by Matthew Rief
“Yea,” I said sternly, “you should have. And I mean it, Salazar. You move so much as a muscle towards that shotgun and I’ll blow a hole in the back of your head.”
He laughed, then grabbed his chest as he coughed once more, this time more violently. “Don’t pretend like you won’t kill me anyway.”
“Kill you?” I said. “No, as much as I’d like to, you’re going back into your cage.”
“Bullshit!” he yelled.
“He’s telling the truth,” Scott shouted, appearing from his hiding place behind the trees and jutting cliff. “You’re going away, Salazar. Back behind bars. For life.”
Salazar glanced over at Scott, focused his eyes and said, “Is my mind playing tricks, or is that not Senator Cooper?”
“Seriously, Salazar,” I said. “Put your hands on your head and stand up, now!” I took a step closer to him and pressed the trigger slightly, ready to fire off a round in the blink of an eye if necessary.
Salazar shook his head, sighed, then stared at the ground. “You know, I made a promise to myself and before God that I would never be caged again. Like my ancestors, I will not go down without a fight.”
“You’ve got three seconds, Salazar!” I barked.
As I started to count down he said, “Vaya Con Dios.”
In a flash of blurry movement, his right hand jerked for the shotgun and his body dropped forward. He’d managed to just wrap his hand around the wooden handle before Scott and I both pulled the triggers on our weapons, sending bullets in two directions exploding into his head. Blood splattered out from his shattered skull as his body went limp onto the grass. The explosions echoed around the island and he sat motionless as the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.
“It’s over,” I said as I moved in close and examined the disfigured corpse that was all that remained of Benito Salazar.
Scott walked over and stood beside me, hovering over the dead gang leader. “What now?”
“You know me,” I said as I did a quick search of his corpse. I found my dive knife strapped to his leg, undid the straps, then slid it into my cargo short’s pocket. Glancing up at Scott, I added, “the last thing I want is to have to deal with law enforcement digging their fingers into all of this. And with this guy being such a high-profile target and all, the media would have a field day. Plus, I’d much rather keep this island paradise of mine a secret.”
“What are you suggesting?” he said, trying to hold back a smile as best as he could.
Turning my body to face the edge of the cliff at the other side of the clearing, I looked out over the calm, blue horizon. As my lips contorted to form a grin I glanced back at Scott.
He nodded and smiled, “To the locker with him then.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Scott and I transported the corpse back to the Baia and then cruised north about half of a mile from the reef line, where the depth gage indicated we were floating on over three hundred feet of water. Tying the metal chain of my spare anchor around Salazar’s ankles, we chucked him overboard along with the twenty-pound hunk of aluminum. His body hit the water with a loud splash then rocketed towards the seafloor, being dragged by the small anchor.
“Bon voyage,” I said as he vanished into the darkness of the deep.
While cruising back towards Key West, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to drop beneath the waves a few more times. It was a perfect day, with a slight, warm breeze and not a cloud in the sky. Plus, it would be a nice way to get my mind off things and just relax and enjoy the simple things in life.
We dropped anchor near Neptune’s Table and free dove the twenty feet to the top of the reef. We spent an hour or so goofing off, weaving in and out of coral and bagging both of our limits of lobster. When we were tired and I felt the stitches on my side start to tear, we toweled off, threw the lobster into my live well below the deck and popped open a couple of Paradise Sunset beers. I sprawled out on the sunbed, enjoying the rays of the warm sun as they kissed my bare legs and upper body. Scott was seated on the white, cushioned seat beside me, wearing one of those brimmed straw Panama hats and staring out into the horizon, admiring the view as much as I was.
“How much longer will you be in town?” I asked after taking a long swig of the smooth brew.
“My flight leaves tomorrow night,” he said, leaning back into the cushion. “Just a few hours after the service.”
I raised my eyebrows and glanced over at him. “Service?”
“Yea, there’s a memorial service tomorrow at Key West Cemetery for the three Coast Guardsman that lost their lives during that helicopter crash.”
I sat in silence a moment and couldn’t help but replay the incident over again in my head as I had many times since it had happened. “I should never have made that distress call,” I said, shaking my head as I stared out over the turquoise water. “The damn radio died before I could warn them about the gang members and that ship.” I took in a deep breath then sighed. “It’s my fa-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he said, sitting up and cutting me off. He grabbed his sunglasses, pulled them from his face and stared me in the eyes. “What happened to those guys wasn’t your fault. You hear me? You were a bigger man than most for getting involved, and for saving that family’s life. Don’t you get it? Those girls will grow up now because of you. That couple will grow old together. They will see their daughters get married and have a future. You did that, Logan. And as far as the distress call goes, you only did what any other man with a good head on his shoulders would’ve done.” Then, looking out over the horizon, he took in a deep breath and stared back at me. “It wasn’t your fault.”
It was hard for me to believe but his words had caused my eyes to water and I had to look away. I wasn’t one to cry very often, in fact, I hadn’t cried for two years. Not since I’d found out my dad had died.
