by Matthew Rief
“Time for some food, water, and a hot bath,” Rachel said.
George and Rachel Shepherd were a retired couple who’d spent most of their lives in Boston. They migrated down to the Florida Keys after their children moved out and had fallen in love with the island lifestyle. After retiring a few years earlier, they’d sold their house and bought a forty-four-foot catamaran with plans of sailing it around the world. They’d moored in St. Petersburg to spend time with their new grandchild and had ended up spending much more time with family than they’d planned. Now, they were sailing down south and had stopped over for the day to explore the Everglades.
George glanced down at his watch and realized that they’d spent nearly four hours searching the never-ending swamp for their tied-off boat. They were both in their mid-fifties but were in great shape for their age. Regardless, hours trekking through thick swamp had taken a toll on their bodies. It was a good thing they’d found their boat when they had. The sun was barely a sliver on the horizon, and the air around them grew darker by the second.
He adjusted his backpack, which contained two empty water bottles, a few candy bar wrappers, bug spray, and two rolled-up rain ponchos.
“I’m sorry, Rach,” he said.
“Hey, we both got lost,” she replied. “Though I do usually count on your sense of direction.”
They trekked through the mud, grass, and shallow water and reached their fourteen-foot Carolina center-console half an hour later. By the time they were untying the line, the sun was gone and the sky dark.
Rachel climbed aboard and sat on the middle bench. George coiled the line, then dropped it at the stern along with his backpack.
“You sure you can get us out of here, Magellan?” Rachel said.
George laughed. They still had to navigate across the eastern section of Whitewater Bay. Their catamaran was anchored in a deep inlet at the mouth of Little Shark River roughly eight miles away near Ponce de Leon Bay.
“No more hiccups,” he replied.
Just as he was about to shove their boat into the water, he heard the distinct sound of voices. They were close, just down the shore. He turned and focused his eyes in the direction of the sounds, but couldn’t see anything. Whoever it was, they were hidden behind a small cluster of cypress trees.
George stood still for a moment, listening intently. From that far away, all he could hear was muffled voices. He couldn’t make out any distinct words, but it was clear that their conversation was growing heated.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The retired surgeon was curious by nature. Always had been. He figured he could stroll over, take a peek at what all the commotion was about, and skip right back over to the boat.
Rachel jumped out and strode over beside him.
“What’s going on?” she said, hearing the voices as well.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t sound good.”
Rachel moved in front of her husband, placing a hand on his chest.
“And what exactly are we going to do?”
“They might need help, Rach,” he said. “The least I can do is check and see what’s going on.”
Rachel lifted her hands and relented. The two moved quietly along the grassy shore. Moving across a small jut of cypress covered land, they took cover in the foliage and got their first glimpse of the scene. There were four guys in all. Two big fat guys dressed in camo and two hippie-looking guys. One of the big guys was bald and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. The other looked like he’d endured severe burns to his face. They were standing in a small clearing near the shore. Two boats rested behind them, an airboat and a sleek-looking powerboat.
George and Rachel kept quiet and listened carefully.
“You’ll pay the agreed-upon price, or we’ll take our business someplace else,” one of the big guys said.
Both of the hippies laughed.
“Someplace else?” one of them replied. “Look around, you dumb redneck. No one else is buying out here.”
The big bald guy threw a punch that landed the hippie on his ass. The other hippie guy jumped in, and a fight broke out. There were yells and grunts of pain. In the heat of the scuffle, the backpack over Baldy’s shoulder was flung through the air. It landed in the shrubs and tumbled onto the ground less than ten feet away from where George and Rachel were hiding.
The main compartment of the backpack had ripped open. A handful of small plastic-wrapped packages fell out.
Rachel placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“We should leave, now!” she whispered into his ear.
George could hear the terror in his wife’s voice. He agreed. Though he wanted to help if someone got hurt, they were in danger there. These guys were clearly all criminals, and tensions were high.
Before turning around, he moved forward, snatched the closest package, and slid it into his pocket. The big bald guy suddenly looked in his direction. For a brief moment, the two made eye contact before George turned around and took off. He kept low alongside Rachel and they moved quickly back toward their boat. Their hearts pounded violently as they ran with every ounce of energy they had left. When they reached the boat, they heard loud screams coming from behind them, capped off by a deafening gunshot that echoed across the swamp.
George helped his wife aboard, then shoved their boat into the water. Climbing up and sitting on the backseat, he started up the 90-hp Yamaha engine and turned sharply as he accelerated them into Whitewater Bay.
He saw me, George thought. He looked right at me.
He was breathing heavily and holding tight to the wheel. For a moment he felt a sense of relief as the engine propelled them both away from the scene.
Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe we were hidden by the branches and this is all just in my head.
As he motored along between two mangrove-covered islands, he heard a sound coming from behind them. It was loud and unnatural, and it was getting louder.
His heart sank deep into his chest. He looked over his shoulder and saw an airboat rocketing around the shore they’d just shoved off from. The engine boomed as it spun the propeller around in a frenzy, rocketing the craft straight toward them. It was far back, but he could see the outline of the two big guys aboard.
