by Matthew Rief
She moved back around the corner to her usual place in front of her computer screen. I recognized the donation jar with the black Wounded Warrior emblem beside her keyboard. She always encouraged the dropping of spare change into the tin, even if it was just a penny. There was also a new jar that I hadn’t seen there before. It had a picture taped to it of a young woman holding onto her baby. It took me a few seconds, but I realized that it was Anne Cody.
“Thank you for this,” I said, motioning toward the jar as we passed by.
She sighed and replied, “Anything I can do to help that poor woman.”
Anne was the young widow of Ryan Cody, a Coast Guard rescue swimmer who’d been killed along with two other guardsmen last summer. Their helicopter had been blown to pieces by an RPG fired by a Cuban gang member on Loggerhead Key. I’d been on the island when it had happened. I’d watched the explosion, and Ryan had died in my arms.
I tried not to relive that memory as Mitch led us down a hallway, then up a set of stairs. His office was simple, just a desk with a laptop and rows of metal filing cabinets. There was a window on the opposite side that looked out toward the grassy waterfront beside the marina. I could see the picnic table we’d just been eating at and figured that was how Mitch had seen our little confrontation.
We gathered around the desk with Atticus at our feet. We unfolded a chart of the Everglades and gave Mitch a quick rundown of what had happened. When we finished, I asked him if he’d received an update on TJ.
“He passed away,” Mitch said with a sigh. “Got off the phone with the hospital in Tavernier just a few minutes before I saw Hank walking up to pay you guys a visit.”
We fell silent for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Though I was amazed he’d survived so long after receiving such a blow.”
“It’s also amazing that you managed to get so close to these killers and walk away from it,” Mitch said. “Most people can’t say that. You get him back for that?”
He motioned to my forehead, where the Band-Aid covered my cut.
“No, but I did bury my dive knife in his buddy’s shoulder,” I said. “Which reminds me, you guys don’t happen to sell knives in that store of yours, do you?”
“There’s a few fishing and hunting knives,” Mitch replied.
I nodded, making a mental note to stop by and pick up a new blade.
“Have you had any reports today?” Ange said. “After the shooting near Hells Bay, did anyone see anything suspicious?”
Mitch nodded. “Got a call from a local. Said he saw an airboat hauling ass into Whitewater, heading northwest. Said it was just after hearing all the gunfire. He also said one of them looked injured.”
“Northeast across Whitewater,” Pete said, looking down at the chart. “Haven’t most of the incidents occurred near the mouth of the Watson River?”
Mitch nodded. “There’s a cluster around there. Which could explain why these guys were motoring in that direction.”
“Some kind of home base,” Ange said.
“Maybe,” Mitch said. “But that river and the entire area around its mouth has been searched dozens of times over the years. No sign of a shelter has ever been found.”
“Well, they’re out there somewhere,” I said, looking down at the chart. “What about this Hank character? You know him well? Because he had a release sticking out of his pocket.”
A release is a small metal pincher that straps around your wrist and is used to draw back an arrow, making it easier and taking the pressure off your fingers.
Mitch shook his head. “Don’t know him too well. It’s his first year down here, far as I know. He certainly has a hot temper. As far as the release goes, most boats in the Glades this time of year will have a bow. We’re right at the beginning of archery season.”
I leaned back, looked out his office window and stared at the Cessna tied off in the marina. Ange glanced over at me and read my mind.
“The longer we wait, the colder this trail gets,” she said. “We need to get back out there.”
“Where will you head?” Mitch asked.
I pointed at the mouth of the Watson River.
“Looks like the evidence points to here.”
Before heading back into the heat, I bought a new hunting knife from their store to replace my lost dive knife. They didn’t have a big selection, but I ended up purchasing a beautiful knife with a six-inch steel blade and a polished cherrywood handle. Mitch told me that it was made by a local knifemaker up in Orlando and that their knives had a good reputation around the world.
Once I had my new knife sheathed and strapped to the back of my waistband, we stepped outside and hauled our gear from the Baia across to the freshwater side of the marina. Pete had taken the liberty of securing us the use of an airboat. With its flat-bottomed design and no operating parts below the waterline, airboats are the ideal mode of transportation in the marshy landscape of the Everglades.
“She used to be a tour boat,” Pete said. “But the front row of seats was removed, so there’s plenty of space for everyone and the gear. Plus this five-fifty-hp supercharged engine will push her through the water at over fifty knots.”
We loaded everything up, topped off the fuel, and climbed aboard. It was just after 1400, so we still had five hours of daylight left to motor up into the Glades, take a look around, and set up camp for the night.
“How long you think you’ll be out for?” Mitch asked.
“Probably just a few days,” I lied.
The truth was, I wasn’t coming back until the killers were gator food. I didn’t care how long it took.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll be just a call away if you need anything. And I’ll keep you updated. You guys got a radio?”
“And a sat phone. It’s the number I called you on earlier this morning.”
He nodded and helped us untie the lines. “I just got off the phone with Eli Hutt. He’s the local who spotted the airboat earlier. He said he’ll be near the Watson River Chickee if you want to meet up with him.”
