by Matthew Rief
“I think this is the last car,” Ange said as a few straggling vehicles passed by.
One of the construction workers spoke into his radio, then twisted a sign in his hands, replacing the word stop with slow. Traffic ahead of us turned into the left lane and inched forward. As the leading police vehicle reached the construction workers, they twisted the sign and held up a hand.
“What the hell?” I said, my mind racing as I looked around.
Seeing motion behind me, I glanced through my rearview mirror and saw a truck flying towards us through the rain-splattered rear window. I quickly put my Tacoma in gear, floored the gas and jerked the steering wheel to the right, trying to get out of its path. The truck hit my bumper, sending us into a powerful spin that slammed us both against our seat belts.
A second later, we came to a stop against the railing and I watched as the semitruck continued forward, crashing into the trailing police vehicle from behind. The back of the police car collapsed and slammed into the back of the armored truck ahead of it.
I drew my gaze forward and watched as a second truck slammed into the leading police car, hitting it so hard it almost flew over the bridge and into the water below. I shook myself from the haze of the collision and reached for my Sig. Reaching for the door handle, I pulled it down and shouldered the door open.
Just as I stepped out into the rain, I heard the sound of gunfire erupt over by the convoy. The five construction workers had thrown their equipment to the ground and grabbed Uzis, handguns, and submachine guns that they’d hidden beneath their orange vests. I moved forward and saw that both police cars appeared to be totaled and the officers inside were motionless.
The thugs dressed in construction attire went straight for the armored truck, forcing the two officers inside to get out at gunpoint. Ange appeared beside me, my MP5N clenched in her hands. We moved quickly towards the armored truck but kept our bodies low. When we were about a hundred feet away, we crouched behind a car, then popped up and opened fire. I hit one of the thugs just as he was climbing into the armored truck, causing his body to spin sideways and splash onto the wet pavement. Ange took down another, catching him off guard as he ran around the back of the truck.
The three other thugs let out a stream of automatic gunfire in our direction, forcing us to take cover. By the time we popped back up, the three remaining thugs were climbing into the armored truck. We fired a few rounds in their direction but hit only the thick metal doors as they slammed shut behind them, sending sparks flying wildly into the air.
Shooting the truck would be useless, as I knew that it was plated with thick steel capable of withstanding even high-caliber rifle rounds. Instead, I took aim at the tires, sending a few bullets into the rear left rear one before it accelerated around the construction truck. But even that did little but slow it down as it barreled down US-1, heading towards Marathon.
Inside the red Camry I was taking cover behind, I saw a young woman with her body bent down, trying to stay out of sight.
“I need you to call 911,” I said, yelling through the shattered windows.
Her body was shaking, but she looked up at me and I knew that she’d heard me. A second later, she reached for her phone, which had been resting in the passenger seat.
Glancing up, I saw that the armored truck had almost disappeared from view.
“Shit,” I said as I jumped from my cover and ran over towards the police vehicles. I headed for the leading one first, knowing that was the one Charles was in. As I moved closer, I saw that it was smooshed in on the side where a truck had hit it and the windshield was shattered. Charles was sitting on the pavement, rain beating down on him as he leaned against the driver’s-side door. His right hand was holding a radio, and his left was pressed against his chest, where I saw splotches of red mixing with the rainwater. His eyes were wide as he glanced up at me, barking orders into the radio.
“Charles, are you okay?” I asked as I knelt down beside him and examined the bullet wound to his left shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he said, shaking me off. “I’ve ordered a roadblock set up in Marathon.” The words struggled out of his mouth. “These fucks won’t make it far, and they sure as hell aren’t getting out of the Keys.”
I glanced up at the officer sitting unconscious in the passenger seat of the cop car. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Center console.”
As he answered, I was already opening the driver-side door and reaching for it. I grabbed a roll of gauze, alcohol pads, and an Ace bandage and handed them to Charles, then checked the other officer. He was hunched over the dashboard and was breathing, but was bleeding out from a cut on his forehead.
