by Matthew Rief
As we loaded Jack onto the airboat and prepared to start up the engine, I watched as two boats suddenly motored into view. The sound of the burning island and the ringing in my ears had kept me from noticing them earlier. One was heading straight for us, cruising around the northern tip of the island. The other was flying away from us, heading for an island-riddled bay east of the mouth of the Watson River.
It took only a brief glance at each to realize who they were. The guy hightailing it out of there was the killer who’d just started the forest fire. The boat heading toward us was Pete and his friend. When they reached us, Jack grabbed me by the shirt and struggled his upper body toward me.
“Go and get him, Logan,” he said. “Take him down or he’ll keep doing this.”
He had the fire reflecting in his stern eyes. I knew he’d be right with me if he were able, but he needed help fast if he was going to keep from bleeding to death.
I turned to Ange.
“Can you—”
“Already on it,” she said, grabbing a first aid kit from one of the bags.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Pete yelled, his eyes scanning from us to the burning island behind us.
He shut off the engine and stepped to the port bow.
“No time to explain,” I said. “I need you to take Jack back to Flamingo and get him help ASAP. He’s been shot.”
Ange and I helped Jack carefully onto the other boat. She dropped down beside him, ripped open a few bandages, and put pressure on his bleeding side.
“What are you gonna do?” Pete asked in a stern and authoritative voice.
I untied our boat and pointed northeast before plopping down into the control seat.
“I’m going after him,” I said, matching his tone. “Atticus, hop over, boy,” I added, motioning toward Pete’s boat.
He looked at me in confusion, then reluctantly jumped over before I could repeat the order. As fast as I could, I started up the engine and accelerated away from the shoreline. Pete’s friend, who’d helped Jack transition to their boat but hadn’t spoken a word since they’d shown up, unexpectantly launched himself across the gap and landed on the starboard bow. I wanted to yell at him to jump back, to tell him that I could take care of this guy myself. But there wasn’t any time to spare. Every second we sat still, the killer moved farther and farther away from us. It wouldn’t be long before he vanished into the fog-veiled swamp, leaving us with nothing but a scorched island and a dead inside man to show for the violent and dangerous confrontation.
I took one last look at Ange before the fan reached full speed, propelling us over the water in a torrent of loud, powerful wind. She looked worried, and I could tell that she wanted to come with. But she needed to take care of Jack. I tilted my head back and gave her a brief reassuring nod before turning and bringing us up to full speed.
FOURTEEN
Within seconds, I had the high-powered airboat up to its max speed of just over fifty knots. We tore across the water, a loud booming rocket of power that caused the water and sporadic islands to fly by in a blur. I cast safety to the wind and chased down the killer with reckless abandon. In under a minute, he was in my sights.
I lined up the bow with the killer’s boat and pressed forward. The massive engines of the former tour boat gave us a necessary advantage in our little game of cat and mouse. The killer’s airboat was fast, but not fast enough. I followed him across a small bay and into the mouth of a narrow waterway that cut northeast.
I kept my breathing calm and steady as I held tight to the controls. My gaze remained locked on the boat ahead of us, my eyes narrowed. When we closed to within a few hundred feet, close enough to feel the powerful wind from his boat blowing into us, he cut a sudden hard left. It was fast and smooth and allowed him to sweep around a small mangrove island that lay dead ahead of us.
With no time to spare, I turned as well, letting off the gas to keep the boat from flipping and tumbling into a disastrous wreck. The hull groaned and skidded across the water like a skipped rock. Turning at that speed proved incredibly difficult, and it took me a few seconds to regain control and continue the arch around the small island.
Shit, this guy can pilot an airboat.
It was an understatement. He operated the craft like it was an extension of his own body rather than a machine. I had the faster boat, but it quickly became clear that it wouldn’t matter in the cramped island-and-sharp-turn-riddled environment of the Glades. As I re-accelerated toward him and a tangle of waterways, I knew what I had to do.
