She moved carefully, testing each rung before giving it her full weight. A few were loose, but the ladder still held up. The air cooled slightly as she rose up over the tree-covered landscape. She appreciated the cool breeze, especially given the workout. Though she wasn’t afraid of heights, she kept her head locked skyward. It wouldn’t do her mind any good to glance down and ponder the possibility of a fall from that height.
When she reached the top, she pulled herself up onto the narrow metal walkway that ran around the bottom half of the million-gallon tank. Looking out over the landscape for the first time, she was taken aback by the view. With Florida being so unbelievably flat, she was able to see the distant glow of the Upper Keys to the southeast, the bright lights of Miami to the northeast, and the dark, seemingly never-ending Everglades to the west.
She settled on the southern side of the walkway and gazed through the forest. She could see the alligator farm half a mile away. There weren’t many lights on, but the few glows were a sharp contrast to the near-total darkness surrounding it. Just beyond the center of the farm, she could see the one-lane drag lined with an army of police cars, SWAT trucks, and news vans.
Grabbing her night vision scope, she zoomed in on the center of the farm. No movement caught her attention initially, then she spotted a bald guy dressed in a tank top as he walked around to the back side of the main structure.
Logan’s voice came over her earpiece speaker. “We have visual of the compound,” he said.
A moment later, her husband notified them of the bored, tired-looking guy making his rounds at the back of the main building.
Ange dropped to one knee and slid off her backpack. Setting her scope on the floor, she unzipped her bag and slid out the hard case. In less than a minute, she had her collapsible Lapua sniper rifle out, assembled, loaded up, and ready to go with the scope attached.
On the ground below, Ange watched as Scott piloted the drone up over the tree line. She was amazed at how quiet it was. She could barely hear it as it soared up and across the sky, heading for the compound. She wasn’t surprised at how advanced the little craft was, however. She knew enough about Murph to know that the notorious hacker and brilliant inventor was nothing short of a genius. And now with near-limitless funding, it was obvious that even the sky couldn’t limit what he was capable of.
Ange listened to the comms as Scott performed an initial sweep with the drone, pointing out three guys at the front of the property. She covered her husband, as well as Jason, as they moved in to take out the guy she’d spotted and a second guy who’d arrived minutes earlier.
With her finger on the trigger, she focused through the scope as Logan closed in on an unsuspecting skinhead. She watched as he lunged, grabbed the guy from behind, and knocked him out with a punch to the back of the guy’s head.
Panning over to the right, she saw Jason drag the second guy into the shadows as well.
“Scottie, we’ve got two down,” Logan said into the radio.
“Third’s sleeping in the parking lot,” Scott replied. “This thing works like a dream.”
Ange watched as Logan and Jason met up, then saw the back door of the structure slam open and a man step out with a rifle. She was just about to put him down, but Logan beat her to it, throwing his knife then scuffling with the guy for a few seconds before subduing him.
Two more guys came running around the side of the house. Logan scurried to his feet, and he and Jason took cover, aimed their rifles, and put both men down. As the shooting broke out, Ange kept calm and continued surveying the area. Suddenly, movement caught her eye. It was subtle and came from the top of her field of vision. From up on the roof.
She smoothly adjusted her aim upward. The movement hadn’t been just her imagination, or something loose in the breeze. It was a skinhead and he had his rifle aimed down, straight at Logan and Jason. She put the guy in her crosshairs just as the two realized their attacker was there.
Time slowed. Ange held her breath, steadied her aim, and pulled the trigger. The high-caliber round boomed and the rifle recoiled, punching into her shoulder. The bullet took just over a second to cover the distance. It struck the guy through the chest, blowing a spray of blood out his back and causing his body to jerk and tumble forward.
FORTY-FIVE
Catching a split-second glance of the guy on the roof and his rifle aiming straight at us, I dropped and whipped my M4 around, but I knew that I’d be too late. By the time I took aim, he’d pull the trigger, sending a storm of bullets our way. My mind flashed to what Jason had said about our bulletproof vests, and I just hoped we’d be hit center mass.
