by Matthew Rief
“Always good to see you, Logan,” Crawford said in a smooth, casual tone. “You and your beautiful wife find any lost shipwrecks?”
I’d met the popular local politician a handful of times, and he always made a good impression. Despite how hard Ange and I tried to keep our activities in the islands on the down low, word still seemed to leak out from time to time.
“Not lately,” I said with a smile. “But if you have any ideas about where to look, I’m all ears.”
Ange and I greeted his wife as well. Bernadette Crawford was a pretty Filipina with long auburn hair who looked drastically younger than her sixty years.
Jack showed up half an hour later. Our group ate and drank to our hearts’ content, telling stories old and new and regaling Pete and the Crawfords with the little slice of excitement we’d had earlier that day.
“Our paradise can sometimes bite,” the mayor said. “The ocean’s a temperamental lover. Not to be trifled with. I’m glad you three were there to prevent a tragedy.”
As the night wore on, the balcony got more and more packed. People walking the night streets were drawn like mosquitos to a bug zapper. Pete’s was the place to be most nights, and tonight was no exception.
After a particularly dance-worthy song, the lead singer stepped into the gathered crowd.
“Mi hafta gi a shout-out tuh da MC tonight,” he said in his thick Jamaican accent. The people parted for him, and he walked right up to Pete. “Wi salute yuh, Pete.”
Pete patted the guy on the back, then grabbed the mic from his hands. “And I want to give a special thanks to someone as well,” he said.
Here we go.
I glanced toward the exit. It was too far and blocked by a mass of people. Then I glanced left.
We’re only ten feet or so up.
Before I could decide, Pete grabbed his drink, raised it, and added, “To Logan Dodge. When you and Angelina first showed up here, this place had sure seen better days. But now, it’s the life of the Key West party again. And we’ve even got some new artifacts for the museum.” He glanced through the sliding glass door. “Raise your glasses and wish my good friend a happy birthday.”
The intoxicated group cheered. Pete patted me on the back. And Mia brought out a Key lime pie with a lit candle in the middle.
When Pete came over to slice it, I said, “I thought you weren’t—”
“Oh, come on, boyo. I had to have a little fun.”
Thankfully the band fired up another song as Pete cut the pie. I appreciated the gesture, but I never liked drawing attention to myself. Especially in large groups.
As much as Pete says I’ve done for him over the past few years, I feel like he’s done far more for me. He was a stranger not long ago, and he’d welcomed me into his tropical tribe with open arms. He and his usual patrons were some of the friendliest people I’d ever met. They really lived up to Key West’s motto of “One Human Family.”
My gaze shifted around the table from Pete to Jack, and rested on Ange. As she smiled at me, I recognized a familiar face looking at me from behind her on the other side of the sliding glass door.
“I’ll be right back.” I rose, cut through the crowd, and entered the restaurant.
“Quite the party,” Scott said.
He was nearly my height and had short, well-maintained dark hair. He had good posture and a smooth yet strong physique. He was wearing his typical classy attire. Black dress pants, a white button-up, and a thin black jacket with the classic small American flag pin.
I strode over, shook hands, and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Scottie. It’s been a while.”
“Four months. Not since right after your romp in Cuba.” He looked me up and down, then added, “You look tired. You guys had a busy day?”
“You could say that. Jack took us surfing off Marathon; then we ran into a few unlucky tourists. Or, I guess they were lucky since we got to them in time.”
“Surfing? In the Keys?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. What’s going on? You got that look in your eye.”
It was a look I’d seen many times before. It meant that he had something he wanted to tell me. Something important.
He looked over his shoulder, then said, “You should get Ange. She’ll want to hear this too.”
“Wake?” I said.
He nodded. “I think we found him, Logan.”
SEVEN
Ange and I followed Scott into Pete’s upstairs corner office. He shut the door behind us, then moved behind a mahogany desk covered in open books, old letters, and various trinkets.
Photographs, both old and new, littered the walls. There were impressive model ships, maps, charts, and a table made from an old boat helm. On a bookcase across from us were rows of everything from the Encyclopædia Britannica to Cussler.
Scott reached into his thin jacket pocket and pulled out a tablet. Holding it out in front of him, he quickly powered it up and brought up a satellite image.
“This was taken in Mexico City earlier this afternoon,” he said, holding it out for us to see.
It was a grainy photo of a group of well-dressed guys walking toward a private jet. I recognized the guy in the middle as Richard Wake.
“They’re getting on the plane,” I said. “You tracked it?”
Scott nodded.
“It was a short flight. Touched down in Coxen Hole, Roatán, after just over an hour in the air.”
“Honduras?” Ange said. “What kind of business does he have there?”
“We don’t have regional specifics, so we’re not sure. But it turns out that Wake’s got a beachside mansion on the island that he owns under one of his aliases.”
Roatán is the largest of Honduras’s Bay Islands and is located just off the country’s mainland in the western Caribbean.
“How’d you figure that out?” I asked, impressed by the intel obtained so quickly from a foreign country.
“I put Murph on it,” Scott said.
