Lynch paused.
“I don’t like this,” he finally said through the speaker. “If these locals manage to figure out who we are and what we’re looking for, it’s going to mean trouble. Call Jake and tell him that if he sees them again, he needs to finish them off and toss them to the sharks instead of just scaring them. In the meantime, the sooner we find this treasure, the better.”
“If it’s even there, that is,” Skinny said.
“The treasure is there, Tuck,” he barked. “And if you don’t believe in our organization’s aim, then you’re no longer of any use to me. I’ll feed your ass to the gators in a heartbeat.
“Now,” Lynch added, “find me that treasure. I don’t want to see your pale face again until it’s in your possession.”
The line went dead. Skinny hesitated, then dialed another number.
“If you see this local again, Jake,” he said, “Deke gave explicit orders to deal with him and his friends swiftly and without mercy. Just don’t leave any evidence. Nothing left of them, you hear?”
Don’t worry, Jake. You’ll see us again. We’ll come to you.
“Tell Deke the guy’s as good as dead,” Jake said. “And get your lazy ass back here with food. We’re finding this thing tonight.”
Skinny hung up and pocketed his phone. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, then Skinny picked at something in his teeth.
“I don’t like this,” Casper said. “This was supposed to be quick and easy. No hiccups.”
Skinny strode over and patted the younger man on the chest.
“Don’t worry, Casp. We’ll find it and you’ll get paid. Hell, you might even get enough to flee this pigsty.”
As they turned for the door, my foot slipped on the wet metal roof. It made a high-pitched sliding noise, and I dropped a few inches before catching and stabilizing myself. Peeking back through the window, I saw that Skinny had stopped in his tracks. He turned around, then strode straight toward me.
“What was that?” Casper growled.
Skinny laughed. “This dump creaks and groans like hell. The place wants to die. Hell, it’s probably a rat or a coon.”
“That wasn’t no rat.”
Shit.
My heart rate picked up as I dropped down. Listening intently, I heard Skinny’s footsteps as he moved across the room. I looked around, but there was no quick way to disappear from view, at least not without making more noise.
I pressed my body against the wall and decided. Given the options of fight or flight, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d chosen flight.
Skinny pushed open the window and leaned out.
“See?” he said, his head still tilted back to look at Casper. “There’s nothi—”
His eyes sprang wide when he turned forward and saw me, and he reached for the pistol holstered to his belt.
I smashed my right fist into his throat, then gripped his shirt collar and slammed his head into the windowsill. Pulling myself up into the room, I spotted Casper lunging for a shotgun on the table. I slid my dive knife from its sheath and threw it across the room. It caught him midstride in his leading leg. He yelled in pain as the sharp titanium tip struck home. The moment he put weight on the injured leg, it buckled, and he collapsed to the shag-carpeted floor.
Groaning, he crawled desperately toward the shotgun. Just as his hand wrapped around the stock, I slammed the fragile bones with my heel, then kicked him across the face. As his head snapped back, his mouth opened and his body went limp.
I pulled my knife from his leg, wiped the blood on his pants, and slid it back into its sheath at the back of my waistband. Struggled breaths caught my attention, and I turned back to the window.
Skinny struggled to his feet, blood covering and dripping down half of his face. He pulled a Louisville Slugger off the wall and shot me an evil look.
“You… have no idea who you’re fucking with.”
I stood tall.
Without another word, he stumbled toward me and swung the wooden bat with all the strength he could muster. Instead of ducking or dodging, I lunged straight for him and grabbed his hands and the lower part of the bat. Kneeing him in the breadbasket, I ripped the bat from his hands, then whipped around and smashed his head with the sweet spot.
He went lights out in an instant and collapsed like a late-round Jenga tower.
“Right back at you,” I said, ending the brief conversation with an exclamation point.
SIXTEEN
I stood still and quiet for a few seconds. All I could hear was the downstairs music and the few patrons chatting casually. Apparently no one had heard our little scuffle, not even the part where I’d bashed the guy’s skull like it was a three-and-oh fastball down the middle.
I looked over my two assailants. Casper would be walking with a limp and would probably have his hand in a cast for the next few months. Skinny, if he ever woke up, would be lucky if he only suffered the deep gash to the side of his head and a concussion.
I was about to toss the Louisville Slugger aside when I noticed the name etched in black on the barrel.
Pete Rose.
It was also signed right by the name. Striding across the room, I set it back on its shelf out of respect for Charlie Hustle. It had a new dent and some blood on it, but I imagined that it was still the most valuable item in the entire marina.
Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, I slipped out the window. The climb down was trickier, and I almost hitched a ride on the gravity express, but I managed to keep my balance by leaning forward into the wall.
The moment my shoes hit the damp pavement, I heard shouts coming from upstairs.
Consider the hornet’s nest kicked. Now to deal with this Jake character, and then figure out where Lynch and the rest of his Aryan Order buddies are hiding out.
I pinched my nose as I weaved past the showers and around the back of the bathroom. As I cut between the outhouse wall and the main building, I heard footsteps approach from the corner. I’d expected Ange. Instead, the fat guy from back at Jones Lagoon jumped into view and raised his revolver at me.
