Gold in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  Sure enough, just after 1300, clouds rolled in over the island, and by 1430 there were tropical showers, along with the occasional lightning strike. The rain beat down against the top of my Tacoma as I drove over to Jack’s place. Pulling into the parking lot, I felt like a kid again. His house looked exactly as it had when we were kids and I used to pedal my bike into the driveway almost every day. It had the same white seashell driveway surrounded by large palm trees and palmetto plants.

  I stepped out of the car, grabbed my duffle bag and headed for the large wraparound porch. It had been his parents’ house before they’d passed away, and though it was old, it was well taken care of and had been remodeled a few times. I passed a few surfboards and wet suits that were hanging out to dry and knocked on the door. Jack answered and welcomed me inside.

  It wasn’t a large house, maybe twelve hundred square feet, and it seemed even smaller since the top floor was just the master bedroom, but it felt homey. Out the back of the house was a sliding glass door that led out to the other side of the porch and a small grassy area, along with a narrow channel where Jack kept his smaller center-console. I dropped my bags in the spare bedroom, passing by Isaac, who sat glued to his computer screen in his bedroom.

  “Video games?” I asked, pointing at Isaac.

  Jack shook his head. “Kid’s crazy about computers. Can’t understand how he spends so much time on it when he lives in a place like this.” Jack motioned to the small kitchen. “Here, I’ll put some potatoes in the oven and we can have a drink on the porch. This rain’s about to die off, so in a few minutes, let’s take out the twenty and pull up my crab pots. How does fresh stone crab, clams and garlic potatoes sound?”

  I told him it sounded great, and fifteen minutes later, we were climbing aboard his twenty-foot Key West and untying the rope lines. He started the outboard and we drove slowly out of the channel, keeping the speed down to keep from making a wake. After a few minutes, we reached a larger bay and Jack hit the throttles, shooting us out towards the open ocean. It wasn’t far to his buoys, and when I pulled the first one up, I saw that it was nearly full of Florida stone crab. I removed one claw from each of the biggest ones, making sure they were of legal size first, then threw the crabs back into the ocean, along with a few freeloading spider crab, blue crab, lobster and even a hogfish. Stone crab can lose their claws as a defense mechanism to escape predators. In less than eighteen months, these crabs would regrow their claws just as big as before.

  “Damn, this trap reeks,” I said, covering my nose with the top of my hand. After clearing the trap, I eagerly threw it back into the water. “What the hell do you use for bait?”

  Jack laughed. “Pig’s feet, bro. It’s the most potent stuff out there. But keep it between us, it’s a local secret. Crabs come running for miles when that nastiness hits the water.”

  Jack piloted us back from the open ocean into the narrow channel, and we were soon tied off against the little private dock in front of his house. I carried the crab claws in a plastic bucket towards a large silver pot of boiling water on his porch. I grabbed the lid, let the steam rise out, and dropped each claw into the water. Jack went inside to check on the potatoes and brought out a container of seasoning.

  “Swamp Sauce,” he said, grinning at me.

  “Just like old times,” I replied.

  Swamp Sauce had been a favorite of ours since we were kids. Jack had introduced me to the stuff, and though I had been skeptical at first, after trying it, I’d soon found myself putting the miracle seasoning from the Everglades on just about everything.

  Jack opened the lid and dropped some into the boiling pot, along with a dozen or so clams from a nearby bucket of seawater that was resting on the porch.

  “Should be just a few minutes,” he said, walking over to a blue cooler resting by the sliding glass door. Opening the top, he pulled out two Paradise Sunset beers, which were from a local brewing company in Key West called Keys Disease Brewery. It was a classic brew that they no longer sold but had always been a favorite of both of our dads. I recognized them instantly by the palm tree and orange sunset on the label. “I was saving these for a special occasion. Welcome home.”

  I smiled and opened the top. It had been years since I’d had one of my favorite brews. It wasn’t a popular drink, especially among locals, but it used to be a tradition for Navy divers to come down to Key West and get wasted off the brew upon completion of dive school. And though Jack had never served in the military, he was as good of a diver as ever dropped below the waves.