No further explanation was needed. Elliot Murphy was one of the best hackers in the world. He was a computer mastermind and inventor who used to work for the CIA but had transitioned into strictly freelance work.
“Any government agencies moving on this yet?” I asked.
Scott steepled his fingers. “That’s tricky. It would be much easier and efficient to go covert on this.”
I took a sip. “Now you’re speaking my language, Scott.”
“His jet’s still there?” Ange asked.
“Yes. And we’re keeping the runway monitored, but we don’t think he has plans to leave so soon after he arrived. We’re confident that he believes he’s safe. And for good reason. It looks like this place has been a safe house he’s used for a while now. He’s apparently trying to keep his presence minimal.” He zoomed in on the image still displayed on the tablet. “As you can see, he wasn’t even flying in a Wake Corporation jet. One of his subsidiaries.”
“What’s his security situation?” I asked.
“Looks like just his bodyguards. Maybe a few hired guns. I’d say no more than five trained bodies. Though we won’t know for sure until we get there.”
He scanned through a few more images. He stopped at one of a mansion on the edge of a cliff.
“His house is well off the beaten path. He owns about a quarter-mile of beachfront. It looks well protected, with walls and a large gate at the entrance. But nothing—”
“We can’t handle,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“Right. We can do reconnaissance once we get there. Stake out the place and find the compound’s weakest point.”
“When will that be?” Ange said.
Scott looked back and forth between us. “Earlier this afternoon would’ve been ideal,” he said. “I’ll plan on 0400 if you’re both in.”
“Mode of transport?” I asked.
Scott glanced at Ange. “Your Cessna in Key West?”
She nodded. Grabbing her smartphone, she quick
ly brought up Google Maps and plotted the distance.
“Six hundred miles as the crow flies,” she said. “But we’ll have to sweep around Cuban airspace, so add another hundred at least to be safe. With the upgraded engine, we could make the jump in around eight hours, including a stop to refuel on the way.”
Scott brought up a map of Roatán on the tablet, then pointed to a spot on the southeastern coast of the long narrow island.
“Touch down somewhere along here,” he said. “I booked a few overwater bungalows at Pineapple Creek Lodge. It’s plenty deep, so you can tie off right in front of your cottage.”
“Overwater bungalows?” Ange said. “I’m liking this operation more and more every second.”
Scott cracked a slight smile.
“I’ll meet you both there late tomorrow morning,” Scott added.
“You’re not riding with us?” I asked.
“We need a quality, good-sized boat,” he said. “There’s a humanitarian transport plane leaving Miami and heading to San Pedro Sula in the morning. I’ve managed to secure passage, then I’ll catch a ride to La Ceiba, rent a boat, and make the jump up to Roatán.”
“A humanitarian plane, huh?” Ange said. “How appropriate.”
I grinned. She was right. It would be carrying more than just supplies. It would be carrying an executor of poetic covert justice.
Then I blinked and remembered who we were talking to.
“Don’t you have an election coming up, Senator?” I said. “Isn’t this kind of thing a little beneath your paygrade?”
“Never stopped us before,” he replied. “And no, actually. I don’t have an election coming up.”
Ange and I glanced at each other.
“What do you mean, Scott?” I asked.
His term was set to expire in November the following year. A long time away for most people, but I knew a little about how politicians operate. It’s a race to hit the ground running and campaign as early and as hard as possible.
He sighed. “I’m not running again. Long story, but I just realized after a while that the job wasn’t for me.”
“You’re kidding,” Ange said. “What are you gonna do?”
“Got some stuff in the works. Nothing’s set yet, but I’ve been working with Wilson and we’re looking into forming a covert operations group that would be based primarily in the Caribbean. It’s just in its initial stages right now, but the idea keeps coming back to me. I think there’s a major need for it these days.”
He paused a moment, then added, “I’ll keep you updated on the progress. But for now, let’s keep the focus on Wake. We can’t underestimate him, and I don’t want him slipping out of this one.”
The three of us fell silent for a few seconds. Scott had a resume bred for the political arena. And he was good at it. The news came as a surprise. I wanted to hear more about what he had planned, but he was right—we needed to focus on one thing at a time. Plus, I was sure we’d talk about it eventually.
“You sure you’re good riding solo?” I said to him, running over his plan again in my mind.
Just as the words left my lips, we heard footsteps right outside the office. The knob turned, and the door creaked open. Jack stumbled inside.
“There you guys are,” he said. “I was lo—” He scanned around the room. “Hey, Scott. Didn’t know you were here.” He paused a moment; then, a lightbulb went off in his head. “Wait, what are you guys talking about in here? Don’t tell me—you found this big bad guy you’re looking for?”
“Yeah,” Scott said flatly.
“Where is he?”
“Roatán,” I said. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Hell yeah, I’m in. Too windy lately to do much chartering. Plus, this cold winter weather’s bringing me down.”
“It was sixty-eight today,” Ange said with a grin.
“And it’ll be nearly eighty in Roatán. Please tell me you need a boat captain.”
With Jack’s nephew, Isaac, visiting his mom in Chicago, the timing couldn’t be better.
Scott smiled.
