by Matthew Rief
“Logan!” Sam yelled frantically.
She was pointing through the windshield, and when I drew my gaze from the rearview mirror to the road in front of us, I saw a massive semitruck heading towards us. It had already passed the Pathfinder using the oncoming lane and had now turned into our lane and was cruising straight for us. The moment before we were about to collide head-on, I turned the wheel sharply to the left and then back to the right. The Tacoma made the first turn, then went into a sideways skid right around the semi as I turned back to the right. The massive truck tried to maneuver into us but was too slow and just missed hitting the front right bumper.
Keeping my eyes forward, I realized that there was more than one semitruck. The second one, which had been cruising closely behind the first and had remained hidden behind it, was now about to collide with us. Sliding out of the skid, I tried to turn, but the tires on the Tacoma failed to gain enough traction and the semi clipped the back right bumper. The Tacoma spun a few times before flipping over onto its side, jerking both Sam and me hard into our seat belts. The Suburban slammed into us from behind as we collided with the wall on the other side of the road, forcing the Tacoma to flip onto its back and spin out of control. Both airbags exploded in our faces as our bodies rattled side to side against our nylon seat belts. Glass shattered and my head slammed against the side paneling, causing blood to drip down my forehead. After what felt like an eternity of screeching metal and violent shaking, our bodies went limp, upside down as the Tacoma finally slowed to a stop against the concrete barrier.
My mind a delirious mess, I looked over at Sam and saw that her body was completely lifeless. Unbuckling my seat belt, I crawled over to her and was relieved to feel a heartbeat pulsing at the base of her neck. Blood slid down the side of her head as I tried to wake her up. I spoke to her, saying her name over and over until finally, her eyes opened. She looked scared and confused as I told her everything was going to be okay. Tears filled her eyes as I told her once more, having trouble believing my own words. She glanced through the shattered window behind me, and I heard footsteps approaching our position. I searched the cab quickly and reached for my Sig, which had slid down to the floor under the gas pedal. Grabbing ahold of it, I shifted my body to try and kick open the driver’s-side door so we could escape. But before I could, men surrounded the truck, yelling at me to drop my weapon and get out.
“Drop the fucking gun!” a guy yelled, pointing his rifle through the broken window beside me.
Scanning around briefly, I saw that there were at least five of them and they had us surrounded. There was nothing I could do. Looking at Sam, I dropped my Sig and told her one more time that everything would be okay. A moment later, the man behind me slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of my head, knocking me instantly unconscious.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I woke up in a small, dark room and had one hell of a headache pounding from deep inside my skull. My legs and arms were tied to a heavy metal chair and there was a chain latched around my neck with the rest of it coiled up beside me. The room was almost completely empty, though it was difficult to see anything. The only light in the room came from a small round glass window cut into the door maybe ten feet in front of me. For a few minutes, I tried to move around, but the weight of the chair along with the chain around my neck made even the smallest movements incredibly difficult.
A bright light flashed through the window, and I saw the outline of a man staring at me through the glass. The light vanished and was followed a moment later by the door screeching open on its rusty hinges in front of me. A massive guy appeared in the doorway. He walked with heavy footsteps to the side of the room, then turned on one of those high-powered construction lamps. The room brightened in an instant, and I had to look away as the asshole angled the light right into my face. He took a heavy step towards me and kicked my left shin, causing pain to radiate up my leg.
“Sit your ass up,” he growled. “Boss is on his way.”
He trudged to the side of the room, his body disappearing into the shadows. My eyes still hadn’t adjusted yet when a second set of footsteps approached my position. Looking up with squinting eyes, I saw a man walk through the doorway. He lit up a cigarette and stood in front of me as he took a few drags. He hovered over me, observing me from head to toe like he was sizing me up.
“So you’re the scumbag who’s been giving my men trouble,” the guy said in a strong Spanish accent. He kept away from the light so I couldn’t see his face, but judging by his voice, I pegged him to be in his late thirties or early forties. He took in a few more long, deep inhalations of his cigarette, then blew a cloud of smoke into my face. “My name is Marco, as by now you’ve probably realized. I did a little research on you, Mr. Dodge. Your background in the military and as an under-the-table mercenary made for some interesting reading. I wonder, how is it that you learned about the Aztec treasure’s possible whereabouts?”
I kept my eyes, which by that time had almost fully adjusted to the light, drawn to the ground.
Marco sighed. “I expected as much from a trained military professional like yourself. But in my line of work we specialize and take pride in our ability to make people say what we want them to say.” He moved closer to me, though not close enough to see his face, then flicked his cigarettes into the corner of the room.
“I’m not a patient man, Mr. Dodge. I’m also not one to forget so easily events which resulted in the death of my men and, more importantly, made me look foolish.” He bent down close, staring me in the eyes. He had a scar across his left eyebrow that looked like it had come from a knife wound. His face was tan and clean-shaven. He had short black hair and dark eyes. “Where’s the treasure, Mr. Dodge?”
I answered only by looking away.
“Very well. Have it your way, then.”
