Avenged in the Keys

by Rief, Matthew

  “Dammit,” I spat. “How in the hell could I have let this happen?”

  I said it more to myself than to Ange, but she answered anyway.

  “We all let this happen,” she said quietly, keeping her head forward and her ears sensitive to every sound our attackers made. “No one expected this. Hell, even the police told us that Lynch was on the run.”

  One thing became evident as a result of the encounter: Deacon Lynch wasn’t the dumb redneck we’d been led to believe he was. No, this was a guy with a plan. A guy with a head on his shoulders and the inclination to use it.

  They finished loading up the bars. We could hear them as they climbed back onto their boats. They idled for a few seconds, talked amongst themselves, then took off. The three jet skis and the unknown fourth boat accelerated, their engines groaning and echoing across the flat landscape. The sounds quieted as the boats stormed back across the lagoon, heading for the exit.

  Ange and I slipped back down into the water. We shot each other a look, then each took in a deep breath before dropping into the opening in the branches, twisting our bodies around and pulling our way headfirst back through the cave. Careful not to get snagged on roots, we forced our way through the cramped space, then splashed out into the lagoon and caught our breath.

  The moment our heads broke the surface, we heard the sound of gunfire echo across the water. It tipped us over the edge even more, knowing that the distant encounter was most likely involving our friends over by the anchored boats. We rose out of the pool and listened carefully. It wasn’t an automatic. It sounded like a pistol—9mm for sure. Most likely Jack’s trusty compact Desert Eagle.

  The gunshots stopped and the sounds of the white supremacists’ boats drowned out on the northwestern horizon. Ange and I sloshed back to the site where we’d discovered the gold. There was nothing left in the hole aside from the empty chest that our enemies had broken to pieces in their failed attempts to pull the whole thing free. The gold bars were all gone.

  We looked up as the sound of an outboard hummed over the lagoon. Jack and Pete were cruising straight for us, pushing the shallow-draft craft to its limits. Jack eased back on the throttle when he got close, then let momentum carry them nearly right up to us.

  “You two all right?” Pete said, jumping out from the skiff and splashing toward us.

  “We’re fine,” I said, waving him off.

  We were scratched up all over from the branches and jutting limestone, but nothing serious. Besides, our adrenaline was pumping so hard that we didn’t even notice.

  “I need my sat phone,” I added. I stormed toward the boat and reached inside.

  “Already called the Guard,” Jack said. “And we managed to take down two of them, but the rest got away.”

  Not for bloody long.

  Pete splashed over to the hole and peeked into the empty chest.

  “They took it all,” Ange said.

  Pete shook his head. “It’s all right. The important thing is that we’re all okay. How did you two manage to get away from them?”

  I climbed onto the boat and offered Ange a hand.

  “We’ll tell you the whole story later,” I said. My blood was still boiling. “We’ve got a group of criminals on the run that we need to track down.”

  Pete climbed back into the boat and Jack hit the gas, bouncing us across the body of water, winding through the mangroves, and making a beeline for our anchored boats. They dropped Ange and me off on the Baia, and Ange snatched a pair of binoculars and sprinted up onto the bow.

  I quickly brought up the anchor with the windlass and Ange secured it in place. Jack jumped onto the deck behind me as I started up the twin 600-Hp engines.

  “Pete’s gonna watch the Calypso,” he said.

  He joined Ange on the bow, shielded his eyes from the sun, and searched for Lynch and his crew.

  After scanning the horizon, Ange glanced over her shoulder.

  “Looks like they’re heading into a canal just north of their marina,” Ange yelled. “They’re almost to it.”

  “Come on!” I shouted.

  They rapidly climbed around the windscreen and plopped down into the cockpit. Just as they held on, I shoved the throttles forward as far as they could go. The engines roared, the props accelerated, and the boat tilted back as we launched through the water. We held on tight as the bow rose high, then splashed down and leveled off. Wind whipped past us as the speedometer needle shot up to the Baia’s top speed of fifty knots.