The moment I hit the ground, the guy up on the roof who I knew only as Casper jerked and blood sprayed out his back. A fraction of a second later, a loud boom echoed across the air. Casper fell backward, slamming against the metal roof and letting go of his weapon as he rolled down the angled slope. He tumbled right over the edge, his lifeless body falling ten feet and bashing into the dirt.
I glanced over my shoulder, gazing northwest toward the distant water tower.
“Hell of a shot, Ange,” I said into my radio.
The moment the words left my lips, Scott’s voice came over the speaker.
“I’ve got a visual on Lynch,” he said, his tone rushed and serious. The mention of the name garnered all my attention in a heartbeat. “He’s exiting the front of the house and bolting east toward the garage.”
Just as Scott’s words died, I spun left and broke into a sprint along the back side of the house. Jason kept right at my heels. I pumped my arms as hard as I could, wanting to reach the side of the structure and cut off Lynch’s escape.
The moment I reached the edge of the house, a man sprang from just out of my sight and plowed into me. He was short, but strong and powerfully built. He knocked the air from my lungs, slamming me hard onto my side. His momentum caused us both to roll. He reached for my neck and yelled, but I held him back as our bodies spun in a dark, chaotic blur.
Just as I was about to force him off and pin him down, I spotted a black void just ahead of us. It was the edge of the pit. The deep concrete abyss filled with hungry alligators.
Before either of us could stop ourselves, we both flew over the edge. The man yelled in my grasp as we free fell the ten-foot drop, wind whipping past us and darkness swallowing us whole. We landed hard on our sides, splashing into knee-deep water and pounding into the hard pavement.
I grunted as pain shot up from my hip and left elbow. Both dazed from the blow, we fought to get our bearings and reengage. My M4 was long gone, having been ripped free from my grasp before I rolled over the edge. Ignoring the splashing of scurrying alligators on the other side of the pit, I lunged for the young man as he withdrew a handgun from his hip. Holding him tight at the wrists, I forced the weapon away from me. He clenched his teeth, then yelled out and pulled the trigger, shooting a series of rounds straight in the air. My eardrums screamed in pain and rang from the blasts. Squeezing tighter, I adjusted my position and slammed his hands down. Twisting and using my right leg for leverage, I snapped his right wrist with a powerful jerk.
His screaming became maniacal as the weapon splashed free.
Holding him down with his face barely above the dark, murky water, I pounded him with a series of knuckled punches to his face and the side of his head. Blood poured out from his nose and mouth, and his head dropped back.
I let go of him, turning around just in time to see the dark outline of a massive gator thrashing toward me.
My primal instincts kicked in. I still had my Sig holstered at my side, but a beast of that size would take a hell of a lot of 9mm rounds to take down.
I jumped to my feet and darted for the edge of the pit. My boots splashing, I jumped as high as I could and grabbed the top edge. My fingers fought for traction, but the metal edging was slippery and angled toward me. With the sounds of the approaching gator getting dangerously loud at my back, I struggled with everything I had to get my
self out of there.
Just as I thought it was over, that I’d be forced to drop down and try and subdue the prehistoric predator with a well-placed shot, a hand appeared from around the edge. It was Jason. He grabbed hold of my wrist, leveraged his body back, and pulled with all his strength. I jerked up high enough to plant my free hand on the corner and yank my body up the rest of the way. Just as my feet cleared the pit, the massive beast’s powerful jaws snapped, chomping down on nothing but air.
I scooted up the rest of the way and twisted into a crouching position.
“Damn good timing,” I said between labored breaths. I wiped the water from my face.
“I wanted to wait just long enough to make it dramatic,” he said.
Our attention was drawn instantly to the sound of painful cries coming from the dark pit below. We couldn’t see much through the blackness, but we saw enough. The wild thrashing of gators, and the man’s body being torn to pieces in the middle of the frenzy.
