by Matthew Rief
“They tried to kill me midflight,” he said, a resoluteness burning from his eyes as he stared off into the seemingly endless blue. “They were gonna blow my brains out at thirty thousand feet.”
He went on to explain how he’d managed to fight off his captors and take them out using their own weapons. The only problem was that the pilots were shot in the process. One had died instantly, and the other had had a hard time keeping the plane in the air. Within minutes, the plane had gone down, crashing into the Caribbean during one of the worst storms of the year.
“Surviving a plane crash is crazy in and of itself,” I said. “But how did you manage to survive after that and stay undetected?”
“I’ll be the first to admit there was a lot of luck involved, though it was far from easy,” he said. “Cay Sal is one of the worst places in the Caribbean to be stranded. Just ask any of the thousands of refugees stranded here every year.”
“I’m guessing you ran into some?”
He nodded. “A handful of Haitians whose raft had crashed into the Dog Rocks. Fortunately, we managed to haggle our way onto a smuggling boat. The only problem was that it was heading for Miami.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And you still went along?”
“I wasn’t exactly surrounded by options. I’d been without food and fresh water for two days, and those smugglers were the only ones who’d come close enough for us to talk to them.”
“So you rode with them all the way to Miami? And then what?”
“After dropping off the Haitians and Cubans, they cruised back to Puerto Rico. It was there that I was able to call in a few favors from a friend. I got a fake passport and driver’s license, then got in contact with Grace.”
I paused a moment. “How did she take all of it?”
“She cried a lot,” he said. “But she’s an amazing woman. Many women wouldn’t stand by their husbands through such an ordeal.”
I glanced down at the GPS and redirected our course with a slight touch of the helm.
“She believes me,” he said, shifting his gaze towards mine. “And soon enough you will too.”
A few hours after we’d left Key West, we heard the sound of a low-flying airplane soaring through the air, heading the same direction that we were. It was one of those elongated seaplanes with added rows of seats and couldn’t have been more than a few thousand feet up.
“What do you make of that?” Kyle said, eyeing the plane suspiciously.
I shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be just a tour or special flight of some kind.”
We watched as it continued northeast and disappeared into the horizon. Soon after, I switched on the autopilot, kicked back, and enjoyed the ride through the straits.
We reached Bimini, the three-island chain consisting of North Bimini, South Bimini, and East Bimini, at just before 1500. We cruised straight for the Bimini Big Game Club Marina located on the eastern shore of the north island in Alice Town. As I motored into the marina, I flew the yellow quarantine flag, then docked and disembarked with a folder containing the boat’s registration, our filled-out immigration cards and passports, and a maritime declaration form. There had been times in my life when I’d entered foreign waters illegally for the sake of secrecy, but it was generally a good idea to have the law on your side.
Since I’d already printed and filled out the forms and had all of our documentation in order, it only took fifteen minutes. Once we were cleared, I paid the fee and topped off the Baia’s fuel, replacing what I’d burned on the crossing from Key West. I ordered a couple of mahi Reuben sandwiches to go from the marina bar and grill along with their famous seafood sampler. Carrying the brown paper bags of food, I made my way to the end of the dock, where the Baia was temporarily tied off beside a rundown Catalina sailboat.
When I reached the Baia, I stepped aboard and headed down into the salon. Atticus greeted me before I’d reached the bottom step, happy to see me as usual. Looking around, I saw no sign of Kyle, who’d been sitting topside when I left. I checked every interior space and heard only silence in response to my calling his name.
Where the hell did you go? I thought, shaking my head.
I looked through the port window and noticed a seaplane moored just down the channel from us. It looked identical to the one we’d seen flying overhead earlier that afternoon.
I set the bags of food on the table, then told Atticus to stay and headed back up to the deck, shutting the salon door behind me. As I reached for my cellphone in my front pocket, I spotted three guys standing on the dock near the stern. They were wearing black suits, even though it was in the upper seventies, and were staring at me behind sunglasses so dark that they completely concealed their eyes. They stood frozen and ominous, as if they were waiting for me to make a move.
My right hand intuitively gravitated casually over my right hip, where I usually kept my holstered Sig. My gaze widened when I didn’t feel the familiar hard polymer grip. Carrying firearms on your person is illegal in the Bahamas, and I reminded myself of the unfortunate fact that I’d locked up my weapons prior to meeting with the customs officials.
Since I wasn’t armed, I had two choices: either make a break for the main cabin and get to my weapons as quickly as I could, or try and take them out the old-fashioned way. I made up my mind in a decisive second and stepped towards them naturally, cutting the distance between us.
“We’re coming aboard,” the guy in the middle said authoritatively. He was the biggest of the three and spoke in a distinctly Australian accent. His pale head was devoid of hair and reflected the tropical sun into my eyes. He brushed aside the left flap of his white jacket, revealing a handgun holstered to his chest. Without another word, the three of them stepped aboard the Baia with Baldy leading the way. These guys didn’t give a damn about proper boating etiquette. They were there for one reason and one reason only.
Baldy motioned behind me and said, “Inside. We would like to speak with you about your friend.”
