by Matthew Rief
After half an hour of formulating a strategy for deactivating the bomb aboard the ASC Josephine and taking down Wake, Scott turned to me.
“I’m gonna need someone with me if you and Ange are both going to be in the tower,” he said.
I nodded. “I’ll get ahold of Jack.”
“Jack’s one hell of a boat captain,” Scott said. “But I meant for once I’m on the container ship. That’s a big boat and probably a lot of security for one guy.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
He smiled. “I talked to yet another member of our old platoon about a week ago. He told me he was looking to get his feet wet again. I think this qualifies.” I smiled, having a good idea who he was referring to. “You really think we can pull this off, don’t you?” he added.
“If there’s anyone that can, it’s us,” Ange said confidently.
TWENTY-NINE
Gus Henderson flip-flopped to the edge of the dock, reared back a slobber-covered tennis ball, and tossed it out into the harbor. The frantic patter of paws on the planks filled the evening air. Atticus darted to the edge then threw his body as far out over the water as he could. Gus grinned as the happy Lab splashed and swam toward the bobbing fluorescent yellow orb.
It was a calm and quiet night at the Conch Harbor Marina. Most nights were. The various downtown sounds reverberated like a distant orchestra, but they were faint. Out on the dock, Gus could hear the rigging and halyards on nearby sailboats rustling in the calm ocean breeze. The creaking of ropes. Hulls rubbing against fenders. A few radios and televisions on the liveaboard vessels, keeping it down to be respectful to Gus’s nine o’clock quiet time policy.
Gus relished the marina lifestyle, always had. He loved the smell of engine fumes and barnacle-covered support beams. The smell of the fish brought up to the cleaning station just beside the office. For Gus, the marina had always been his own little slice of Heaven.
Atticus returned, climbing up onto a small floating platform, then stepping up onto the dock. His coat dripped and his happy eyes bulged as he triumphantly held up the tennis ball clenched in his jaws. Before reaching Gus, he shook twice. He was well trained, and smart like the fictional character who he was named after.
Gus threw the ball again, and again Atticus returned it. They went at it for half an hour. While waiting for his canine friend, Gus stared out over the water and breathed in the fresh sea air.
Sounds cliché, but there really is no place like home, he thought.
After Gus tossed the ball so many times he’d lost count, Atticus climbed up, shook off the water, and plopped onto his belly.
“Did I just wear out Atticus Dodge?” Gus said playfully, stepping up to the exhausted Lab and petting his wet fur. “Wait until I tell your parents.”
Gus glanced at his watch. It was almost ten and he had to be up early to help a local friend set up a bake sale the following morning along the waterfront. All proceeds from the sale would be donated to the Florida Keys Reef Relief Foundation, a group dedicated to keeping the islands a paradise for the next generations to enjoy as well.
“Come on, boy,” he said, turning and moving down the dock.
Atticus rose to his feet and kept right on Gus’s heels.
“We can watch Marley & Me and eat popcorn.”
That caused Atticus to pick up his pace a little. Gus moved at a leisurely stroll, nodding and greeting a few tenants as he strolled past boat after boat. He admired Jack’s forty-five-foot Sea Ray at slip forty-seven. Halfway down, he reached Logan’s forty-eight-foot Baia Flash. He always grinned when he read the name painted onto the transom: Dodging Bullets.
More than a little ironic. She’s been shot up more times than all of the other boats in South Florida combined.
Gus stopped midstep when he saw someone standing just a few strides to his left. The guy had his back to Gus and stood in the shadow cast from the tall flybridge of the Riviera across from the Baia. He was tall and wore a big black overcoat.
Gus knew his tenants well and assumed that it was a friend of somebody. Just out enjoying the evening air like he was.
“Nice evening, huh?” Gus said, being his usual friendly self.
“Yes, it is,” a low voice replied. The man pointed a finger up at the sky and added, “Is that the constellation Centaurus?”
