Alicia had said nothing about this fence and he suspected current was running through it. He needed something to protect them from the charge running through the wire. His gaze moved to Armando’s restraints. There was no way he was getting over the obstacle with steel hanging from him. He needed to insulate the man from the metal. He took off his t-shirt, tore it into strips, reached for Armando’s hands and wove the cotton material in and out of the bracelets, careful to protect the skin.
The Cuban resisted at first, but men were yelling and an engine could be heard moving closer. Armando froze, staring at the pursuit, but Mac pushed him forward, urging him on. With no choice, Armando grabbed the fence. Mac quickly wrapped his own hands and was about to grab the first links when something whizzed by his head. They would be target practice going over the barrier, but the safety of the water on the other side forced him to start climbing. Another bullet passed by. He felt something sting his butt. It burned, but he was still able to climb. He reached the ground and realized they were shooting rubber bullets. Armando landed beside him and the men took off to the waiting water. Guards were screaming behind them. They reached the edge and dove into the scum-covered pond.
He started to swim towards the brush-lined shore, but stopped and turned when he saw Armando struggling behind him. Unable to use his hands the man struggled to keep his head above water. Mac reached him, grabbed his collar and rolled him on his back. With one arm around Armando he turned on his side and kicked hard towards the shore. He dared a glance at their pursuers. The men were running parallel to the fence, unable or unwilling to climb it.
They were safe until the guards could regroup. He hoped he could cross the brush and reach the canal before they were able to mobilize and follow. Any second he expected to hear the off-road vehicles needed to pursue them.
Armando was able to keep his pace as they ran over the scrub and sand, his restraints not a factor. They reached a trail and turned onto it, the hard packed terrain allowing them to sprint. Ahead, Mac could see the road that ran a hundred yards away from the canal. He tried to even his breath and run faster. In the distance he heard the sound of several engines whine and suspected the guards were near, the ATVs they used would be on them in seconds. He ran faster.
They crossed the road and stopped short of the empty canal. There was no sign of Trufante. He looked around for another escape route, and started to run back into the brush. With Armando on his heels, he veered towards the palmettos, when he heard the distinctive sound of an airboat. He looked back and saw two ATV’s, their rifle racks already visible as they sped towards them.With nowhere else to go, they ran to the canal. He could just see Trufante’s grin beaming from the driver's seat and the orange-clad figure of the girl clutching her bag next to him. His relief was short-lived when another rubber bullet hit his thigh, bringing him to the ground. He tried to get up but the bullet had temporarily crippled him. Armando helped him to his feet. Together both men stumbled into the water, yelling in Spanish and English for the Cajun to hurry.
The boat looked like it was going to run them over, but at the last second, Trufante cut the engine to an idle, hopped from the driver's seat to the bow and hauled Armando on board. Mac felt hands grab him, reached for the low gunwales of the boat and tried to board. He was breathless and his leg was useless, numbed by the shot. Finally, aided by Trufante, he slithered onto the steel deck.
“Go!” he yelled to the Cajun. He winced as bullets hit the steel cage guarding the propeller. One bullet catching a blade in the right spot could cripple the boat. Trufante hopped back in the driver’s seat and immediately revved the engine. Several long seconds later, the boat moved. Mac clung to the metal sides, pinned to the deck and breathing heavily as the boat quickly gained speed. He looked over at Armando who was beside him grasping the base of a chair.
Mac looked back at the shore and saw the men standing by the ATVs, unable to follow. One was on a radio and Mac suspected a helicopter was being called in. Fighting the force of the fifty-mile-an-hour wind caused by the forward progress of the boat, he rose to his knees and crawled back to Alicia.
“We’ve got to get to cover,” he yelled over the engine roar. “You got that map?”
She looked back at him. He saw panic in her eyes. Reaching up, he grabbed the tablet from her and watched her move her hands to the rails of the seat. The grip was tight enough that he could see the muscles bulging in her arms. Leaning back against the seat base, he examined the device. He had never used one, but it looked like the screen of his phone. The screen lit up when he pushed the power button and he slid under the seat to avoid the glare of the sun. He pushed the map icon and waited while the screen shifted to show the red dot marking their location. Spreading his fingers on the screen, he zoomed out and panned towards the south, looking for an exit from the canal.
The screen confirmed his fears that they were landlocked. He looked up at the embankments on each side of the man-made canal, a boundary between the residential subdivisions on the left and the wilds of The Everglades on the right. Glancing back at the map, he followed the course of the canal all the way to where it crossed South Dixie Highway near Florida City and emptied into Manatee Bay. There was no way, even traveling at this speed, they could escape through the canal. Even if they were not worthy of a helicopter to chase them, the canal crossed too many roads. It would be easy to set up officers at the bridges to stop them. The only way out was through the back country, the huge expanse of sawgrass and swamp, littered with small islands identified by the clumps of cypress trees that had hidden smugglers and criminals for centuries.