We had a general location and we had an eyewitness. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it would have to work.
We were all aboard except Pete and Mitch, who were both right beside us on the dock.
“My friend from the Seminole tribe’s driving down here early in the morning,” Pete said. “I’m gonna stay here and meet him. We’ll head over and catch up with you guys tomorrow. This guy can be a lot of help to us. His family has lived in this part of the state for hundreds of years.” He paused a moment and added, “Just try not to get yourselves into too much trouble until we join you guys.”
“Staying out of trouble isn’t exactly my strong suit,” I said. “Especially after two of my friends are murdered.”
“I’ll watch him closely, don’t worry,” Ange said, elbowing me softly.
“Here, bro,” Jack said, handing me a set of earmuffs and earplugs. “We’re gonna want double hearing protection for this beast.”
We all donned the earplugs and muffs, including Atticus. Mitch had brought over a special pair from the marina office that strapped around his head to stay in place. It bothered him at first, but he was a smart dog and seemed to catch on quick.
We sat on the bench seat and Atticus stood at the bow while Jack fired up the engine. The massive eighty-two-inch-diameter five-blade propeller spun to life. It cast a whirlwind over the water behind us. As Jack motored us away from the dock and into the channel, we turned around and gave them a quick wave. When I directed my gaze forward, I focused on the world in front of me and did my best to prepare for what I knew was going to be a long evening.
ELEVEN
Jack accelerated us past a large alligator that was sunbathing on a muddy shoreline, then turned us north into Buttonwood Canal, a three-mile-long, fifty-foot-wide channel that stretches from the Flamingo Marina up into Coot Bay. He kept us slow enough through the canal so that we could spot manatees in our path. The large
marine mammals also known as sea cows have become endangered, and many of their deaths can be attributed to reckless, oblivious boaters.
When we entered and began crossing Coot Bay, we passed by an airboat pulling a second one in tow. The pilot wore the same tan park ranger uniform that Mitch had been wearing and shot us a wave before continuing on the way we’d just come. I’d seen the airboat in tow before. It was TJ’s boat. One of the other rangers had motored out into Hells Bay, tied it off, and was taking it back to Flamingo.
I’ve seen more than my share of death and have witnessed the repercussions of evil firsthand many times. It’s never gotten easier for me to wrap my head around. I didn’t know Teagan Suggs, but I did know that he had a mom and a dad. Hell, he’d probably been married with kids. Probably had a handful of loved ones who cared about him. And now he was gone. His life had been taken in a swift act of brutal hostility by a murdering psychopath.
I thought about the others who’d died here over the years, especially the Shepherds. Thought about how their families must have reacted when they’d gotten the news. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was real, and it was powerful. It struck a chord deep within me, strengthening my resolve even more.
Jack navigated us into Whitewater Bay, the massive inlet of the Gulf of Mexico. The wind had died off a little from earlier that morning but was still blowing strong enough to make it clear how the bay had gotten its name. We weaved through a seemingly never-ending landscape of water and thick green islands and reached the Watson River Chickee ten miles across the bay.
Ange and I kept our eyes peeled and our heads on a swivel. Every time we passed a boat, we’d grab the binoculars and take a look. As I’d expected, we saw no sign of the two big guys from earlier that morning. After years of killing and getting away with it, these guys had a strong system in place for keeping themselves hidden.
When we arrived at the Watson River Chickee, we spotted three tents already set up and four kayaks tied off to the leeward side. They were all those long, skinny expensive-type lightweight kayaks that offer minimum drag and maximum efficiency in the water. Whitewater Bay is ten miles long and six miles wide. It consists of mostly shallow waters that are easily manipulated by even subtle changes in tide, current, and wind. Kayaking here isn’t for beginners.
We pulled up to the chickee from the south. It was situated at the tip of an island, so we weren’t able to see the whole thing until we motored in front of it. Once we were close, we saw two guys sitting Indian style on the edge of the planks. They were both lean guys, with long hair, bandannas, and sport sunglasses. When Jack killed the big engine, two women stepped out from one of the tents. Both were lean young women with no tan lines. They were each wearing a pair of panties and nothing else.
“Good evening,” I said, removing my ear protection and stepping to the starboard bow, putting on my friendliest face.
Atticus jumped over beside me and wagged his tail as he looked over at the new faces.
The two guys were closest to us, so I addressed them. I’d expected the young women to get embarrassed by their appearance as our airboat floated right alongside the chickee, but they were unfazed. They stepped right over beside the two guys, their upper bodies on full display.
“Nice… boats,” Jack said, his voice a little more awkward than usual.
The girls laughed.
“Thanks,” one of them replied, shooting Jack a seductive look.
The two men paused a moment, then one of them nodded.
“They better be after how much we paid for them,” he said. “Like most hobbies, it’s as expensive as you want it to be.”
I smiled and nodded.
“A boat is just a hole in the water to throw money into,” I said. “At least these aren’t very big holes.”
He laughed and shot me a friendly look back. We’d only exchanged a few brief words, but that was all it took. It’s always the deal when you encounter someone you’ve never met before. It’s a quick calculation you make. Self-preservation. Is this person crazy? you ask yourself. It’s especially true when you meet someone in the middle of nowhere, far from the arm of the law.