“Looks like you’ve got a plus-one, Scottie.” I looked around the room, then added, “Let’s go find this guy and take him down.”
EIGHT
Bright and early the next morning, Ange and I drove over to the Conch Harbor Marina. Nestled right between the Dry Tortugas ferry terminal on one side and another marina on the other, the downtown spot was where I’d kept my boat moored since moving to Key West.
We boarded my 48 Baia Flash, which I’d christened Dodging Bullets, and loaded up a cart full of gear. Drysuits, rebreathers, sea scooters, along with various other dive gear. Combined with the firepower and reconnaissance gadgets I’d grabbed from my safe at home, we were ready to go to work. Once we had everything we needed, I locked up the boat and powered on the security system.
“Thanks again, Gus,” I said as we rolled the cart past the marina office.
Gus Henderson, the short and pale owner of the marina, stood in his pajamas with a mug of coffee in his hands. Ange and I had grown to be good friends with the lifelong conch, who was one of the most well-liked locals in the Keys. He also loved dogs, and he’d agreed to look after our friendly yellow Lab while we were gone.
“Anytime,” he said between yawns. “You know how much I love watching Atty.”
I petted around his ears, gave him a dog treat, then told Gus we’d be back in a few days.
We loaded everything into my truck, then drove over to Tarpon Cove Marina. It was just a few blocks from our house, and it was where Ange had been keeping her Cessna 182 Skylane stored since moving to the Keys with me.
I loaded everything onto the white-and-blue seaplane while she performed her preflight checks. At 0330, she requested takeoff from ATCs at Key West International. I untied the lines, and after getting the flight plan approved, Ange started up the 230-hp engine.
The clear evening sky allowed the moon to cast a glow over the still waters of Tarpon Bay. Wind was barely noticeable at five knots. The water was as flat as a lake. Her desired takeoff line looked clear, but she performed a slow sweep to make sure there wasn’t any partially submerged debris.
Once ready, she punched the throttle and brought us into a smooth takeoff. Ascending into the wind, she performed a slight turn to put us on a southwesterly course. The lights of the city blurred past beneath us. Within minutes, there was nothing below us but ocean and the occasional dark silhouette of an uninhabited island.
Ange brought us up to our cruising altitude of a thousand feet, then engaged the autopilot. Her plotted course first took us out over the Gulf of Mexico, then we turned south, keeping a safe distance from the western coast of Cuba.
Two and a half hours into the flight, we directed our gazes east to watch the sunrise over the Caribbean. It was spectacular.
Glowing beams in brilliant yellows and oranges reached up from the horizon, shifting and growing with each passing second. The surface of the water mirrored the spectacle, reflecting the sun’s colors like an abstract artist’s rendition.
The sun’s grand entrance was slow, then all at once, and the sky shifted from night to day around us. No matter how many times I’ve watched the sunrise, it always feels new. New and familiar at the same time.
I looked forward and thought about the day ahead. Mental preparedness is key, and I knew that we’d need our wits to be pedal to the metal if we were going to take down Wake.
We stopped over on the island of Cozumel, just off Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula, to refuel. Once back in the air, Ange put us on a direct southerly course for the remaining three hundred miles.
It was just past 1130 when the island of Roatán came into view. The two-mile-wide, thirty-seven mile-long stretch of land looked like a tropical oasis in the deep blue surrounding it. Pristine turquoise waters and extensive reefs hugged its coasts. The largest of Honduras’ Bay Islands, Roatán is situated between the much smaller islands of Utila and Guanaja and is just forty mile
s off the country’s northern coast.
The fringing coral reefs around Roatán are part of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, the second-largest barrier reef in the world. It runs all the way from Mexico down to Panama. Great diving, a laid-back vibe, and a lush mountain terrain attract over a million visitors from all over the world every year. It has become a popular cruise ship port, allowing tourists to hop off in Mahogany Bay and spend a day enjoying the beaches and various attractions.
Ange brought us down toward the eastern part of the island. There was mostly untamed jungle beneath us, with a few scattered houses. It was mainly just locals on that part of the island, and the occasional adventurous tourist with a rental vehicle.
I’d only visited the island once. Years earlier, I’d spent a week in West Bay, one of the most famous beaches in the Caribbean. Long stretches of brilliant white sand, calm crystalline waters, and a sprawling reef just a few fin kicks from shore. The protected ecosystem is a true wonder of the Caribbean, and one of my favorite places to freedive in the world.
After sweeping around the western part of the island, we caught our first glimpse of Wake’s safe house. It was unmistakable—an extravagant whitewashed compound in a sea of green right on the edge of the splashing surf.
It was just over two miles east along the coast from where we were staying, so Ange eased us down to five hundred feet for a better view. A low-flying small aircraft was nothing unusual for the area. Private tours flew wide-eyed visitors up and down the island every day.
The compound consisted of two main structures along with stairs down to a boathouse and a long dock. We caught glimpses of the tree-canopy-covered dirt road that zigzagged north to the other side of the island. The compound’s impressive dock was just a short way east down the shoreline from a jutting rocky point that extended out toward a few tiny islands. In all, the place looked like a villain chateau straight out of James Bond.