  When the crab claws and clams were done, we let them cool off for a few minutes before digging in. We sat on his back porch and ate the claws with nothing but Swamp Sauce and a few squirts of lemon. They were delicious, and along with the clams dipped in melted butter and the garlic potato wedges, I was in Heaven. Isaac came out and joined us for just long enough to eat, then headed back to his computer and it was just the two of us again. Two buddies reminiscing old times and catching up over a great meal along with some of the best cold beer ever brewed.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The next morning we woke up early, grabbing a quick breakfast and coffee before heading out before the sun. I moved for the front door of the house, but Jack stopped me.

  “Let’s take the twenty, bro,” he said. “It’s less than a mile to the marina.”

  So we packed up what we needed from the house into his boat and drove it over to the marina. Jack had quite the lifestyle, I thought. He commuted via boat to his job, where he worked on a boat.

  As we neared the marina, the sun began to rise up out of the ocean, streaming steaks of pink and gold as it lit up the horizon. We pulled up to the Calypso, unloaded our gear, then untied the lines and headed out towards the ledge. The boat was much roomier and fancier on the inside than I’d expected it to be. Stepping down into the lounge, I saw it had a small kitchen with a beautiful table, a wraparound bench covered in blue cushions, and clean wooden cabinets. Moving farther, Jack showed me the two cabins, with beds that had views out the port and starboard windows, respectively. He told me he’d added many special modifications, including top-of-the-line fish finders and side-scan sonar. Business must have been good, I thought. It seemed much too nice to be a fishing and diving charter boat.

  I climbed up the ladder and joined Jack in the pilot house as we reached the edge of the marina.

  “It’s a little under an hour to the ledge,” Jack said. “You wanna take her out?”

  He stepped away from the handwheel, and I grabbed hold of it, along with the throttles to the right.

  “Due southwest,” I said, pointing forward and verifying with the compass attached to the panel. “Just around Sunset Key, through the West Channel between Crawfish Key and the Sand Key Lighthouse. Then onward to Neptune’s Table about six miles south of Marquesas Keys.”

  Jack smiled. “Very good. Nice to see you’re still an islander at heart.”

  Holding on to the helm, I gunned the throttles, testing the twin three-hundred-horsepower engines. The Calypso shot through the calm morning water with ease. The view from up in the pilothouse was amazing, and since it was a clear day, we could see far across Key West National Wildlife Refuge. Within ten minutes we cruised past Sand Key Light in the distance off our port side, and I thought of all the times I’d spent diving there before.

  I felt eager and excited as we made our way closer to the ledge, but before I knew it Jack was patting me on the shoulder and encouraging me to slow down to a stop. I eased the throttles, and when we were just barely moving, I looked over at him, confused.

  “This isn’t right. The ledge is farther still. What are we doing here?”

  Jack grabbed a pair of binoculars.

  “Look,” he said, pointing over the aft end of the Calypso at a boat on the horizon.

  I grabbed the binoculars and looked through them. It was one of those fancy go-fast boats, and it was coming towards us full speed.

  “That
orange Thundercat has been following us since we left the marina this morning. I first noticed it just as we were hitting open ocean.”

  “Ever seen it before?” I asked, dropping the binoculars from my face.

  Jack shook his head. “Never.”

  I handed him the binoculars, and as I did, I noticed that he’d grabbed a compact Desert Eagle, his handgun of choice, and had it lodged in the back of his shorts, just beneath his button-up shirt.

  “What are you thinking? Pirates?” I asked as I grabbed my bag from the deck and pulled out my Sig.

  He shrugged. “Sure as hell aren’t the coasty patrollers.” He pointed towards the boat. “They’re slowing down.”