Gus took a step toward the guy and looked up. Atticus had trotted ahead, then turned and sprang back to the marina owner.
Gus focused his eyes on the stars where the man was gazing, but he didn’t have to. He knew the sky over his home well.
“That’s Carina and Vela,” Gus replied. He pointed out the distinct hull and sails of the ship. “Centaurus is in the third quadrant.” He shifted his gaze and pointed toward the half-man, half-horse creature of Greek mythology. “Over there.”
The guy in the coat took a step backward, leaving only about five feet between the two men. Gus was just about to continue toward the office when the tall guy turned around. Gus froze. Then his mouth dropped open.
The mysterious stranger was wearing a grim reaper mask and had a suppressed Ruger handgun aimed straight at Gus’s chest.
Atticus growled and eyed the stranger. Gus’s heart began to race.
“I’m going to kill you, Gus Henderson,” the man said. He motioned the barrel of his gun toward Atticus. “Then I’m going to kill the dog. And you can thank Logan Dodge for both.”
Gus stared into the stranger’s dark eyes. He wasn’t accustomed to having a gun aimed at him. Hell, he’d only ever held a firearm a handful of times.
He raised his hands up slowly. “Easy, boy,” he said to Atticus. His voice trembled.
The yellow Lab relaxed slightly at his words. Gus could see the guy’s finger flex on the trigger of his weapon. It was now or never, and he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
Gus closed his eyes, then sprang into action. To the stranger’s surprise, instead of lunging after him, Gus threw the tennis ball far out over the water on the other side of the Baia. Just as Atticus took off after it, Gus lunged toward the stranger.
The masked killer pulled the trigger. A .22-caliber round burrowed into Gus’s chest. He groaned, lost his footing, and fell to the planks right at the shooter’s feet. He pressed a hand to his bleeding chest and gasped for precious air.
The man shifted his aim, fired off two more shots toward the sprinting dog. One round hit the side of the dock; the other splashed into the water. Atticus swam out of view toward the ball.
The killer shook his head and knelt down. Gus was bleeding out onto the dock. He’d been shot in the heart point-blank. There was no coming back from it, and he could feel it.
“That was a foolish move, Henderson,” the man growled.
He grabbed the marina owner by his shirt collar, then slammed him hard onto the planks. Gus gagged and shook. His eyes were wide, his life fading away.
“And for it,” the masked killer added, “I’m not only going to destroy Logan’s pride and joy; I’m going to burn your entire marina to shambles.”
Gus could only watch as the killer strode over and grabbed a gas can from the shadows. He struggled for every breath, every desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. His vision blurred as he watched the guy empty the gas can, splattering it onto the Baia’s deck. The fresh ocean air was instantly overtaken by the powerful stench of gasoline fumes.
Once empty, the guy threw the can onto the Baia’s deck and pulled a Zippo from his pocket. He stared straight at Gus as he flicked a flame to life, then dropped it onto the Baia. Tall, bright flames erupted the moment it collided with the deck. They grew rapidly, quickly engulfing the beautiful boat as the masked guy stepped back over to Gus.
“Now I’m going to burn the rest of it,” he said. He stared deep into Gus’s eyes. “And when that dog returns, he’s gonna get a bullet to that stupid brain of his.”
Gus tried to grab the killer as he passed, but he couldn’t do it. He was too weak and delirious to do anything
.
The killer took two steps toward the marina fueling station when Atticus bounded from the edge of the dock, sprinting straight toward him. The grim reaper swung around and took aim, but he was too late. Atticus growled like a hungry wolf and leapt toward the masked man. The force from the dog’s body slammed hard into the killer and knocked him onto his back.
Atticus’s fangs clamped down ferociously on the guy’s right arm, causing his suppressed handgun to fall from his grasp and tumble over the edge of the dock into the water. The man yelled as the relentless dog’s teeth bit down hard into flesh. He barked and bit down again and again while the guy struggled to get the angry mammal off him.