He stepped back and motioned to the guy standing in the corner. Glancing over at the guy, I realized that it was the big Hispanic dude I’d knocked out at the club the previous night. He snarled at me, hulked his way towards me, then, without hesitation, hit me with a hard right to the side of my face. He hit me again, this time in the shoulder, then again on the other side. I fell down a few times, and each time he lifted me back up with ease before continuing to hit me at various points across my body. Blood trickled down my face and pain surged from all portions of my body at once. After a strong blow to my jaw, my head flailed backward and I almost lost consciousness.
“Stop!” Marco said, and the massive guy growled at me, then walked away. Marco grabbed me by my shirt collar. “Where is it?” He shook me violently. “Where the fuck is it?” He pushed me back, and my chair slammed against the floor, rattling the chain around my neck.
Blood spewed out of my mouth as I lay on the cold metal floor. It flowed down my face and dripped beside me, forming a small pool of dark red. The massive guy lifted my chair up, and Marco moved in close again. I spat a wad of blood right into the center of his face and told him to go fuck himself. He lifted a rag and wiped it casually away.
“Have it your way, Mr. Dodge.” Marco stepped back, and a moment later, the massive guy grabbed me, along with two other guys whom I hadn’t seen in the dark shadows of the room. Marco moved swiftly for the door as the guys lifted me and grabbed the coiled-up chain that was clasped around my neck. Marco opened the door, then turned to me before stepping through. “I’m certain Miss Flores will be more agreeable.” He gave an evil smile, then stepped through the doorway.
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled right before he shut the door.
I struggled to break free, but it was no use. The knots were tight around my arms and legs, and the chain around my neck was clipped on with a large carabiner that would be impossible to unclasp with my hands tied. The three men turned me around, then carried me out a back door.
“Let’s hurry up and waste this fool,” one of the guys said as they carried me up a narrow set of metal stairs.
It had been obvio
us from the gentle sway of the floor that we were on a boat, and sure enough, they opened a door and carried me out onto the deck of a large old shrimp trawler. After looking around a moment, I saw that we were tied off to a pier beside a run-down warehouse. All the nearby structures were old and falling apart, and there seemed to be nobody but us for miles. I wondered where in the Keys we could be, but I didn’t have time to wonder long. Looking out over the channel, which was flanked on both sides by thick mangroves, I saw a distant sun dropping down below the horizon and was amazed that I’d been unconscious so long. Clouds filled most of the sky, and a strong breeze blew against my face.
“You’re going over, tough guy,” the large Hispanic guy said as the three men dropped me right on the edge of the deck.
Making quick work of the knots, they freed my legs, then untied the chair from my hands, leaving my hands still tied behind my back and the heavy chain still clasped around my neck. They lifted me out of the chair, then dropped me right against the railing. One of the guys had a large bowie knife and pressed the tip of it against my back.
“Just kick his ass in,” one of the guys growled.
I swiveled my head to look at the guy holding the bowie knife against my back. He was much smaller than the Hispanic guy beside him, but he was muscular and covered in tattoos. His face contorted into a smile as he pressed the tip of the blade harder and harder into my back. Frustrated, the big guy stepped closer and, after cussing out the other guy, drew his leg back in preparation to kick me overboard. Just as his leg was about to meet my back, the massive guy screamed in pain and fell hard to the deck. He wrapped his hands around his leg and rolled onto his side.
“What the fuck!” he yelled.
The other two men looked at him and looked at each other in confusion. A second later, another guy fell to the ground, clutching his chest. The last guy standing reached for an Uzi lodged in his cargo shorts. With my legs no longer tied to the chair and with the other guys down, I reared back and slammed him with a powerful side kick into his abdomen. The force of the blow made him drop the weapon as he fell to the deck. He stumbled for a few seconds, then tried to stand back up and retrieve his Uzi, which had slid down the deck about thirty feet.
I watched as a figure appeared from the cockpit of the trawler, wearing a bulletproof vest and holding a pistol with a silencer at chest height. He wore sunglasses, gloves and a black headband over his head, but I recognized instantly from his movements that it was Scott. He fired two rounds into the guy going after his Uzi, causing him to go limp in his tracks. Scott slid a knife out from his side, stepped behind me and made quick work of the rope tied around my hands.
“The hell took you so long, Scott?” I grinned as he freed my hands and I unclasped the chain around my neck.
“You know how traffic can be down here sometimes,” he chuckled. “What are we gonna do with him?” He nodded at the large Hispanic guy, who was still squirming in pain on the deck.
“We need answers. And my guess is tubby here has at least one.” I walked over to the guy and kicked him onto his back. Scott strode over and pressed his Glock up to the guy’s chest and yelled at him, saying that if the man didn’t start talking, he’d end up just like his buddies.
The man answered only by giving Scott the middle finger, then tried to break free of my grasp. Holding his arms back, I shoved my knee hard between his shoulder blades, keeping him immobilized. When it was clear we weren’t gonna get anything out of him, I grabbed the bowie knife and slammed the handle into his temple, knocking him unconscious.
