

  “It’s gotta be latitude and longitudes,” she said, glancing over at us. “I sure hope you remember all of these seemingly obscure numbers.” I grinned at Jack as I unzipped my wetsuit and pulled it off. “But this part: ‘A Lone Wolf. A toxic payload.’ What do you think that means?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But we all know that there’s someone in the Keys who probably does.”

  “That old sea dog will love this,” Jack said. “You know how crazy he gets when he hears a good mystery.”

  We were referring to Pete Jameson, the owner of Salty Pete’s Bar and Grill in Key West. He’d spent his entire life living on that island and he knew more about the ocean, and the Florida Keys in particular, than anyone I’d ever met. He’d been helpful in our search for the lost Aztec treasure, and if anyone knew what those words meant, there was a good chance that it was him.

  Ange grabbed a few coconut waters from the nearby Yeti, then opened them and handed one to each of us. Looking out over the endless blue surrounding us, I cracked it open and took a few long swigs. The cool drink felt good, and before I knew it I’d chugged the entire thing, not realizing just how thirsty the long dive had made me.

  Once all our gear was properly stowed, I pulled up the anchor using the windlass, coiled up the chain, then pulled out the dive flag. Sitting in the cockpit, I started up the engines and we cruised back towards Key West, taking in the beauty of the islands as the warm wind blew through our hair.

  I gave Jack the controls, grabbed the plastic container with the folded message inside, and headed into the salon. Shutting the hatch behind me and sitting at the dinette, I grabbed a small notepad and pencil, then opened the folded piece of paper. I assumed that the questions would give the coordinates in order, so I drew twelve small horizontal lines on the no
tepad paper, one for each number in a set of twelve latitude and longitude coordinates.

  Each of the questions caused a smile to appear on my face as they brought back different memories with my dad. Some of them were pretty simple. For example, on one line, he had written, “My Favorite baseball player?” And as I read the words, the image of Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio wearing the pinstripes and rounding the bases at Yankee Stadium appeared in my mind. And I wrote down the number five on the corresponding blank line.

  Others required a little more thought. For example: “What was your mother’s favorite condiment?” It was difficult, since I barely remembered my mom, but my dad had brought up her unhealthy obsession with Jack Daniel’s barbeque sauce a few times. I wrote the number seven over the corresponding line.

  I read and answered all six questions, some numbers being double digits and some repeat numbers, and by the time I was finished, I had a full set of coordinates.

  I read the coordinates and said each number aloud a few times in order to lock them into my memory. Once I had them memorized, I tore the notepad paper to shreds, then folded up my dad’s note, put it back in the container and slid it into my pocket. I threw the tiny remains of the torn-up paper into my trash can beneath the sink and headed out into the cockpit.

  By the time we eased into the marina, it was just past noon and a cluster of light gray clouds had blown in from the east. After pulling up against the dock and tying off the lines, I changed into my cargo shorts and a pair of tan Converse low-tops. From my black CamelBak, I grabbed my Sig and holstered it to the side of my belt, where it was concealed behind my shorts and tee shirt.

  Ten minutes after pulling into the marina, we were off the Baia and heading down the dock towards the parking lot. The three of us kept our heads on a swivel, knowing full well that if the drug runners were following us out on the water, then they were probably doing the same on land. We hopped into Jack’s blue Jeep Wrangler and headed over to Pete’s place with the top down.

  His restaurant was located on Mangrove Street, just close enough to the bustling streets of downtown to attract tourists and just far enough to stay relatively quiet. That is, unless it was a night when Pete had a band playing. On those nights, Salty Pete’s was as loud and wild as anywhere in Key West.

  Just a few minutes later, we pulled into the small gravel lot in front of a structure that looked more like a house than a restaurant. It was two stories, had a large porch out front and looked a hell of a lot better since Pete had used some of the Aztec gold money to give it a proper restoration.

  After we found the Aztec treasure under an underwater formation known as Neptune’s Table just south of the Marquesas Keys, most of the thousands of gold bars had been sold off. The artifacts had been sent to various museums, and most of the money had been donated to the poorest regions of Mexico. Along with a few of my friends, however, I had been given a handsome finder’s fee, which allowed me to help fix up the old restaurant, buy a house, and live a comfortable lifestyle in the tropical paradise I’d fallen in love with as a kid.

  Walking under a white-lettered sign bearing the name of the restaurant, we moved through the wooden door, causing a bell to ring out inside. Even given the time of year, the place was nearly half-full, the mouthwatering smell radiating from their kitchen summoning every tourist and local within a mile radius.

  Before the door had shut behind us, Mia, the lead waitress, called out to us from across the room.

  “Well, if it isn’t three of my favorite people,” she said, smiling as she approached us. She held a stack of menus in one hand and a pitcher of iced tea in the other. As usual, she had her light brown hair tied back and was wearing a salmon-colored Salty Pete’s tee shirt, which she’d tied into a knot behind her back to make it fit her petite frame. She was pretty, and though she’d been working there for six years, she was only twenty-two years old.

  I returned her smile and said, “It’s good to see you, Mia. Nice to see the place is getting a lot of business.”

