Predator in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Being aware of your surroundings is crucial in any kind of fight. Even a less experienced fighter can take down a strong opponent if they use the terrain to their advantage. It can mean the difference between winning and losing. Between life and death.

  He reached for something at the back of his belt. A knife. I let him grab it, using the brief moment of relaxed tension to put space between us. With all my strength, I grabbed hold of his flabby flesh, twisted him as hard as I could, and hurled his body into the dark muck beside me.

  He’d just grabbed hold of his knife and swung the tip toward me as he flew through the air. He stabbed the sharpened tip into nothing but mud as he oozed into the sinkhole, his body being sucked halfway into it as he landed.

  I jumped to my feet and watched as he struggled to escape the mud. Every attempt only made his situation worse as he was sucked deeper and deeper.

  His eyes grew wider than the horizon on the open ocean.

  “Put me out of my misery,” he demanded.

  I caught my breath as I kept my Sig aimed at him. Billy had dropped down from the tree during the scuffle and was standing beside me. After a few seconds of no reply, the killer eyed us both with a devilish stare.

  “Fine,” he said angrily.

  He ripped his knife from the mud and I almost pressed the trigger, thinking he was about to toss it in our direction. Instead, he rotated the blade around, aiming the tip straight at his chest, and pressed down forcefully. The knife sliced through his body, causing him to grunt and snarl as blood flowed out. He’d stabbed himself right through the heart.

  Leaving the blade lodged in his body, he took a few more struggling breaths, then went motionless. Less than thirty seconds after he died, the sinkhole completely overtook his body and he vanished from view.

  EIGHTEEN

  Billy and I stood motionless, staring down at the bloody bog in front of us. I’d seen a lot of messed-up shit in my life, but watching a psychotic serial killer stab himself through his heart was a new one. It was beyond cringeworthy, and yet again I realized that I’d underestimated these guys. To say that they were a different breed was an understatement.

  I swallowed, stepped back, and looked at Billy. He stared unblinking at the mud. There was a part of me that was relieved. We’d successfully tracked down and ended the life of a killer, a man with more innocent blood on his hands than we’d probably ever know. But with the killer dead, we no longer had anything to go on. He’d killed himself and been sucked into the mud, taking everything he knew with him. With the relief of his death came the unsettling truth that there were still two more brothers with pulses hiding out somewhere in the Glades.

  I stepped over to the edge of the mud, bent over, and picked up the metal body armor that had been ripped from the killer’s body.

  “Shit,” I said, breaking what had felt like a ten-minute silence. “This thing’s gotta way twenty pounds. This guy’s been trekking through the swamp all day wearing this thing?”

  At the center of the metal, I saw a cluster of small indents. I counted five in all, which meant that this guy had been shot at before. The armor was rugged, with rough edges and worn leather straps. It was homemade, that much was clear. Looked like it’d once been the door to an old fireplace, but it’d been cut and shaped to fit the guy’s chest.

  “Guess we can add blacksmith to their resumes as well,” I said.

  I moved back over toward the tent and snatched the shotgun from the dirt. The wooden stock was partially shattered just behind the trigger, and there were splatters of blood all over it. Looked like a Winchester pump-action, but it was hard to tell because they’d scratched and melted off all identifying markings. I popped open the chamber and saw a twelve-gauge shell ready to be fired and four in the tube.

  “I’ve only ever seen one person die before,” Billy said, speaking for the first time since the incident occurred.

  I turned and saw him still standing as stoic as if his feet were stuck in dried concrete.

  “But it wasn’t like that,” he continued, his words calm and clear. He sighed. “It was nothing like that.”

  I moved back over beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “He was an evil man,” I said. “It was gruesome and violent, but make no mistake, justice was served tonight.”

  Billy nodded.

  “I know. But it’s still a lot to take in, witnessing something like that.”

  He was right. I looked up through the canopy at a night sky full of stars. After a few more minutes, we headed back up into the tree and resumed our watches. Three gunshots had been fired, and in a place as open as the Glades, the sound would travel for miles. We couldn’t risk another predator trying to sneak up on us in the night.

  When it was Billy’s turn to sleep, he kept his body up and his eyes wide open. He began talking in a hushed tone, telling me about how the Seminole tribe had come to live in the Everglades.

  “We lived up north for many generations,” he said. “Our tribe started out as bands of Creeks and other natives in Alabama and Georgia. They moved to Florida in the 1700s due to conflicts with Europeans. Soon, they became known as Seminoles or ‘runaways.’ They were a band of misfits, self-sustaining and living off the land. Over the years, their numbers increased as more natives joined the tribes and runaway slaves sought refuge among them. In the 1800s, tensions grew between the Seminoles and the white settlers. In 1817, future president Andrew Jackson launched the first of three wars against our tribe. Needless to say, the Indian Removal Act of 1830 didn’t ease tensions. Our people fought being relocated, but most of us were wiped out. My fourth-generation grandfather, Osceola, led the tribe for many years.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, shaking my head in bewilderment. “You’re a descendant of Osceola?”

  I didn’t know a lot about history, but even I knew of the famous and influential Florida native, whose army of ragtag warriors had fought back the US Army.

