Legend in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  “Two hundred degrees,” Walt said, still holding out the compass.

  We walked around the base of the lighthouse until we reached the two-hundred-degree mark on the compass. Turning around, we faced the southeast part of the courtyard.

  “Eleven paces more,” Ange said.

  Not wanting to look too suspicious, we walked casually beside Walt as he counted off the paces. He walked in a straight line and whispered the numbers to himself.

  “One… two… three…”

  When he got to six, I looked ahead and realized that we were heading for trouble. Not the Albanian criminal variety, but the man-made treasure-hunting-hinderance kind. In this case, it was in the form of a hardened concrete-powder-and-water mixture.

  “Eleven,” Walt said quietly.

  We stood in silence for a moment as we gazed down at the ground. We’d reached the supposed site where Hastings had buried the next clue. The only problem was that the ground was covered by a paved walkway. We were standing right at the point where three paths converged, making it even wider than most areas.

  “Well, that’s some shitty luck,” Jack said.

  Pete wandered off to the edge of the path and bent over.

  “It’s gotta be at least four inches thick,” he said.

  We had a new and unexpected problem on our hands.

  “How are we gonna break through four inches of concrete in the middle of a popular downtown historic site without anyone noticing?” I said, putting into words what all five of us were thinking.

  SEVENTEEN

  Valmira Gallani stepped out from her private jet and into the warm afternoon air. She hit the steps quickly, followed closely behind by two big guys.

  She had smooth olive skin and short raven-black hair that she kept straight. She was six feet tall, wide-shouldered, and strong. She wore black pants and a gray tee shirt. Her arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Sparkling diamond studs littered her ears. She had a pronounced, narrow jawline and fierce dark eyes.

  She strode with a commanding presence down the steps, onto the tarmac, and into the air-conditioned backseat of a blacked-out SUV. Without a word, the two big guys entered, one in the passenger seat and the other in the back beside her. The guy who’d opened the door for her slammed it shut, then plopped down in the driver’s seat and drove them off the Miami International Airport tarmac.

  From the moment she’d learned about the Florentine Diamond, she’d decided to drop what she was doing and take off from Albania. She had two objectives: find the gem, then kill Walt Grissom. It was a task she was all too happy to perform after the old treasure hunter had cheated her out of what had amounted to over a million US dollars.

  He thought he could run away from us, she thought with a sly smile as she kept her gaze forward.

  Twenty minutes later, the driver pulled the SUV into Crandon Park Marina on Key Biscayne. Stopping right at the curb, he opened the door for Val, and the group walked down the dock to where a fifty-nine-foot-long Sealine T60 yacht was moored.

  After boarding, she headed straight for the elegant saloon, where three men were waiting for her. Two stood as soon as she entered, but the third remained seated. He was wearing a silk button-up that was drenched in sweat. He looked exhausted but straightened up when Val entered the room.

  She stood still for a moment, then narrowed her gaze.

  “Where’s Arven and Lesh?” she asked in her strong Albanian accent.

  The seated guy swallowed hard.

  “They’re dead. I barely made it out myself.”

  “And Grissom?”

  “He got away. Headed back to Key West far as I know.”

  She paused a moment. Her anger was masked by a stone-cold expression that rarely changed, a trait she’d learned from her father. As the daughter of a ruthless mafia leader, she’d been raised more like a boy than a girl.

  “You look terrible, Jorik, and you smell worse,” she said. She motioned aft and added, “Go shower and change.”

  He hesitated a moment, then rose to his feet and did as he was told. Val gave a cold smile as he disappeared.

  “Take us out,” she said to one of the guys beside her.

  “Where are we going?” he asked back.

  “You heard him. Key West.”

  As the man strode out of the room and into the cockpit, Val thought about Jorik. The coward was most likely concluding that her reputation was worse than her reality. In the criminal circles of the Balkan Peninsula, she was known as the Angel of Death. But he probably was thinking that she merely had a façade of evil. That in reality, she was just a young girl trying and failing at what most believed was a man’s business.

  Val liked to play mind games with her subordinates. To make them think that they were getting off easy, then strike like a vicious cobra when they least expected it.

  When Jorik finished showering, he changed into fresh clothes, then was told to meet Val at the stern. It’d been half an hour, and the yacht was now fifteen miles southeast of Miami.

  She looked out over the surrounding water. The horizon was littered with boats of all types, but none were within a mile of them. She’d told the pilot to make sure and keep distance between them and other vessels—at least until she was done teaching a lesson.

  “You sent for me, ma’am?” Jorik said.

  Val wasn’t one for dragging things out. Instead of a verbal reply, she turned around and quickly slapped Jorik across his face. Her long black-painted nails sliced deep, leaving rows of gashes that quickly seeped out blood. Jorik yelled from the pain and lurched forward.

  “What the—” The words barely made it out of his mouth before Val planted her right leg and hit him with a strong roundhouse kick that knocked him hard on his ass.

  Filled with rage and wailing from the pain, Jorik staggered to his feet. Just as he lifted his fists into a fighting stance, Val’s two personal bodyguards and the two other mafia members that were on board stepped out casually and stood idly by. They eyed Jorik with narrowed gazes, and he lowered his fists.