  We rocketed across Biscayne Bay. The mouth of the canal was eight miles from our starting point next to Totten Key, and we cut the distance in just under ten loud, blurry minutes. Jack had dropped down into the saloon with Atticus to calm the dog and keep the Guard updated. We caught a glimpse of a Jayhawk helicopter just as we entered the narrow channel and powered inland.

  Less than half a mile up the channel, we hit the first of many bridges that connect the miles of interwoven trails that make up the Biscayne-Everglades Greenway. I slowed, and the Baia’s seven and a half feet were just short enough to make the clearance. Once through, I hit the gas again.

  Jack stepped back topside and told us that he’d relayed Lynch’s most recent position to the Guard. We all kept our eyes peeled, hoping to spot a glimpse of our quarries. The problem was that there were miles and miles of canals crisscrossing all around the landscape. Jet skis don’t need much water to operate once on plane, and the tiny craft are nimble, able to fit into the smallest spaces.

  We continued to search as I shot us west, heading farther and farther inland. But hope was dying away. We hadn’t spotted them since Ange had seen them enter into the channel over ten minutes earlier. We all knew that they could be anywhere by now. It was looking like a lost cause on our part, and then we had no choice but to stop our chase altogether. Just over two miles from the bay, we encountered a second bridge. I didn’t need to motor close to know that it was much too short for us to fit under.

  Sliding back the throttle, I slowed us to an idle. Ange and Jack climbed back up onto the bow for a better look. They scanned the terrain, then lowered their binos. I killed the engine for a few seconds, hoping to hear the escaping boats, but it was quiet. There wasn’t a motor to be heard aside from a passing sedan heading over the bridge.

  We watched as the Jayhawk flew back and forth, heading steadily inland. It flew right overhead, hovering just a few hundred feet off the ground as Guardsman peered down from both sides.

  We got in touch with local police as well as the Guard again. They notified us that an extensive search was underway, but no sign of the jet skis or Deacon Lynch and his men had been found.

  I sat against the starboard gunwale and looked out over the canal.

  How in the hell had this happened? And how in the hell had they managed to get away?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Just minutes after we shut off the Baia’s engines, a man wearing a hiking hat appeared on the shore, walking our direction from the west on the northern shoreline. He carried a fishing pole in one hand and a tackle box in the other. He froze when he saw our boat, then strode out onto the bridge and peered down at us.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he said when he was within earshot of us. “I’ve never seen so much commotion before. You guys don’t look like drug runners, but be aware that I’ve got my Beretta locked and loaded if you try to make a move. I was in the Army.”

  “We’re not drug runners,” Ange said from up on the bow. “We were chasing a group of criminals who stole from us and tried to kill us.”

  The man paused. He set his tackle box on the road, then lowered his sunglasses as he leaned over the railing.

  “Two jet skis and a skiff?” the guy said.

  Ange glanced back and Jack and me.

  “That’s right,” I said. I pointed skywards. “The Coasties are looking for them as well, and the police have been notified. You happen to see where they went?”

  “Didn’t see, no. But after they zipp
ed by and scared all the fish off, they turned a bend about a half mile farther up. Soon after that, their engines went silent.”

  The words were still being uttered from his lips when I stepped for the saloon door and pulled it open.

  “You’re not going anywhere without me, Dodge,” Ange said, reading my mind and following right on my heels.

  Atticus, sensing the seriousness of the situation, sat on the deck and watched us patiently as we strode into the main cabin. We each grabbed a pair of socks and running shoes, then stormed back up to the deck. Seeing what we’d grabbed, Jack manned the helm, started the engines, put the throttle in reverse, and carefully backed us up to the northern shoreline. He got the swim platform within five feet of the rocky edge, and I gave him a thumbs-up. I pocketed my cellphone, then told my friend we’d be right back.

  “Be careful,” he said as Ange and I made the leap to the shore.

