by Matthew Rief
Other than the balcony, the second floor was devoid of people. It was well lit, so I could see most every corner of Pete’s museum and there was no sign of anyone. A strong combination of curiosity and confusion led me downstairs, where the main dining area was still packed with lively patrons.
“Hey, Logan,” a low voice said from behind me as I moved for the front door.
I turned around and saw Oz, Pete’s large Scandinavian chef. He had long blond hair, wore a dirty apron, and towered over me.
“Hey, did you see anyone come through recently?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a busy night. Lots of people coming and going. What do they look like?”
“Never mind,” I said, waving a hand in the air and turning back towards the main entrance.
“Are you leaving?”
“Just gonna step out a sec,” I said. I pressed my shoulder against the door. “I’ll be right back.”
A moment later I was out the door, down the steps, and crunching the seashells under the soles of my Converse. I looked around, scanning the area and taking note of every detail. There were a few pedestrians strolling down Mangrove Street, a sunburned guy with a button-up Hawaiian-style shirt here, a woman wearing a sundress and flip-flops there, but no one resembling who I’d seen.
Had he just vanished? Maybe Jack was right. Maybe I had seen a ghost.
I walked towards the end of the parking lot until I reached a row of coco plum bushes and the remnants of a white picket fence. A group of college-aged kids strolled past, taking up most of the street and being about as loud and obnoxious as humanly possible.
Part of the spring break crowd, I thought.
Though Key West wasn’t nearly as popular as Miami or Panama City for spring break, it still received a large handful of rowdy college kids every year.
I took one more look around, then turned and headed back for Pete’s.
Maybe I hit my head one too many times over the years, I thought as I looked up at what was visible of the balcony, where the Wayward Suns were still playing.
Less than a second after the thought entered my mind, I heard the loud and unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
FOUR
My instincts took over. In the blink of an eye, I bent my knees slightly, whipped my body around, and took cover beside a parked Ford Explorer as I snatched my Sig from my waistband. The shot had come from the other side of Mangrove Street, and I watched as people who’d been walking casually only moments earlier ran frantically away from the scene.
Rising over the hood of the SUV, I spotted movement in an alley between Mike’s scooter rental pavilion and the tackle shop beside it. With my Sig held in front of me, I moved towards the street. The glow of the streetlights bled into the alley, revealing the outline of two figures engaged in a fistfight.
As I moved in closer, I could make out minor details of their appearance. One of them wore a black suit, and the other wore shorts, a tee shirt, and a ski mask covering his face. It was clear that both men knew how to carry themselves, but as the soles of my shoes hit the pavement and I closed in to less than a hundred feet away from them, Ski Mask put a quick and painful end to the fight. In a flash of well-timed and meticulous movements, Ski Mask landed an elbow, then wrapped his left arm around Suit’s neck and flung his body through the air, slamming him hard onto the pavement.
I was halfway across the street when Suit hit the ground. My Sig was raised, and my eyes scanned the area. I spotted a handgun on the ground beside one of the parked scooters about twenty feet away from where Ski Mask had just body-slammed his opponent. With no way of knowing whether or not there was another gun, I kept my sight locked on Ski Mask.
Suit groaned painfully then went motionless, clearly knocked out from the blow. Before Ski Mask spotted me, I moved into the alley and closed in roughly thirty feet from where he stood with his back facing me.
“Hands in the air!” I barked with my right index finger hovering over the trigger, ready for him to make a move.
Upon hearing my voice, his head snapped sideways and he focused on me, looking like a spooked rabid animal. Seeing the guy closer for the first time, I realized that he had the build of a guy who damned well knew his way around a gym. He had dark coffee-colored skin. He looked to be a few inches shorter than me, and his vein-riddled muscles bulged out of his shirt. He had the lean, muscular legs of a world-class sprinter. Though it was difficult to estimate with the mask on, I judged him to be around my age.
