by Matthew Rief
“Let’s dance,” Val said.
Ange stepped toward her and raised her fists.
“Last dance of your life, bitch.”
Ange didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait for her opponent to make the first move. She strode quickly toward Val and engaged her with a rapid barrage of punches and kicks. Val was fast and strong, with the skilled technique of a master martial artist. She managed to block or redirect all of Ange’s blows and strike back with a few of her own.
Sliding quickly to the side and catching her opponent off guard, Ange landed a punch to Val’s gut. But the big, hard woman was seemingly unaffected. Ange felt as though she’d hit a concrete wall and not a body.
Angered, Val sprang toward Ange in a powerful flying kick. Just before her leading heel crashed into Ange, she stepped to the side, grabbed Val by her tactical pants, and slammed her back against the corner of a short brick wall.
Val grunted and retaliated by landing two quick blows, one to the shoulder and the other to the side of the face. Ange felt dazed as Val continued a relentless combo that ended with a kick to the chest that sent Ange flying backward.
Ange managed to keep herself from falling over, regaining her balance just in time to react to Val grabbing her bloody knife and flinging it through the air. Ange hit the ground and could hear the blade as it spun through the air, dangerously close to her head. It rattled against a brick wall behind her, and Ange jumped to her feet.
Val let out a loud, barbaric yell, then took off toward Ange, barreling straight for her like an angry linebacker heading for the quarterback on third down. Instead of facing the furious, sprinting woman head-on, Ange turned and took off away from her. After a few quick strides, Ange lunged high into the air, planted her right foot onto the brick wall, then launched herself back toward Val. Before Val could react, Ange slammed a hard right square into her face, causing the big woman’s body to whip backward and nearly knocking her unconscious.
Val grabbed hold of Ange’s tank top as she fell, ripping it halfway up the seam and pulling Ange on top of her. The two women rolled as they struggled to subdue the other while throwing occasional elbows.
They quickly reached the edge of the wall, and Ange’s head dangled over the brick, hovering dangerously over the shallow moat thirty feet below. From that angle, Ange could see in her blurry peripherals where the rope led. Sure enough, it was attached to the yacht they’d seen anchored earlier that morning. It was a hundred yards off, idling close to the shallows along the outer wall.
In a quick, desperate attempt to swing the fight, Ange managed to force the strong woman into a kimura hold. Without hesitating, she pulled back forcefully and snapped Val’s elbow.
Val screamed and cursed. Ange didn’t let up. She dug her feet into Val’s chest and kicked, sending her flying and crashing into the grass. Sore and bleeding, Ange rose to her feet. She locked eyes with Val as the woman winced and struggled to recover.
The injured mafia leader staggered to her feet, glanced to her right, and smiled.
“You lose,” she said as she patted the diamond in her pocket.
Lunging to her right, she snatched a large carabiner from her belt loop and secured it around the rope that led down to their yacht.
Ange took off, moving with everything she had as Val ran and jumped over the side. Ange wasn’t about to let her enemy get away that easily. She followed right behind the mafia leader, diving through the air and wrapping her arms around her lower body. Somehow, Val managed to hold them both up, and they zipped down the line, quickly picking up speed.
As the wind flew past them, Ange held on tight and reached for her dive knife that was sheathed at the back of her belt. Pulling the blade free, she stabbed it as hard as she could into Val’s chest.
Val yelled out again, this time even louder as blood flowed out.
Glancing toward the stern of the yacht that they’d reach in seconds, Ange spotted two thugs standing and aiming their weapons toward her. She had no choice but to drop. Taking in a deep breath, she let go and splashed into the water fifty feet behind the yacht. Kicking and pulling with everything she had, she reached the shallow bottom and swam ferociously in the opposite direction of the boat as bullets torpedoed through the water all around her.
