Hunted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  I eased off the throttles as I cruised over the shallow reefs, peaking over the pontoons and admiring the colorful sea life below. The reefs were littered with sea urchins, starfish, conch shelled hermit crabs, jellyfish, and an abundance of tropical fish. I spotted more than one set of antennas sticking out from crevices in the reef below, making my stomach grumble as my body anxiously anticipated a feast of fresh lobster.

  It was just after two in the afternoon when I reached the island. The sky was full of nothing but blue and the water was calm, allowing me to navigate to the Northwest side of the island easily. When I reached the location where the cliffs opened up I cruised down to only a few knots and turned sharply to port. The narrow channel between the cliffs is less than ten feet wide, making it difficult to navigate through and almost impossible to spot from a distance.

  I eased the Zodiac around a corner then entered a beautiful tropical oasis. A lagoon that covered less than half an acre of perfectly calm, crystal clear water and a white sandy beach about thirty feet wide. Punching the throttles, I rocketed the Zodiac onto the beach, sliding up over the sand.

  I spent the next hour or so setting up my camp, choosing a flat surface near the middle of the island between two large palm trees that offered an incredible view of the Gulf of Mexico on one side and the Caribbean Sea on the other. Once my tent was set up, my gear stowed, and the Zodiac brought up and tied off, I grabbed my dive bag and my new spear gun. Strapping my Cressi dive knife to my leg, I slipped out of my shirt and sandals, donned my mask and snorkel, and waded out into the water, carrying my fins in one hand and my bag and spear gun in the other. Once I was waist deep, I donned my fins and slipped my mask up over my face. Strapping my bag to a dive belt around my waist, I grabbed hold of the spear gun with both hands and dropped down into the warm water.

  An underwater world of vibrant color and life revealed itself behind the curtain of the surface. The clear water of the lagoon was teeming with life, creatures escaping the harsh open ocean and thriving in their own private paradise. The lagoon was about twenty feet deep at its center, and though it was full of lobster, crabs, and fish, my dad and I had always preferred to go for the ones outside the channel, leaving the ones inside alive, just in case we ever had no luck in the open ocean.

  With one breath I finned to the bottom and skirted through the channel, my spear gun aiming ahead of me. Searching the reefs that surrounded the island, I bagged four bugs that were all well above regulation size and speared a large red grouper along with a yellowtail snapper. On my way back to the lagoon I passed by a large green sea turtle, feasting on a deep blue colored moon jellyfish. I also swam by two lemon sharks that eyed the fish in my left hand for a moment before scurrying off into the distance.

  When I had reached my private beach I slipped out of my fins and carried my spoils up to my camp just a few hundred feet from the water. The name Monte Cristo had been my idea, and since the island had no official name, it was what myself, my father and Jack referred to it by. The Count of Monte Cristo had always been one of my favorite adventure stories as a kid, and at a young age, I’d realized similarities between the island in the story and that little island northwest of Dry Tortugas. Both appeared rocky and uninhabitable from afar and both hid secrets from the outside world. Though our Monte Cristo didn’t have any hidden gold on it, at least not that we were aware of, the hidden paradise behind the cliffs had been treasure enough for us.

  After an hour or so I had my fish and lobster tails cleaned, seasoned with Swamp Sauce and cooked using my portable propane grill. Using a native climbing method, I scaled one of the coconut trees beside my tent, freed four coconuts and cut into them using my machete. As the sun started to fall into the ocean over the Western horizon I laid out a few portions of food on a plastic tray and carried it over to my hammock I’d set up between two palm trees right by the cliffside.

  Lying in the hammock, I savored the fresh seafood, enjoying every tantalizing bite and washing it all down with fresh coconut juice, straight out of the coconut. I’d set up a portable mosquito repelling device, one that I’d first used in South America, and it along with the ocean breeze made the tropical air free of bugs.