Mac slid the tablet back into Alicia’s bag, fought his way to his feet, grabbing the side rail for support. The woman was oblivious to their plight, the muscles in her arms trembling from her hold on the seat, a look of pure terror on her face. He reached for the rail behind her, pulled himself up and slid into the empty seat behind Trufante. He was eye-level with the top of the berm now and had to stand to see over it.
Sawgrass stretched as far as he could see, invisible from this angle was the water he knew lay beneath. The only way over was to jump the embankment. He suspected it could be done and leaned forward to tell Trufante what he wanted. Just as he sat back, he heard a helicopter behind them.
“Now!” he yelled.
Trufante wasted no time. He turned the stick towards the bank and accelerated. The boat swerved and stalled, throwing them forward when it hit the berm.
“More speed!” Mac called.
Trufante steered back to the center of the canal and accelerated. They were moving faster, the engine whining at its top speed. Mac looked over at Alicia, frozen in place, and Armando, still clutching the deck. A quick look overhead and he knew this was the only chance they would get.
Trufante took a different angle, learning from the last try that a head-on approach was not going to work. The starboard corner hit ground and this time the boat’s momentum lifted it onto land. The flat hull moved slowly up the rise, juking every time it hit small roots and rocks. Mac felt the engine strain as the boat reached the crest, but he was looking down on the vast expanse of sawgrass. The boat slid easily, picking up speed on the downhill side, and the bow crashed into the water, sending a wave onto them. The boat plowed through the sharp grass, that moved and then sprung back in place, concealing their trail. He looked up. The helicopter veered away, not having the range to chase them through the wilderness.
EIGHTEEN
Trufante had to slow the boat as the ground below them changed. Sawgrass had yielded to scrub and he was forced to navigate around small islands scattered through the swamp.
Mac heard Alicia yell something; her voice lost to the wind. He bumped Trufante and raised a clenched fist, signaling him to stop. The helicopter had turned back several minutes ago and they were out of immediate danger. He suspected the authorities would be watching exit points from the area and would be patient letting the swamp do their work for them. The inhospitable ground ha
d nothing to offer. There was no fresh water; the once pristine wilderness was brackish or polluted with fertilizers. Food was hard to come by unless you were a trained hunter after ’gators, snakes, deer, or the rare panther. With no weapon or fishing gear they had no chance.
The boat skidded to a stop, the engine behind them still loud as it idled, but they were able to hear each other.
“Ain’t no potties out here,” Trufante said.
She glared at him, took the tablet from her bag and turned it on. “We are lost.”
“Shit, honey, there’s no lost out here, just north, south, east and west. Any of those directions get you back to civilization; some are just further than others.”
She pulled the tablet from her bag and focused on the screen.
“How are you getting a signal out here?” Mac asked.
“Satellites,” she answered without looking up. But I can’t get any detail.”
“That’s because there isn’t any. Every time it rains the terrain changes.” He looked ahead, “We are heading south by southwest: should exit this mess in Florida Bay. A lot of stuff won’t show on that.” The dangerous shallows of Florida Bay were more difficult to navigate than the barren Everglades.
Armando rose from the deck, moved to the empty seat in front of Trufante, and said something in Spanish.
“He thanks you for helping him,” Alicia interpreted. She reached into her hair, pulled two bobby pins out, and asked him to hold out his hands. Seconds later, the handcuffs clattered on the metal deck.
He rubbed his hands together, smiling.
“Yo, Chi-fon. Now that’s some useful shit,” Trufante said. She replaced the pins in her hair. “Didn’t know you could do that with plain old bobby pins.”
She looked at him and mimicked his accent. “Those ain’t no over-the-counter pins. That’s top-secret CIA shit.” They all laughed, breaking the tension.
“Head out?” Trufante asked.
Mac nodded and pointed the direction he wanted them to go. Trufante pushed one of the levers forwards and the boat vibrated as the propeller spun up. They headed towards the bay. Mac figured they were less than an hour out and started to plan how to get Armando back into Cuba. The island was only one hundred and eighty miles away: an hour in a plane, three hours by car, five in a fast boat. There was no road, and the airboat would be useless once they left the shallows of Florida Bay.
The landscape changed again and Trufante accelerated now that he was sure they had enough water under the boat. The sawgrass was gone, yielding to small mangrove islands with open water between them. The bay was close. Mac struggled to see the landscape ahead and decided on a point of land. Getting into the bay would be tricky. He had never been through here, but had researched several fishing trips to The Ten Thousand Islands to the west and remembered a long strip of land separating The Everglades from the bay to the east. He motioned to Trufante to steer west where he knew the water emptied into the bay.
The landscape changed again a few minutes later and they found themselves on a shallow flat, with what he thought looked like a road ahead. He signaled Trufante to the south, away from the road. Minutes later they were in open water, the sand bottom only inches below the hull. Several small Keys lay ahead and Mac pointed to the southeast, in the direction of Islamorada.
Twenty minutes later, they had cleared the land barrier and were part way along a chain of small islands when the engine sputtered. Trufante looked at him and shook his head. The engine revved again and then died. “Steer towards land while we still have some momentum,” Mac said. His voice seemed loud without the roar of the engine behind him.