Jason froze suddenly, then placed a finger to his earpiece and looked toward the garage fifty yards east of the main structure. I’d lost my radio somewhere in the scuffle, so I placed a hand on his shoulder and pointed at my empty ear.
“It’s Lynch,” Jason said, listening carefully. “Scott says he ran into the garage.”
We both stood. I withdrew my Sig and stormed toward the building. When Jason followed, I turned and waved him off.
“Check the main structure,” I said. “There could be more of them.”
“But what about Lynch?” Jason said.
I continued forward, my eyes boring holes into my target destination. “I’ll deal with him.”
FORTY-SIX
I slowed as I approached the garage. It was much smaller than the main structure. Metal-sided and missing part of its roof, it was dark and had a gloomy vibe. The side door was cracked open, but not enough for me to slip through. I grabbed the metal frame and hinged it just enough to peek through.
It was dark inside as well, just a single dim light on the opposite side of the open space. There was a row of three parked vehicles taking up most of the interior. Two were vintage and in terrible shape. The third and farthest one from me looked like a box truck, though it was hard to tell from that angle through the cords and cables that hung from the rafters. Old dusty workbenches filled with various tools lined the back side of the space. I spotted the skiff we’d seen back in Jones Lagoon resting on the floor near the workbench. The one with the tracker that had led us to their location.
I squeaked the door farther open slowly, kept my Sig raised, and stepped inside, water dripping from my soaked clothes. Halfway across, I heard sounds coming from the other side of the truck. As I stepped closer, I saw that the roll-up door at the back of the truck was pulled open just enough for me to see a stack of gold bars in the bed beside a folded-up blanket.
I crept alongside a wheeled metal tool station, then heard movement again. This time it was distinct: the shuffling of feet. A second later, Deacon Lynch stepped around from the side of the truck. Though I’d never seen him in person, he looked just like he did in his photographs. He was a few inches shorter than me but clearly well built. His eyes were intense, his hair unkempt, and his face covered in a scraggly beard. He wore a long-sleeved black shirt with a picture of a Confederate flag on it. He also had a nifty brass belt buckle keeping his leather belt in place, the letters CS embossed in its center.
In his hands, he held a stack of four gold bars.
The moment he rounded the corner, he locked eyes with me and froze. He glared at me, then sighed angrily. Faster than a blink, I aimed my Sig straight at him, lining up the radioactive tritium sights with the swastika at the base of his neck.
“Don’t shoot,” Lynch said calmly. He bent his knees then set the gold bars on the concrete slab at his feet. Once they were on the floor, he raised his hands in the air. “I give up.”
“You don’t deserve to live,” I spat. “After all the death you’ve brought upon this community.”
Lynch swallowed hard, then took a step in front of the tailgate.
“You’re going to shoot me?” he said, his eyes burning with fear.
I kept my finger on the trigger, applying slight pressure. All it would take was a little more for the mechanism to move back and a bullet to be sent through Lynch’s neck. I wanted nothing more than to do it. To put an end to Deacon Lynch for good. But he was unarmed. And he was offering his surrender. And no matter how badly my heart begged my trigger finger to jolt back, it wouldn’t budge.
Fine. If he wants to surrender, I’ll let him. He’ll rot in jail for life if he’s lucky and get the electric chair if he’s not.
In my peripherals, I spotted a stack of heavy-duty plastic zip ties on the workbench to my left.
“Step toward me,” I ordered.
Lynch hesitated. He swallowed again, his hands shaking over his head. Instead of listening to my order, he slowly turned around and pressed his chest onto the top of the tailgate. With the door barely open, his head nearly collided with it. He lowered his hands and held them behind his back.
Sounds suddenly rang out in the distance outside. They were muffled from the walls but getting louder, and coming from the direction of the driveway. Sirens. The police and SWAT were on their way.
“I said, step toward me!” I barked. “And turn around.”