I wrapped the guy’s head enough to slow the bleeding, then turned back to Charles and said, “We shot three of them.”
He nodded. “There’s nowhere for them to run.”
Ange, who had been tending to the officers in the other car, ran over to us, her shoes splashing through the water. As she stood over us, I noticed something through the heavy rain out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head to the north, and my eyes grew wide as I saw the armored truck, barreling west on the Florida Keys Overseas Heritage Trail at over seventy miles per hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Seeing the expression on my face, Ange turned her head to see what I was looking at. From where we were standing on the Seven Mile Bridge, the old heritage trail bridge was only a few hundred feet away, allowing us to hear the roar of the armored truck’s engine as it drove away from us. Ange took aim with the MP5N, but I shook my head and waved her off.
“You’d be wasting your ammo,” I said. Then I drew my gaze ahead of the truck, my eyes following the old bridge to a small speck of land a little over a mile away. “They’re heading for Pigeon Key!”
Without waiting for a reply, I holstered my Sig, moved around the police car and sprinted back towards my Tacoma. A few seconds later, I jumped into the driver’s side door, which I’d left open, and then slammed it shut. The seat, dashboard and center console were soaked from the rain, but I didn’t care.
With the engine still running, I put her in drive and floored the gas pedal, causing all four tires to spin freely over the soaked asphalt for a fraction of a second before catching and propelling the truck forward. I kept my eyes focused ahead as I weaved in and out around the two police cars, the other cars that had been stopped and the two trucks that had crashed into the shoulder after finishing their tear of destruction.
Once past the mass of vehicles, I quickly accelerated up over eighty miles per hour. The storm rumbled and lightning cracked just ahead of me as I reached the end of the bridge. Easing off the gas and hitting the brakes slightly, I took a sharp left, sliding in between two guardrails and almost running over a small palm tree. I did a full U-turn, my tires screeching as I straightened into a small parking lot and hit the gas once more. The concrete barrier blocking traffic from entering the old bridge had been removed, and the metal gate was bent to hell and lying sideways on the side of the road.
I picked up speed again, wanting to traverse the two miles of bridge to Pigeon Key as quickly as possible. In the back of my mind, I knew that I might already be too late. I knew that there was a section of the old bridge that had been removed just west of Pigeon Key, which meant that they would be loading the metal box onto a boat. I knew it wouldn’t take them long to move it and try to make their escape, which caused me to push my Tacoma’s engine harder than I’d ever pushed it before.
I calmed my breathing and maintained focus. They had me outnumbered and outgunned, which meant I would have to make each and every shot from my Sig count. I kept my eyes trained forward, trying to focus on the small island ahead of me through the darkness and thick sheets of unrelenting tropical rain.
Pigeon Key is only five acres and is known primarily for its Institute of Marine Science. Like most every island in the Keys, it’s flat and littered with patches of coconut, gumbo-limbo, and palm trees. I knew
that there was a ramp that led down from the old bridge, allowing authorized vehicles to enter. I’d expected to have to search the island’s shore for signs of the truck and was surprised to see it idling directly in front of me, right where the bridge dropped off.
A moment later, as I cut the distance between us to less than a quarter of a mile, my question as to what in the hell they were doing was answered. Beside the armored truck was a lifted SUV that was backed up right to the edge. Two thugs stood beside it, and as I drove closer, I realized that they were operating a winch. As the water beneath the bridge transitioned to land, I eased off the gas and coasted across the island. When I reached the SUV with the two thugs operating the winch, I rolled down the window, grabbed my Sig, then turned the wheel and hydroplaned sideways.
The two thugs spotted me, but it was too late. I already had my window down and my Sig locked on them as I did a full one-eighty, screeching over the rain-splattered asphalt. Time slowed as I hit the brakes, then squeezed the trigger of my Sig, sending round after round into the first guy and then the second. Blood sprayed out from their shirts as they jerked backward and crashed onto the pavement, their lives ending in a flash of hot lead.