Trufante turned towards the closest Key, goosing every inch of forward progress they could gain, but the boat coasted to a stop a hundred yards from shore. Mac turned to the engine and stared at it, wondering where to start troubleshooting, when something zipped by his head. There had been no gunshot and he ignored it. Seconds later another projectile hit the cage and bounced to the deck. Mac bent over, picked it up and held it out for the others to see.
“What the heck - a golf ball?” Trufante said as another ball shot over their heads.
Confused, they looked at the island where the balls were coming from and saw several figures standing on the shore. Mac reached for the single oar strapped to the gunwale and started to paddle towards land. The incoming balls had stopped. The figures huddled together, obviously planning. He had no choice but to seek their benevolence. They were close enough to see the three unshaven and dirty men; holding beers, one leaning on a golf club.
“Can we get a hand?” he called out as they approached.
The man with the golf club just stared at them. “You got my balls?”
Mac tossed the single ball to him. “Engine died.” He was starting to worry now, and noticed a rifle behind the leg of one of the men. All three were staring at Alicia.
“That’s some exotic shit you got there,” one of the men said. “We’d be happy to help.” They giggled.
Mac knew the stories about the backwaters of the bay and wished he had a gun. Just miles from Miami, things were very different here. The area was lawless, too large and desolate for law enforcement to patrol. He looked around but there was nowhere else to go. Powerless, the clock to save Mel ticking in his head, he knew he would have to make the best of it, and paddled the remaining few feet to land.
One of the men entered the water, took the dock line from the deck and pulled the boat onto the sandy shore. The men surrounded them.
“Vance is the name,” the man with the golf club said.
“Bugger Vance,” one of the men chuckled. The third laughed at the joke. “Thinks he’s a pro golfer like that dude in the movie.”
Vance smacked him in the side of the head and the group fell silent. He picked up the manacles from the deck. “Looks like y’all got some ‘splaining to do.”
Mac hoped their outlaw status would help gain some sympathy. “Broke him out.”
“Strange bunch,” Vance said. He tossed the restraints on shore and moved towards Alicia. “Two white boys, a Cuban and a gook. Not the usual company we see come through here. Maybe y’all oughta get off the boat and tell us what you’re running from.” He leered at Alicia, who clung to the life jacket.
They followed the men to a clearing with a fire pit and several chairs. Mac scanned the brush for their boat or an escape path, but the shack had been placed in dense brush on purpose. The smell of chemicals was in the air. He suspected their purpose was not recreation.
Vance reached into a cooler and pulled out a beer. “Why don’t y’all sit down,” he said and indicated a group of camp chairs by the fire.
Mac smelt the air again and started putting things together. The only thing he could do was cooperate, but he was getting more uncomfortable by the minute, and searched for any weapon or escape option he could find. Following directions, at least for now, he motioned the group towards the chairs.
He sat and looked at the man in a dirty, sleeveless t-shirt and torn camo shorts, his golf club extended in front of him like he was lining up a putt. The other men were behind them. Before he could react, he felt the barnacles on the crab trap line scrape his skin as they tossed it over him and pulled. He fell from the chair and they wrapped him, the abrasive line tearing open scabs from his partially healed cuts. He looked at Trufante and Armando, struggling against their restraints. Alicia remained in the chair, arms crossed protectively across the life jacket still strapped to her chest, tears streaming down her face as Vance approached her.
NINETEEN
Norm walked along the beach making a list in his head. He tried Alicia’s number, cursed as again it went to voicemail and hung up. A message or text would leave a trail. A missed call to an operator under his control would look normal if his plan fell apart and there was an investigation. She would see the call and know he was looking for her. Activity along the path picked up as he walked, the barely-clothed joggers and rollerbladers momentarily d
istracting him.
Getting Travis and Armando back in time for the ferry was paramount. He walked past several hotels and turned into the main airport entrance and followed the sign for Key West Seaplane Adventures.
He waited while the woman behind the counter booked a flight to the Dry Tortugas, the charter company’s specialty. Finally she completed the reservation, hung up and acknowledged him.
“Going to Fort Jefferson?” she asked.
He dug into his pants’ pockets for his wallet and remembered it was gone, but found a crumpled business card in a front pocket, removed it and pushed it across the counter. “Looking for a private charter for later today.”
She thumbed the card. “You’re going to have to put a deposit. Where is your destination?”
“Have to pick up some folks, and then to Key West, somewhere between here and Miami.”
“That’s a little vague.” She pulled out a calculator and started to punch numbers.
His patience was waning. “It’s on the government. Just call the number on the card; they’ll authorize the expense.”
“No offense, but we run a tight operation here - no credit.” She handed the business card back to him.
His credentials were gone along with his wallet, cash and credit cards. The bump on his head started pounding again.
He handed her the card back. “This is official business. I’ll expect the plane standing by,” he said, puffing his chest out. He realized what he must look like and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Cash or credit card only,” she said and casually answered the phone.
He felt ignored. “Have it ready. I’ll be back.” He tried not to sound like the terminator. He left the office and started to jog out of the airport, reaching a full run by the time he made the main road, cursing every step.
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