Summoning all her strength and ignoring the pain from the fight, she held her breath and kicked as hard and as long as she could. When she finally surfaced, she took in a few much-needed deep breaths and turned to look toward the yacht. To her surprise, it was motoring full throttle away from her, heading west.
To her amazement, she heard a second boat and looked off to her right toward the sound. Relief came over her face as she saw a familiar trawler approach with Jack standing on its bow. She swam toward it, reaching the swim platform right at the edge of the shallows surrounding the fort.
“Holy shit, Ange,” Jack said while offering her his right hand. “Are you alright?”
He pulled her up. She was breathing heavily, her cheek was bleeding, and her shirt was ripped. She looked like a UFC fighter who’d just gone the full five rounds.
“Better than Valmira,” she said.
“Where’s Logan?” Scott asked, stepping out from the pilothouse.
Ange gasped.
“He’s not with you?”
She turned back and gazed toward Bastion Alpha, focusing on the single tiny window of Mudd’s cell. All she could think about was her husband, and all that she could cling to was a hope that he was still alive.
THIRTY-FIVE
I secured the torn piece of fabric around Pete’s upper leg, slowing the bleeding as best I could. The makeshift tourniquet was far from ideal, and he’d need medical care soon if he was going to pull through. But Pete’s being shot wasn’t our only big problem.
We were trapped inside the chamber with no light source, and the water was steadily rising. There was just under a foot of clearance, and it wouldn’t be long before the incoming tide filled the space entirely. We needed to do something, and we needed to do it fast if we were going to have any hope of getting out of here.
Pete was grunting and yelling out curses at our situation. It was clear that the gunshot wasn’t what was bothering him the most.
“We trusted him,” he said. “He was my best friend for years. I—”
“Pete, there will be a time to dwell on what happened,” I said, holding tight to one of his shoulders. “But it sure as hell isn’t right now.” He slowed his breathing as I examined my work to try and slow the blood loss from his leg. “You’ve lost a significant amount of blood, but it looks as though your femoral artery wasn’t struck.”
Pete pulled my hands off him.
“I’ll be fine, boyo. Just a scratch. You and I have bigger fish to fry.”
I stepped away from him and looked around. It was pitch black. Not even a tiny trickle of light bled in from anywhere. We were stuck in total darkness with water rising around us. The situation was about as bleak as it could get. But my father had always taught me that no situation is hopeless until you believe it is. Even as a kid, I’d known what he meant. No matter how bad things get, no matter how high the odds are stacked against you, nothing’s over until you keel over and let the fates have their way with you. As long as you have air in your lungs, the fight isn’t over.
“Strap up your boots, tighten your fists, and rise,” he used to tell me. “Far better to go down swinging.”
As I moved across the chamber, trying to come up with any possible course of action, my foot came into contact with something on the bottom. It was the brick. The same loose brick that I’d stumbled upon earlier.
I froze midway through another step.
Did anyone grab the sledgehammer? ’Cause I didn’t.
I took a breath, splashed into the water, and reached around the floor of the chamber. After a few seconds, I felt the handle of the heavy tool and rose back up with it firmly in my hands. I moved back to the entrance of the chamber and told Pete what I was going to do. Before taking a brea
th and dropping down, Pete grabbed me by the shoulder.
He could have reminded me that the stone easily weighed over four hundred pounds and that I was out of my mind for thinking I could move it on my own. But he didn’t.
“Godspeed, Logan,” was all he said.
I took a breath, dropped down, and swam into the crawl space. After a few strong kicks, I reached the large flat side of the big stone. I moved into position and reared back the sledgehammer.
Here goes nothing.
Gripping the wooden handle tight, I swung as hard as I could, slamming the heavy face into the stone. I winced at the moment of contact. The vibration was painful. It sent a shock wave through my hands and all the way up my arms. Worse, the massive stone hadn’t budged at all.
I slammed it two more times, each just as painful as the first. The task appeared utterly futile, but I pushed back the little voice that told me that all I would accomplish was an impressive cluster of blisters. I had no choice. Either I found a way to move the stone, or we’d both die right there.
