by Matthew Rief
Once back home, we headed straight for the master bedroom. We didn’t even unload our stuff from the truck. We were completely and utterly exhausted. It had been a long twenty-four hours, and we were asleep the moment our heads hit our pillows.
EIGHTEEN
North of Punta Gorda, Belize
The blacked-out racing catamaran rocketed across the water, slowing only as it entered the mouth of Belize’s Rio Grande. The three-hundred-foot-wide river was slow-moving and calm. It was dark and quiet aside from the sounds of the large humming engines.
Wake kept his eyes forward as the pilot brought them upriver. They’d made the hundred-and-fifty-mile crossing from the eastern edge of Roatán, a trip that would take an average boat over six hours, in an hour and a half. Such a feat was nothing for the advanced, customized racing craft.
Wake glanced down at his tablet. It showed their current location, along with their destination two miles upstream. They reached it without trouble and tied off to a short decrepit-looking dock. Three men stood and greeted them as they disembarked.
Unlike Wake, who was still dressed like he was attending the Oscars, the two men wore dirty, ragged clothes. Ripped jeans, old T-shirts, and worn-out boots.
“This is an unexpected visit, Mr. Wake,” one of them said in Spanish while extending a callused right hand.
Wake didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He also had no intention of touching the guy’s dirty hand.
“Where’s Dante?” Wake said, striding right past the two men, heading for the shore.
Brier kept up with him, staying right at the billionaire’s side.
The two men turned and followed.
“He’s in the warehouse,” the man said, pointing toward a cluster of structures surrounded by fields of avocado trees a few hundred yards ahead of them.
They hastily made their way along the dirt path, with Wake setting the pace. He was still enraged from what had happened earlier that night. Payback in the form of brutal retribution was at the forefront of his mind.
The two guys nodded toward a guard standing watch outside the largest wooden warehouse. Shoving through the door, they led Wake past rows of stacked empty crates. Near the back, various farming equipment lined the sides while rows of punching bags hung down from the ceiling. There was a small makeshift boxing ring off to the right side along with stacks of sandbags.
They heard voices from an adjoining room. One of the guys leading Wake called out, and Dante strode through the doorway. He was dressed like the others, in dirty, torn-up clothes.
He paused when he saw Wake, then walked over. Wake examined him closely. He’d heard what had happened to the former gang leader. A shattered fibula and tibial shaft fracture. Injuries not easily recovered from. He noticed a slight hitch in Dante’s left leg.
The strong combination of fear and anger was clear from Dante’s facial expression. He looked vastly different than he had the last time Wake had seen him. It had been nearly a year since they’d met at La Guarida in Havana, one of the fanciest restaurants in all of the Caribbean.
“What brings you to my little slice of paradise, Mr. Wake?” Dante said with an attitude.
Wake eyed him with a stern gaze. He didn’t have the time or patience to deal with their baggage. He was tempted to just put a bullet in the disrespectful punk’s head right then and there, but he decided to hear him out.
“You have something to say to me, Dante?” Wake said.
Dante paused a moment, clearing his throat. “I thought we were friends,” he said. “Me and my family have made you millions of dollars over the years. Now, I’m here in this shithole with the only three members of my gang that managed to slip out of Cuba. We’ve gone from a hundred thousand a week in profits to smuggling powder for scraps.”
“That’s the price you pay, Dante,” Wake said.
“The price I pay for a lifetime of loyalty?”
“No,” Wake said. “That’s the price you pay for failure.”
Dante gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come here, Mr. Wake? Did you only want to see that I was living a miserable existence here in this jungle?”
“I came here because of Logan Dodge,” Wake said.
That changed Dante’s demeanor in an instant. He made a fist with his right hand. The mere mention of the name made his blood boil.
“I want him dead,” Wake continued. “And I hear that you do as well.” He could see the rage swelling up in the young man’s eyes.
“There’s nothing I want more.”
“Good,” Wake said. “Because I’m going to take you to him. But first, I need to know that I wouldn’t be wasting my time.”