  She filled up a few tall glasses with her pitcher as she approached us. After hugging Ange and kissing her cheek, she sighed and said, “Sometimes I miss the old days, when unsuspecting tourists would walk in only to be scared off moments later by the run-down appearance or one of Pete’s antics.”

  “Is that old sea devil here?” Jack asked.

  “Should be here any minute, and he better be. We’re running low on fish, and if he doesn’t get here soon, I’ll have to send someone over to the market.”

  We headed up a set of wooden stairs in the center of the room. The second story was covered with rows of clear glass cases and various artifacts from all over the Keys, including an entire section dedicated to the Aztec treasure. Most of what we’d salvaged had been sent to major museums in Mexico and Washington, D.C., but we’d been able to keep a few items in Key West, which also attracted tourists to the restaurant.

  Opening a sliding glass door, we found a nice table on the patio that was shaded by a large umbrella and cooled by a fan and mister. The patio boasted 180-degree views of the ocean, which were obstructed only by a few tall coconut trees.

  Less than a minute after we sat down, Mia arrived and took our drink and appetizer orders. We enjoyed a few orders of conch fritters, a specialty in the Keys, and washed them down with delicious and refreshing Key limeade. After we ordered our entrees, the sliding glass door opened and Pete walked out onto the patio, his lips contorted into a smile that spread from ear to ear.

  “Just the scallywags I wanted to see,” he said in his rough voice, laughing and patting each of us on the back as he removed an old-style camera that was slung around his neck and handed it to Jack. “I caught the biggest Mutton Snapper in history today, mark my words.”

  Pete was in his sixties, with a few straggling gray hairs growing out of his tanned bald head and a good-sized gut that made him appear almost as wide as he was tall. But his most distinguishing feature was a metal hook he had in lieu of a right hand, which he’d lost in an epic sea story that changed more frequently than the tides.

  We took turns looking into the small LCD screen as Pete hovered over us. “She put up a hell of a fight. A worthy opponent.”

  “She’s a beauty,” Ange said, admiring the large red-and-silver fish.

  “Ah, she is,” Pete said, nodding. After a few seconds, he added, “You all enjoy, now. I’m gonna head down and help Oz with the filets. We’re gonna have snapper for weeks.”

  “Hey, Pete,” I said as he turned to head for the door. He glanced over his shoulder and looked at me. “You mind joining us for a few minutes? We could use your help with something.”

  Intrigued, he sauntered back over and sat across from us in the fourth cedar chair situated around the round table. Staring at me with his deep brown eyes, he smiled and said, “What have you guys stumbled onto this time?”

  Without a word, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small plastic container. Unhooking the clasp, I pulled out the folded paper, unfolded it and handed it to Pete. His eyes lit up like a kid unwrapping his first birthday present. He read over the words twice as I sipped on my limeade and threw a few more fritters down the hatch, relishing the flavor.

  “Who wrote this?” he finally said, his face filled with excitement.

  I took a quick look around. Fortunately, there were no other parties braving the heat out on the patio. I wanted to keep this conversation between us.

  “My dad,” I said. “And he left it hidden in a secret cave over by the Thunderbolt.”

  His eyes lit up, and when he asked how we’d found out about it, Ange and I told him the story, starting with the phone call I’d made at Latitudes Restaurant.

  “Damned shame,” he said when I told him the part about my dad being murdered. “I’m sorry to hear that, Logan.”

  “Not as sorry as these guys are gonna be,” I said, then continued with the story.

  By the time we finished, our food had arrived and we couldn’t help
but dig into the freshly cooked seafood as Pete thought it over. I was happy to see that Isaac, Jack’s fifteen-year-old nephew, was helping out around the place. He had a broom and was sweeping up the patio around us. He was homeschooled but was so smart and ahead for his age that he took a few classes at the local college. But aside from pedaling his bike to and from the campus a few days a week, he rarely left the house. Jack decided it would be a good idea for him to get a part-time job so he could earn a little spending money and get out of his shell at the same time. When Jack’s brother had died in a car accident years ago, Isaac’s mom couldn’t take care of him, so Jack had been raising him ever since. He’d lived in Chicago much of his life and had had a hard time adjusting to life in the tropics.

  “It’s the first line I’m hoping you can help us with,” I said, pointing at the top of the paper.

  Clearing his throat, Pete read the words aloud. “A Lone Wolf. A toxic payload.”

  I stared expectantly into his eyes behind his wrinkled tan skin. He read the words a few more times, then leaned back in his chair.

  “Well?” I said. “Any ideas?”

  He sighed and said, “Nothing comes to mind. But perhaps—”

  “I think it’s referring to a submarine,” a voice said from the other side of the patio, cutting Pete off and causing our entire table to go silent. I dropped a forkful of fish, leaned back and looked in Isaac’s direction. He was standing beside the railing, holding his broom in one hand and looking off into nowhere, lost in thought. “Yeah,” he continued. “That’s gotta be what it’s talking about.”

  I shook my head. “A submarine? What makes you think that?”

  Seeing that all eyes were on him, he walked quickly over to the table and looked down at the piece of paper. He was lean and lanky, built like Jack except with darker hair and pale skin. He was wearing a green Salty Pete’s tee shirt and a round straw hat, and he looked like he had about a gallon of sunscreen on his legs, arms, and face.