  Billy nodded.

  “After years of fighting and killing, American soldiers flew up the white flag of truce, indicating that they wanted to have peace talks with Osceola and a group of his men. But it was all a trap. It was later described as one of the most disgraceful acts in American military history, and it was. They captured Osceola along with his men. He was imprisoned and grew ill. He died just three months after being captured and was buried at Fort Moultrie in South Carolina.”

  I nodded.

  “On Sullivan’s Island,” I said. “I visited the fort years ago.”

  Billy paused a moment and swallowed.

  “The tribe fell apart after that,” he continued. “Twenty years after Osceola’s death, we’d been whittled down to just three hundred. The remaining Seminoles lived in hiding in the swamps. Today, our tribe has grown to a few thousand across six reservations in Florida.”

  I shifted my body to get a more comfortable position on the branches, then looked out over the dark landscape.

  “These swamps are in my blood,” he said. “Over eight generations have spent most of their lives here.”

  I nodded. I could see a powerful intensity burning in his eyes in the faint moonlight. Billy loved his land and the people who lived on it. This wasn’t just about going after a few random serial killers. This was a personal mission for him.

  We kept talking for over an hour. Having not spoken more than a few brief sentences all day, he’d clearly opened up after the incident. As an enlisted Navy sailor, I’d spent a lot of time standing watch in the middle of the night. Usually, you have a buddy with you to make sure you don’t pass out, and it’s always nice to have someone with interesting stories to tell. Makes the time pass faster.

  I was interested in the history of his tribe, the rough and wild outcasts who’d lived in places just like where we were sleeping. He went on to tell me how he lived on the Big Cypress Reservation and that his family owned an RV resort there.

  I was surprised to learn just how much Billy and I had in common.
We were both thirty-two-years old, both only sons of career military men, his father having served nearly thirty years in the Coast Guard and my dad having retired as a master diver in the Navy. We were also both married to women that were way out of our league, though he already had three children.

  “You guys want kids?” he asked.

  I thought about it a moment. The truth was, Ange and I had talked about kids a few times since we’d gotten married. We both wanted them but wanted to enjoy a few more years of fewer responsibilities before taking on that chapter.

  “Someday,” I said.

  With just a few hours left before sunrise and no sign of any additional visitors, we both decided to get a little sleep. I was a light sleeper and Billy told me that he was as well, so we figured that on the off chance anyone else did show up at our little camp, we’d wake up when they got close.

  I woke up to the sound of my ringing sat phone. My blurry eyes opened. It was still dark, but as I sat up, I could see a faint distant glow to the east. I reached into my bag and grabbed my phone. Billy woke up as well and eyed me as I checked the screen and pressed the answer button. It was Ange.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Nice to hear your voice,” Ange replied. “I think I’m about to make your morning better.”

  “Better than being soaking wet in the middle of a swamp?” I said with a chuckle. “Good luck with that.”

  She laughed and told me that she might have something. I wasn’t surprised. I’d grown to appreciate having a partner that was much smarter than I was. Ange often figured things out much quicker than I did.

  “Oh? What’d you guys learn?”

  “We watched the drone footage last night. After about the hundredth time through it, Jack spotted something.”

  “A boat?”

  “No. Even better. A guy.”

  “How far upriver?”

  “Nearly four miles,” she replied. “Just before we turned around when the river breaks apart.”

  “A guy but no boat?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Exactly. I think we may have a winner. You guys run into any trouble last night?”

  “More like trouble ran into us,” I said. “The killer snuck into our camp last night. Tried to tear us apart with shotgun pellets in our sleep. Too bad for him we decided to sleep up in a gumbo-limbo tree instead of in the tent.”

  “You kill him?”

  “No. I gave him an ultimatum, then he jammed a knife through his heart.”

  She gasped. “Holy crap. I’m guessing he didn’t say anything, then?”

  “Nothing useful. But now that you have a visual, we have something to go on. These killers live out here somewhere, and we’re gonna find out where and pay them a little visit.” I grabbed my GPS from my bag and added, “What are the coordinates for the place you spotted him?”

  Ange read off the latitude and longitude, and I punched them into my GPS. After a few seconds, the screen pinpointed the location. It displayed a small island, and after checking it in relation to our current location, I saw that it was roughly three miles due east from us.

  “We spotted the guy on the western side of the island,” Ange said. “You see that muddy shoreline? He was standing right there. He quickly jumped beneath the canopy of trees when the drone flew overhead.”

  “This is good stuff, Ange. We’ll head over that way and stake out the area. See if we can’t track down any more killers.”

  Ange said something I couldn’t hear, then said, “Alright. We’ll head up the river. Make sure they don’t get spooked and try and make a run for it.” She paused a second, then added, “That stretch of water just southeast of the island could do nicely for landing the Cessna if we need to. It’s short, but it could be done.”

  We agreed to keep each other posted, then I thanked her and we ended the call.

  “We’ve got a bead on ’em,” I said to Billy, who was eyeing me intently.

  After a moment of no reaction and no answer, he tilted his head at me.