I used the few inches of overhead space to take a few breaths. Feeling an overwhelming surge of resolve, I gripped the handle harder, reared it back farther, and swung it with everything I had. Then I did it again, and again, and again. I beat the stone with reckless abandon. I felt like a lumberjack in the nail-biting final event of a logging show.
After what felt like an eternity, the stone budged slightly from the force of a blow. It was minuscule, nearly imperceptible, but it had happened. It wasn’t much, but in a dark room, even the smallest light can make an astounding difference.
I kept at it, beating relentlessly over and over. The minuscule budge soon grew into an inch. Then two inches.
“How’s it going in there?” Pete yelled while I paused a moment to catch my breath.
“We’re not out of this fight yet,” I replied. “How’s the leg?”
“Hurts, but probably not as bad as your hands do.”
He was right. My hands were raw, blistered, and bleeding. But whatever pain I felt, I channeled it toward the task at hand. I wasn’t about to die there. No, I was going to see Ange again. I was going to see many more sunrises and sunsets.
I pushed through, continuing my incessant barrage on the stone block. With every strike, the block slid farther, and my resolve grew stronger. My muscles screamed, and my lungs burned, but I kept at it, ignoring my body and pushing through.
Soon, the block slid back far enough for us to squeeze through. I dropped the sledgehammer and nearly passed out from exhaustion. After calming myself and catching my breath, I laughed out of sheer joy as I gazed through the darkness at the faint glow of light beyond.
Turning around, I sloshed back into the chamber.
“We’ve overstayed our welcome,” I said.
He didn’t reply.
I moved toward where he’d been and grabbed his body.
“Pete!” I said, shaking him.
He mumbled a few incoherent words back to me.
“Dammit, hang in there, Pete. We’re about to get out of this.”
He was fading from consciousness. It was still pitch black in the chamber, but I didn’t need to see anything to know that he’d lost a lot of blood. Too much blood.
I grabbed him and, with every ounce of strength that I had left, dragged him into the crawl space. He came to a little as water splashed onto his face. He was in pain and delirious but somehow was able to make it through and climb out over the small opening I’d muscled for us.
Free from our flooded tomb, we made it over the stone, and I carried most of his weight as we trudged back up toward the cell. I was nearing the end of my rope as I crawled and pulled Pete through the final portions of the passageway.
With a final surge of strength, we reached the small cell, and I pulled Pete out alongside me. Catching my breath, I looked around the empty cell, having a hard time believing what had just happened.
After a few much-needed deep breaths, I grabbed hold of Pete again.
“Come on, Pete,” I said. “We need to get you to help.”
Just as I tried to lift him, I heard footsteps coming from around the corner. Instinctively, I reached for my waistband, but of course, my Sig was gone. I reached behind me, pulled out my dive knife, and prepared for the worst. I was in no position to put up a fight, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying.
With my hands bleeding, my muscles throbbing, and an arm around Pete to help hold him up, I raised my blade.
“Logan!” a beautifully familiar voice said as Ange appeared into the light of the entryway.
I gasped, smiled, and dropped my dive knife. She sprang over and wrapped her arms around us, keeping us both on our feet. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life.
“Are you okay?” she said, squeezing me tight and looking me over from head to toe. “Val said… I thought you might be…”
She was breathing like she’d just won a 5K. Her eyes stopped when they reached my mutilated hands.
“I’m fine,” I assured her, looking deep into her eyes. “But Pete needs help. What happened to you?”
She was soaked from head to toe. Her cheek was bleeding, and her tank top was ripped and dirty. Somehow she still managed to look amazing.
“Val,” she said.
“Where is she?” I asked, narrowing my gaze.
“She’s running,” Scott said as he stepped toward us.
“But she’s badly injured,” Ange added.
“And she’s lost a bunch of her goons,” Jack chimed in.
