Legend in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  I glanced down at my dive watch.

  “Fifteen minutes until showtime,” I said.

  Just moments after the words left my lips, we heard a distant boom, followed seconds later by a loud explosion. Trails of small shooting stars exploded out in all directions like a bright blossoming flower. I peered out through the windows as the firework lit up the dark sky beneath a blanket of looming dark clouds overhead.

  “Looks like they started early on account of the weather,” Jack said.

  Great, I thought. The evening just started, and we’ve already got a wrench in our plans.

  But we’d planned for the unexpected. According to the city’s statement in the Fantasy Fest event flyer, the evening's show was scheduled to last for approximately thirteen minutes. That meant we’d have to kick it into gear if we were going to break through the concrete in time.

  “Jack—” I turned back to tell my friend to hop out and open the gate, but he was already on it.

  Using a pair of bolt cutters, he made quick work of the chain holding the wooden gate shut, then hinged it open. During our recon earlier that day, I’d eyed the path into the compound from the road and estimated that there was just enough room to back in my Tacoma.

  I put the truck in drive, pulled into the street, then shifted to reverse and backed us smoothly onto the grass. It was a tight fit between the two walls and up a narrow grassy ramp, but the truck made it. I was able to back us right up to the spot where the three paths converged beside the lighthouse.

  “Walt, do the orientation and paces again,” I said as I jumped out, leaving the engine running. “We’ll grab the hammer and get it ready.”

  An orchestra of explosions filled the evening air to the northwest. Plumes of brilliant bright streaks lit up the darkness in a beautiful and colorful display. But I merely glanced up every now and then to catch a glimpse of the show. We had work to do.

  While Walt reverified the dig site, we carried the jackhammer from the bed and set it on the sidewalk. I quickly surveyed the grounds, paying particular attention to the entrances. The last thing we needed was for law enforcement to catch us in the act, or worse, more of the Albanian criminals.

  Seeing that the coast was clear, I turned my full attention back to the task at hand.

  Most jackhammers are pneumatic and therefore require an air compressor to operate. Fortunately, Walt’s old friend had just upgraded to a few newer models that were electric instead, saving us from having to get a compressor as well. Unsure if the outdoor outlets on the grounds would be working or not, we’d brought Jack’s generator just in case.

  “Looks like they’re hot,” Jack said after plugging in the jackhammer’s power cord to one of the place’s outdoor outlets.

  Finally, some good news.

  Once Walt had the site located, I powered up the heavy piece of machinery. With an 1800-watt motor and a five-pound striker, the guy at the rental place was adamant that it would make quick work of any concrete slab.

  Pete handed me a pair of safety glasses, and I slid them over my eyes. I quickly checked my watch, then glanced up at the frenzy of explosions continuing relentlessly overhead. We still had seven minutes.

  Squeezing tight to the handles on either side, I put the striker in place and started it up. In an instant, the metal tip pounded up and down, cracking the concrete as effortlessly as a rock breaking through a barely frozen lake.

  The guy at the store had said that the new models had vibration reduction technology, which minimizes the trembling felt by the operator. Regardless, I could still feel my teeth chatter and shock waves travel down my spine as the heavy metal pounded over and over again at an unrelenting pace.

  In less than a minute, I transformed a good portion of the section of sidewalk into small manageable chunks. I gave us some margin for error in our search before powering off the machine and setting it aside.

  The others quickly moved in with shovels and crowbars, throwing the broken shards of concrete into a pile on the grass beside us. In no time we managed to remove most of the concrete and started shoveling dirt one small pile at a time. The clue on the compass hadn’t given any indication as to how deep Hastings had buried whatever it was we were looking for. Being in his late seventies when he’d stumbled upon the diamond, I imagined that he wouldn’t have buried it too deep.

  Soon the fireworks show grew in intensity. More and more exploding fireballs illuminated the night sky as the display drew closer to its grand finale.