Dreadlocks at least seemed somewhat normal, though he certainly had some excessively liberal female companions.
I glanced around the group and made eye contact with one of the girls. She was looking at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable, especially when standing next to my wife.
“We’re supposed to meet a few friends here,” I said, looking back to Dreadlocks. “Any of you happen to see a couple of big guys in an airboat motor past a few hours ago?”
Dreadlocks shook his head. “Sorry. We just arrived half an hour ago. Haven’t seen anyone.”
“Yeah, we did, Ronnie,” one of the women said. She looked slightly older than the other girl and had fiery red hair and about a dozen visible tattoos. “That guy who approached us earlier.”
“Oh, right. He came alongside us in a little boat while we were paddling. Seemed like a nice guy. Said his name was Eli, I think. Tried to offer us some gator jerky, but we’re on a strict diet.”
“We’re vegans,” the red-haired woman said.
Ange chuckled at the way she said it, though she kept it quiet enough for only Jack and me to notice.
“And where’d you guys come in from?” I asked.
“We started at Highland Beach early this morning. We saw him a few miles west of here. Doubt he was one of your friends, though. I bet he weighs less than I do, and I’m a buck sixty soaking wet. A dwarf wouldn’t call that guy big.”
“That’s a long way to paddle in one day,” Jack said.
“We’re training to complete the Everglades challenge,” the younger girl said. “It’s a three-hundred-mile kayak race that begins all the way up near Tampa and finishes in Key Largo.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Jack said. “That’s very impressive.”
She shot another flirty smile at Jack.
The race sparked my interest, and I stowed the information away for another time.
“Thanks for your time,” I said and nodded to Jack. “Let’s get going.”
If we couldn’t meet up with Eli, I wanted to get our drone up in the air as soon as possible.
“You sure you can’t stay?” the red-haired woman said. “We have plenty of space.”
She motioned toward the planks beside her. Nearly every inch of the small platform was already covered by their tents.
“We already have accommodations,” Ange said.
The two girls shot her a jealous look, and the red-haired one put her hands on her hips. I smiled and motioned to Jack, who was already climbing back into the control seat.
“Wish I could be of more help,” Dreadlocks said with a shrug.
I thanked him anyway, and we donned our hearing protection. Jack started up the engine and roared us over to the mouth of the Watson River less than half a mile north of the chickee. Like almost everywhere in the Glades, the water was slow-moving and dark. I stepped up to the bow and took a look around while Jack tied us off to a small patch of mangroves. The coast was clear aside from the kayakers far in the distance at our back.
“Jack, I think your mouth’s still open,” Ange said with a laugh.
He shrugged. “No shame here. Those girls were knockouts.”
After helping tie off the airboat, I moved toward the center.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing a plastic hardcase from the deck. “Let’s get this thing fired up.”
Within minutes we had our new drone out, hooked up, and soaring up into the air. It was top-of-the-line, and though we’d only used it a few times, the controls were simple and smooth. It was a quadcopter, so it had four thrusters that allowed the craft to remain stable. We utilized all of its three-mile range, flying it upriver and recording footage of the ground using its high-definition camera. The camera also allowed us to see where we were going by syncing up wirelessly to my laptop.
It was like a never-endi
ng maze, an intricate world of waterways, swamps, bogs, and grass. After twenty minutes of searching, we had nothing. No boats, people, or structures of any kind near the main section of the river. Not even a line of smoke from a burning fire.
“Looks like we’re about to have company,” Jack said just after we landed the drone.
Ange and I were examining the small flying machine, making sure everything was working correctly, while Jack stood beside the control seat. He was facing southeast and staring through a pair of binoculars. Atticus, who’d been lounging in the shade under the bench seat, shuffled out from his spot and looked off in the same direction as Jack.
Listening, I could hear the low hum of an engine growing louder and louder. An airboat appeared soon after. The hull was old and beat to hell, but the engine looked and sounded decent. A short skinny guy pulled up beside us and killed his engine, his boat drifting to within ten feet of ours.
He smiled broadly as he removed his earmuffs, stepped over to his starboard bow, and gave us a friendly wave. He looked around fifty years old, with leathery skin and a wiry build. He wore jeans and a Harley Davidson tee shirt that looked a few sizes too big for him.
“Name’s Eli,” he said in a deep Southern accent. “What brings y’all to the area? You don’t look like hunters.”
But we are hunters, I thought. We aren’t after boar, deer, or gator, however. We’re after the most dangerous of all big game.
“Eli Hutt?” I said.
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his sunglasses down to get a better look. The sun was barely hanging on and was casting bright rays over the bay.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve ever met y’all before.”
“You haven’t,” I said. “But we have a mutual friend. Mitch Ross. He told us what you saw earlier today.”
His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open a little, and he nodded.
“Ah, right. You must be Logan.”
I nodded, then introduced Ange and Jack.
“Pleasure to meet y’all,” he said. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if there could be someone listening in the middle of nowhere. “Any luck tracking down the guys from this morning?”