A high-pitched ringing noise blared out from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder on instinct alone, noticing an alarm clock shaking violently in the back seat of the middle vehicle. As I snapped my head forward and focused on Lynch, he’d moved slightly to his left and leaned into the truck. His hands clasped a shotgun that had been resting under the blanket, prepped and already aimed straight at me.
I fired and jumped back, sending a bullet flying just before my feet left the ground. In a blur, I twisted and flew behind the big-wheeled toolbox. Lynch grunted as he pulled the trigger of his shotgun. The blast shook the confined space, the pellets pounding against the workstation, the back wall, and the metal tool cart between us. The storm of tiny metal balls rattled everywhere and scattered across the floor.
“You really think I’d give myself up that easily?” Lynch said when the commotion settled. His tone had shifted from nervous and caught red-handed to enraged and resolute.
I focused, contorting my body on the cold concrete and peeking below the narrow gap between the bottom of the tool cart and the floor. As he cocked another shell into the chamber, I took aim and fired, sending a round screaming into his left foot.
The white supremacist leader yelled in pain from the blow and his foot swept out from under him. He lost his balance, dropping his shotgun and staggering toward me. He slammed hard into the cart, and I barely managed to brace myself as it rolled toward me, bashing into my body.
Lynch flipped over the toolbox and fell on top of me. I’d shot the guy twice, but somehow he still had strength and he utilized every ounce of it to pin me down. In a flash, he forced my gun hand into the floor, then knocked my weapon free. I retaliated by smashing my forehead into his face, breaking his nose with ease. As he wailed and jerked back, I forced my legs between us and kicked him as hard as I could.
He flew backward, slamming hard onto his butt. I rolled and continued to engage him. As I kicked him in the chest, he extended his hand and grabbed a hammer from the floor. He swung it wildly, forcing me to lurch back to avoid being pummeled by the metal head.
“How in the hell did you find us?” he growled as he struggled toward me to take another swing.
With all my weapons gone, I scanned to my right and spotted the stack of gold bars Lynch had set down moments before. Gripping the closest one, I lunged toward Lynch just as he reared the hammer back. Before he could slam the improvised weapon into me, I bashed the gold bar into the side of his head. He grunted, dropped the hammer, and collapsed to the floor at my feet.
He shook and writhed in pain. Somehow, he hadn’t been knocked out by the blow. Bu
t he was out of commission regardless. Blood dripped out from multiple wounds to his face, his left foot, and the first shot I’d grazed across his side. He eyed me as he tried to shake the daze away and struggled to breathe.
Stepping beside his pummeled body, I picked my Sig up off the floor and aimed it at him. Just as I considered putting a round between his eyes, the door slammed open. It was part of a SWAT team. I dropped my Sig, held my hands up, and leaned against the workbench beside me to catch my breath from the intense encounter.
The officers poured into the room, yelling out “Police!” and scanning their submachine guns over every inch of the interior.
“Deacon Lynch’s right here,” I said, nodding toward the white supremacist who lay sprawled out on his back.
Chief Barton had informed his men of our presence, so the officers didn’t ask me to get on the ground after I relinquished my weapon. Lynch moaned in pain as they forced him onto his chest and twisted his arms back.
“You asked how we found you,” I said to Lynch as the police shoved his face into the cold floor and cuffed his hands behind his back. I sauntered over to the skiff, knelt down, then pried the tiny tracker from the transom. I held it up for Lynch to see. “This is a tracking device.” I did my best to smile given the pain from the various encounters. “You led us right to you.”
Lynch fumed. He bared his teeth and let out a shrill cry.
“This isn’t over, you son of a bitch!” he yelled as the officers forced him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. “You hear me? I’m going to figure out who the hell you are, and one day, when you least expect it, I’ll—”
His voice trailed off as they forced him outside and around the corner toward the driveway. I may not have caught the last bit of his angry speech, but I didn’t need to.
Looks like my list of sworn enemies just got a little bigger.
Avenged in the Keys Page 21