Dante shook his head in confusion.
“I need to know that your injuries aren’t too severe,” Wake continued. “That you can still hold your own.”
Wake turned and motioned toward the ring on the other side of the warehouse. The group followed him over to it.
“You and Brier in the ring,” Wake said. “Now.”
Brier smiled arrogantly. He strode over and climbed into the ring. Cracking his neck side to side, he stared daggers at Dante. Infuriated by the challenge and the blow to his ego, Dante stepped into the ring, stuck out his chest, and stared down Brier.
“Ding, ding,” Wake said.
Brier bounced up and down and side to side like a boxer. He smiled, then lunged toward Dante and threw a few quick punches. Dante blocked the blows. The Cuban gang leader looked in control, but his injured leg held him back a little. And Brier noticed.
Sliding sideways to avoid a retaliatory attack, Brier struck Dante’s injured leg with a side kick. Dante grimaced and buckled over, nearly losing his balance completely.
Brier laughed and closed in for another blow. Infuriated, Dante sprang at his opponent with reckless abandon, slamming into his chest and tackling him hard to the floor. The two men rolled and struggled for holds. Dante yelled, cursing out Brier as they fought.
Brier managed to break free and jump to his feet. Dante followed suit, rising up and engaging his opponent again without skipping a beat. Just as Wake sensed the fight was about to get dirty, he ordered them to stop.
They didn’t.
It took three onlookers to jump into the ring and separate them. Dante’s heart pounded and he stared menacingly at Brier. Angered as well, Brier tried his best to hide it by laughing off the confrontation.
Wake stepped over to Dante when the Cuban reached his corner of the ring. He could feel the burning ferocity radiating off Dante. As Wake had hoped, a powerful rage had taken over the disgraced gang leader after what had happened in Cuba. He was a wild predator with one mission, one person, on his mind.
“Track Dodge and take him down,” Wake said, staring into the young man’s intense eyes, “and you will have regained my confidence. And I will give you back everything that you have lost.”
Dante nodded, then wiped a layer of sweat from his brow. “Happily, sir,” he said with a cocky smile.
Wake nodded. “I have a chopper inbound. It’s taking us to Miami. We’ll drop you and your men off in Key West. I have intel regarding where Dodge lives and where he keeps his boat. I want this done quick, Dante.”
The former Cuban gang leader nodded back. As if Wake’s words had summoned the craft, they heard the sound of helicopter rotors groaning toward their position.
NINETEEN
After six hours of much-needed rest, we packed a few bags, filled a cooler with food, and loaded it all into the bed of my Tacoma. We also grabbed our camping gear, along with a bushel of firewood and a small propane grill. I locked up the house, turned on the security system, then drove to the Conch Harbor Marina.
I’d downed half a thermos of coffee by the time we pulled into the lot. The caffeine helped wake me up, and as we lugged everything down to the dock, the fresh sea air did the rest.
We heard Atticus before we saw him as we passed the front of the marina office. Our Lab gave a short howl befo
re sprinting from inside and lunging toward us. Though nearly three years old, the seventy-pound pooch still thought he was a puppy. He nearly knocked me down as he leapt into me.
We greeted him as Gus sauntered up behind him.
“That was fast,” he said. The short marina owner friend of ours wore his usual neon green visor and had orange Cheeto residue on his T-shirt. “You guys have a nice trip?”
“Could’ve been better,” I said.
He nodded and didn’t press any more. Though we never talked about it, Gus knew that Ange and I often went looking for trouble of the confidential variety.
We thanked him, then whistled for Atticus to follow us down to my boat. My 48 Baia Flash, named Dodging Bullets, was moored at slip twenty-four, just a few spots down from Jack’s charter boat. I’d kept the fine piece of machinery at the marina since purchasing her nearly three years earlier. With a pristine blue hull, a nice sunbed, two cabins, a well-appointed galley, and twin 600-hp engines, the Baia had a perfect blend of comfort, style, and speed.