  After finishing my meal, I watched the sun as it transformed the sky dark red, with tints of brilliant oranges and yellows. As it fell, I thought about Sam and all of the amazing times we’d spent together over the past few months. It hurt to think that maybe I was never anything more than a distraction for her, that maybe she’d never felt the same feelings for me that I’d felt for her. I’d never been the type of guy to have serious relationships. But after spending the last four months together I’d felt something more. Something I hadn’t felt for a woman in a very long time.

  “Maybe some guys just aren’t cut out for marriage,” I said to myself as I finished off another coconut and watched as the last hint of the dying sun sank into the sea.

  Falling asleep on the hammock, I woke up and spent the next day intermittently swimming around the island and lounging in the hammock, trying to get over Sam. The sky had been clear all day and the air warm. The silence of the island helped me recharge and feel in tune with myself and with nature. It’s what I’d always loved about camping. Just the silence and the peacefulness of it all. When I woke up the second morning, however, that peacefulness was gone, replaced by something much less friendly.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  I practically fell out of my hammock as I was awoken by the sound of thunder roaring far off in the distance. Balancing on my bare feet and shaking the sleepiness from my body, I looked around and felt a stiff breeze whip past me, shaking the palm leaves softly overhead and swaying the trunks. My head spun, and I remembered that I’d downed an entire bottle of Silver Patron the night before, leaving me with one hell of a hangover.

  “Shit,” I said to myself as I ran over to the cliff for a better view of the sky and the ocean.

  Though the sun had yet to make its appearance, it lit up the sky enough for me to see the massive swirl of black clouds that had rolled in and the white caps that had formed over the water. Taking it all in, there was no doubt in my mind that, as Jack had predicted might happen, tropical storm Fay had changed course and was now about to make landfall in the Keys.

  Glancing at my dive watch, I saw that it was almost 0500. I’m usually a pretty light sleeper, but I guess I had the alcohol to blame. I knew that I would have to get my ass out of there in a hurry if was going to escape the brunt of the storm. Jack had told me that Fay had winds in excess of seventy miles per hour when she’d rammed through the DR. I wouldn’t be able to withstand such a force on Monte Cristo, and especially not in a damn tent. I had to get off the island and back to Key West and I had to do it fast.

  In less than fifteen minutes I had everything packed up and stowed securely on my Zodiac. Even in that short amount of time, the winds had picked up strength noticeably and even my private lagoon had small white caps when I untied the rope and shoved off. Starting up the engine, I turned around and carefully cruised through the narrow channel. When I reached the end of it, the bow of the Zodiac rose four feet into the air, then splashed down as a wave passed by. It was still pretty dark, but I could see well enough to maneuver myself around the island and, using my compass, head back towards Key West.

  The waves rocked my small boat as I picked up speed, splashing foamy water over the inflatable pontoons and into my face. Thunder roared again from behind me, only this time it was louder. The storm was quickly barreling towards me and all I could do was try and escape it in time.

  After thirty minutes of crashing through waves that were growing larger with each passing second, I saw a white light flickering in the distance off my starboard side. I wiped the saltwater from my eyes, focused on the light and realized that it must have been the Dry Tortuga Lighthouse on Loggerhead Key. A massive wave slammed into me from behind, surging the stern up and then slamming it down in a massive and chaotic splash. Water covered m
y feet and soaked my clothes. I knew that my Zodiac would soon capsize if the waves continued to get bigger at their current rate.

  I took a moment to think through my situation. Judging by the winds, the waves and the black clouds looming overhead, I wouldn’t make it to Key West in time. Even if I’d pushed my Zodiac to its limits it would’ve taken hours, provided I never capsized along the way. I decided that my only option was to head for Fort Jefferson and wait out the storm within its walls. I had enough provisions to survive, so long as I could stay sheltered from the storm.

