Gold in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

Scott shook his head. “Coming up dry on all three. I’ll contact my guy at the agency and see what he can do.”

  I locked up the Baia and carried my duffle bag as I stepped onto the dock alongside Scott. The sky had darkened even more, and it had started to rain. We climbed back into his Charger and he hit the gas, taking us to the resort. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was well past nineteen hundred as we cruised down the main streets of Key West, soon seeing the big white building with rows of large windows and balconies that marked the Playa Bonita Resort. We pulled into one of the side lots and parked in a guest spot near the back of the site, where the palm trees met the white sandy beach. Just as Scott killed the engine and we were both formulating a strike plan, a brown El Camino pulled up beside us and two guys hopped out. I didn’t recognize the first guy that got out, but the second was the skinny guy who’d come at me with the sawed-off shotgun in the club the previous night.

  Scott and I opened our doors and stepped out in perfect synchronization. We followed the two men in through the side entrance of the resort, past palm trees and patches of green grass. Once inside, we slowly shortened the gap between us as we followed them around a hallway with marble floors and white walls covered in beautiful paintings. They reached the elevators, pressed the button and waited. The light came on, followed by a ding, and the doors opened. Inside the elevator, the sound of the Beatles’ “Polythene Pam” playing faintly through speakers reached our ears. We rushed the doors and, before they could shut, stepped through into the elevator. Just as one of the guys looked up from his cell phone, I slammed him hard into the back wall. He collapsed to the floor, and the skinny guy swung at me with a right hook. I maneuvered around the blow and hit him square in the jaw with my fist. Grabbing him by his shirt collar, I pulled him down forcefully and slammed my knee right into his forehead. As the first guy crawled towards me, Scott kicked him in the face, whiplashing his head and knocking him out. Within seconds of our entering the elevator, the two guys were on the ground and wouldn’t be getting up under their own strength anytime soon.

  Looking at the numbered rows of buttons, we saw that we were just about to reach the eighth floor. We searched their pockets and pulled out a plastic card key in a paper sleeve that had 406 written on it in blue ink. Opening my duffle bag, I pulled out two silencers, which we tightened to the end of our pistols. When the doors opened on the eighth floor of the resort, we stepped out, not bothering to try and hide the bodies. Somebody would stumble upon them and call the police, but we would be long gone by the time they arrived. We headed down the hallway and stopped in front of the door with 406 etched into a metal nameplate. We looked at each other and nodded, and I slid the card into the lock, then pulled it out when the light turned green. Turning the handle, I pushed open the door, and we both stepped inside with our pistols raised to chest height.

  We saw three guys in the living room. One was in the kitchen, reaching into the refrigerator as we entered, and two other guys were sitting on the couch, watching a Spanish channel on the television and holding their phones in front of them. As soon as he saw us, the guy in the kitchen reached for a revolver on his left hip, cross draw. Before he could grip the handle, I fired off two quick shots right into his chest, splattering blood over the granite countertops beside him. The two other guys dove for cover behind the couch and a recliner. Scott hit one of the guys before he could disappear from view, but the third guy made it to cover unscathed. I ran for his position behind the recliner, and as he raised an Uzi in my direction, I kicked it into the wall. Grabbing a nearby lamp, I slammed it into the top of his head, shattering the ceramic and knocking the guy out.

  Once we were certain all three guys were down, we searched the unit for any sign of Sam or any hint as to her whereabouts. The place was a mess, with dirty clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor and empty pizza boxes and beer cans all over the living room and patio. On the table in the living room were recently killed cigarettes, white powder residue and a few used blunts. After a quick search, it was clear that the unit was empty, and unfortunately, we didn’t find Sam tied up anywhere like we’d been hoping. Noticing that the door in the living room that led to the adjoining unit wasn’t shut all the way, I walked over, twisted the handle and pulled the door. The door on the other side was wide open, and the adjoining unit was also trashed to hell. We both stepped through the doorway with our pistols raised to chest height.

  “The bedroom,” Scott whispered as he motioned for the bedroom door.

  There were quiet sounds coming from the room, hinting that someone was inside. As we cautiously approached the room, we heard the distinct sound of shuffling feet just on the other side of the door. We glanced at each other, nodded, then barged through the door. As the door swung open, a man wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood covering most of his head turned our way and stared at us like a deer caught in headlights. We both yelled at him to freeze, but the idiot reached for something and turned to run out towards the bedroom patio. He grabbed a sawed-off shotgun and managed to fire off a round into the drywall across from us before we took him down with a few well-placed shots to his chest. He fell to the floor beside the sliding glass door, blood pouring out of his limp body.

  We searched the rest of the room, but like the first one, it was empty aside from trash left over from a party the night before. We both felt somewhat dejected that neither Sam nor Marco were in either of the rooms. As we were about to give up searching and get the hell out of the resort ahead of the police, I noticed something under the king-sized bed, right next to where the black sweatshirt guy had gone down. Kneeling and lifting up the white silk sheet, I saw five rows of C-4 explosives rigged to a central control timer that was counting down from forty-three seconds. It was enough C-4 to engulf half of the resort in flames.