He leaned back into his chair, slid his sunglasses back over his ears and added, “And if I ever hear you say that kind of bullshit ever again, I’ll kick your ass, you hear me?”
I smiled then stood up, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Thanks, Scott. You want another cold one?”
“You’re reading my mind, brother.”
A few hours later, we pulled the Baia back into my slip in Conch Marina, tied her off, locked her up and then Scott drove me back to the hospital. We’d both grabbed a quick shower on the boat and cleaned off as well as we could. I decided against wearing Ted’s maintenance uniform for a second round and slipped into the back door of the hospital wearing my normal attire of a tee shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. As Scott dropped me off, I told him that I’d see him the following day at the memorial service.
Slipping back into my room with just a few glances from passing nurses, I change out of my clothes and back into the hospital gown which, though embarrassing as hell, was actually pretty comfortable. Climbing back onto the bed, I pulled the covers over me and dropped my head into the soft pillow.
“Where have you been?” a voice said from the door and as I turned I realized it was the young, freckle-faced deputy Wilkes had left to watch over me.
“The Coral Sea,” I replied with a grin. He looked at me confused and shook his head. “Forget it,” I added, realizing that my reference to the old Navy cadence had gone about a mile over his head.
As I reached for the bottle of water on the tray beside the bed, he stepped closer to me and looked at me as if he were a parent who’d caught their teenager sneaking out past curfew.
After a few awkward moments of staring at me, I said, “What?”
He sighed. “You weren’t supposed to leave the hospital, Mr. Dodge. Where did you go anyway?”
I smiled and said, “Just took a quick swim over near Fort Zachary Taylor. Swimming is great for rehab.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? You’re supposed to check out with the staff, you know.”
“Look, I’ve been away from government work for almos
t six years now. I’m not exactly in the habit of telling people where I’m going and when. Plus, last I checked this is a free country we live in. I can stay or go as I please. Now, would you mind shutting the door when you leave? I really should be getting some rest.”
I grinned as he turned on his heels and walked with heavy, defeated steps out the door, shutting it sternly behind him. I spent most of the evening scarfing down hospital food that surprisingly wasn’t half bad and watching Jason Bourne beat up bad guys on HBO. My body was still in pretty bad shape and the long day out on the water had made me exhausted, making me pop down a few pain relievers and call it a night at twenty-one hundred.
The following day I’d had all that I could take and checked myself out before breakfast. Carrying a bag of prescription drugs in one hand, I stepped through the automatic front doors and saw Jack sitting in the driver’s seat of his blue Jeep Wrangler with the top down. I’d called him about fifteen minutes earlier using the hospital phone.
“Damn good to see you, bro,” he said. Then looking at the marks on my face and seeing the way I walked, careful not to put too much weight on my right leg, he added, “Did they recommend that you leave, or is this you?”
“Little of both. But mostly me.” I chuckled and Jack smiled.
We talked briefly about what had happened the past few days, me telling him about fighting off Salazar’s goons on Loggerhead and him telling me about Fay and the damage she’d caused. When we turned on Palmetto Street he said, “Say, are you going to the service this afternoon? It’s five o’clock at Key West Cemetery.”
“I’ll be there,” I said. The truth was I never much liked funerals. I mean, I guess nobody really does. But I wanted nothing more than to show those guys as much respect as I could for what they’d done.
A minute later he turned past the black mailbox with the numbers thirty-eight stenciled in white letters and onto the brick driveway leading to my house. I was surprised to see that there didn’t appear to be much damage to my house and property. A few fallen branches and knocked over potted plants, but beyond that, it was hard to even tell that a storm had blown through. I even spotted my black Tacoma parked under it, which explained why I hadn’t seen it at the marina the previous day.
“I did what I could to storm proof the place and I moved your truck. Under your house is much more protected than over at the marina parking lot,” he said, observing me as I surveyed the property. I thanked him earnestly as I opened the passenger side door. “Look,” he added, leaning towards me, “you want me to stick around here for a few hours? I’ve got a charter scheduled to leave at ten but I can cancel it.”
I waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine.” Then I shut the door and leaned in the window. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“You got it, bro,” he said, smiling at me as he put the jeep in gear and backed out.
I did a walk about my property, which didn’t take long considering I only had about a quarter acre and a little over a hundred feet of waterfront on the channel. There’d been little to no damage to the house itself, a few shingles had blown off and a few of my security cameras and motion sensors had been damaged but that was about it. One of the reasons I’d purchased that house in the first place was because of its design which made it well suited for surviving even the most powerful tropical storms.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon cleaning up the palm leaves and working around the house. Before lunch, I did a quick forty-five-minute, low impact workout consisting of mainly resistance bands and body weight exercises. Then I feasted on a few lobsters Scott had cooked up and left in my cooler and relaxed on my hammock strung out on my patio, facing the waterway.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Later that afternoon I showered, shaved and put on the best and only suit I owned, then drove in my Tacoma over to the cemetery. The entire incident, and especially the Coast Guard helicopter being blown out of the sky, had made national headlines. The president himself had made a formal address regarding the issue and had ordered the national ensign to be flown at half-mast for three days in their honor. Though he couldn’t make it to the ceremony himself, there were a handful of political representatives present including Scott and the mayor of Florida, Joyce Richardson.