  Val grabbed an Albanian jambiya dagger. The rare knife had a razor-sharp steel blade and an ivory handle.

  Clenching Jorik’s blood-soaked shirt collar, she lifted him up and pressed the tip to his neck.

  “You failed a simple task,” she said. “And you ran away like a little girl.” She paused a moment, then pressed the tip in deep enough to draw blood and added, “Is there anything useful that you can tell me? Anything that might persuade me from ending your life?”

  He winced, breathed frantically, then coughed to clear his throat.

  “They found something,” he said, rushing the words out. “Near that bridge they were at. Snake Bridge, I think. Whatever they were looking for, they found it.”

  Val paused a moment, focusing her terrifying dark eyes.

  “They?”

  Jorik nodded. “Walt isn’t alone. He’s got others with him. At least three others that I saw. And they know how to fight.”

  “What did they find?” she said.

  “I… I don’t know,” he exclaimed. “Please believe me, I don’t know!”

  Val nodded slowly. Turning around, she looked at her nearest thug. She raised her right hand and slid her index finger dramatically across her neck. The two big guys smiled sinisterly, then closed in on Jorik.

  “What’s happening?” Jorik asked, looking desperately at the two guys. “You said if I told you—”

  Val interrupted his vehement pleading with a quick twist of her body and a thrust of her knife. The sharp point sliced effortlessly through Jorik’s abdomen, sticking out the other side. Jorik gasped and yelled horrifically as blood flowed out and dripped to the deck.

  As quickly and mercilessly as she’d stabbed, Val jerked her knife free and grabbed Jorik by his shirt.

  “You’re a worthless coward,” she said. “Nothing you say can change that.”

  She let go and stepped back. Her two henchmen moved in swiftly and held him down aga
inst the transom while the other two guys tied a nylon rope around his shoulders. The knife wound wasn’t to kill him. It was only the beginning of Jorik’s painful, life-ending lesson.

  They tied the other end of the rope to the stern, then forced Jorik into a lifejacket, securing it with tight knots. This was to keep him from sinking and drowning his way out of his due torture. This wasn’t the first time Val had utilized her father’s unique method of sending a message.

  With a remorseless heave, the two big guys tossed Jorik into the yacht’s wake. They were traveling at twenty-five knots, so the rope quickly went taut. Jorik yelled as his bloodied body was dragged behind them. It was only a matter of time before the ocean’s predators made their violent move.

  “Video this shit,” Val ordered one of her men. “I want to watch this show later.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied in a low, smooth voice.

  She headed back into the saloon. Taking her mind off the incident, she thought about what she would do when they reached Key West. Jorik and her two other men had proved useless.

  Sometimes, if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.

  She climbed up onto the bow and looked out at the faraway island-littered horizon. In the distance behind her, she heard Jorik’s frantic screams, and her lips contorted into an evil smile.

  “Enjoy the fresh air of life while you can, Walt,” she said to herself as she kept her eyes cast forward. “For soon, your life, and the lives of those helping you, will be mine.”

  EIGHTEEN

  We followed the instructions on the compass two more times. Each time we found the two-hundred-degree point, then checked the paces just to make sure. Each yielded the same results as the first. It looked like our next clue was buried under the concrete path in the middle of the historic site.

  On our way out, we ran into Marty the tour guide again. He reminded us of the hours, then tried to detour us into the gift shop. Instead, we exited the way we had come, climbed back into the Tacoma, and drove over to Pete’s place for lunch.

  We kept a sharp eye out for any bad guys, but it looked as though we were still in the clear when we pulled into the seashell driveway and headed inside. We claimed a table out on the balcony that was off in the corner, just out of earshot from the small bands of people that had shown up for Pete’s famous happy hour.

  When you’re starving, everything looks good. And after the boat ride back from Snake Creek and the reconnaissance at the lighthouse, we were all ordering food rapid-fire. It wasn’t long before the table was covered with trays of raw oysters on ice, steamed shrimp doused in Old Bay seasoning, steamed clams swimming in melted butter, conch fritters, and stuffed mushrooms.

  We ate to our heart’s content and washed it all down with glass after chilled glass of Key limeade.

  Many of the people we passed in the restaurant were locals that we saw on a recurring basis. Conchs who made an effort to watch each other’s backs. We were among friends at Pete’s, and that made it one of the safest places we could be in the island chain. Regardless, I had my Sig just a quick arm’s reach away and my head on a constant swivel. We’d killed two of their guys. One had barely managed to tuck tail and run. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that they’d be back. The only questions were when and how many.

  “Jackhammer,” Walt said after dropping two mignonette-and-lemon-juice-covered oysters down the hatch back to back. “We need to get ahold of a jackhammer.” He turned to Pete. “Does Jensen Palmer still own that hardware store on Ashby Street?”

  “He passed away a few years back,” Pete said. “Son runs the place now.”

  Walt stared blankly for a moment, then said, “That’s a shame. He was a good man. Well, after we have our fill, let’s head over there and rent one of the bad boys.”

  “And then what, man?” Jack said. “We walk back to the lighthouse and hammer that path to kingdom come?”