When his eyes met mine, he seemed to relax a little, which surprised me considering he was also staring into the barrel of a loaded weapon. For a brief moment, I saw what looked like a smile materialize through the narrow cut of fabric around his mouth. Then, in the blink of an eye, he turned and darted toward the back of the alley.
“Freeze!” I yelled as my lower body accelerated unconsciously towards him.
But I knew it was useless. He’d broken into a full-on sprint, and I only had a fraction of a second to weigh the situation and make a decision.
I can’t shoot a guy for getting in a brawl, I thought.
I ran down the alley and, upon reaching the guy lying motionless on his back, I quickly checked his pulse. Seeing that he would most likely be fine, I looked up just in time to see Ski Mask disappear around the back of the building.
Rising to my feet, I secured my Sig back in its holster and took off after him. It probably wasn’t the smart thing to do, I knew that, but I was never one to just sit by and watch injustice without retaliating. I ran as fast as I could, pumping my arms and keeping my eyes trained ahead of me. I slowed as I hit the corner, my right hand hovering over my Sig as I moved around the back of the wooden building.
Ski Mask was weaving around a dumpster and a trailered Jet Ski as I accelerated towards him. He rolled over the hood of a parked Camry, then made quick work of an eight-foot chain-link fence. I managed to barely cut the distance between us as I slid over the sedan, grabbed hold of the thin metal links, and hurled my body over the top. I landed softly on the sidewalk, bending my knees to absorb the force, and continued the chase. He was fast, very fast, but I knew that there were few people who could outlast me in a foot race, so long as I kept them in view.
I followed him down the sidewalk alongside Fleming Street, heading west. We weaved in and out of worried pedestrians, and Ski Mask almost got rammed by a bicyclist who just managed to brake at the last second, ringing his bell and shouting in anger at both of us as we passed by. My heart was pounding and my adrenaline was pumping as we neared Duval Street. I could hear a mixture of island music and smelled grilled burgers and seafood as we neared the most popular stretch of pavement in the Keys.
When we reached Duval, Ski Mask cut a hard right, wrapping his arm around the trunk of a lignum vitae tree to help redirect his momentum. With reckless abandon, he dashed into traffic, narrowly avoiding a flamingo-colored taxi as its brakes screeched and its horn honked repeatedly. I followed right on his tail and felt a sudden rush of relief as I spotted a white Key West Police Interceptor heading straight for Ski Mask.
The officer braked when he spotted us, causing the trolley to almost rear end him as it screeched to a stop just a few feet behind. My quarry didn’t skip a beat. Without a second’s thought, he jumped onto the hood of the police car, ran over its hardtop, and hurled his body onto the roof of the red-and-green trolley. The officer switched on his red and blue lights along with the whining siren that dominated the sounds around it.
I watched in awe as Ski Mask, keeping his momentum going, ran along the top of the trolley, then jumped onto the eave on the second story of Margaritaville.
Who the hell is this guy? I thought as I ran past the officer, who I recognized instantly as Deputy Jane Verona. She was just stepping out of the driver’s-side door and had her government-issued handgun held with both hands. Fortunately, she recognized me instantly as well from the hours I’d spent at the police station over the past year.
“Call the she
riff,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on my quarry. My words were rushed and loud, and my heart pounded in my chest. “There’s a guy unconscious back at Pete’s.”
In a blur of quick movement, Ski Mask disappeared over the edge of the roof just as I stormed through the front door of the iconic island restaurant. Jimmy Buffett was singing the chorus to “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” his voice resonating through the speakers and intermingling with the sounds of a full house of mostly intoxicated tourists.
I ran past a confused hostess and nearly knocked over a waiter carrying a tray of wings and mozzarella sticks, who somehow managed to keep it balanced as I maneuvered past him and headed up the stairs. Few people seemed to notice me or care what I was doing as I reached the top step and moved as fast as I could through the sea of people, tables, and chairs.