  “What is it?” I said with a shrug.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “I’ve just never met a husband-and-wife pair like you two. You act as if this kind of situation is normal.”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Chasing down bad guys?” I said. “Yeah, that’s happened a few times.” I looked out at the dense landscape surrounding us, then shouldered my backpack and motioned to the ground. After taking a few steps down, I held tight to a branch, straightened out my body, then let go. I bent my knees, absorbing the force as my boots hit the dirt. Looking up at Billy, I added, “Hunting down murdering rednecks in the Everglades? That’s a new one.”

  “What line of work are you two in?” he asked, climbing down after me. “Pete told me a little about you, but not much. You were a SEAL, right?”

  I nodded as he landed on the ground beside me. I stepped over to the tent and bent down. Unclipping one of the poles, I let one corner of the polyester sag down lifelessly, then stepped toward another corner.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got another long day ahead of us. We can talk while we trailblaze.”

  NINETEEN

  Buck Harlan stood in a narrow gap in the thick foliage covering a muddy shoreline. He held an old pair of binoculars up to his eyes and looked out over the flat, swampy landscape to the southwest. It was early. The sun hung just over the horizon to the east, casting a bright haze and warming the cool morning air.

  After coming up empty yet again, he closed his eyes, lifted a dirty calloused hand, and squeezed his brow. He hadn’t slept much. He’d spent most of the night standing right there, hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother. But no glimpse had ever come. In fact, no sign of human life had come aside from three gunshots in the middle of the night.

  Signs of life, or signs of death?

  Buck knew the answer to that question, but he didn’t want to.

  He heard labored footsteps coming down the trail behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. His brother Dale, similar in both size and stature, stopped just a few paces behind him. He moved with a bad limp which forced him to spend most of his time near their hideout.

  “Still no sign of Jeb?” Dale asked, his voice rough and solemn.

  Buck shook his head and spat a trail of tobacco juice onto the mud.

  “What the shit, Buck? We gonna go after him now or what?”

  Buck sneered. He jerked his head back and shot his younger brother a sinister look.

  “You stupid twat. We can’t go anywhere now thanks to you. You stood clear as day while that drone flew by. Just standing in the open like an idiot.”

  Dale paused a moment, then scratched his long messy beard.

  “That stupid toy ain’t gonna give us no trouble,” he spat. “Besides, I ducked under the tree line before it flew overhead.”

  More like I tackled you, Buck thought. And it wasn’t a damn toy.

  Buck Harlan was a redneck who lived in the middle of nowhere, true, but he wasn’t stupid. That thing had been high-tech. It flew fast, with a long range, and probably had a fancy camera on board. No, Buck knew his little brother was wrong. He knew that the “toy” would bring trouble.

  “It’s those same assholes we ran into in Hells Bay,” Buck said. “I’m sure they killed Eli, too. We shoulda killed them when we had the chance.”

  They paused a moment, and Buck took another look through his binos.

  “You getting riled up for nuttin’,” Dale said. “We lived here forever and then some. Nobody finds us here. Every man who ever came close is dead and gone now. Besides, this is our home, Buck. We got the… oh shit, what’s it called? The tactical advantage or something or other?”

  His brother wasn’t the brightest firefly, but he had somewhat of a point. Over the years, they’d rigged their little haven not only to be nearly imperceptible to onlookers, but also to be an attacker’s nightmare. They’d accumulated a stockpile of various weaponry, including mines, g
renades, and a handful of various types of guns and ammunition. Buck felt confident, but an uncomfortable itch crawled its way into his mind.

  The man he’d tussled with in Hells Bay was different. He’d been a highly trained fighter, that much had been clear. But there was something else about the guy. Something in his eyes. He had strong motivation.

  But what drove his motivation? And why had he come after them then?

  Buck and his brothers had been killing off and on for years. The mysterious outsider with the plane had never shown up before. Finally, it clicked in his head.

  That damn couple with the sailboat. Must’ve known ’em. Maybe even family.

  He looked out over the water for what felt like the hundredth time already that morning. There was no sign of Jeb. He’d been gone for over twenty-four hours. They didn’t have radios, so he knew his brother could still be out there. But he’d heard the gunshots the previous night. If his brother was alive, he’d be back already. It was time to face the truth.

  Buck spat a wad of chewing tobacco and said, “Rig the island for full defense.”

  Dale looked at his brother with wide eyes and an open mouth.

  “Rig the island for… ah shit, Buck. What the hell’s the matter with you? Why aren’t we goin’ after Jeb?”

  “Jeb’s dead,” Buck said. “And if we don’t get ready, we’ll be dead too.”

  Dale paused a moment. Suddenly, a surge of rage overcame him.

  “We’ll kill every last one of ’em,” Dale said. “Solid oath to God I’ll kill ’em all myself.”

  Buck nodded slowly. He felt the same anger coursing through his veins. He loved his brother and he vowed to avenge his death.

  “Prepare the island,” Buck said. “Get the gators in place. And don’t feed Duke. I want him good and hungry when our guests arrive.”

  Turning around slowly, he stepped onto a narrow, zigzagging trail that cut toward the center of their island.