I felt a wave of relief upon seeing that Jack and Scott were both unscathed as well. They both ran over and took hold of Pete. We carried him down to the ground level and across the fort to the visitor center. The rangers and a few tourists had locked themselves inside, and Ange managed to get the young guy from before to open the door and let us inside.
“We need a medivac right away,” Ange said sternly.
The young ranger nodded, grabbed the phone, and called it in. They’d already notified the Coast Guard as well as the Key West Police Department about an incident at the fort after hearing the gunshots.
The other ranger grabbed a first aid kit from behind the counter, and we went to work, cleaning Pete’s wound and stopping the bleeding. He was far gone from his usual self. The substantial blood loss had made him delirious, and he had a hard time saying much of anything, let alone a coherent sentence.
“I think he’ll be alright,” Jack said after we moved Pete onto the grass under a gumbo-limbo tree.
I nodded. He was in rough shape, but he was also one of the toughest guys I knew. I glanced up at Scott and extended my right hand.
“Looks like you showed up at the perfect time,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course, brother,” he replied, shaking my hand, then patting me on the back.
“You said Val’s running?” I asked.
“On their yacht,” Ange replied. “Heading southwest out of here, full throttle.”
“And she’s injured?”
“To put it mildly,” Ange replied. “I fractured her elbow and buried my knife in her chest.”
I smiled. Just when I thought Ange couldn’t get any more badass, she went toe to toe with the spawn of Satan and taught her a painful lesson.
“Walt’s dead,” Ange said. “He had a change of heart and tried to kill Val when I confronted her. And she has the diamond. Though I don’t think she’ll be breathing long enough to sell it.”
The mention of Walt’s name brought on a surge of anger, though I was glad to hear he’d come to his senses, even though it was short-lived. Then I thought about the encounter down in the bowels of the fort. How Walt had mentioned that Val had taken his family. My eyes narrowed, and I let out a breath.
“We need to go after them,” I declared. My eyes drifted back and forth between Ange and Scott. “Walt’s son, his son’s wife, and his two young grandkids are on that yacht.”
“Shi
t, he did mention his family,” Ange said. “How do you know they’re on the yacht?”
“I just know,” I said. “Val needed leverage. And now with Walt gone, she has no reason to keep them alive.” I looked over toward the docks. “With the Baia, we can track them down, save the family, and bring the rest of these assholes to justice.”
I glanced over at Jack, who had a slight lump in his throat.
“I’ll stay with Pete, bro,” he said. “And the Baia’s currently dead in the water.”
I didn’t have the time or the energy to ask what had happened or to even care about my boat. I couldn’t get Walt’s innocent family out of my mind.
“I’ve got the Darkwater trawler,” Scott said.
I smiled and nodded. “Let’s move.”
THIRTY-SIX
I stood up on the bow of the trawler, wind pelting against my body as I caught a glimpse of our quarry through a pair of binoculars. I could see the sleek white-hulled yacht and its long wake spread out ahead of us. They were less than a mile away, and getting closer with every passing second. Scott was gunning the trawler’s two 800-hp Mercruiser engines, and the big boat was flying through the water at just over forty knots.
We were twenty miles from Dry Tortugas, heading due southeast. Based on the yacht’s course, they were either wrapping around the western coast of Cuba, or they were heading for the Yucatan. My money was on the latter. Either way, it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to reach their destination.
“What’s the plan here, Logan?” Scott asked as I stepped into the pilothouse.
Normally, I’d just motor up alongside them and let them have it. A hailstorm of bullets to take down everyone on deck and force them to give up. Rambo style. But it wasn’t as simple as that. They had hostages aboard, and we couldn’t just go in there firing at will. We had to be careful and precise if we were going to take them down and save the family.
“Bring us in close,” I said. “We’ll keep a sharp eye out for tangos. Once the deck’s clear, we’ll board the yacht.”
“How many do they have left?” Scott asked.