I glanced at Pete’s friend, who was kneeling and holding on to the railing just a few feet shy of the bow. He kept his head down and his eyes forward. Pete said that his name was Billy. He’d also told me that he was a Seminole, a man who grew up near the Glades. He was a tall guy, a few inches over my six-foot-two. He was lean and wiry and moved with incredible balance on the rapidly moving boat.
“Hey!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. He brushed aside his long black hair and looked back with squinted eyes. “Take over!”
I’d never met this guy, but I was willing to bet that he had more experience operating an airboat than I had. I’d also wager that I’d taken down more bad guys in my time, so the switch made sense. He didn’t argue. Without a word, he strode over, plopped down, and took over the controls just as I sprang up.
It was like giving Dale Earnhardt Jr. the keys to his favorite ’67 Camaro. He operated the difficult craft with incredible speed and control, smoothly zipping around islands, cutting sharp turns, and avoiding objects in our path. It wasn’t long before he was locked on our quarry and closing in fast.
I snatched my Sig from its holster, gripping it with my right hand while my left held on to the gunwale to keep myself from flying overboard.
I shot a quick glance back at Pete’s friend. I didn’t know this guy, didn’t know his opinions on taking the law into your own hands and shooting down a bad guy without due process. Thankfully, he didn’t protest when he saw my gun. Not that it would’ve mattered. I was going to take this guy out, and at that moment, I didn’t give a damn about what the law had to say about it.
We stormed into a series of long, sweeping turns as the narrow channel zigzagged back and forth. The overgrown tangle of mangroves covering the passing muddy shorelines provided just enough cover for the killer to stay out of my view. When we finally reached somewhat of a straightaway, I took aim and fired.
Bullets struck the massive fan and engine, which provided cover where the killer sat at the control seat of his airboat. Sparks shot out as round after round struck metal. The killer ducked and turned to keep us behind him. I let out five rounds in all, and soon his engine started shooting out plumes of black smoke.
His engine was dying, and the fan propelling him away from us slowed. I watched him scramble at the controls, knowing that soon he’d be dead in the water and would be forced to reach for whatever weapon he had nearby. I wasn’t gonna sit by and give him the opportunity to fight back. The moment his body came into view, I’d let him have it.
As Billy brought us around the killer’s port side, the killer cut a sharp right to keep his body out of my sights. Just as we flew beside him, he turned sharply back to the left. We were both still traveling at over forty knots. His boat jerked toward us in a fraction of a second, his hull slamming against ours just as I managed to pull the trigger.
In a chaotic blur of screeching metal and roaring engines, the bow of his smaller boat crashed under ours, causing his boat to violently twist sideways and flip while we were jerked hard and launched into the air. The force of the collision nearly knocked me out of the boat as we jolted up and crashed down into the water. Water splashed over the side, and we spun out of control and flipped. The force hurled me from the bow, tossing me like a rag doll into the murky water.
My vision was blurry and dark as I twisted and thrashed. It felt like I’d been swept up by a massive crashing wave, and I couldn’t tell what direction was up. I swa
m and my hands stuck into a layer of squishy mud. Digging my feet in, I sprang up out of the water and took in a much-needed breath of air.
Covered in mud and dirty water, I wiped my face and eyes and got my bearings. Right in front of me, just a few feet away, was the muddy shoreline of a small island that I hadn’t noticed before. After landing and flipping, our airboat had continued forward, crashing out of control into the island and leveling a broken path in the dense mangroves. The wrecked airboat was fifty feet away from me, lying upside down in a swampy bog of seagrass. Billy was nowhere to be found.
Turning around, I scanned the other boat, which was on its side and half-submerged. I saw no sign of the killer either, but knew he had to be there. I’d hit him before we’d collided, I was sure of it. But I wasn’t sure whether it was a fatal blow.