  I altered my course slightly, cruising towards the Lighthouse where I would then wrap around the Northern tip of Loggerhead Key and cruise straight for Fort Jefferson. I cursed myself for being so stupid, so reckless and for failing to heed the warnings I’d been given. I wasn’t usually the guy who went into things unprepared and yet there I was, trying to outrun a tropical storm in a fifteen-foot Zodiac. My anger and frustration had clouded my reason and I would have to pay for it the hard way.

  As I made my way towards the Northern end of Loggerhead Key, cruising as fast as I could through the roaring waves, something caught my eye on the shore. Every time the light from the lighthouse flickered I saw a brilliant white and dark blue object stuck in the sand between the crashing waves and the shrub line. At about half a mile away, it was impossible to see exactly what it was, but I knew that it must have been a boat of some kind. As I reached within five hundred feet of the shore, I realized that it was a large yacht and that its dark blue hull appeared to be cracked and riddled with bullet holes. The aft section was jerking up and down with each violent, crashing wave.

  Someone was having a pretty bad day, I thought as I cruised closer to the wreck to get a better look and wondering what in the hell had happened. The sun was starting to rise, allowing me to see some details of the boat through the heavy rain and winds. There was nobody in sight, but when I’d cruised to just a few hundred feet from the crashing waves, I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoing from the center of the island. If it had been a normal day I would have killed the engine and listened intently for the source of the sound. But with the rain howling against me, the waves splashing over the pontoons of my Zodiac and the thunder roaring, I had no way to tell where exactly the weapon had been fired from. All I knew was that it came from inland, near the lighthouse.

  The sound of a second gunshot cracked through the air and I knew that someone must have been in trouble. Looking ahead, I saw the old brick walls of Fort Jefferson looming in the shadowy distance, just three miles from Loggerhead Key. Looking over in the direction where gunshots had come from, I knew that I had to figure out what was happening and see if I could help. Instinctively, I grabbed my Sig and leg holster out of my backpack and strapped it to my right thigh along with an extra magazine.

  Following an unusually large wave, I turned the helm sharply to the right, putting me on a direct course for the beach. Easing forward on the throttles, I picked up speed then killed the engine and raised the propeller from the water just as the Zodiac’s hull hit the beach. The plastic hull scraped over the fine white sand, slowing the boat to an abrupt stop. I grabbed the nylon rope and leapt over the bow, landing in wet sand that oozed up over my ankles.

  Wrapping an arm inside the boat and grabbing hold of a handle, I dragged the Zodiac all the way up past the shrub line and quickly tied the rope off around a thick branch of what looked like a large Wax Myrtle plant. Reaching for my Sig, I un-holstered it and held it firmly with both hands as I headed over towards the yacht. She was a beauty; a fifty-two-foot Regal yacht that must have set the owner back at least a million bucks. There were at least thirty bullets holes riddled all over its hull and it had massive cracks near the forward section where portions of the hull had been smooshed in like an accordion. Clearly, the pilot had hit a few of the shallow reefs nearby before he’d crashed landed on the shores of Loggerhead.

  Splashing through the crashing waves I jumped, grabbed hold of the railing and pulled myself up onto the deck. The hatch leading down into the salon and cabins was open and slamming violently back and forth on its hinges, a sign that whoever had been there had left, and probably in a hurry.

  I did a quick search of the boat, though much of it was flooded, then ran and jumped back onto the beach. Running up the sand, I did a quick sweep of the area and realized that, less than a quarter of a mile down the beach, another boat was tied off. From where I was it looked like one of those rugged patrol boats designed for taking on rough seas that I referred to as Storm Chasers, though it was much smaller than the yacht. It had a partially enclosed cockpit and what looked like a pair of pretty decent sized engines. And unlike the yacht, it looked like its pilot had beached the boat on Loggerhead Key on purpose. But who was firing? And why weren’t these people getting along?

  I moved quickly in the darkness and heavy, tropical rain; running on a nondescript sandy pathway that lead me in the direction of the lighthouse. I kept a good pace but didn’t want my heart rate to skyrocket, which was the only thing keeping me from sprinting towards my destination. If someone was in trouble, every second I spent in pursuit could mean someone’s life. But I knew, from years of hunting down enemies, that there’s a lot to be said for keeping calm and keeping your wits about you.

