by Matthew Rief
“That’s Logan Dodge,” she said angrily. She turned to Axel and added, “Send men after them. Take them down, Axel.”
The big guy’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the image on the screen, and he nodded confidently.
NINE
Just before 1800, we reached the Lower Keys. We needed somewhere out of the way to get to know our guest, and Jack had chosen a spot five miles northeast of Key West in the Bay Keys. I eased back on the throttles and piloted us through a narrow channel, then idled us into a cut between two uninhabited islands a few hundred feet apart.
Ange climbed up onto the bow and unhooked the anchor safety line. Operating the windlass remotely via the cockpit control station, I lowered and set the anchor by reversing the throttles for a few seconds. It was only seven feet deep, so I didn’t need very much line. With the anchor in place, I turned off the engines. The low humming sound was instantly replaced by the calm quiet of the soft ocean breeze over the water and the rustling of nearby mangrove leaves.
I climbed up onto the bow beside Ange and had a quick look around. Atticus was right on my heels, jumping up and looking around with excitement and curiosity. There were a handful of fishing and pleasure boats out on the water, but they were far off and the mangroves shielded us from view from most angles. Jack had picked a good spot. If by chance a boat decided to cruise down the channel toward us, we’d be able to spot them long before they realized that we were here.
We moved back down into the cockpit just as Jack appeared from below deck.
“He’s awake.”
I nodded at him, then he paused a moment, took in a deep breath and let it out.
“What is it?” I said.
“What are you planning to do, bro? Torture the guy?” he asked.
He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of it. Frankly, so was I. I’d heard many torture stories over the course of my life, even seen the aftermath a few times. But fortunately, I’d never had to do it or be involved in it myself. Killing someone can have serious repercussions for some people, but I couldn’t imagine trying to get a restful night’s sleep after being involved in torture.
“Of course,” I said loud enough for every pair of ears on board to hear me.
I nodded toward the open salon door and shook my head. Jack’s eyes scanned back and forth between me and the door, then he nodded.
“I’ll put a bullet through each of his kneecaps if I have to,” I continued. “Then I’ll dangle him over the side and let the sharks have some fun with him. I’m sure he’ll play ball after that. If not, well, we drop him into Davy Jones’s Locker and forget about it.”
Ange strode beside us, heading for the door.
“That’s right,” she said. “We’ve got all afternoon.”
Jack and I dragged the guy up the steps and dropped him on the deck beside the sunbed. We’d searched his body over while zip-tying him up and had found three knives in addition to the two hidden handguns. His nose was broken but had stopped bleeding. We’d tied a rag around his shoulder to slow the bleeding there as well. It worked, but the rag had been soaked, along with a good portion of his black tee shirt.
He looked dazed as he scanned around him, blinking his eyes from the light of the dropping sun to the west. His face fumed with rage as he eyed the three of us. He was big, much bigger than me. His muscles bulged, and veins stuck out all over his tattoo-covered body.
I grabbed my Sig, hunkered down on the sunbed, and eyed him through my sunglasses. Atticus sprawled out beside me, his eyes watching intently every move the stranger made.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked sternly. “And what the hell are you doing killing innocent people?”
His only reply was to snarl, grit his teeth, and spit a gob of spittle and blood over the side.
Ange stepped closer, leaned over him and pressed her Glock against his right knee cap.
“Answer the question, asshole,” she said.
His eyes narrowed and he looked away arrogantly.
“I’ll take a bullet over giving my name,” he said in his low, rough voice. “But as to the second question, I’m here for work.”
“Who do you work for?” I asked. “And what do they want?”
He directed his gaze back to me, stared and blinked for a few seconds.
“We’re Darkwater, Logan Dodge.”
My expression shifted slightly. Darkwater was one of the world’s most powerful private militaries. Many highly trained warriors went to work for them after getting out of the military. They paid well but were often caught up in major scandals around the globe. They also happened to be owned by Carson Richmond, a corrupt rich businesswoman who we’d managed to hit with hard evidence of her wrongdoings after she’d tried to kill me and my buddy, Kyle Quinn. She’d also orchestrated a black-market illegal arms deal that would’ve killed sixteen US special forces soldiers had it not been thwarted by Kyle.
What the hell they were doing in the Gulf was a lingering question in my mind. But there was no doubt that they were trying to keep people away from the oil rig.
“That’s right,” he continued. “I know who you are. I know what you did last month to Drago and his men, and to the guys over on Richmond Key.” He paused a moment, then added, “You want some advice, Logan? Well, get the hell out of the Keys. Hell, get as far away as you can and change your name. That’s the only way there’s a chance that this ends well for you. However minuscule that chance might be.”
“Listen, asshole,” I said, aiming my Sig at his head. “I don’t give a crap about your advice. All I want to know is what you and your motley crew are doing with that oil rig. You tell me that and I won’t kill you.”
He grunted, then shook his head.
“Whatever,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. You obviously don’t know these people very well. They’ll try and kill me anyway, and they’ll probably succeed. I failed them, and they don’t have any tolerance for failure.”
“Well, at least you’ll have a chance,” Ange said. “If you don’t talk, your dead for sure.”