We searched the guys’ clothes and found a cell phone and a brown leather wallet in the skinny guy’s front pocket. I grabbed them, then did a quick search of the boat with Scott. We didn’t need to say what we were looking for; we both already knew. Anything that would be helpful in figuring out where these guys were keeping Sam and what they were planning to do next would be utilized. The boat, which was old and looked like it hadn’t been used in years, was empty aside from damaged nets and other rusted shrimping gear. It was obvious that these guys just used this location because it was off the beaten path.
We climbed over the side of the trawler and onto a sorry excuse for a dock that had more broken planks than non-broken ones. As we moved down the dock, we kept our eyes peeled for any sign of others.
“Did you see anyone leave the trawler?” I asked as we reached the old levee at the base of the dock, then climbed over it and into bushes and palm trees.
“No,” Scott replied. “There were a few guys in the parking lot, but that was it. I did hear a large outboard as I approached, but it was far in the distance.”
“Damn.”
“Why?”
We moved our way through the bushes and soon reached a cracked slab of concrete covered in old pilings and a rusted chain link fence. On the other side, I saw a black Dodge Charger parked in the shade of a large gumbo-limbo tree. Scott motioned towards the car and we moved towards it quickly.
“That was Marco.”
Scott unlocked and started it using his key while we were still fifty feet away, then we opened the doors and hopped inside, Scott in the driver seat and myself in the passenger seat.
“What? The Marco?”
“Yeah. The same one from Mexico.”
Scott put the manual transmission in gear, then spun out the tires as he floored the sports car, weaving in and out of old junk as he picked up speed. He drifted onto an old dirt road, blazing through overhanging banyan branches before popping through a patch of bromeliad bushes onto a two-lane road. There were a few other cars, but none of them looked suspicious as we drove towards the city of Marathon, then jumped onto US-1.
“How in the hell did you find me, anyway?”
Scott grinned and pointed at my watch.
“I installed a small tracking device during the flight to Miami.”
I shook my head. Scott never had liked leaving anything up to chance, a facet of his character that had saved me and others many times before.
We drove over the Seven Mile Bridge, heading south back towards Key West. Grabbing the cell phone that belonged to the skinny cartel from the trawler, I looked over its history, starting with messages, then moving to recent phone calls. I called the first three recent numbers on the call history and received the same message for each from a robotic female voice informing me that the number I’d dialed was no longer in service. When I called the fourth number, a woman answered on the second ring.
“Good evening, La Playa Bonita at Key West, this is Cindy speaking. How may I help you?”
As the woman spoke, I scrambled for the wallet I’d taken from the dead man on the trawler. Quickly coming up with an idea, I grabbed the man’s Mexican driver’s license from one of the sleeves and said, “Yes, I’m calling to speak with one of your guests. Ruben Castillo. Can you connect me with him, please?”
“No problem, sir. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yeah, tell him it’s his friend Marco.”
“Okay, one moment, sir.”
A second later, I heard the sound of the phone ringing again as she transferred my call. After three rings a voice came over the other end of the phone. It was a man’s voice, and before he could finish saying hello, I hung up.
“What is it?” Scott asked.
“They’re at the Playa Bonita Resort. Not sure how many are there, but if we’re gonna find Sam, that’s our best option. I doubt they’d keep her at such a public place as a resort, but I’m sure we can find answers there.”
“You want to go there now?” Scott raised his eyebrows as he stared at me. “You’re crazy. You were just beaten half to death. You need medical care. Look at yourself.” He pulled down the visor above my seat and flipped out the mirror. Looking into it, I saw that my face was covered in blood and cuts. My shirt and pants were ripped apart and covered in dirt. “They’ll never even let you past the lobby looking like that anyway.”
“Look, it doesn’t hurt as bad as it loo
ks. I mean, it hurts like hell, but I don’t care, Scott. I need to find Sam.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
In less than an hour, we were back in Key West and pulling the Charger into the Conch Marina parking lot. I’d relented and agreed to stop by the Baia to clean and care for my wounds before heading over to the resort. The truth was, I’d wanted to stop by my boat anyway in order to saddle up for the upcoming confrontation that was likely to take place. We rushed down the dock, and when we reached the Baia, I did a thorough check of the security system, which included a state-of-the-art sonar sweep of the hull and the water below it. When I saw that there were no discrepancies, we climbed aboard and I went straight for the head. I hopped into the shower and, using more hot water than I had the entire previous week combined, soaked my body and washed away the dried-up blood from my face and upper body.
Stepping out of the shower, I wiped the condensation from the mirror as I dried off. The cuts were still visible, and though I decided a few might scar, it didn’t appear as though I needed stitches. Instead I grabbed a first aid kit and rubbed antiseptic on the wounds, then wrapped bandages over the gashes in my shoulder. When I finished, I moved into the master suite, dressed in a pair of jeans, then slid on a bulletproof vest under a tee shirt. Like the one Scott wore, it was thin, and though it offered little defense against high-caliber rifles, I would be protected from smaller arms and knives. I unlocked and opened my safe, pulled out my spare Sig and slid it in the back of my jeans. I also grabbed a small duffle bag, then moved into the salon, where Scott sat at the table, using my laptop.
“You find anything on those guys?”