  I carefully slid the black plastic box with the timer on it out from under the bed and, using a multitool I kept in a small case attached to my wallet, I made quick work of the four screws holding it together.

  “Shit,” Scott said as he appeared behind me. Like me, Scott had dealt with explosives many times before. But, being an officer, he hadn’t dealt with disarming them hands-on as much as I had.

  The timer read sixteen seconds as I removed the outer shell of the black box, revealing the wires for both the timer and the wires connecting the power source, which was inside the box, to the explosives. Using the knife from my multitool, I cut the two wires that connected the power source to the bundles of C-4. This disrupted the circuit between the power source and the initiator, rendering the explosives useless. Next, I removed the timer, then Scott and I pulled out all of the C-4 from under the bed. I checked all of the bundles for a backup ignition mechanism but found nothing. It was a relatively simple bomb, and in my experience, those are generally the most effective. Though it was easy to disarm by someone who knew what they were doing, I had no doubt that that bomb would have gone off without a hitch and would have made national news with the death toll and damage done.

  “Damn, that’s a lot of boom,” Scott said. “These guys weren’t just trying to cover their tracks.”

  I shook my head. “No. They were trying to send a message. And it’s obvious they knew we were coming.”

  I grabbed a roller suitcase from the closet beside us and emptied out the few clothes inside. Setting it on the floor, we loaded the C-4, then zipped up the main compartment of the bag. We gave the room a quick search, looking in every nook and cranny, making sure that there weren’t any more bombs. When we were confident the rooms were clear, we headed out the door and down the hallway, towards a different set of elevators from the ones we used to come up in. We kept our pistols holstered out of sight and walked quickly but casually past two maids who were running frantically down the hall. When we reached the elevator, we pressed the button and didn’t have to wait long for one of the elevators to open in front of us.

  When we reached the bottom floor, we used the emergency exit in the back of the building
, which caused the fire alarm to go off as we walked down the concrete pathway towards Scott’s rental car. We kept our eyes peeled for more bad guys but didn’t see anyone else as we unlocked the Charger and climbed in after dropping the roller bag of C-4 and my duffle bag in the trunk. We peeled out of the parking lot just as the police cars arrived and headed back over to the marina.

  Scott turned onto Whitehead Street, and just as we were passing the Ernest Hemingway House, he looked into the rearview mirror and said, “I think we got a tail.”

  I turned around and got a good look at a blacked-out Escalade that was two cars behind us. “It’s one of the same SUVs that followed me this morning and rammed us off the road on the Seven Mile Bridge.”

  We drove west a few more blocks, then I told Scott to turn into a narrow alleyway between a liquor store and a scooter rental shack that was currently closed for the night. When he rounded a sharp corner, I said, “Stop here.” Scott pulled the black Charger against a brick wall and put it in neutral. “I’m tired of playing around with these assholes.”

  Scott cut out the lights and killed the engine and we hopped out. I kept my Sig at the ready as we peeked around the corner to have a look down the alleyway we’d just come from. Once we saw that it was clear, we moved in towards the road. The Escalade was parked on the side of the road, right beside a row of chained-up scooters. The lights were on and the engine was running, but the driver’s-side door was wide open.

  We approached the vehicle slowly, then both of us jumped out from the alley, threw open the passenger door and aimed our pistols inside. But the Escalade was empty. I looked at Scott, shrugged, then had a look around. It was a Sunday night, so there weren’t a lot of people out, but it was still the tourist season, so a few groups were walking by on the sidewalk. Walking back into the alley, I heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming from the adjoining walkway beside us. Out from the shadows, a guy appeared and he was walking straight for me. We crouched behind a corner and waited and listened as the footsteps grew louder and louder. The man came around the corner wearing a thin leather jacket and a ball cap. I jumped out from my hiding place, grabbed his shirt collar and forced him to the wet ground. Holding him down, I pinned my right knee hard into the top of his chest, right below his neck.

  “You’re dead in two seconds if you don’t start talking,” I said, snarling as I stared at him. With his face now under the glow that bled into the alley from the streetlights, I realized that I recognized him. It was the young man from Sierra Gorda whom I’d pulled off the boat and dragged deep into the water. A member of Black Venom. I gripped him tighter and started to count down angrily.

  “Please, please don’t hurt me,” the young man said, panting for air. “I’m not here to hurt you.” I saw the terror deep within his eyes as he pleaded frantically, but I didn’t loosen my grip at all. “My name is Daniel. I’m here to warn you, Mr. Dodge.”

  “Warn me? About what?”

  He struggled to catch his breath, and his heart rate was well over a hundred beats per minute.

  “About the others. About what they plan to do.”

  “Why in the hell should I believe you?”

  “I want to help you. I want to escape this life. They… they killed my family.” Tears filled the young man’s eyes. “I just want to escape.”

  I loosened my grip slowly but kept my Sig aimed at him, ready to take out the young man at a moment’s notice if he came at me. He stared at me intensely and let out a sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dodge. I’m sorry for trying to hunt you down before.” He sat up and looked down at the concrete, his shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry for ever being a part of all of this. I just want out. I… I can’t do this anymore.”