  We watched as the boat with the massive bow and sleek side panels pulled up closer. It turned slightly, and I saw three enormous outboards attached to the rear. Looking at the cockpit, I saw there were at least two guys. One was shirtless and wore large dark-rimmed sunglasses. The other was a massive black man who wore a cutoff shirt and a black do-rag. Another guy appeared from the cabin, skinny and sunburned, making it three in all. All three of them stared at us as their boat idled up right beside ours. I felt for my Sig, lodged into the back of my shorts. I had fifteen rounds and was ready to use them at a moment’s notice if I had to.

  The shirtless guy stepped over to the edge of their transom and glared at us. The large black man with the do-rag was standing behind him and grabbed a coil of rope with a metal grappling hook tied to the end. These guys weren’t asking for directions.

  “Stand down,” Shirtless said. He had a thick Spanish accent. “We’re boarding your vessel. Neither of you will be hurt as long as you don’t resist.”

  Jack stepped right up to the transom.

  “The only way you scumbags are getting on this boat is over our dead bodies,” he said. “And if you don’t tell your friend the hulk to drop that hook, I’m going to force him to drop it by putting a bullet right into his arm.”

  Do-Rag looked furious, along with Shirtless, who stood frozen, staring at Jack and me. Suddenly, Shirtless bent over and reached for something out of view.

  “Freeze!” I yelled, sliding my Sig out of my shorts and taking aim at Shirtless in one quick motion. “Drop whatever you’re grabbing, shithead.” I eyed the other two guys. “All three of you, get your hands up!”

  Jack grabbed his Desert Eagle and was now aiming it at them as well. The three guys stared at us and said a few words in Spanish to each other that I couldn’t hear.

  “You’ve got three seconds until I start firing!” I yelled, and when the three guys kept talking to each other, I fired a 9mm round straight through the port side of their boat.

  The guys jolted down, then looked back up at us with eyes wider than the horizon.

  “I’m not fucking around here!” I yelled. “Get your damn hands up now.”

  Reluctantly, Shirtless slowly raised his hands over his head, followed soon after by the two guys behind him. Their boat had drifted close to ours, leaving only about a six-foot gap between our hulls. Keeping my Sig raised, I stepped up onto the transom and vaulted over to their boat. Shirtless stepped back but kept his hands raised.

  “Either of you moves a muscle and you’re getting a bullet in your chest,” I said, looking at the two guys behind Shirtless.

  Glancing down at the deck, I saw an Uzi, which Shirtless had been reaching for only seconds prior. Kneeling down, I grabbed it and flung it over the side and heard it splash into the water. Grabbing Shirtless, I forced him to the deck and used the coiled rope with the grappling hook to tie his hands behind his back.

  “You have no clue who you’re messing with, asshole,” Shirtless said.

  I tied the knot tighter, making him wince in pain.

  “Neither do you.”

  When I finished tying him up, I raised my weapon to the other two. Stepping towards Do-Rag next, I yelled at him to get down on his knees. He stared at me, grunted, then slowly dropped to the deck.

  “You,” I said, pointing at Skinny. “Tie him up.”

  Do-Rag glared at Skinny, but seeing the barrel of my Sig zeroed in on him and Jack providing cover from the Calypso, Skinny moved towards his friend and started tying the rope around his wrists. For a moment, I thought he was actually doing a good job, but it was soon obvious that the knots weren’t secure enough.

  “Tighter,” I said, but Skinny didn’t tighten the rope. I stepped closer to them both, my finger on the trigger. “Tighter, dammit!”

  In an instant, Skinny lunged at me and tried to grab my Sig from my hands. I fired off a quick round into his shoulder and he fell hard, his back slamming against the deck. Do-Rag slid his hands effortlessly from the knots, grabbed a buck knife from under his cargo shorts and swung its blade straight for my left leg.

  I turned away from Skinny and stepped back to avoid having my leg sliced in half, then took aim at Do-Rag. But before I could fire, he swooped his other hand beneath me, knocking me to the ground.