George snapped his head forward and gunned the throttles. The engine groaned and accelerated them up to their max speed of thirty-five knots. Rachel stared back at the approaching boat, then dropped down and grabbed hold of the railing as they bounced up and down. The dark world flew by them in a blur as George maneuvered around island after island, motoring them closer and closer to their anchored catamaran.
As they entered Oyster Bay, he spotted something far out over the port bow. There was the dark silhouette of a simple shelter and a tied-off boat about a mile away. He thought he saw movement, but he couldn’t be sure. It was too far away, too dark, and they were motoring too fast. He didn’t have time to wonder who it might be or if they could help them. He kept his eyes forward and focused. Kept his hand tight around the wheel.
He looked back again to gauge their distance from their pursuers. Looked about half a mile, but it was difficult to tell in the dark. He didn’t know how fast the airboat was but was confident that they could reach their catamaran before being overtaken.
But what then? They’re still two armed criminals against us.
He had a compact Ruger 9mm handgun hidden away in the main stateroom of the cat. If they could make it, they’d have a chance. They also had a long-range radio in the cockpit of their anchored boat. They could at least send out a distress call.
Wind billowed violently against his face as he slid his phone from his pocket, verifying that there was still no signal. He shook his head, slid his phone back into his pocket, and piloted them as fast as he could. His eyes burned with resolution, and adrenaline surged through his veins. He’d been involved in life-or-death situations all his adult life. He’d pulled it together and saved the lives of countless people. N
ow it was time to focus and get himself and his wife out of there alive.
The sounds of the airboat grew louder behind them as they reached the end of Oyster Bay. George turned sharply, weaving in and out of a cluster of small islands before motoring them into Little Shark River. They were just a few miles from their destination, but with each glance over his shoulder, George saw that the airboat was quickly closing in on them.
The sounds of its engine and propeller were quickly overtaking the sounds of their own engine. He could also hear screams and shouts from low, angry male voices, cursing and threatening them violently.
“You’re a dead man!” he heard one of the voices shout over the sounds of the engines.
As they came within a mile of their catamaran, the airboat closed to within a few hundred yards. A loud bang filled the air as something slammed against the transom. Both George and Rachel dropped as low as they could. It hadn’t been a bullet. George knew that. It’d been too big to be a bullet.
He glanced back and saw an arrow sticking out inches from the top of the transom. He shifted his gaze back to the airboat and saw one of the big guys standing on the bow, aiming an arrow straight at them.
“Stay down!” George yelled as he dropped low, holding on to the wheel and piloting without looking.
A second bang resonated from the hull, followed a few moments later by a shattering of the small windshield as an arrow tore through the glass. They were being bombarded. Arrow after arrow slammed into their boat as the two attackers tried their best to stop them dead in their tracks.
Glancing up over the bow for an instant, George caught a glimpse of their boat. They were almost there, and they’d need to act quickly if they were going to get aboard and make any attempt at getting out of there alive. Soon arrows weren’t their only concern. Their attackers started firing off bullets that rattled against the transom and zipped right over their heads.
One round struck the engine just as they reached their anchored boat. It smoked and sputtered, causing them to slow.
This is it. We have to move now, and we have to move fast!
George rose to his feet, strode as quickly as he could toward the bow, and practically tackled his wife over the edge and into the dark water. They swam as fast as they could, their hearts pounding and their lungs screaming for air. They reached the stern of the cat just as their attackers closed in. Bullets struck the fiberglass around them as they climbed up onto the swim platform.
George felt a sudden sharp pain radiate from his side, and he fell hard to the deck. He looked down and saw blood gushing out onto the white deck beside him. Rachel lunged over to her husband, but she was struck as well. She tumbled and slammed hard onto the port side of the stern. Her head struck the hard edge, knocking her unconscious.
George gasped for air. He could feel the life draining out of him with each passing second. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed upon his wife’s unconscious body.
The two attackers motored right up to the swim platform. One of them hopped over casually and stood over George as he struggled to keep his eyes open. The big guy didn’t hesitate. He didn’t say a word or show any sign or remorse. He simply raised his revolver and finished both of them off with a succession of high-caliber rounds.
He held on to the smoking revolver and stared at their lifeless bodies for a few seconds. He felt nothing, no pang of guilt or wave of shame. This wasn’t the first time they’d caught people snooping on their dealings. Even in the middle of nowhere, people occasionally saw things. And the men couldn’t let anyone get away and tell the world what they’d seen. There was too much at stake.
“What we gonna do about the boat?” Jeb said from the airboat.
Buck turned and looked over his shoulder.
“We fucking burn it.”
They punctured the catamaran’s gas tank, spilling the flammable liquid all over the engine room. With a quick flick of a match, the boat caught fire. The small skiff was sinking due to the holes they’d put in its hull. It took less than a minute for it to disappear into the dark water alongside them.
“Been a long ass day,” Jeb said as he climbed off the burning catamaran and onto their airboat. “Let’s get back home before somebody sees the fire.”