  As I rounded a patch of prickly pear cacti, I saw the dark outline of five figures moving my direction. They were about three hundred feet away from me as I strayed from the path and took cover behind a large cocoplum plant. As they walked closer, the morning light revealed that it was two guys and three women. The women appeared to be blindfolded and the two guys were leading them towards the beach, one guy in the front and the other in the back. As they moved closer I started to see them in more detail. The first guy wore a black cutoff shirt, a pair of soaked jeans and had what appeared to be a revolver in his left hand. The guy in the back had a dark hoodie, cargo pants and a stockless AK47 strapped over his shoulder. They forced the three women to move at a fast pace, cussing at them and pushing them forward. Two of the women looked especially young with one looking like she was barely in her teens. The ferocious winds violently flapped any articles of loose clothing and the two guys had their hands raised to cover their faces from sprays of white sand.

  I’d heard stories of sex slavery in the Caribbean before. Women on vacation being taken by thugs while out on the water then transported to Jamaica, Cuba or South America to be eventually sold on the slave market. Most of those women were never seen or heard from ever again. Still gripping my Sig in my right hand, I slid it into my leg holster.

  The group walked right passed my position, unable to see me under the cover of the shrubs and darkness. When a loud rumble of thunder echoed across the morning air, I pounced from my hiding place in the shrubs and targeted the trailing guy. Wrapping my arm forcefully around his chest from behind, I pulled him back while stomping my heel into his left calf. His body collapsed and he yelled out in pain and confusion. As he reached for his AK47, I wrapped my hands around his neck then quickly snapped it sideways. His loud, struggling body went limp in an instant and flattened against the wet sand.

  As I reached for my Sig, the other guy turned on his heel and, taking one glace at me yelled, “Who the fu--” but his words were cut off by two 9mm rounds lodging into his chest, spitting out splashes of blood through his black shirt into the rain. His body twisted wildly then crashed into the sand. Both men were dead, and the incident had lasted less than a few seconds.

  The three women screamed and their bodies started to shake after hearing the two gunshots. After taking a quick look around to make sure there weren’t any others, I moved towards them slowly, not wanting to scare them any more than they already were.

  “It’s okay,” I said as calmly as I could. “My name is Logan Dodge. I was trying to escape the storm when I heard gunfire and came to investigate.” I removed all of their blindfolds and was able to see the intense fear in their eyes. One of the women appeared to be
in her forties and I realized she was their mom by the way she held the other two in her arms.

  Scared as hell, they stepped away from me when their blindfolds were removed. The mom, after glancing at the two dead guys on the sand, turned to me and said, “They were trying to take us away.”

  “I know,” I said, remaining calm but wanting her to hear the seriousness in my voice. Realizing that their hands were zip-tied behind their backs, I slid my dive knife from its sheath and made quick work of the plastic, freeing their hands. “I need you to tell me if there are any more of them. Was it just these two on the island?”

  They were all shaking, both from the storm and from the terror of the situation. Though they each had rain slickers on, their clothes were completely soaked.

  The mom’s eyes suddenly went wide and she stared at me. “My husband,” her voice was shaky and she gasped for breath. “He’s in the house. They said they were going to kill him.”

  Blood surged through my veins. As she spoke I grabbed the AK47 from the ground, slung it over my shoulder then grabbed the other guy’s Magnum revolver and stuck it into the back of my belt. Turning around, I looked at the whitewashed house she was referring to and saw that it was just a short distance from the base of the lighthouse.

  I moved closer to the mom and said, “How many are there?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. They blindfolded us.”

  “Okay,” I said. Then, leading them over to a patch of thick cocoplum shrubs beneath a palm tree, I added, “I need you to stay here. Stay hidden and take care of them, okay?” I nodded to the young girls. After she nodded back I added, “I’ll be right back.”