  “You think of a better way to break through concrete?” Walt said.

  Ange cleared her throat dramatically.

  “And you don’t think,” she said, “that using a jackhammer in the middle of a crowded downtown is going to raise any eyebrows?”

  Ange was right. Anyone who’s ever operated or been anywhere near an operating jackhammer can tell you that the sound is brutally loud. But Walt was also right—there isn’t exactly an extensive list of options when challenged with breaking through concrete. It was either a jackhammer or a sledgehammer. Both options would be loud, but at least using a jackhammer would prevent a few months of weekly chiropractor visits.

  It was clear that our progress had hit a bit of a roadblock, or in this case, a concrete path. Sure, we had friends in law enforcement and the local military, but using a jackhammer on a historical site would be difficult to explain.

  As we were finishing up our food, Jack’s nephew, Isaac, began clearing our table. At sixteen years old, Isaac was incredibly smart for his age and even took classes at the local community college while finishing up the few remaining credits he needed to get his high school diploma.

  Jack believed, however, that his young, pale-faced, skin-and-bones nephew spent too much time in front of computers and books and not enough out in the real world. So he’d insisted a while back that Isaac take a part-time job at Pete’s. He only worked a few hours here and there, but it had succeeded in getting the shy kid out of his shell a little bit.

  After a quick greeting, Isaac asked enthusiastically what we were doing this evening.

  “The fireworks are gonna be the best ever this year,” he said. “A friend and I were riding our bikes over by City Hall and peeked into the storage room where they’re keeping the fireworks.” He paused a moment for dramatic effect. “They’ve got a stack of Thor’s Hammers and a crate of Demon’s Revenge this year. They’re some of the biggest and loudest fireworks money can buy.”

  I thought over his words for a moment while leaning back into my chair and killing the rest of my chilled drink. Fireworks. Gus had mentioned them as well earlier at the marina. Loud explosions in the night sky. A good way to spend an evening. Few things distract and grab attention like fireworks.

  I smiled at Isaac. The bright young man had just given us our window of opportunity.

  “Isaac, you’re a genius,” I said.

  He looked over at me like I was crazy, then shrugged and continued filling the big gray plastic container with dirty dishes.

  “Does that mean I’m getting a big tip, Logan?” he said as he walked past me.

  I grabbed my wallet, slid out a twenty, and pinned it to the table beneath my empty glass. Thanks to the idea he’d just given me, there was a good chance that we were all in for a big tip.

  When Isaac walked off, I turned back and saw that everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to explain my seemingly random proclamation.

  “Something you want to share with the rest of us, babe?” Ange said.

  “Yeah, bro,” Jack said. “You can’t just go around tossing the genius praise for no reason like that. It gives the kid a big head.”

  I smiled.

  Turning to Walt, I said, “I think it’s time we drive over and pick ourselves up a jackhammer.”

  Pete shook his head.

  “You gone mad, boyo? We were just talking about how it’ll be impossible to pull off without drawing half the island’s attention to what we’re doing.”

  I nodded.

  “Unless their attentions are already fixed elsewhere.” I paused a moment, then added, “Unless there was something even louder and more distracting than a jackhammer.”

  Ange was the first to catch on. I wasn’t surprised. Her sharp wit was one of the first things that had drawn me to her when we first met years ago. Usually, it was her figuring things out first and explaining them to me. For once, at least, I’d beaten her to it.

  She looked in Isaac’s direction and said, “Something like a fireworks show?”

  Walt’s lips contorted into a big smile. Jack
grinned as well and looked over at his nephew proudly.

  Pete laughed and reached into his wallet.

  “The kid deserves another Jackson for that one,” he said.

  NINETEEN

  We finished up our lunch, then cruised over to Ashby Street to pick up our required tool of the trade. As with many of the island locals, the guy in charge knew Walt and gave him a special discount given his old relationship with his father. When asked what we were working on, Pete said that there was an old slab at his house that was in serious need of renovating.

  He gave us an overview of how to use it and the required safety gear. After paying a deposit and signing on the dotted line, we carted the sixty-five-pound beast out and loaded it into the bed of my Tacoma.

  “Jackhammer for a treasure hunt,” Walt said, stroking his big white beard after plopping down into the backseat. “Now that’s a new one for me.”

  It was 1700, so we still had two hours until sundown and another hour after that until the fireworks were scheduled to start. We passed the time over at Pete’s house and went over the details of the plan. The idea was to be as quick as possible, to be in and out of the lighthouse property before anyone noticed we were there.

  At 1930, half an hour after the red sun sank into the Gulf of Mexico, we made our move. After driving around the block twice to see if there was any activity in the compound, we pulled up to a no-parking zone along the curb.

  “Empty as a tomb,” Pete said, looking out through the back open window.

  “Remember what that guy Marty said,” Ange said. “They closed at six. Place should be cleared out by now. He also said that nobody lives in the keeper’s house anymore.”

  I looked up and down the street. Whitehead had a few people walking about, most heading toward the waterfront at a hurried pace. Compared to earlier that day, the place was cleared out. The fireworks show and the rest of the festivities near Mallory were drawing everyone on the island like ants to a picnic.