He shrugged. “Alright. The truth is I don’t know much. These things are all on a need-to-know basis. But I can tell you that I was hired to keep suspicious people away from the oil rig. Doesn’t take a genius to see that they must be doing something illegal there. What that is, I have no clue.”
“And the two scientists? Ange said. “How were they suspicious? You guys didn’t even give them a warning like you did for us. You just opened fire.”
“You mean those two women? That was a special case,” he said. “We had orders from Carson to take those two women out. I didn’t even know they were scientists.”
Ange shook at the mention of her name. She’d detested Carson for years. The deck went quiet for a few seconds, and I thought everything over.
“Carson’s on the rig?” I asked.
“Should be,” he said. “She was supposed to fly in right around the time we cruised over to you. Axel wanted us to get rid of any nearby boats before she arrived.”
“Axel?” Ange said.
“Just the guy in charge of this op,” he said. “He’s from somewhere in Africa. Pretty rough dude.”
Ange and I looked at each other in silence, then the guy eyed us skeptically.
“Alright,” he said. “I told you everything I know. Time to let me go.”
I looked over at Ange and Jack. Jack shook his head slightly and I agreed with him. I had no intention of letting this guy go.
“My sat phone’s in the backpack,” I said, motioning toward my black backpack resting in the cockpit. “Get Charles on the line. Let him know we have a suspect to hand over.”
“What the hell?” the guy shouted. “You said you’d let me go if I told you.”
Atticus jumped to his feet and growled. Jack strode over, grabbed my phone, and made the call. I put a hand on Atticus, letting him know it was okay.
“No, I said I wouldn’t kill you. I don’t care what the police do with you.
I’m handing you over to them.”
He growled and struggled, his wrists turning red as he tried to snap the zip ties binding them together. In an instant, Ange hit him across the head with the handle of her Glock, putting him back to sleep.
“Charles will meet us at Sigsbee Marina over at NAS,” Jack said. “ETA twenty minutes.”
I nodded, then holstered my Sig.
“What the hell is she up to now?” Ange said, holstering her Glock and putting her hands on her hips. “I knew it. I knew we should have just ended her back on her island when we had the chance.”
I was just as surprised as she was to learn of Carson’s involvement.
“Isn’t she up to her ears in legal battles?” Jack said. “Isaac told me she’s been blowing up in online news.”
“She is,” I said. “The intel we got was good and would put her away for a long time if justice is served. But—”
“Justice is rarely served when it comes to the crimes of the rich and powerful,” Ange said, finishing my sentence. “Mark my words—if I get the chance to take her down, I’m doing it. No mercy this time. Not for her.”
TEN
We brought the anchor up, secured it, then started up the engines, motoring past the islands and back through the channel. We cruised around Calda Bank, cutting south through the Pearl Basin and into Man of War Harbor.
Cruising around the northern tip of Fleming Key, we saw the big whitewashed buildings that make up the Army’s Special Forces Underwater Operations School. The dying sun cast a red glow over the structures. As we motored past, we laid eyes on a group of students finning their way along the shore. A group of instructors on a dinghy motored alongside them, screaming their own special blend of motivation. The students looked exhausted as they forced stroke after stroke, but I cracked a smile as the occasional “Hooah!” gurgled out from their tired lungs.
Those guys had probably been up since 0400 and had been running, swimming, and been yelled at ever since. I’d experienced my share of special operations torture during my time in Basic Underwater Demolition School, or BUDS, the Navy’s first phase of Navy SEAL training. But in the hardest times, you figure out what you’re really made of. I look back with pride at my times doing similar training in the Navy, and I was confident that each of those guys would as well.
The Sigsbee Marina is small, with just two short docks and less than ten boats moored. It’s part of Naval Air Station Key West and is used mostly by service members for recreational purposes. Charles, along with three other officers, was standing at the end of the first dock we came to when we cruised up. Jack tossed only the aft line, and one of the officers tied it off to a cleat. We weren’t planning to stay there very long.
“So what’s the story with this guy?” Charles asked.
He was wearing his full uniform and peering down through dark sunglasses at the snoozing zip-tied bad guy.
“Tried to kill us,” Jack said.
“Tried to kill you guys?” he replied, lowering his sunglasses to get a brighter look at the guy. “Must be clinically insane.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly know who he was trying to kill,” I said. “But I doubt this guy would have thought twice regardless.”
“He also admitted to being involved in the murder of Maggie Fletcher,” Ange said. “He works for Darkwater.”
Charles nodded slowly, then motioned to the officers beside him. I bent down and grabbed under the unconscious guy’s shoulders while Jack grabbed his legs. We hoisted him up onto the starboard gunwale, and the three officers took care of him from there.
As the officers carried him down the dock toward a police cruiser, Charles looked over his shoulder, then said, “I’m guessing this Darkwater guy didn’t come at you all by himself.”
“A good guess,” I said.
“How many were there?”
“Six.” I nodded toward the parking lot and added, “He’s the lucky one.”
Charles took in a deep breath of fresh ocean air and let it out.