I reached for my waistband to grab my Sig and finish the job, but it wasn’t there. I remembered that I’d been holding it when we’d crashed—it must have flown out of my hand during the chaos. It didn’t matter. I still had my knife, and as long as I could reach him before he grabbed a weapon, I wouldn’t need a firearm to take him out.
“Help!” I heard a voice cry out from behind me.
I turned around, facing the island and the wrecked airboat, but couldn’t see any movement.
“Help! I’m stuck!” I heard the same voice call out again.
It was Billy.
Without hesitating, I moved as quickly as I could up onto the muddy shoreline, heading for the wrecked airboat. I scanned back and forth as I moved, keeping a sharp eye out for him.
He yelled for help a few more times, but his words were a struggle. He gurgled and spat. Sounded like he was drowning.
When I reached the airboat, I saw Billy lying on his back in the mud and water. The engine and fan had been completely ripped off, and the starboard gunwale was jammed into his chest, forcing his upper body a few inches underwater. With the massive airboat weighing him down, he had to struggle and force his body up just to get a much-needed breath.
I ran over as fast as I could through the thick tangle of branches, bent down beside him, and dug my fingers under the metal.
“One…two…three!” I yelled.
With all my strength, I pressed my legs down while pulling up with my arms. I grunted and my muscles screamed as I brought the edge up high enough for Billy to shimmy out of the water and mud. Just as his feet were clear, I let go, causing the boat to splash down in front of me.
We were both breathing heavily as I moved over beside him, making sure he was okay.
“Anything broken?” I said, checking him over.
He coughed and spat out muddy water.
“Shoulder hurts like hell,” he said. “But I don’t think so.”
I reached down and helped him to his feet. Turning around, I looked back at the killer’s airboat, which was still resting half-sunk in the water just offshore from the island.
“You see where he went?” Billy asked, staggering in front of me.
“No,” I said. “Haven’t seen him since he decided to go kamikaze on us.”
We moved to the shore and looked around. My adrenaline was still pumping from the chase and crash. I expected the killer to rise up from around his wrecked boat at any moment, but it didn’t happen. I hoped that he’d drowned, that I’d struck him with a 9mm round and he’d been unable to reach the surface. But I always liked to be prepared for the worst. I’d only encountered him twice, but it was clear from those interactions that this wasn’t your ordinary bad guy. Just as Pete had predicted a few days earlier at his restaurant, this guy was tough as nails and not someone to be underestimated.
Just as I turned to head back for our airboat to see if I could find my spare Sig and binoculars, I heard sloshing in the water right around an overhanging cluster of mangroves. Boots squished and sucked in the mud. I whirled back just in time to see a man appear around the corner. He had a compound bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and pulled back, aimed straight at us.
It was Hank Boggs. The jerk who’d gotten in my face the previous afternoon at Flamingo.
He wore a backward camo ball cap, and his thick black beard covered most of his face. Other than the hat, he looked exactly how he had when we’d had our hot-blooded conversation the previous day at Flamingo. His hip boots were covered in mud, and he had a layer of sweat on his brow. He eyed us with a focused gaze. Didn’t look angry or flustered.
I calculated how fast I could snag my new hunting knife, tuck to the side, and fling it in his direction. But there was no chance of it. He was too experienced, and I’d be a damn kabob before I could even have the blade clear of the sheath.
Suddenly, I heard a loud shuffling and a growl behind me. An instant later, Hank released the arrow. The carbon fiber arms shot out, snapping the line and sending the arrow straight toward us. In a strong whoosh of air, the arrow zipped right by us and struck flesh. But it wasn’t our flesh. I quickly spun around and watched as a massive alligator hissed and groaned. The arrow’s sharp broadhead jammed into its thick skin. Blood oozed out from its mouth and dripped down its bottom row of sharp teeth.
It was just a few feet away from Billy and me. Angered and in pain from the blow, it retreated into a pool of murky water and struggled its way out of sight.