Just as I finished firing, my Tacoma slid to a stop, its two rear off-road tires less than a foot away from the edge. I put her in park, then killed the engine and shoved open the door. As I stepped out into the rainstorm, I could hear yelling coming from the water below.
With my Sig still clenched in my hands, I peeked over the edge and spotted a dark blue Cigarette idling on the choppy surface. The metal box hung lifelessly less than ten feet above the deck, nylon straps securing it to the cable that hooked up to the winch. Three guys stood directly below it. They reached up and tried to get it free while a fourth guy stood beside them, barking out orders. Even through the thick veil of rain, I recognized the fourth guy instantly as Pedro Campos, his massive frame and short Mohawk unmistakable.
Even though I only glanced over the edge for a second, it was long enough for one of the guys to spot me. Pedro yelled out violently, and I stepped back from the edge just as a symphony of air-rattling gunfire erupted through the air. Bullets whizzed by just a few feet away from my face, causing me to take an extra step back. As the automatic gunfire continued, I spent a fraction of a second thinking up a plan. They were seconds away from releasing the box, so running for the SUV and gunning it forward would most likely take too long.
No, I had to take them out. But I was pinned down by a stream of automatic gunfire. Four bad guys with Uzis and assault rifles against me, my Sig, and eleven 9mm rounds.
Suddenly, I heard gunfire erupt from behind me and turned around in an instant. Through the rain I could see Ange crouching behind the wall on the side of US-1, firing rounds from my MP5N at the Cigarette below.
This was my chance. As the bullets heading in my direction stopped momentarily, I reached into the backseat of my truck, grabbed my sweatshirt and sprinted for the edge. Kneeling down, I leaned over the edge and fired off two rounds just as the guys got the metal box free. It fell hard, its bulky weight slamming against the deck. Ange and I sent two of the guys to their bloody deaths, but that still left Pedro and another guy who I recognized as the short, muscular thug from the compound. The short guy ran for the controls, and I knew that I had no choice but to go for it.
Wrapping my sweatshirt around the metal cable that now dangled loosely over their boat, I held on tight and slid down. Holding myself with my left hand, I aimed with my right, covering myself as I rushed down the cable, my hand burning from the friction even through the fabric. One of my rounds hit home, exploding into the back of the short thug as he manned the controls. He lurched forward suddenly, roaring the engines to life just as I let go. I fell about ten feet above the Cigarette, landing on top of Pedro at the stern and almost sending us both tumbling over the side as it accelerated.
I grabbed onto the gunwale with a firm grip as my lower body dangled freely in the churning water, just inches starboard of the spinning propellers. Pedro was on the deck in front of me, his back having slammed hard against the transom. In a daze, he struggled to his feet and towered over me, breathing heavily and giving me an evil sneer. As he reached for me I pulled myself up as hard as I could and swung my right leg over the side, knocking him savagely across the face. His head jerked sideways and a combination of spit and water sprayed out over his shoulder.
As he gathered himself, I swung my left leg over and jumped to my feet in front of him. The boat was slicing through the whitecapped water like a rocket, bouncing violently up and down with every passing crest. Glancing forward, I saw the short thug leaning over the console, his body pressing against the throttles, accelerating us to the engine’s max speed. He struggled to keep control of the boat as blood gushed out of his back, and he looked like he was gonna pass out any second.
As the strong winds and torrential rains beat against our bodies, Pedro and I faced off. He lunged his massive frame towards me. With his right hand clenched into a fist, he hurled a powerful haymaker straight for my face. I arched back, barely avoiding the blow as he whipped his body around and shoved his knee up into my chest. I grunted in pain, then returned with a sidekick of my own, striking him in the hip. As his body lurched sideways, I punched him square in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs.
He grunted loudly as we cruised under the Seven Mile Bridge, heading southwest and narrowly missing the concrete pillars. Giving out a menacing battle cry, Pedro came at me like a wild animal, throwing punch after punch and striking me in the jaw and shoulder. I ignored the pain, deflecting his punches as best as I could and hurling my fists back at him in retaliation.