After loading everything aboard, I grabbed my two-person sit-atop kayak from a storage shed beside the office and carted it over to our boat. Strapping it down to the starboard gunwale, I climbed up onto the bow and looked out over the harbor. There was a pirate ship tour passing by not far off, and I waved to a group of happy kids and a guy dressed up like Long John Silver.
I took a few breaths, thinking over our situation.
I was on the fence about the whole thing. Part of me felt like it was the wrong play. It felt like I was leaving my friends out to dry by speeding off into nowhere for a few days.
Wake and his cronies might have only had my name, but it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who my friends were in town. A few quick mentions of my name and you’d be pointed to Salty Pete’s or here at the marina. A quick online search would give even more than that.
I was just about to step down to the saloon and tell Ange that we should scuttle the whole idea to Davy Jones’ Locker when I saw something that swiftly kicked me back on board with the plan. I spotted a guy on the shore. He was across the street just beyond the lot. Probably two football fields away. He was standing stoic, and he was watching us through a pair of binoculars.
It wasn’t a tourist enjoying the view, or a birdwatcher. No, this guy was focusing on Atticus and me. And the moment I realized it, I looked away and acted as though I hadn’t noticed a thing.
I moved naturally back down to the main deck with Atticus right on my heels. Ange met me at the stairs as I tried to duck into the saloon. She smiled at me for a second, then saw my serious expression as I motioned behind her.
She turned around, and we both moved into the center of the galley.
“We’ve got a tail,” I said flatly.
If Ange was fazed, she didn’t show it. “How many?”
“Just saw one guy.”
Ange shook her head. “Wake sure doesn’t mess around.”
“After what we did? No, he doesn’t. I’d be surprised if he didn’t send a small army.”
She thought a moment. “What are you thinking?” she said. “Walk over and introduce ourselves?”
“You know how much I love making new friends. But no. I say we stick with the plan. Lure these guys away from the city.”
She smiled. “And then?”
“Then we can introduce ourselves.”
I headed topside and whistled for Atticus to follow me onto the dock and back toward the marina office. The last thing I wanted was for our dog to get caught in the crosshairs of our little game of cat and mouse.
“You forget the paddles?” Gus said as I approached the office. He was standing in front of the open storage shed, washing down a few grime-coated fenders.
“No. You mind watching Atticus for another day or two?” I asked. “We’ve got some… camping to do.”
He beamed and rose to his feet. “You kidding me? I love this dog. Leave him here as long as you want.”
I patted my friend on the shoulder and thanked him. It was nice living in a place surrounded by so many people that didn’t hesitate to offer a helping hand. The Keys felt more like home than anywhere I’d ever lived, and it wasn’t a close contest.
I said goodbye to my loyal furry friend, then walked back to the Baia.
We finished up preparations, then untied the lines and fired up the engines. I took it nice and slow, a casual acceleration away from the dock and a snail’s pace out of the harbor.
Usually, we loved gunning the throttles the moment we reached the end of the no-wake zone. But today we kept it slow, leaving a nice easy trail for our pursuers to follow.
They didn’t disappoint.
By the time we motored between Sunset Key and Wisteria Island and entered the Northwest Channel, we spotted a forty-foot Regal following our line.
“Looks like they managed to steal a boat,” Ange said, watching them through a pair of binoculars.
I picked up our speed a little as we cruised into the Gulf. I maintained forty knots as we skirted around the Wildlife Refuge, heading west.
It was a nice day out on the water. The relative cold spell had abated, giving way to the seventy-degree and sunny kind of weather that usually marks winter in South Florida.
Our pursuers were just far enough back to keep us in view without drawing suspicion. Or at least that was their hope. An hour and a half after leaving the marina, we reached Dry Tortugas National Park. Of all the parks I’d ever visited, Tortugas was my favorite, comprised of seven small islands and some of the liveliest coral reefs in the world.