  I turned around, scanned the grounds yet again, then dug the shovel hard into the dirt. We were three feet down when Ange’s shovel hit something hard, causing the rest of us to freeze in an instant. She looked up at us and smiled.

  A few more shovels of dirt revealed what looked like a small box. As if to put an exclamation point on our find, the finale of fireworks began just as Ange bent down and grabbed hold of the unknown object. A chaotic crescendo of booms and streaks and crackles filled the darkness above. The lights, sounds, and intensity put the earlier part of the show to shame. It was so bright it was as if the sun had resurrected itself like a phoenix and rocketed back up into the evening sky.

  We didn’t need a flashlight to see what it was that Ange was holding. It was a small, intricately designed metal chest.

  The five of us exchanged ecstatic glances, high fives, and back slaps. We didn’t know what was inside of it, but we knew that there was a good chance that it was the lost Florentine Diamond. Whether it was or not, we were one step closer to finding it, and we could all feel it. We were all high on the treasure buzz.

  Ange lifted the chest so we could look it over. She tried to raise the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. That was strange because there was no visible lock. There were, however, unique shapes intricately ornamenting each of the chest’s four vertical surfaces. The five of us admired it and tried to figure out how to open it as the final fireworks exploded.

  The lit-up sky turned dark in an instant, the awe-inspiring bursts of flames leaving a massive blanket of smoke behind. We could hear the loud cheers from the thousands of gathered spectators voicing their enthusiastic approval.

  Moments after the final explosion went off, I heard Atticus shuffling uncomfortably in the cab of my truck. Many animals get scared when fireworks go off, but I’d brought him to a few shows before and he’d been just fine—which led me to assume that something else was bothering him.

  At first, I thought he might have to relieve himself. I’d let him out just before heading to the lighthouse, but maybe he had to go again. Then he barked while staring forward through the windshield. I directed my gaze to where he was looking. Seconds later, a big guy dressed in all black walked into view on the sidewalk. From the moment I laid eyes on him, it was clear that he was trouble.

  His build. The way he carried himself. The way he was dressed. The fact that he was alone.

  I observed him for a fraction of a second before he locked eyes with me and froze instantly mid-step. If I’d had any doubts as to whether or not this guy was hostile, they were extinguished when he reached for an earpiece and spoke quickly in a low tone.

  The others had heard Atticus barking and had been startled as well. Ange said something, but I couldn’t make out what it was as my body and mind took over, leaping into action.

  I strode to the edge of the sidewalk, my eyes watching the guy’s each and every move. With his right hand on the earpiece, he glared at me, then reached for the handgun on his waistband with his left.

  I bent down and grabbed hold of a jagged shard of concrete that was covered in dust residue. It was about the size of a baseball, though a little heavier. Without a moment’s hesitation, I lunged forward with my left foot, then fired off a fastball.

  I don’t watch a lot of sports on TV, but I’ve always loved watching highlights. Especially the web gems on ESPN. Some of my favorite top plays are when an outfielder guns a runner out at home plate. From the moment the player gloves the ball until he lets it fly, it loo
ks as though he’s operating in a fast meditative trance.

  That’s how I felt as I hurled the jagged concrete slab with everything I had. Just as the guy’s hand gripped his weapon, the frozen rope smashed into his chest. He grunted as his body jerked back. He lost balance and tumbled onto the hood of a parked Honda Civic and let go of his gun, letting it fall to the ground, where it settled uselessly on the road between the Civic’s front right tire and the curb.

  Just as the concrete shard hit home, I took off in a full sprint toward our new unknown enemy. I wasn’t about to give him any form of leniency, not even a second to collect himself for a retaliation.

  We’d been about a hundred feet away from each other, and just as he lifted himself from the hood of the car, I finished cutting the distance. I grabbed him forcefully and threw him hard onto the sidewalk. He was even bigger than I’d pegged him, at least two hundred and fifty pounds of densely packed muscle. He was still wheezing heavily from the impact. Blood dripped out through tears in his black button-up shirt.