  The moment the soles of our shoes hit the rock, we jumped onto the dirt pathway running parallel to the canal and took off.

  “Half a mile, you say?” I said to the fisherman as we sprang over the road.

  “Give or take,” he said. “Hey, you want me to come with?”

  He dropped his pole and tightened the strap of his hat. He was wearing flip-flops and baggy shorts.

  We waved him off, told him to stay and direct the police when they arrived, then bolted nearly into a sprint.

  Three minutes later, our hearts pounding and our breathing rushed, we reached a sharp bend in the canal. It turned into a short straightaway, then bowed back to the west up ahead. I stopped halfway, pressed my hands to my hips, and looked around.

  “Oh, come on. Tired already, babe?” Ange said. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  I didn’t answer. The serious expression on my face as I stared at the nearby shoreline was all the reply she needed. She followed my gaze and strode alongside me toward the water, quickly realizing what I was staring at. There were boot prints in a small section of mud between two rocks. And there were hull marks left by boats being brought up onto the shore. Two of the hull marks continued farther up into the grass, then trailed off as the residual mud was wiped away. We followed the dry land wake of the boats. Broken twigs, slightly flattened grass, that kind of thing. They led inland twenty yards to tight rows of palm trees.

  “Logan!” Ange said, pointing down one of the rows. Something white and shiny stuck out from the palm trees. We dashed toward it and saw two jet skis resting in a row and mostly covered in palm branches.

  Jogging back to the shore, we stumbled upon a set of recent tire marks indicating that Lynch and his gang had motored off in a vehicle of some kind.

  A police car arrived a few minutes later, followed closely by two more. They took over the scene and we told them everything we knew.

  By the time we made it back to the Baia, it was just after 1100.

  “Right back, huh?” Jack said, sitting on the sunbed on the Baia’s deck. He’d shut off the engine and dropped the anchor and had his laptop and cellphone out in front of him.

  He raised the anchor, started her up, and eased back so we could climb aboard.

  “I didn’t hear any gunshots,” he said. “No Lynch?”

  “No. But we found their jet skis.”

  We jumped onto the swim platform, then collapsed onto the half-moon cushioned seat around the dinette. It was over eighty degrees and our shirts were soaked with sweat. Jack grabbed two bottled waters from down in the galley and handed them to us.

  “So, what do we do now?” he said as we quenched our thirst.

  It was a good question. We’d all undergone one hell of an emotional roller coaster. One minute, we were pulling gold bars out of a bonafide buried treasure chest, and the next we were taking cover for our lives as a deranged Nazi wannabe and his crew rained a hurricane of bullets upon us. The gold had been ours, then gone, just like that.

  I wasn’t terribly devastated at losing it, we’d planned on donating the bulk of it anyway. The thing that stung was who’d taken it. And what level of damage a guy like Lynch could do with that kind of money.

  “We should go and find Pete,” Ange said. “Start from there.”

  After motoring back down the canal and into the bay, we met back up with Pete. Two police boats floated near the jet ski and the two bodies of the men Jack had taken down. We met up with them as well, then debated our next course of action. After a brief discussion, we made the unanimous decision to head back home to Key West.

  I wanted nothing more than to track Lynch and put him down just like we had his men earlier that week. But tracking requires a trail, and Lynch hadn’t left one of those. We had nothing to go on, and with all the law enforcement in Florida on the lookout for him, I wondered just how far a white supremacist group could get with two hundred and twenty pounds of gold bars without drawing attention. Then I thought more about Lynch—thought more about how he’d caught everyone off guard when he came thundering into Jones Lagoon with his backup crew of skinheads.

  This guy’s got a knack for staying under the law’s radar, and for pulling off the improbable—a dangerous blend of traits for a criminal.

  The boat ride back down the Keys to our island home felt never-ending. It was like the weight of everything that had happened was pulling me back, like a planet’s gravitational pull. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I ran through the scenario again and again, and each time all it did was make me more upset.