Suddenly, he grabbed a bowie knife from his waist, tackled me to the deck and tried to force the blade into my chest. The steel blade shook just inches from my sternum as the massive thug put all of his weight into it. I yelled out and struggled to keep it from stabbing through me, knowing that I couldn’t keep it off me forever. My strength was giving out, and this guy was a monster, the kind of guy who knocked out professional fighters in the first round.
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire rattled the air, drawing Pedro’s attention away from me and towards the source of the sound. The Cigarette turned sharply to port, causing us both to roll and slam into the starboard gunwale. Holding on tight to the handle, I forced the blade to the right, causing Pedro to fall and stab it through the fiberglass deck.
With the knife off me, I reared back my left fist and punched him in the cheek. As he jerked sideways, I pushed him off me and jumped to my feet. He tried to sweep me back down with a kick, but I avoided it, stomped his calf into the deck and kicked him in the head.
As he fell backward, I glanced up and saw the short thug lying dead under the console. Scanning the water around us, I spotted the Revenge motoring just a few hundred feet away. Jack was standing on the bow, his compact Desert Eagle clasped with both hands.
“Logan!” Jack shouted, pointing forward.
I turned around swiftly, thinking that Pedro had come to his feet and was trying to take me out while I was distracted. Instead, I saw that the massive thug was still on the ground and realized what Jack was pointing at. As the short thug had collapsed to the deck and turned us port, he’d put us on a direct course for Molasses Key, the largest of a small trio of islands that rose just a few feet above sea level.
I only had time to crouch down and pin myself against the cushioned seat in front of me, holding on tight as the hull crashed against the rocky shore. The boat jerked into the air and crashed down onto a flat sandy beach covered in mangroves and lush green grass. My body was thrown forward into the seat, then tossed to the side as the boat’s momentum rocketed it almost across the entire island. As it slowed, the bow slammed against a palm tree and cracked as the boat twisted onto its side, launching me out of the cockpit. I landed in the grass and sand, my body rolling to a stop right by the southwest shore.
My body hurt all over as I s
at up, and I was lost in a daze. I pressed my hand against my burning forehead, then pulled it away and saw blood covering my fingertips. The blood washed away with the rain within a few seconds, and I turned to look at the wrecked boat.
It was upside down, its cracked and scratched-up hull facing towards me as it lay propped against the rocks. The engine was still running and loud as hell. The propeller spun wildly, cutting through the rain and air and making noises that were painful to my ears. I knew it would only be a matter of seconds before the engine would overheat. There was already a small plume of smoke billowing out, and soon the powerful engine would kill itself.
Forcing my battered body to move, I rose to my feet and stepped towards the totaled boat. Wiping the bloody streaks of rain from my face, I squinted as I scanned the beach, trying to find out what had happened to Pedro. A moment later, I saw him appear from the other side of the boat. He was limping, his face contorted to show all the pain he was feeling. His left hand was pressed against his right shoulder, and blood dripped down from his nose. Upon seeing me standing on the beach about thirty feet in front of him, he froze.
He stared at me and gritted his teeth, his face consumed by a powerful and desperate rage. His eyes strayed down towards the beach, and he struggled to breathe for a few seconds before his body went motionless, his eyes staring at the beach in front of him. Suddenly, I wiped the water and blood from my face and realized what he was staring at. My Sig was lying in the sand just a few steps in front of him.
He looked up, shot me an evil smile and said, “You’re fucking dead!”
An instant later, he moved for the weapon. In one quick motion, I reached behind me and grabbed my dive knife, which was sheathed to the back of my leather belt. Taking a step towards Pedro, I reared it back, then threw it straight at him. The titanium knife sliced through the rain and hit Pedro right in the chest as he was bending over and wrapping his left hand around the pistol. The sharp five-inch blade stabbed deep into his tissue, bone and internal organs. He grunted and his massive body fell backward, his hands dropping my Sig back onto the sand. As his back hit the beach, he pressed his hands to his bleeding chest and gave out a loud and painful cry.