I ran for a propped-open window on the west wall that looked out towards dark ocean beyond. Without hesitating, I lunged through the window into the fresh evening air and onto a narrow balcony. It was dark and my eyes weren’t adjusted to it, but I heard fast-moving footsteps, and as I looked to my left, I saw a dark outline running just a few steps away from me. He was sprinting towards the edge, and it looked like he was going to try and jump the roughly fifteen-foot gap to the roof of the building beside us.
I charged towards him, dug my right foot into the edge of the balcony, and extended my body as far as I could. Just as he was preparing to jump, I tripped him up, slamming my arms into his shins and causing him to collapse hard onto the clay-tiled roof, just inches from the edge. He grunted and groaned as I grabbed hold of his legs and pulled myself up. Positioning myself so that I could take him down with a choke hold, I was caught off guard by a sudden and powerful kick of his heel into my forehead. Pain surged as my head snapped back. I reflexively loosened my grip, and he struggled to his feet. As I shook myself from the daze, he accelerated for the edge and conquered the gap, his body rolling as it made contact with the roof of the adjoining building.
With my forehead burning, I jumped to my feet and watched as he quickly disappeared into the night. I shook my head slightly, and took in a few deep breaths. There was no doubt in my mind that the guy I’d seen through the sliding glass door at Pete’s and the one who’d just kicked me in the head were the same person. A man I used to know. A man I’d once fought alongside. A man who was supposed to be dead.
FIVE
By the time I made it back to Pete’s, it was nearly midnight, and the Wayward Suns were just finishing up. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, and an ambulance was parked on the corner of Mangrove and Fleming, but the paramedics were just standing beside it, looking like they didn’t know what to do. I met Jack in the alley where the fight had occurred and, to my surprise, the guy in the suit was nowhere to be found.
“Jeez, bro, are you alright?” he asked, looking at my forehead.
I knew it probably looked bad, though I hadn’t looked in a mirror yet. The blood had dried, but I could feel a mark right where my hairline started.
“Looks worse than it feels,” I said. “Did you see the guy in the suit?”
He nodded. “I figured something was wrong by the look in your eye,” he said. “As I headed for the front door, I heard the gunshot, then watched through the window as you chased after that guy. After telling Mia to call the police, I ran over to see if the guy on the ground was alright.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, looking up and down the empty alley.
“A car pulled up and a handful of guys stepped out. They picked him up, hauled him into the backseat, then peeled off down Mangrove.” He shook his head, reliving the moment. “I tried to figure out who they were, but it happened fast. They pulled up and were gone in less than thirty seconds.”
“What did they look like?”
Jack shrugged. “Like the guy on the ground. They were dressed in black suits, all of them well built. They looked like FBI or CIA agents, but I sure as hell don’t think they were. They had a hardnosed aura about them, bro.”
I scanned the alley, looking for anything that might have been left behind that we could use as a clue. The handgun was gone, and as far as I could tell, they’d even managed to swipe the bullet casing from the ground.
Less than a minute after I made it back, a white Police Interceptor pulled in front of us that had the word “Sheriff” plastered on its side next to the outline of a gold star. Charles Wilkes, head of the Key West police department, stepped out of the driver’s-side door. He was wearing his typical dark blue uniform with short sleeves. His tall frame, lean build, and dark black complexion were unmistakable. He was in his late forties, but he moved more like a man in his early thirties.
“I might have to start putting you on the payroll,” he said as he walked over to us. After we shook hands, he added, “You always seem to be in the right place at the right time, Logan. So what happened here?”
I gave him a brief overview of the situation and the events that had led up to it.
“Any idea who they were?” he asked.
“No,” I lied. “Could be anyone. My guess is they were drinking and got into a scuffle.”
“And Officer Verona said you chased him? Why?”
I sighed. “I wanted to stop him. I figured it wouldn’t be too hard, but I underestimated him.”