  He dove towards me and, using his hulking momentum against him, I forced my legs into his chest and kicked him over the top of me. He slammed hard into one of the seats, breaking it into pieces. I grabbed his buck knife, which had fallen to the deck, and threw it overboard as I approached him. Dazed, he stumbled to his feet to continue the fight that he didn’t realize was already over. He took one strong swing at me, which I avoided by stepping back. Digging my left heel into the deck, I finished him off with a strong roundhouse kick, slamming my right foot into the side of his face and knocking him to the ground. He lay sideways against the broken seat, unconscious.

  Looking around, I saw that Shirtless was still tied up in the corner, watching helplessly. Skinny was cursing and rolling on his back in pain, his hands pressed against his shoulder, where blood was pouring out onto the clean white deck.

  “You alright, bro?” Jack asked, watching from the Calypso. “I was about to take out that guy when he came at you with the knife, but I couldn’t get a clear shot over here.”

  “No problem,” I replied with a grin. “These amateurs never stood a chance.”

  Confident that all three were incapacitated, I stepped towards the stern. Leaning over the three engines, I loosened the clamps holding each of them in place, then gave each one a strong kick. One by one, the engines flipped over the stern of the boat, their weight snapping their respective control and fuel lines before sinking towards the bottom of the ocean below.

  “These guys aren’t going anywhere now,” I said.

  I searched the boat but found that it was almost completely empty. Aside from a few backpacks with personal belongings and a case of Modelo beer, the boat was spotless. Stolen, no doubt. I stepped up from the cabin and saw Jack up in the pilothouse of the Calypso, talking into the radio. When he finished, he leaned over the railing.

  “Patrol’s on their way,” he said. “They’re asking for a call sign, what do you think?”

  I stepped over the guys, opened a hatch on the bow and grabbed the anchor. Making sure the chain was locked in first, I threw it over the side.

  “It would be a shame to spend a day like today talking to the police,” I said, looking out over the clear water and the blue sky above. “If we stay, it’ll take hours, probably even days to clear up our story.” I shook my head as I jumped back over to the Calypso. “Let’s let the police take it from here.”

  Jack grinned, then changed the station on the radio.

  “Besides,” I said, climbing up beside him. “That boat’s clearly stolen. This isn’t the first time they’ve boarded a boat.”

  I looked over at the boat and the three guys one more time. Skinny was still thrashing in pain. The damn fool would be fine if he knew anything at all about first aid.

  “Keep pressure on that!” I yelled over the Calypso’s engines after starting them up. I watched as Skinny forced his hand against the wound, slowing the bleeding from his shoulder.

  “Damn, Logan,” Jack said. “In the Keys less than a day and alread
y causing mayhem.”

  “You ever had to deal with pirates before?”

  “Not like that. I’ve seen them around, and I’ve heard about things like this happening before, but I’ve never had it happen to me. I’m lucky that you were here, bro. I’m just as hard-headed as you are, but I’m a little rusty in the combat experience department.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said, thinking it over. “Maybe I’m the reason they tried to board us.”

  Jack shook his head. “What are you talking about? Why would anyone be after you here?”

  I eased the throttles forward, anxious to put distance between us and the disabled boat. As I brought the Calypso up on plane and got us back on course for the ledge, I thought about Sierra Gorda.

  “They could be cartel,” I said over the roar of the engine. “They didn’t have the typical Black Venom tattoos etched into their wrists, but that doesn’t scratch them out.”

  “What are you saying? You think those guys somehow figured out who you were and followed you all the way from Mexico?”

  I shrugged. “It’s possible. All I’m saying is that it’s quite the coincidence that the day after I show up to Key West, your boat is attacked.”

  I reached for the binoculars and handed them to Jack.

  “Here, make sure there aren’t any more boats following us. We need to be cautious whenever we go to the ledge. If they are cartel, then they’re after one thing: the Aztec treasure. We can’t give them any more hints as to its whereabouts.”

  We kept the throttles all ahead full until we were out of sight of the disabled boat. Jack only saw a few other boats as we headed out towards the ledge. Most of them were fishing boats, and one was a Coast Guard patrol cruising full speed through the water towards the coordinates we’d given them.

  “Gonna check the Keynoter,” Jack said. “Should be a story about that boat over the next few days.”