Before I could react, a loud bang filled the calm afternoon air. But I wasn’t shot. I watched as an arm grabbed the fat guy from behind. He dropped his gun, then he was jerked to his right. Ange shoved him aside as he gagged, kicking him hard toward the smelly bathroom. His husky frame battered down the door and he fell facefirst onto the toilet, which had flies circling over it.
With the coast clear thanks to Ange, we darted across the marina, ducked down a walkway, and observed the chaos from a distance. People of all shapes and sizes poured out of the dingy marina and took a look around. Fortunately, none of them had guns. It looked like we’d dealt with all of Lynch’s boys, at least the ones on site.
Trying our best to look as confused and frightened as the people standing at the much nicer marina where we’d tied off, we strode casually down the dock and hopped onto the Baia.
“Thanks, Ange,” I said. “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve saved my skin.”
“Twelve,” she replied right away. “Though you’ve saved me a few times as well.”
I shook my head.
She keeps count.
“You all right?” she said, examining the cut to my arm.
“Yeah. Just lost my grip and slipped. Then one of those bozos got me with a lucky jab during the scuffle.”
“I’ve told you to work on your rock climbing skills.”
“In the Keys?” I chuckled.
We fell silent a moment, continuing to observe Teddy’s Marina from a distance.
“You know, I usually like hole-in-the-wall places like that,” she said. “But that guy back at Alabama Jack’s was right. Anyone who even thinks about buying that place would have to be certifiable.”
I nodded. I couldn’t agree more. What the place needed was a good burning to the ground, bulldozing, and a fresh start.
“Let’s call Jane and get the local authorities on
site,” I said. “We can stick around for a few more minutes, but I don’t think Lynch has any more guys here.”
“What about the other guys?” she said. “The ones on the pontoon boat?”
“They’re gonna come after us. I overheard a conversation with Lynch upstairs.”
“Wait a second, Deacon Lynch is up there? Please tell me you—”
“He was on the phone. Or believe me, I would’ve. He told the skinny guy from back in the lagoon that we were to be dealt with quickly and quietly. Then Skinny called our trespassing friend Jake and relayed the order.”
Once confident that there weren’t any more of Lynch’s boys snooping around, we started up the Baia and cruised over to the marina’s fueling station. By the time we finished refueling the tanks, paid the attendant, and motored back into Biscayne Bay, nearly thirty minutes had passed since calling Jane, and police had since swarmed Teddy’s Marina.
We’d taken out their little waterfront home base. It was time to deal with Jake and his pontoon pirates, then track down Lynch and finish the job. It was clear that these white supremacists hadn’t expected much of a challenge when it came to their search for the treasure.
Ange and I were more than happy to be the proverbial wrenches in their plans.
It was ironic. They were trying to finish the job of their idols, the old-school Avengers who’d risked everything to fight for a cause that had defended the enslavement of over four million African Americans. Now it was our turn to do the avenging. To avenge John Ridley, and the lives of however many other people the Aryan Order had undoubtedly murdered over the years. The group had a bad reputation, and its members impressive rap sheets. They’d been stirring up trouble in Florida for long enough.
As I brought us up to speed at the mouth of the channel, Ange came in close beside me.
“It just seems too straightforward,” she said. “Too easy.”
“That’s because we’re used to dealing with some of the best criminals in the world. Think about who we’ve been pitted up against the past few years. Big-time gang leaders, Mexican cartels, and the billionaire Richard Wake and his posse? These boy scout wannabe Nazis are minor league compared to them.”
SEVENTEEN
Casper Nix woke up to the sound of police sirens. He felt intense, searing pain radiating from all over his body. As he blinked his glazed eyes open, he saw blood oozing from his left thigh, adding to an impressive puddle of deep red soaking the carpet. He’d already lost half a liter of the precious liquid. It made him lightheaded as he groaned himself up, propping his back against the edge of the couch.
His damaged hand protested as he searched, then grabbed a rag from the table. Wrapping it around the knife wound, he pulled it tight, then secured the fabric with a double knot. The pressure kept the bleeding at bay. It was far from perfect, but the rag would keep him alive long enough to try and make an escape.
Escape.
The word jumped into his mind and rattled with a vengeance. The police sirens were getting louder.
I need to escape. I need to get the hell out of here, now!
The young man sucked in air through his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet, keeping his weight on his good leg and using the other for balance. He cradled his broken hand and limped across the room toward the stairs. Step after painful step, he willed himself to the bottom, knowing that if the cops caught him, he’d be tossed into jail and charged with Teddy’s murder.
If they somehow manage to find the body, that is.
Even if they didn’t, Casper had no doubt that he’d be put behind bars for one reason or another. He’d been involved in the marina’s shady illegal dealings for years. The jig was clearly up.
Anger fueled him as he shoved open the door. The decrepit room was filled with activity. Some people were frozen, confused and unsure of what to do, others shuffled like mad out the doors. None of them were working with Lynch like Casper was, but many had their own small-time petty crime side gigs that they wanted to keep in the dark.