The killer wrapped his hands around Atticus’s neck and finally forced him away. Struggling to keep the Lab off him with his left hand, he reached for a twelve-inch fixed-blade combat knife sheathed to his leg under the black cloak. With his strength failing, and the dog’s snapping jaws coming closer and closer to his masked face, he pulled the knife free and stabbed the sharpened steel tip into one of the dog’s hind legs.
Atticus yelped and jolted back. The killer struggled to his feet, ready to finish off the mutt. But he heard a guy yelling down the dock. The voice was followed by another as people in the marina were alerted by the commotion.
With Atticus struggling back toward Gus, the killer snarled and took off in a sprint toward the parking lot. He had no choice.
With the loud crackling flames rising up from the Baia at his back, he ran to the shore and up through the parking lot. When he’d put two blocks between himself and the crime, he threw his costume into a trash can. A silver Escalade stopped in front of him on Fleming Street, and he hopped inside.
“Take us back around,” Brier ordered Darius, who was sitting behind the wheel. Brier looked back at one of his other companions in the backseat. “Ethan, I want you to record Logan Dodge’s reaction when he sees what I’ve done.”
The guy nodded, and Darius hit the gas.
THIRTY
By the time 2200 rolled around, we had the basic idea for a plan. Just big-picture stuff, mainly. The rest we could improvise. Having a plan is vital, whether it’s regarding a high-risk operation or something as common as figuring out your schedule for the week. But being able to adapt to change is just as important.
Things come up and toss wrenches into the works. Often unforeseen wrenches. Those that can adapt are more often than not the ones who prevail.
As we were calling it a night and walking Scott to the door, my phone rang. I grabbed it and looked at the screen. It was an unknown number. Usually I’d just let it go to voicemail. But given the events of the past few days, I pressed the green button, held the phone up to my ear, and answered.
“Hello, Logan,” a familiar voice said.
My eyes narrowed. My grip on the phone tightened. “What do you want, Brier?”
Scott and Ange both snapped their heads sideways and looked at me.
“Easy, old friend. I’m just calling to help you out.” He sounded off. His words were rushed, his breathing slightly erratic.
“Shove it, Brier,” I said. “I know what you did to Mayor Crawford.”
He laughed. “That old guy? That was just a little bit of fun.” He paused a moment, letting my rage simmer up to a boil. “And like I said, it was just the beginning. I had even more fun during tonight’s festivities.”
My pulse began to race. “What did you do?” I asked sternly.
“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” he replied coldly. “You can end it all, Logan. It will all be over if you just hand yourself over.”
“What did you do?” I said again, practically shouting into the phone.
He paused again. He was enjoying this.
“I paid a visit to one of your local friends,” he said. “Nothing you can do about him now. His fate’s sealed. But you should head over to your boat. It looks like it might be overheating.”
The line went dead the moment the last word came through the small speaker. My mind raced. My heart pounded. I looked from Scott to Ange.
“We need to move,” I said. “Now!”
I bounded for the door. They followed right on my heels.
The steps flew by in a blur. Before I knew it, I was in my Tacoma and firing up the engine. Ange climbed into the passenger seat, Scott into the back. I told them what had happened while stomping the gas, shooting up crunched seashells and gravel as I peeled out of the driveway and onto Palmetto Street.
As I drove, the images of my closest friends in the islands played over in my head. The island community had taken me in, accepted me as one of their own. There were a lot of people that I cared about in Key West alone.
The drive between my house and the marina usually took ten minutes depending on the traffic. This time I reached the waterfront lot in under five.
I hit the brakes, screeching us to a stop right beside the entrance down to the dock. There was an ambulance and a police car already on-site. A group of EMTs were carting a gurney out from the back as we stopped.
Killing the engine, I hopped out with my Sig in hand and bounded down the dock with Ange and Scott right beside me.
Down on the water, I saw a trail of black smoke rising up and fading away in the evening breeze. It reached up into the darkness, coming from where I kept the Baia moored at slip twenty-four. When I approached the moorage, I gasped as I took in the grim sight.