  There was a steady stream of muffled indiscernible chatter coming from his earpiece. Ange appeared right on my heels and had her Glock aimed straight at him. Jack moved in, tore off the earpiece, then snatched his radio and turned the volume up full blast.

  “What the hell is going on?” a woman’s voice said through the speaker. She had a stern tone and an Eastern European accent. “Come in, dammit!”

  Jack didn’t skip a beat. He lifted the radio to his mouth and pressed down on the talk button.

  “Sorry, Fatso can’t come to the phone right now,” he said.

  There was a short pause as the woman on the other end realized that her buddy was immobilized.

  “Who the hell is this?” the voice replied, louder and even angrier than before.

  Ange grabbed the radio. “We’re the people that you shouldn’t have messed with.”

  The woman said something we couldn’t hear, then gave a loud, sinister laugh.

  “You obviously have no clue who you’re talking to, bitch,” she said.

  Ange’s mouth dropped open. She glanced over at me, then shook her head. Whoever this mysterious woman was, she’d sure pissed off Ange in a hurry.

  “You know, the last person to call me that died in a fiery explosion,” Ange said flatly. “Why don’t you show your face and maybe we can give you a similar fate?”

  The woman on the other end didn’t skip a beat.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, hun,” she snarled. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

  The moment after the last word came over the speaker, the line turned to static.

  TWENTY

  The big guy on the ground suddenly gained a newfound surge of energy. He jerked his body up, trying to jump to his feet and engage us. In the blink of an eye, Ange kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, and he fell out of consciousness, his body contorted awkwardly on the edge of the sidewalk.

  A moment later, a loud engine roared from down the street to the south. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever that woman was, she was about to make her introduction.

  “Get the chest out of here,” I said to the group. “I’ll draw them away and deal with them. Whatever happens, we can’t let them get it.”

  The sound of the engine grew louder, and I looked up just in time to see a blacked-out SUV fly around the corner and into view. Its tires screeched as it skidded across the intersection and jerked to a stop less than a hundred yards in front of us.

  We needed to make sure that they didn’t get the chest. We needed to split up.

  “Get in the truck and go!” I said.

  Walt looked at the truck, which was still parked in the middle of the lighthouse compound, and said, “How? These guys are blocking the road.”

  “It’s a four-by-four,” I said, motioning toward the other side of the grounds. I handed Jack the keys. “I’ll make a generous donation,” I added. “Just punch right through.”

  “What are you gonna do, bro?” Jack said with wide eyes.

  The SUV’s engine roared again, then the vehicle peeled out and took off down the road straight for us.

  “I’m gonna draw their attention,” I said, grabbing my Sig.

  “Not if I draw it first,” Ange said confidently as she stepped into the street in front of me.

  Before I could try and stop her or change her mind, she raised her Glock and fired at the rapidly accelerating SUV. A succession of rounds exploded from the barrel and slammed into the SUV’s grille. One bullet struck the front right tire, which exploded in a loud boom. The SUV jolted down, shot up sparks from the tire well, and spun out of control.

  I’d moved alongside Ange, and we both barely managed to dive out of the furious vehicle’s path as it flew past us. Just down the street, it jerked hard to the right, nearly flipping over before barreling over the sidewalk and crashing through the brick wall beside the entrance to the Hemingway House.

  I glanced to my right, watching as Jack, Pete, and Walt climbed into my Tacoma. Jack started up the engine right away and floored it, sending the truck across the grounds and out of view.

  Ange and I ran across the street, our weapons raised as we closed in on the SUV. After crashing through the wall and nearly flipping over, it came to a stop beside a cluster of banana trees.

  A symphony of gunfire suddenly exploded from behind the wall. We took cover behind an old Volkswagen, the glass shattering just over our heads as the relentless barrage continued for a few stretched-out seconds.