“This is some deep shit here,” he said. “I’ve got government higher-ups calling me and telling me to drop the investigation. They’re ordering me to keep clear of the oil rig. ‘To sit back and let the big dogs handle it.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
Ange chuckled. “Well, they’re doing a terrible job.”
I remembered my conversation with Wilson, how he’d seemed uncomfortable. He’d given me info on the Fletchers, but nothing about the oil rig. I hoped to God that he wasn’t involved. Scott, I knew better. He wouldn’t dip his hands into crap like this to save his life. He was straight as an arrow. But I knew business and big government well enough to know that not everyone was like him. And I was guessing his reputation as a saint would give certain others a desire to leave him in the dark on some things.
“Anytime there’s oil, you can be sure that there’s a lot of money involved,” I said. “Somebody there’s up to something, and it sure as hell isn’t legal.”
“What do you guys think’s going on?”
“Scott told me that Zhao Petroleum owns the rig,” I said. “Could be a number of reasons they want people to stay away. They’re not supposed to be bringing up any oil, so maybe they are.”
“It would explain why that ship was there, bro,” Jack said.
The police cruiser’s doors slammed shut, causing Charles to glance over at the other officers, who were waiting for him.
“I’ll handle this clown,” he said. “You guys be careful,” he added, motioning toward the bullet hole through the windscreen. “I’ll send a guy over to your slip to get that taken care of. This one’s on the government. You guys heading back over to the marina now?”
Jack and Ange both looked at me, and I nodded. I was starving and I needed to refuel. Plus a bullet hole in the windscreen looks a little suspicious to most people.
“Probably won’t take her out again tonight,” I said, tapping the side of the Baia. “Thanks, Charles.”
“No, thank you, guys. In situations like this, it’s nice to have people with your… experience on your side. You be careful now.”
He took a few strides down the dock, then turned back.
“Oh yeah, almost forgot. Pete said to stop by this evening. Said he’s having dinner with Professor Murchison and they wanted to talk with you.”
“He didn’t give a specific time?” I asked.
“You know Pete. The guy lives on island time. But he said between seven and eight, for what that’s worth.”
I smiled. Like Jack, Pete Jameson, the owner of Salty Pete’s Bar, Grill, and Museum, didn’t even own a watch. I nodded to Charles, who turned and headed for the police cruiser.
ELEVEN
After topping off the Baia’s fuel tanks, we cruised back over to the Conch Harbor Marina and pulled into my slip. I killed the engines, then we tied off. I snatched the freshwater hose from the dock and rinsed down my wetsuit and rebreather gear. The deck still had trace amounts of blood residue, so I sprayed that down as well.
Before heading out, I stepped down into the main cabin, changed into a fresh tee shirt, then threw on a pair of socks and laced up my Converse. After locking up, we piled into my Tacoma and cruised over to Pete’s place. It was the last day of the Conch Republic Festival, and crowds of people littered the streets and sidewalks. With the sun dropping, it was just starting to get crazy. The closer the sun gets to the horizon, the wilder it gets until all-out just-about-everything-goes chaos breaks loose.
On the drive over, we spotted a guy riding a tandem bike down Duval dressed up as Lady Liberty. Though instead of a torch and a tabula ansata, he held a conch shell in his left hand and a Conch Republic flag in his right. He swung it high over his head and was screaming “Independence” as he peddled by. Just about anywhere else in the country, it would be a rare and strange sight. But in Key West, nobody batted an eye. If you spent a night walking downtown, it wouldn’t be nearly the strangest thing you’d see.
I pulled i
nto Pete’s place, which is tucked a few blocks away from the main drags of Duval and Whitehead Street. Crunching the tires over a small seashell driveway, I parked in one of the last open spaces, right beside a large palm tree. Salty Pete’s looks like a large house upon first glance, with an unassuming entrance and a big second-story balcony out back.
A bell rang as we swung open the mahogany door. Instantly, my nostrils were filled with a concoction of incredible aromas that made my mouth water. The main dining area, with booths, tables, and various nautical memorabilia all over the walls, was practically full of people. It always amazed me how much the place had changed since I’d first walked in over a year earlier. I’d been the only customer then, and the place had been so rundown that feral cats that had strayed away from the Hemingway House had preferred nearby dumpsters to it.
We didn’t see any sign of Pete, so we headed for the large wooden staircase near the back of the dining area. Mia, the head waitress, caught us halfway up.
“They’re outside,” she said cheerily. She smiled at each of us, then added, “You guys each want the usual?”
Ange and I each nodded, but Jack replied, “What’s the catch?”
“Redfish.”
He licked his lips. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Thanks, Mia.”
She continued down and we continued up. Most of the second story is the museum part of the place, with rows of glass cases and artifacts from all over the islands. Many people visit just to see Pete’s collection, but few are able to resist staying for a bite once they catch a whiff of the eats.
A waitress was just coming in from the balcony through the sliding glass door. She kept it open for us and I thanked her, then shut it once we were outside. There were a few small groups of people sitting and enjoying their meals, but I spotted Pete instantly. He was sitting in the corner across from Frank, the incredible view of the ocean and brilliant sunset behind them. He spotted the three of us as well and motioned us over.