There was no doubt in my mind that the only thing they wanted to do below deck was put a bullet in my head. I didn’t have time to think about whether or not they’d already confronted Kyle. I had only a few seconds to make my move.
Feigning compliance, I nodded and turned around slowly. These guys were well trained, I was confident of that. I knew I’d have to be at the top of my game if I had any chance of bringing all three of them down by myself, especially considering that all of them were undoubtedly armed and I wasn’t.
I took two slow steps forward, passing right between the cockpit and the dinette.
“And no sudden movements,” Baldy added.
I could feel his presence just a few inches behind me. Just as the words left his mouth, I spun around and slammed my right leg into his knees. His body lurched sideways, his feet flying out from under him, and his head crashed against the edge of the dinette.
Before his body hit the deck, I lunged towards the guy behind him. He was smaller than the other two but looked like he was solid muscle. He managed to land a left hook to my side, causing a mouthful of air to burst from my lungs. I blocked his second attack, diverting his fist into the back of the helm chair while rearing back to throw a punch of my own. I landed a solid right uppercut. My knuckles slammed into his chin, snapping his head backward with a crack of bones, and sending his body crashing onto the transom.
Focusing on suit number three, I realized that he’d moved back a few steps, increasing the distance between us. He held his Walther P99 in one hand and quickly raised the barrel towards me. I knew that he had me beat, but I didn’t care. With reckless abandon, I dropped down towards Baldy, who lay sprawled out unconscious at my feet. I reached for the handgun still holstered under the left flap of his jacket, expecting to feel an extreme surge of pain and hear the sound of a gunshot at any moment.
Just as my hand gripped Baldy’s Glock, the sound came, followed by two more in rapid succession. But instead of a trio of ear-rattling bangs, I heard the unmistakable s
ound of suppressed 9mm gunfire. The burning pain of lead exploding through my flesh never came, and as I gripped the Glock and turned to face my enemy, I saw a trail of bullet wounds winding up his midsection. His body collapsed, his arms dangling over the starboard gunwale as three streams of blood swiftly drenched his undershirt, turning it from white to dark red.
I jumped to my feet, held the Glock out in front of me and scanned the dock and nearby boats for more enemies as well as the source of the gunfire. I instantly spotted Kyle kneeling on the old Catalina moored next to the Baia. As we made eye contact, he jumped onto the dock, took a quick look around, then strode onto the swim platform.
The short guy whose jaw I’d broken shook to life and tried to struggle to his feet.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, zeroing the Glock onto his face.
His eyes filled with anger as Kyle disarmed him from behind, pushed him to the deck, and pressed a knee into his spine. I grabbed two ultra-strength zip ties from a small locker outboard of the helm and handed them to Kyle.
“Nice to see you’ve still got the edge,” he said while tightening the plastic bindings around Shorty’s wrists and ankles. He glanced at the bullet-riddled guy beside us and added, “Still need me to save you, though.”
“I had him no problem,” I said as I dropped down and bound Baldy as well. Moving aft, we grabbed hold of the bleeding thug and flapped his lifeless body down onto the deck beside the others.
“Don’t let anyone see that,” I said, motioning toward my Sig clasped in his left hand.
He knew as well as I did that Bahamian law requires personal firearms to be kept under lock and key at all times.
“What now, Captain?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I slid the Glock into my waistband and took another look around the marina, this time keeping an eye out for observant passersby rather than hostiles. By some incredibly fortunate combination of luck, the lack of people near the dock, and the fact that we were at the end, nobody seemed to have noticed our little live reenactment of a Die Hard scene.
“Cast off the lines, will you?” I said as I moved into the cockpit.
We’d lingered long enough, and no matter what we chose to do with our unwanted guests, it was best that we got a move on as soon as possible. Once Kyle had us loose, he jumped aboard and I started up the engines. Kyle searched our prisoners more thoroughly, emptying their pockets and depositing their contents onto the dinette as I slowly eased us away from the dock and into the channel.
Once we reached the open water, I gunned the throttles, quickly bringing us to our top speed of just over fifty knots and leaving a long trail of white behind us.
TEN
We cruised south past Gun Cay and the Cat Cays, putting as much distance between us and Bimini as possible. When we were twenty miles south of Alice Town and had the ocean almost entirely to ourselves, I slowed the Baia to her cruising speed to conserve fuel. Kyle was sitting on the half-moon cushioned seat beside me, going through what little the three guys had in their pockets. Glancing over, I saw a few extra magazines, wads of various currencies, a key ring with two brass keys, and a flip-style cellphone.
“No wallets,” Kyle said. “In fact, no identification of any kind. I guess that’s to be expected, though.”
“Can you hack into the phone?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied confidently. “But it would be a hell of a lot easier to just force these guys to tell us the code.”
A few minutes later I slowed us to an idle, then killed the engines. We tossed the dead guy overboard after putting a few dive weights in his pockets so he’d sink. Then I rinsed down the bloody deck with the freshwater hose while Kyle kept a steady eye on the other two. Tiger and bull sharks were prevalent in those waters, so I had no doubt that within twenty-four hours, there wouldn’t be much left of his corpse. Once I had my deck restored, I sprayed Baldy’s face with the cool water, waking him up. He looked around, wide-eyed.