Casper struggled out the back door, then slipped down the old sidewalk to the boathouse at the end of the marina. Shouldering his way inside, he cranked his aluminum skiff down into the water. He grabbed a first aid kit from a gear locker and tossed it into the boat. He also grabbed an extra tank of fuel, a jug of water, and a tattered bag of fishing gear.
He pulled on a nylon rope that caused the small garage door to rattle open. Wincing as he flopped into the boat, he started up the 50-Hp engine and hit the gas. Casper looked over his shoulder as the small boat grumbled out into the channel. The sirens were ear-rattling. Through breaks between the marina’s main building and the nearby outbuildings, he could see flashes of red and blue.
He peered right toward the opening out into Biscayne Bay. Knowing that a straight shot attempt at an escape would be riskiest, he held tight to the tiller with his only good hand and motored in the opposite direction.
Weaving into a narrow cut in the mangroves, he managed to force the narrow aluminum-hulled boat through the tangles and into a canal on the opposite side. Gunning the throttle, he flew half a mile north before cutting back to the east and sneaking into the bay.
He kept the engine at full speed, skipping across the water at thirty-five knots. He relaxed a little as the sirens quieted at his back, but as the adrenaline from the narrow escape wore off, the intense pain returned.
It took just fifteen minutes for him to reach the islands on the other side of the bay. Wanting to keep his distance from the ranger station, he decided to take refuge at Sands Key, a one-and-a-half-mile-long uninhabited island just north of Elliot Key.
Having spent his entire life in Biscayne Bay, Casper knew the geography as well as anyone alive. He brought the skiff into a cove on the northwestern side of the island, then motored into a twenty-foot-wide channel. The waterway dead-ended at a round body of water barely larger than a football field near the center of the island. With no other boats in sight, and with sufficient cover in all directions, Casper shut off the engine and tossed the anchor.
With his body shaking and his mind hazy, he fumbled open the first aid kit. It was old and covered in dust. Some of the items were missing, but fortunately the needle and thread were still nestled in the bottom in a small pouch under a pile of Band-Aids. Carefully and grunting in pain, he removed the double-knotted rag tightened around his thigh. It hurt like hell since some of the blood had dried and stuck the fabric to his skin.
After dousing the wound in antiseptic, he stitched it up one painful thread at a time. After five minutes, he snipped the line, tied it off, then covered the wound with a bandage. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. And considering the circumstances, he was just glad to still be breathing and not behind bars.
With his stab wound dealt with, he caught his breath, then pulled his phone out, but he sighed as he saw that it had no service. Taking stock of his supplies, he noticed a radio resting on the deck. He couldn’t get ahold of Lynch. No, the radio only had a five-mile range. But he could get ahold of someone else.
EIGHTEEN
Jake Shaw stood on the bow of the twenty-foot aluminum cabin cruiser as he motored it across the lagoon, dragging the magnetometer. The old, custom utility boat had been stripped of all unnecessary components, giving the craft a draft of just six inches. They’d scraped the bottom a few times, but the aluminum hull had no trouble brushing it off.
Taking his eyes off the shallow water surrounding them, Jake stepped into the small cabin and pulled a beer from a cooler. It was eighty-five degrees out, and though the breeze off the ocean helped, the humidity was still seventy percent. He clicked on a portable fan then sprayed water over his face before turning the small boat around.
Picking up where the others had left off earlier that day, Jake swept the magnetometer back and forth, hoping for a hit. But there’d been no dice all day. Either the old prospector they’d stolen the Confederate buckle from was lying, or the treasure wasn’t there.
He pe
ered across the calm lagoon and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t relish the thought of having to give Lynch the bad news. Their leader was known for his hot temper. Jake had seen it in action many times before—most recently when he’d killed the owner of Teddy’s Marina and ordered his body to be sunk as a feast for the crabs.
His radio crackled to life on the dashboard, waking him from his thoughts.
“Jake, are you there?” a staticky voice said. “This is Casper.”
“What do you want, Nix?” Jake said. He leaned forward, checked the water around his small boat, then turned it around for another pass.
I swear, if this punk asks me for an update, I’m gonna tear him a new one next time I see him.
“We’ve got a big fucking problem, that’s what.”
Jake idled the engine, wanting to give all of his attention to the conversation. “What kind of problem?”
“We had a guy show up at the marina. He snuck in through the top-story window and attacked us. Killed Tuck. Nearly killed me.”
“Shit.”
“And it gets worse. Someone called the police. I barely managed to escape as they cracked down on the place. I’m hiding out at Sands Key and I’m not going back to the marina anytime soon. Hell no.”
Jake ran a hand through his thick hair.
“This guy who showed up,” he said. “What’d he look like?”
“I barely caught but a glimpse of him during our fight. He threw a knife into my leg. Buried it there from across the room like it was nothing. Some Matrix stuff, I’m telling you. Then he stomped my hand as I reached for a shotgun and knocked me out. Maybe took a few seconds is all.”
“I said, what did he look like?”
There was a short pause.
“We talked briefly before that downstairs. He was big. Well over six feet. And strong. Short hair. Wore a dark blue T-shirt.” Another pause. “Oh, and there was a woman with him. A smokin hot blonde. Can’t think of anything else.”
Avenged in the Keys Page 8