  When it stopped, we quickly popped around the backside of the car and took aim in the direction the gunshots had come from.

  Stepping over the broken, scattered bricks, we gazed upon the battered vehicle. All four doors were open, the engine was still running, and the headlights were still on. But there was no sign of the former occupants.

  “Looks like these guys wanna play a little hide-and-seek,” Ange said.

  I glanced over my shoulder, listening as I heard the sounds of my Tacoma accelerating in the distance and crashing through a metal fence.

  Seeing the others making their successful escape, I turned my attention back to the bad guys, who’d disappeared into Hemingway’s old backyard. The fact that they’d run off for a better strategic vantage point told me that they weren’t just your average run-of-the-mill criminals with no experience and nothing to lose. These guys at least had some idea what they were doing.

  “Let’s move in,” I said, raising my Sig.

  We kept our distance from the wrecked SUV, moved over the wall beside us and into the tree-riddled grounds. The foliage provided sufficient cover, blocking most of the moon’s glow. It made our approach easier but would also enhance our assailants’ ability to hide.

  We crept across a well-manicured lawn and took cover in the second row of trees. Moving toward the main house, we caught our first glimpse of our enemies.

  There were five of them. A woman and four men. The woman looked like she could be a bouncer in one of those classic Hollywood movies. She was tall, wide-shouldered, and had short straight jet-black hair.

  We moved in slowly and watched as she said something we couldn’t make out into a radio, then addressed the others.

  “Split up,” she said harshly. “Time to teach these assholes a lesson.”

  Doing as they were told, the four guys dispersed. One headed for the back of the house, one climbed up to the roof, and one headed for Hemingway’s writing cottage over by the swimming pool. The third held a stockless AK-47 with both hands and moved in our direction with his head on a swivel. The woman seemed to vanish into thin air, disappearing behind a garden of various flowers.

  Moving silently, we crept to the side and took cover behind a thick cocoplum bush. He was heading toward us with long strides and would be beside us in seconds.

  I gave Ange a nod, then shifted around to her left side. She nodded back. Just as the guy was in front of us, she popped out from the right side of the bush.

&nbs
p; Spooked, the guy was just raising his weapon toward Ange when I pounced on him from behind. I forced my left arm around his chest while simultaneously wrapping my right around his neck. Digging my right knee into his back, I jolted him backward and crunched his airway. He was neutralized and unconscious in less than ten seconds.

  One down.

  I dragged him behind the bush, leaving him in the cover and dark shadows. Ange and I raised our weapons and moved in to deal with the rest.

  With no other bad guys in sight, we decided to head up onto the roof to take down the guy above. I moved in toward the main house, then glanced left and right before quickly holstering my Sig.

  Lunging forward and bending my knees, I jumped as high as I could, propelling myself upward like a basketball player going for a breakaway dunk. Though my vertical isn’t nearly NBA-worthy, I managed to extend my arms and grab hold of the second-story balcony with my fingers.

  Holding tight, I twisted my body and brought my right foot up onto the ledge. I kept silent as I climbed up the decorative metal railing, then slid over the top and landed softly on the deck. Turning back around, I stepped up onto the rail and grabbed a metal support pillar. Reaching overhead, I gripped the edge of the roof and pulled myself up slowly to take a look.

  The roof was double-layered, with a square, flat section in the middle that rose above the outer part of the angled roof. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see any sign of the guy. I heaved myself up, grabbed my Sig, and scanned the roof. Still no sign of him.

  Turning around, I looked down at Ange, who was standing on the ground with her hands on her hips. She shot me a look I knew all too well. It was her that was impressive, but wait until you see what I do look. The facial equivalent to “hold my beer.”

  She took a short step back and eyed the challenge in front of her. But before she could make a move, footsteps approached from the corner of the house. Without a moment’s hesitation or even a glance at me, she moved out of my view toward the approaching enemy.