“What the hell?” he said angrily, not fond of the manner in which I’d woken him up. He tugged at his hands and legs and realized that he was bound. Glancing at Shorty, who hadn’t made a sound since we’d duct-taped his mouth, he asked, “How did you guys let them best us? And where’s Blake?”
“He’s dead,” Kyle said, leaning against the sunbed and aiming Baldy’s Walther back at him. “And you guys are dead too if you don’t start talking.”
I expected Baldy to be silent, to keep information from us and protect it with his life like most trained professionals are taught to do. Instead, he spoke freely, as if we were having a chat over coffee.
“What could I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?” he said, shrugging.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “If you two don’t already know the answer to that question, then you’re incompetent.”
“Says the guy whose ass just got handed to him,” Kyle shot back.
I took in a deep breath, then let it out. Staring into Baldy’s eyes, I said, “Darkwater?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I thought they were security,” I said.
“Primarily, yes. But Darkwater doesn’t just handle private security,” he said. “There’s a branch that deals with tracking and taking down high-value targets. Quinn is a criminal, a traitor. And you’re helping him, so what does that make you?”
Kyle bent forward and pressed the muzzle of Baldy’s handgun into his forehead.
“You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, raising his voice and gritting his teeth. “You aren’t aware that the whole thing was a setup? That they were planning to murder sixteen Naval Special Forces personnel in order to spark a conflict that would benefit them financially?”
Baldy cleared his throat, then paused a moment, wanting to choose his words carefully. “I don’t know anything about that. You really think that they tell us big-picture stuff? I get a call, I complete a task, I get paid. That’s how it works.”
Kyle relaxed a little and brought the Walther back, leaving a red circle on the failed assassin’s forehead.
“What else do you know about us?” I asked.
Baldy’s eyes scanned over to me. “Nothing about you,” he said. “Though I wish I’d known something. Maybe I could’ve been ready for that sidekick.”
I couldn’t help but give a slight grin. The truth was that beyond the hand-to-hand combat I’d learned in the Navy, I hadn’t received extensive formal training in jiujitsu. I had my sparring sessions with Ange to thank for that.
“And all I know about you is what everyone has read,” he continued, looking back at Kyle. “That you disobeyed direct orders in the line of duty, and two Americans were killed because of it. That you tried to take over the plane while being moved to the States, but your plane went down, killing everyone aboard. Well… almost everyone, at least.”
I watched Kyle closely as the words came out of our captive’s mouth and could see the anger that they caused.
“What’s the code for your phone?” I asked, changing the subject.
“If I tell you, will you let us live?” he replied.
“You’ll tell us or we’ll blow your brains out right here!” Kyle barked.
He hesitated a moment, then said, “Four-three-six-two, but it’s a prepaid, mate. Haven’t had it for more than a day. Not sure how much help it will be.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” I said as Kyle grabbed the phone and keyed in the code.
He glanced up at me and nodded, indicating that he hadn’t lied to us.
“Alright,” I said, rising to my feet. “This guy has nothing else for us. Let’s get rid of them.”
Baldy’s expression shifted from nervous to enraged in the blink of an eye.
“You said you wouldn’t kill us,” he said.
Kyle turned back to face him, looking like he wanted to beat the crap out of the guy.
“Stop,” I said, placing a hand o
n Kyle’s shoulder. Facing Baldy, I added, “We never said that. Now shut the hell up and don’t move a muscle.”
Using the charts and satellite images, I found a location that would serve nicely and started up the twin 600s. I punched the throttles, sending us flying over the turquoise waters of the northern Bahamas, heading south. Twenty minutes later, a tiny speck of land appeared on the horizon. As we motored closer, the sorry excuse for an island took form, allowing us to see a small patch of rams horn bushes growing out of the sand just a few steps away from the crashing waves. The island couldn’t be larger than a basketball court, and that was with the ocean at mid-tide.
I killed the engines a few hundred feet from the shore.
“Alright, this is your stop,” I said, eyeing Baldy as I strode aft.
He looked over his shoulder at the island.
“You can’t be serious, mate,” he said.
“Of course I am,” I said, aiming my Sig at his chest and pulling him up to his feet. “An hour ago you were trying to kill us. You’re lucky we’re not putting bullets in your chest and feeding you to the sharks like your buddy.”
Kyle lifted Shorty to his feet, then ripped the tape from his face.
Breathing heavily, he spoke for the first time. “We’ll die anyway if you leave us here!”
We forced them to the swim platform, pushing them right up to the edge.
“Fishermen pass through these waters,” I said. “You guys probably won’t be there more than a day or two if you keep watchful eyes.”
“And if you are lucky enough to be found,” Kyle said, “you’d better get the hell out of the Caribbean. If you come after us again, I’ll kill you. Understand, mate?”
Without another word, Kyle and I performed a pair of front kicks, slamming our heels into their backs and sending their bodies tumbling forward and splashing into the shallow crystal-clear water. Their heads submerged for a second before they both planted their feet in the sand and straightened their upper bodies out of the water.