We passed the forty-five-foot red brick walls of Fort Jefferson off the port bow. My mind shot back to the time we’d discovered the lost Florentine Diamond hidden deep within its bowels. I glanced at Ange, who was sprawled out up on the bow, and thought about how she’d single-handedly taken down an Albanian mafia leader while I’d been trapped in an underground chamber. Needless to say, I felt a lot better confronting our current pursuers knowing that she was by my side.
Up ahead, I saw the fifty-acre Loggerhead Key. The island’s white-and-black lighthouse rose up over a hundred and fifty feet, towering above the palm trees surrounding it. Loggerhead also brought back memories. An unfortunate stranding during a hurricane and an innocent young family caught in a deadly gang’s crosshairs. I’d been battered to hell but managed to get out with nothing but scars in the end. Benito Salazar, the famous Cuban gang leader, hadn’t made out so lucky. It was an unfortunate series of events that had led me to run into his evil nephew a few years later in Cuba. I was glad to be rid of them both.
Roughly fifteen miles beyond Dry Tortugas was a seemingly inhospitable pile of steep rocks and sporadic palm treetops rising out of the water. The eyesore of an island was surrounded by shallows, so we anchored a quarter of a mile off the north side.
My dad and I had called it Monte Cristo after what had always been one of my favorite books, and the pile of rocks shared similarities with Dumas’s fictitious island. Mainly, there was much more to it than met the eye.
“They still following?” I said.
Ange grabbed her binoculars. She performed a casual sweep of the horizon, not lingering on any fixed point, just in case they were watching us.
“Like sheep to the slaughter,” she replied. “Looks like they’re trying to skirt our radar.”
I laughed. It would be a good strategy if we hadn’t already seen them. Whoever they were, it was clear that they didn’t spend a lot of time at sea. But that didn’t change the fact that they’d most certainly have us both outgunned and outnumbered.
I looked toward Monte Cristo.
Time to utilize home-court advantage.
I unstrapped the kayak, then we loaded it up. It would take two trips to bring everything ashore, so we started with our firearms and cooler. We paddled over just a few feet of water and reached the sharp cliffs. The highest point of the island rose some sixty feet above sea level. Soon, we found the narrow openi
ng in the rock that few ever wandered close enough to discover.
We maneuvered through the narrow cut and entered a small lagoon. There was a thirty-foot-wide white sandy beach, a cluster of palm trees, and a deep pool of turquoise water.
As far as I knew, only a few people knew about the little paradise on earth. And we liked it that way.
I dropped off Ange and the first load of gear, then she shoved me off. She had her Lapua sniper rifle and would settle up on the cliffs to cover me, just in case our pursuers decided to make a move. But they kept their distance, and we set up camp when I returned with the rest of our gear.
The barely two-acre island had a small grassy clearing where we set up the tent and barbecue. Just a few steps up from the clearing were sharp cliffs with vista views of the Gulf and Dry Tortugas far in the distance. Our stalking friends were about seven miles due south, trying their best to look inconspicuous.
After two hours of just standing by, watching as the distant boat motored around the edge of the horizon like a wallflower at a dance, I grew antsy. And hungry.
“Chicken or fish?” Ange said.
We’d brought some of both in our cooler. Neither were fresh.
“Lobster,” I replied.
She lowered her sunglasses and raised her eyebrows up away from her beautiful blue eyes.
“Aren’t you confident. And what if these guys decide to make a move?”
“That’s why I have you to look out for me,” I said, kissing her forehead.
I grabbed my mask, freedive fins, and snorkel. I also grabbed a pair of gloves and a tickle stick, then moved back down to the beach. I smiled as I looked out over the small, picturesque lagoon. The viz was perfect, as clear as tap water. And with the surrounding cliffs, the surface was smooth as glass.
It was February, which meant that we were nearing the end of lobster season. The farther along you get into the season, the lower you have to go on your site hierarchy. Prized honey holes are kept secret like a pirate hoarding his buried treasure. The hidden money spots are utilized only once the more popular sites begin to dry up.