I turned back to Hank. He’d lowered his bow but was watching the prehistoric predator with cautious eyes. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Seeing him standing with the bow raised and an arrow aimed at us, I’d thought we were done for sure. I was just about to thank him when he beat me to words.
“That’s the second time in two days you scared off one of my hogs, Dodge,” he said. Then he glanced over at my newfound companion and added, “Billy Thatcher. You two know each other?”
“No,” Billy said.
“An introduction was tabled on account of that boat’s owner,” I added and pointed out over the water.
Hank looked over at the barely floating airboat and nodded.
“He jumped ship while crashing into you,” Hank said. “Took off north toward that shoreline.” He pointed at a stretch of muddy shore barely visible through a light veil of fog. “He had an arm across his chest. Looked injured.”
Shit, I thought.
But it sure as hell figured. It would’ve been far too easy had he just drowned like a normal person.
“You see where he went after that?” I asked.
Hank shook his head. “Didn’t see anything else. I came here as fast as I could when I heard Billy calling for help.”
I nodded, turned around, and strode back to the upside-down airboat. Crawling under, I pulled out all of the bags I could reach. I unzipped my waterproof bag, pulled out my extra Sig, and holstered it under the right side of my drenched waistband. Then I loaded up some provisions, camping gear, and extra ammunition. I didn’t know how long we’d be tracking this guy, and I wanted to be prepared. We had to bear in mind that the other guy I’d run into yesterday was also still at large.
“I can carry that,” Billy said, extending a hand toward one of the backpacks in front of me.
I nodded and held it up to him with my left hand.
“Logan Dodge,” I said, extending my right.
He shook it and replied, “Billy Thatcher.”
“Well, Billy, you up for a hunt?”
He gave me an expression that was almost a smile. I guessed it was about as close to one as I was gonna get. I rose to my feet, strapped on my bag, and headed back to the shoreline alongside him.
“You know, for a second I thought you were about to try and use me for target practice,” I said to Hank, who was lighting up a Perla cigar.
It was the second time in two days that an arrow had flown inches away from me at over three hundred feet per second. Even I felt like I was pushing my luck.
“I may be a mean cuss, Dodge,” he said, breathing in to light the end in a bright red ember, then exhaling smoke, “but I ain’t no murderer. And try?” He laughed.
“If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be in that gator’s mouth right now.”
“Well, it isn’t a hog, but if you can find it I’m sure you can make good use of the meat,” I said. “I’m sure Mitch won’t mind that they aren’t in season.”
“Those ferocious predators are always in season,” he rebutted.
“Mind if I ask another favor?” I said, raising my thumb like a hitchhiker and nodding in the direction the killer had gone.
“Sure beats a swim,” he said. “Believe it or not, that gator that just tried to make you guys a snack wasn’t the only one in here. My boat’s just around the corner. I’ll have you both over there in no time.”
FIFTEEN
We stepped off Hank’s skiff and onto a muddy shoreline covered in thickets. In just a few seconds, we spotted a trail of boot prints in the mud. They pointed north, inland through the thick green vegetation.
“I’ll contact Mitch,” Hank said. “See if he can send out a group to salvage the boats.” He took a deep, long drag of his cigarette, then let it all out and wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Good luck.”
I thanked him and he hit the gas, motoring back over to the small island.
Without a word, Billy and I moved inland, following a trail of occasional prints and broken branches. For a quarter mile, we kept our weapons in hand, expecting our injured enemy to jump out at any moment. We moved as quickly as could be expected through the difficult landscape, tangles of branches and vines littering an expanse of knee-deep, murky water.
After a mile, I thought we’d lost the killer’s trail, but Billy assured me we still had him. He pointed out minuscule details, subtle changes to the natural order that only a man with a lifetime of experience in the swamp could notice. I didn’t know anything about him, but I was glad to have him along. My knowledge of the Glades was minimal at best, consisting of a combination of things I’d learned during a small handful of trips to hunt pythons and an episode of Man vs. Wild.