After giving Charles as good of a description as I could of the guy in the suit and a very generic description of the guy I’d chased, he thanked us and climbed back into his car. Jack and I headed back over to Pete’s, and I downed a few glasses of water while the Wayward Suns played their last song for the night. It was about sailing the Caribbean on a cloudless night, with a warm breeze and a sky full of brilliant stars. But I barely heard a word of it as my mind played over the recent series of events.
Even after calling it a night, driving Jack home, and pulling my Tacoma into the Conch Harbor Marina parking lot, the incident was still fresh in my head. I decided to spend the night on the Baia. I liked sleeping on the water; the smells, the sounds, and the peaceful rocking. I often opted to sleep on my boat even though I had a perfectly good house just a short drive away.
It was almost midnight when I grabbed a bottle of tequila and plopped down on the sunbed. Looking out over the water, I saw that only a few other boaters were awake, and I relished the relative quiet.
The reasonable part of my brain tried to convince the rest of me that it wasn’t him. That there was no possible way it could be him. He was dead. Gone. He’d been gone for ten years, and he was never coming back.
Then who was it?
In my heart, I knew the answer to that question. In my heart, I knew that it was my old friend and comrade, a man I’d once trusted with my life, a man who’d squandered that trust and turned his back on his duty.
I heard a sound coming from down the dock and it shook me from my thoughts. It was the rhythmic clapping of footsteps, and it was growing louder. I turned my head to look down towards the parking lot and saw a figure approaching. The marina lights went out at ten on the weekends, so I couldn’t get a great look at him, but it didn’t matter. I knew who it was.
I propped myself up and planted my feet on the deck. I shot a quick glance to my right, making sure my Sig was within arm’s reach on the cushioned seat beside me. Turning my attention back to my approaching guest, I watched as he moved with smooth, athletic strides, never once swiveling his head. He kept his gaze forward, looking straight back at me.
The marina had died down; the only sounds were the occasional flapping of lines against masts, the soft splashing of fish breaking the surface to catch an unsuspecting insect, and the gentle rocking of hulls against fenders.
I watched as he walked right up to my slip, and my eyes grew wide when he stepped into the dim light from the cockpit. He was wearing the same thing he had been when I’d chased him a few hours earlier—black tennis shoes, basketball shorts, and a skintight muscle tee shirt. I didn’t feel threatened or in danger in any way. No, the
only instinct I felt was anger upon seeing his face, which, though I recognized it right away, had clearly aged since the last time we had seen each other over ten years earlier. He had a chiseled jaw, light brown eyes, and short black hair. His face was hardened from a lifetime of fighting, making it clear to anyone who looked closely that this was a man you didn’t want to mess with.
“Hello, Logan,” he said in his smooth New York City accent.
He spoke in a nonchalant tone, though I could sense the anger deep within his voice.
“What are you doing here, Kyle?”
He gave a heated smirk and bobbed his head slowly. “So it’s gonna be like that,” he said. A second later, he added, “Alright.”
He stepped off the dock onto the swim platform, and I jumped to my feet.
“Get off my boat.”
He paused, and raised his hands in the air.
“Is that any way to treat an old friend?” he said. “I mean, shit, it’s been like what, ten years?” His eyes scanned around my boat. “Nice to see you’re doing so well for yourself.” His tone had shifted to sarcastic. “But I guess you were always good at looking out for yourself, weren’t you?”
“That’s something coming from you,” I said. “Look, you wanna talk about what happened, fine. You wanna talk about how you survived and where the hell you’ve been all these years, fine. But don’t come here pointing fingers and blaming me for the mistakes that you made.”
“Mistakes?” he said, taking a step towards me and raising his voice. “You still don’t have a clue, do you?”
I paused a moment, then bit my lip in frustration. “You know, I stood up for you. I did. I put my ass on the line, my career and reputation at risk, in order to defend you. But I know what I saw, Kyle. I remember what happened like it was yesterday. You violated a direct order and put our entire platoon at risk.”