  We sat in silence for a moment before Scott appeared from around a corner. He shook his head when we made eye contact, indicating that the young man was alone.

  “What are you here to warn me about?” I asked.

  Daniel collected himself, then said, “They know where the treasure is. That woman you were with told them its location. I was listening in the next room as they talked to her.” He cleared his throat, then continued, “They’re going there tomorrow morning, and they’re gonna blow up the reef and take all of the gold.”

  “And Sam?” I said, staring at him with a stone-cold expression. I already knew what his answer was going to be, but I still asked anyway.

  The young man shrugged. “They’re gonna take her with them to make sure her info’s good. Then once they have the treasure, they’ll probably rape her, then toss her to the sharks.” He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “I’ve seen it happen many times before.”

  Instinctively, my grip tightened on my Sig, which was no longer aimed at Daniel. “Any idea what time they’re heading out in the morning?”

  Daniel thought it over for a moment. “Marco’s an arrogant and powerful man, but I’m sure even he won’t go out there and start blowing shit up in the middle of the afternoon. I’d wager he’ll have all of their yachts on the water before sunrise. All I know for certain, though, is that he told us all not to go out tonight, that it would be an early one in the morning and he’d have someone call to wake us all up.”

  I looked up at Scott, who was still standing over us. He looked impatient as he looked around the alley and back toward where Daniel’s truck was still idling on the side of the road.

  He walked closer to us, looked at Daniel and said, “How many men does Black Venom have here in Key West?”

  “I think around fifty.”

  Scott and I looked at each other, surprised to hear such a large number come out of his mouth.

  “Since the new drug-trafficking prevention laws have been passed, they’ve had a real hard time getting drugs out of Mexico,” Daniel explained. “The higher-ups of Venom have put a lot into this endeavor.”

  I saw a slight grin materialize on Scott’s face. As a senator in Florida, he’d worked closely with the Mexican government to combat the drug trade. Now he was seeing the rewards of his efforts as the drug cartels scrambled to make up for their losses. He knew how businesses, large organizations, and big governments worked firsthand. When you get down to the books of it all, it’s all about the inflow and outflow of cash. When the outflow starts to exceed the inflow, then either changes must be made to the organization or new streams of income must be found. Black Venom was no different.

  I reached out my hand and helped Daniel to his feet. After looking around the alley and making sure no one was watching, we thanked him for his help.

  “It’s the least I could do to repay you for sparing my life in the lake, and tonight as well.”

  We told him we’d been talking long enough. We shook hands, and as he turned around, I said, “When this is all over, you take as much cash as you can get from those guys and you run, you hear me? Start a new life on the other side of the world. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  He smiled and nodded as he looked at me over his shoulder, then continued walking towards his SUV. Scott and I turned on our heels and headed back to Scott’s rental, which was still parked just around the corner. We climbed inside the Charger, and Scott drove us out of the alley and back onto Whitehead Street, heading towards the marina.

  “So what’s the plan?” Scott asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  I thought it over for a moment, then words shot out of my mouth uncontrollably. “Tomorrow you and I will sneak up on their boats underwater. We’ll find Sam, and then we’ll give Black Venom back their bomb.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  The rain had died off a bit, and I watched as a few tourists walked the streets in brightly colored ponchos through the water trickling down the passenger window. We reached the marina in under five minutes, and as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw Angelina’s red Camaro parked in one of the visitor spots, right in front of the wooden railing of the dock. Scott parked a few spots down from her, and we both had a quick
look around, just to make sure we hadn’t been followed again. A moment later, we stepped out, grabbed the roller and duffle bags from the back, and walked down the steps to the floating dock. I kept my head on a swivel but felt a lot better knowing that Angelina was somewhere nearby. I’d worked with her hundreds of times all over the world and trusted her with my life as much as anyone.

  We started towards the Baia, then spotted both Angelina and Jack over on the Calypso and turned in their direction. They were sitting in the cockpit and waved us over when we looked their way. Jack leapt over the transom and rushed down the dock towards us as we approached.

  “What the hell happened, bro?” he said, moving in close and patting me on the shoulder. “Sheriff said your truck had been in an accident over on the Seven Mile Bridge but that no one from the wreck was found. That Tony guy called a few times, said you’d been chased down by drug smugglers.”

  “So he and Claire made it out of the Keys safely?”

  Jack nodded. “Been staying in a hotel in Homestead. Trying to get the police to help look for Sam. You alright, bro? Your knuckles are bleeding and your face looks like hell.”

  I looked down at my hands and examined them for the first time since we’d left the resort. Only my right hand was bleeding, and just a little. Must have been from decking out that guy in the elevator.

  “Thanks. But it would be a hell of a lot worse if Scott hadn’t arrived.”

  “Black Venom?”

  I nodded. “The bastards rammed us into the wall and flipped over my truck. Then they took us both and beat the crap out of me to get me to talk while I was tied to a chair. If Scott hadn’t arrived when he did, I’d be a permanent resident of deep six right now.”

  We climbed aboard the Calypso and sat down in the cockpit. Jack brought over two mugs, set them in front of Scott and me, and filled them with hot coffee.

  “We tracked them down to the Playa Bonita Resort,” Scott said.