He turned to look at Buck who was stepping toward the control seat.
“We’re not going home yet,” he said.
“Why the hell not?”
“We have unfinished business.” Jeb looked over in confusion, and Buck added, “We both saw that guy at the Oyster Bay Chickee. And worse, he saw us.”
Jeb shook his head. “Ah shit, Buck. It’s dark and he was far off. Probably didn’t get a good look at us.”
“He had an airboat,” Buck replied. “He’s most likely a hunter. You don’t think there’s a chance that he’s got night vision? Besides, even in the dark he could see our boat in the moonlight. What have I always told you about loose ends, Jeb?”
Jeb didn’t have to look at the two mangled bodies resting on the burning catamaran beside him to answer the question.
“I know, I know,” he said. “We don’t leave any.”
Buck nodded, took one more look at the cat, then started up the airboat’s engine and accelerated back in the direction they’d come, the catamaran exploding at their backs. Massive flames engulfed the vessel, lighting up the night sky for miles around.
When they reached the other side of Oyster Bay, the Chickee was empty. The man they’d seen while passing by had vanished, along with his boat.
“I don’t care who you call,” Buck turned to Jeb and snarled. “You figure out who that guy was.” He paused a moment, then added, “I want his ass dead.”
TWO
Three months after taking off from the turquoise waters of Curaçao, we picked up Ange’s Cessna from the hangar in Miami and were on our way back to the Florida Keys. We’d loved and completely soaked in the globetrotting lifestyle. We were well rested, happy, and deeper in love than we’d ever been before. Part of us didn’t want our trip to end, but we also missed our life back home. We missed our friends, our house, and we missed our dog, Atticus.
Ange brought us down into Tarpon Cove just a few days after a hurricane and a tropical storm both made close calls with the island chain. Hurricane Bill peaked as a category four but fortunately quieted down by the time it reached most of the Eastern Seaboard. Just a day after Bill died off, a tropical wave and an upper-level low-pressure system formed into Tropical Storm Claudette just south of Tallahassee. The storm killed two people due to rough seas and caused moderate rainfall across much of Florida but little damage.
My old friend Jack Rubio met us at the marina. He had his blue Wrangler parked in the lot and was standing alongside a very happy yellow Lab as we motored up to the fenders. His curly blond hair danced in the wind from the propeller as he grabbed hold of the wing brace. Once in position, Ange killed the engine.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dodge,” Jack said as I rolled down my window. “Nice of you guys to stop by.”
Ange and I exchanged one final honeymoon kiss before I opened my door, climbed down onto the starboard pontoon, and hopped over to the dock.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” I said, wrapping my arms around him.
Atticus, unable to contain his enthusiasm, shimmied his way in between us and jumped up and down.
“And it’s good to see you too, boy,” I said.
I knelt down and squeezed him tight for a second before loosening my grip and petting him while he licked my face with more excitement than a kid with an ice cream cone on a hot summer day.
Turning around, I offered a hand to Ange as she stepped onto the dock. She looked beautiful as usual, with her blond hair tied back and her sunglasses on. She was wearing a gray tank top and a pair of black shorts that made it difficult for me to keep my eyes off her long, tanned legs.
I tied off the Cessna, and after a brief moment of catching up, Jack helped us bring our bags down the dock and load them into the back
of his Wrangler.
“You two had some of the locals worried,” Jack said. “They thought you might never come back.”
“The Keys are our home now,” Ange said. “There’s no place like it.”
“But you should see Fiji,” I said as we climbed into the back and he started the engine.
“I wanna hear all about it, bro,” he said as he drove out of the parking lot.
Jack had the top down, and the tropical breeze felt good. We gave him a brief overview of our trip while he drove us over to our house on Palmetto Street. There was a lot to talk about, on both our ends. I looked forward to meeting up with him again later that day.
My house and property looked good as we pulled into the driveway. I’d paid Jack’s nephew, Isaac, a few hundred bucks to mow the grass and take care of the plants while we were gone, and he’d done a good job.
Jack idled the engine just behind my black Tacoma 4x4. Sliding over to the side, we hopped out and grabbed our bags.
“Thanks for the lift,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. Bullets looks good, by the way,” Jack said, referring to my 48 Baia Flash moored over at the Conch Harbor Marina. It’d been Jack’s idea to call her Dodging Bullets when I’d bought her over a year earlier. “I had the oil changed last month. Engines are both purring like kittens.”
“Thanks, Jack,” I said. “You wanna do Pete’s for dinner tonight?”
“Any other time and you know I would, compadre. But you two have other plans, remember?”
I looked at my old friend questioningly. Just as I opened my mouth to ask him what he was talking about, Ange stepped toward me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“That’s my fault, Logan,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.”
I raised my eyebrows and looked back and forth between them.
“You guys gonna keep me in the dark here?” I said with a smile.
“We’re booked at a hotel tonight,” Ange said. “Courtesy of Professor Frank Murchison.”
I grinned and nodded. “Is it in Key West?”