The Baia’s stern was submerged and wrecked to pieces. The bow was charred black, melted, and smoking even as two locals were spraying it with freshwater hoses. My once-immaculate Italian-made boat was destroyed.
But as I reached the scene, my attention was instantly drawn to a body lying on the dock in a pool of blood. And Atticus was whining as he was being restrained and bandaged by a liveaboard neighbor of mine.
My heart sank as I moved closer. The body on the dock was Gus. I dropped to my knees beside them, one arm draped around my dog while the other fell softly onto Gus’s back. His eyes were closed. His body completely motionless.
He was dead.
My head sank. Tears welled up in my eyes.
The small cluster of officers and other people around me spoke and gave orders, but I couldn’t hear a thing. All I could process was the fact that my close friend had been murdered. And my innocent, fun-loving dog had been injured in the process.
The sight broke me. It tore at my battle-hardened shell unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Ange dropped down and wrapped an arm around me.
Atticus whimpered from the pain in his hind leg. He licked my face and snapped me out of the despair of the moment. After a few seconds of succumbing to the extent of what had just happened, Ange and I went to work on Atticus’s injured leg.
THIRTY-ONE
Atticus had a severe knife wound and had lost a good amount of blood. But the bandages from a first aid kit did the job well enough until we could get him to a vet. He’d be alright. Scarred physically and emotionally, but alive.
After helping Atticus the best we could, I hugged him, then turned to Ned Finley. The New Orleans native had lived on a sailboat in Conch Harbor Marina for the past ten years.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked, my words intense and clear.
“Not everything,” Ned said, in his strong Southern drawl. “I stepped out when I heard yelling.”
“What did you see?” a nearby officer said.
He was a patrol. Probably had been cruising nearby when it had happened, the first law enforcement to reach the scene. But more were arriving with every passing second.
“I saw Gus on the dock,” he said. “Saw your boat burning and saw Atticus limping. I called the cops right away.”
“And the killer?” I asked.
“He was dressed in a black cloak-looking thing. He ran off as soon as I stepped out. Headed for the parking lot.”
I glanced in the direction of the lot. More cop cars and a second ambulance were pouring in. I spotted Jane jogging down the do
ck toward us, her police uniform partly untucked. She’d clearly been off duty when she’d gotten the call.
I turned back to look at Gus’s body. My gaze shifted to Atticus, who was lying on his side with Ange and Ned comforting him. Then I looked up at my destroyed boat.
I thought about something Murph had said earlier that evening, during our discussions about Wake and his plan. Murph had said that Wake would be in his Miami tower during the attack on the container ship because he’d want to watch his plan unfold. A sick stoking of the ego kind of thing.
I snapped out of it when Jane arrived and took over the scene. A few detectives were with her. They were telling everyone not to touch or move anything from the scene of the crime. They needed to look over the evidence to try and figure out what had happened. But I already knew what had happened. And I knew who was responsible.
And, most importantly, I knew what I had to do about it.
“Ange,” I said, rising to my feet. “Make sure Atticus gets to a vet. I need to go.”
She could tell what I meant by the tone of my voice. I wasn’t just leaving the scene. I was moving the first pawn on the chessboard. I was initiating our plan early.
She hugged me with tears in her eyes. It was an emotional scene. It would have to be to get Ange to act like that. She was as hard as anyone alive when she had to be, but she was still human.
We let go of each other, and I kissed her. After a brief reassuring look into her ocean blue eyes, I turned on my heels and stormed down the dock. Jane said something, but I didn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear or think of anything except what I was about to do.
I eased back my pace when I reached the parking lot. I wanted to look as natural as possible, like I was just taking a breather to calm myself after what I’d just seen. I headed up the ramp and toward the row of police cars. It was the second night in a row that I’d walked through such a loud, busy flashing-lights scene. The second night in a row where an innocent person had been murdered in order to get to me.