I stood beside Jack and his fifteen-year-old nephew Isaac in the shade of a large Gumbo Limbo tree near the back of the massive group that huddled around the three black caskets. The truth was I’d only been to two other funerals before. Once for my mom who’d passed away when I was eight years old from cancer, and the other for was for two Navy brothers who we’d lost when our platoon was ambushed on a routine reconnaissance mission in Beirut. The ceremony was similar to the one for those lost heroes, with American flags spread out over the caskets and a row of uniformed soldiers firing off three volleys. The mayor gave a quick speech, praising the courage and sacrifices that they’d made, along with two other politicians including Scott.
At the front of the group, I saw a young woman in a black dress holding a newborn baby in her arms. She had a difficult time standing as tears streaked down her face. I knew that it was Anne, Ryan’s widow, and his son. As the bugler played taps and an admiral presented her with a folded flag, she almost lost it completely.
When the ceremony finished I tried to get close enough to talk to her, but she was surrounded by a group of friends, family, politicians, and uniformed service members, each offering their deepest sympathies for what had happened to her husband. Deciding it wasn’t the best time, I headed for the parking lot alongside Jack and Isaac.
As I slid my key into the driver’s side door, I heard a voice calling my name softly. Turning around, I saw Harper Ridley walking towards me, weaving around the cars that filled the edge of the parking lot.
“Logan,” she said, stepping right up to my open driver’s side window. She was wearing a black dress along with a black hat with white edging. Harper had been a writer for the Keynoter since I was young and even though she was now well into her forties, she didn’t look it. She had long, dark hair which she usually kept pulled back and she somehow managed to have pale skin, even while living so close to the equator. I think it was the ease and lightness of her feet as she moved around that made her look younger than her years more than anything else though. “I’d like to meet with you sometime this week. It’s not every day I get to write such a heroic piece.”
“Those are the real heroes,” I said, motioning my hand towards the gravesites. “Not me. Any story you write should be about them and how they sacrificed their lives in order to save a group of strangers.”
She smiled softly and said, “Yes, well I would still like to hear your side of things. That is, if you’re willing.”
I thought about it for a second then said, “Meet me at Pete’s for lunch around noon tomorrow.”
Then I pulled out of the cemetery parking lot and headed over to the marina where Jack and I had dinner on the Baia with Scott before he had to fly back up to Washington. We feasted on the fresh lobster Scott and I had hauled in the previous day, dousing the succulent tails in Swamp Sauce with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice. When we finished eating, he drove his black, rental SUV to Key West International Airport and Jack and I sat for a few hours more, watching as the sun dropped down below the distant horizon. There’s something about a Florida Keys sunset that never gets old. It manages to take my breath away each and every time.
I passed out on the boat and woke up the next morning naturally just after six. After a quick breakfast of mango, banana and a bowl of grape nuts, I downed a mug of coffee then drove my Tacoma back to my house to make a few more repairs to the outside. It only took a few hours and afterword I did what I’d wanted to be an easy five-mile run but turned into more of a mile walk and jog. My leg and side both still hurt pretty bad but I knew that in a few months I’d be back in the game.
At noon, I met Harper at Salty Pete’s and we ate lunch on the second
story patio. I tried my best to relate to her all of the events as they’d occurred, but left out a few of the gory details, not wanting to spoil her appetite. Pete brought us out fresh hogfish that he’d caught just that morning and as usual Oz did a superb job with the cooking. Blackening the fish to perfection.
Once she’d gotten what she needed for her story, I reached for my wallet, “It’s on the house,” Pete said, contorting his dark, leathery skin into a smile.
We both thanked him then parted ways. When I hopped back into my Tacoma, I knew what I had to do, though it was the last thing that I’d wanted to do. Glancing at my new smartphone, I saw the three voicemails left in the past twenty-four hours from the Key West police office’s main number. Putting the truck in gear, I pulled out and headed over to the police station.
For the most part, the ordeal was just long and boring and if it hadn’t been for the constant supply of coffee, I doubt I would have made it. But at one point one of the officers, while taking part of my statement, really rubbed me the wrong way when he said, “You know, you racked up quite the body count on that island.” He was a pretty young guy, maybe about my age, and he had a know-it-all air about him. “Do you really think it was all necessary?”
Shooting him a stern look, I said, “Every single one of those bastards was trying to kill me and that family, and they almost succeeded. What would you have had me do, asked them politely to lower their weapons?” I shook my head, and continued, “If I had, there would have been eight caskets at that funeral yesterday.” Then I leaned back in my chair, never once looking away from the officer’s eyes. “No, deadly force was not only justified but necessary considering the circumstances.” That shut him up pretty good and fortunately, he was the only officer in the department who felt that way and even he had a change of heart and apologized by the time I stood up to leave.