  Seeing how affected I was by what had happened, Ange snuggled up beside me at the helm and wrapped her arms around me.

  “It’s going to be all right, you know,” she said.

  I kept my eyes forward, losing myself in the meditative splashing of water against the hull, and the blue horizon.

  “And like Pete said,” she added, “at least we’re all okay.”

  I snapped myself out of it, looked into Ange’s perfect blue eyes, and kissed her forehead.

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Logan. Always have been. You didn’t do anything wrong back there—none of us did. Sometimes things just go awry. I mean, you’re not perfect. No one in this world is.”

  I smiled and squeezed her tighter. For what felt like the first time since early that morning, I took in a deep, calming breath, then slowly let it out. She was right. Though we’d been severely blindsided, all four of us had managed to make it out unscathed. There was a lot to be grateful for. I reminded myself yet again how fortunate I was to have Ange in my life, to have someone who was always in my corner through thick and thin.

  And the fact that she was more than easy on the eyes was a hell of a bonus, I thought, gazing upon her again.

  I kissed my way down her face to her lips and we enjoyed each other’s company as we splashed the rest of the way, passing island after island off the starboard side and admiring the vast ocean off the port side.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  We pulled into the Conch Harbor Marina at just past 1500. Jack and Pete brought the Calypso into Jack’s usual slip, and we motored into slip twenty-four just down the dock from them. After tidying up and rinsing down all of our freediving and treasure-hunting gear, I spotted Jane heading toward us. She was wearing her police uniform along with a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  “Please tell me you’ve got some good news,” I said as she stepped up beside the stern. “I could really go for some good news right about now.”

  The look on her face told me that I wasn’t about to get any. “Can we talk inside?” she said, motioning toward our boat.

  I nodded.

  While Jack headed into the marina office to take care of a few things, Pete leashed Atticus and took him for a walk down the waterfront.

  Ange and I led Jane down into the saloon and offered her a seat at the dinette. Feeling the fatigue of the long, event-filled day set in, I brewed a pot of coffee.

  “Lynch got away,” Jane said, getting straight to the point. “They’d hoped to spot him with the
helicopter or stop him with one of the roadblocks the local police set up, but they were just barely too late.”

  I stayed on my feet, too wired to sit. The three of us fell silent for a moment, then Jane continued.

  “There’s something else,” she said. “South Florida Motorsports in Homestead was broken into last night. Three jet skis were stolen, and the night security guard was murdered.”

  I clenched my jaw, then looked out the port window.

  “Those were nice jet skis,” Ange said. “Top-of-the-line. Expensive. Any place that sells high-priced adrenaline machines like those must have a great security system in place.”

  “Ange is right,” I said. “They didn’t get Lynch or any of his guys on the feeds?”

  “Apparently, the power to the building was shut off just before they broke in. And the Aryan Order wasn’t on the detective’s original list of suspects. After all, ‘M.O.’ was spray-painted in cursive on one of the store’s inner walls.”

  “M.O.?” I said.

  “Yeah. It’s the initials of the Miami Outlaws. One of the largest gangs in Florida.”

  I shook my head, then ran a hand through my hair.

  “I think it’s time for everybody looking for this guy to accept the fact that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for.”

  Hearing the coffeemaker click, I slid to my feet and opened a cabinet in the galley. I turned to ask the women if they wanted some, and they both answered in the affirmative before I’d finished the question. I poured three mugs of the steaming liquid, then set them on the dinette. Plopping down, I took two sips, savoring the flavor, the warmth, and the jolt of energy to come.

  “We need to figure out where he went,” I said. “We need anything, even a little shred of a trail to get us going. Any idea what the Homestead Police’s strategy is for tracking him down?”

  She took a sip of coffee, then wiped her lips.

  “Right now they’re trying to figure out where Lynch would try and sell some of the bars. Shady pawn shops, black market websites, places like that. His group’s still hurting. He needs to rebuild. He needs cash.”