Showdown in the Keys Read online

  MATTHEW RIEF

  SHOWDOWN IN THE KEYS

  A LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURE

  FLORIDA KEYS ADVENTURE SERIES

  VOLUME 10

  Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Rief

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  SHOWDOWN IN THE KEYS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE END

  About the Author

  LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURES

  Gold in the Keys

  Hunted in the Keys

  Revenge in the Keys

  Betrayed in the Keys

  Redemption in the Keys

  Corruption in the Keys

  Predator in the Keys

  Legend in the Keys

  Abducted in the Keys

  Showdown in the Keys

  Join the Adventure!

  Sign up for my newsletter to receive updates on upcoming books on my website:

  matthewrief.com

  ONE

  Off the Coast of Northwest Cuba

  August 2010

  The doomed aircraft soared through the night air, rocketing toward the surface of the ocean. In the cabin, Dante Salazar could only watch as his attacker escaped through the open door with a parachute strapped to his back, leaving him to die in the imminent fiery wreck.

  Dante lay on his chest against a row of seats. His left shin was shattered. It bled profusely, soaking his pant legs and spilling onto the floor. He’d been shot. Point-blank. He couldn’t feel anything but intense pain in his leg, and he couldn’t bear to move it.

  His mind was in a haze from the beating he’d just taken. His body was giving out. But he refused to give in.

  Anger took over. A strong animalistic desire for survival forced him to climb up the seat beside him. He shook and grunted and cursed. Putting all his weight onto his good leg, he hobbled forward.

  The cabin was dark and loud from the twin engines. One of the pilots lay on his side in the cockpit doorway. His white uniform had a red circle near the center. The other pilot was in the left cockpit seat, his body limp and hunched forward against the controls.

  The plane was angled dangerously downward, making it even more difficult for Dante to move. He yelled and forced himself to stay in control.

  Looking up, he saw an open overhead compartment. He reached inside and grabbed one of the remaining parachutes. His enemy had counted him out. Thought he was down for the count.

  As he slid the chute over his shoulders, the plane shifted and threw him off-balance. He slammed into the side of the bulkhead and tumbled to the floor, rolling twice before his upper body flew toward the open door. He just managed to catch himself before being completely thrown out of the plane.

  The howling Caribbean air slapped against his face. He struggled to breathe and think as he held on with everything he had. Peering through squinted eyes, he could see the dark ocean below. The whitecaps on the surface grew bigger and bigger. It would all be over soon, one way or another.

  He yelled and forced himself back into the plane, shuffling and struggling for every inch. When he made it back inside, he forced the chute into place, then shook as he worked the straps together. He cursed as one of the buckles wouldn’t connect. He jammed the two halves into each other as the plane rumbled out of the sky, but he couldn’t secure it.

  He looked over through the door. It was almost over; he needed to get off the plane.

  Knowing that it was do-or-die, Dante summoned every ounce of remaining strength and forced his body to flip backward. He rolled out the open door and into the windy chaotic evening air.

  He spun wildly and held on tight to the straps, hoping the chute would stay in place. He knew that he had to release the chute the moment he exited the plane. In the riotous heat of the moment, his right hand gripped the ripcord, and he jerked it down.

  The chute unfurled and caught the air, snapping him back and stopping his turbulent spinning in an instant. He held on tight, his muscles aching as he wrapped his arms around the only secured strap.

  Less than a second after he pulled the cord, his body splashed hard into the water. He hadn’t slowed fully. The whiplash from hitting the surface nearly knocked him out as he sank into a dark, bubbly haze. He grabbed at the water and pulled as hard as he could.

  He surfaced under the chute and struggled for air. Managing to force the slack nylon canopy off him, he unclipped the single strap and swam from the chute. He lay on his back, treading water and catching his breath. His body was broken and bleeding, but the adrenaline of the incident quelled his agony for the moment.

  He looked to the northwest and watched as the plane fell from the sky two miles away from him, crashing into the ocean in a mass of bursting metal and bright, blazing flames. The explosion shook the quiet evening air and lit up the dark sky.

  It was his plane. His means of escape from Cuba and the people who’d brought his sex-trafficking operation to ruin.

  He forced himself to breathe and to ignore the returning pain. He looked around. He was fifteen miles off the coast of Cuba. There was nothing to see there—just never-ending ocean in all directions. The only disparity to the flatness surrounding him was the smoking wreckage of his plane. It was a grim reminder of his failure and all that he’d lost.

  There was nothing that he could do but wait.

  Using torn pieces of his shirt, he tied a makeshift tourniquet around his leg to stop the bleeding as best he could. It would merely prolong his life. Maybe a few hours, then he’d bleed to death.

  That is if the sharks don’t get to me first.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. After a few calming breaths, he opened them and looked up at the stars to try and take his mind off his present circumstances.

  After half an hour, he accepted his fate, feeling death knocking at his door. After nearly an hour, however, he heard a faint groaning sound in the distance. His eyes sprang open. It was mechanical—the sound of an engine.

  At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Then he saw it: a boat motoring toward him from the northeast. It was minuscule at first—a dark blip on the horizon.

  He yelled and thrashed
his arms wildly as it motored close. His energy was spent, his consciousness fading. He blocked his face as a blinding light shone from the deck of the boat.

  A man called out, then the boat shifted course. Dante saw only a confusing blur as two wiry arms pulled him up out of the water and set him onto the deck of an old fishing boat. The two men carried him into the pilothouse and dressed his wounds.

  When Dante awoke, he had a bandage around his leg. He forced himself up onto his elbows on a worn bench beside a table full of papers and charts. Across from him was a small kitchen. There was a doorway on one side and a set of stairs on the other.

  He heard footsteps, then two fishermen appeared. Both men were strong and lean Cubans. One was older and weathered from years out on the water. The other, who Dante found out was the man’s son, looked barely in his twenties.

  The older introduced himself as Ernesto. His son was Javier.

  “We’re pulling into Arroyos,” Ernesto said in Spanish. “We can help you get to the hospital.”

  Dante shook his head. He couldn’t go to the hospital. He couldn’t go anywhere in Cuba. He’d be scooped up and tossed into prison for life if he went back. Or worse.

  “I need to go to Mexico.” Dante forced himself up into a seated position.

  Javier stepped over and said, “You need to take it easy and rest.”

  “No.” Dante pushed away the young man’s hand and looked up at Ernesto, his eyes focused. “I need to go to Chiquila in the Northern Yucatan.” He reached into his wet pocket and pulled out a roll of dripping Cuban convertible pesos. “There are fifty hundred-peso bills here. I will give you twice as much more once we reach Chiquila.”

  Chiquila was a small fishing and ferry port town just thirty miles northwest of Cancun in Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula. Dante had friends there. They could help him get a new passport and drive him down to one of the gang’s outposts in a remote area of Belize, where his remaining gang members could help him recover and rebuild all that had been taken from him.

  The older man paused and thought over the offer. As a private fisherman who sold primarily to local markets in Cuba, the five thousand convertible pesos alone was five times what he made in a year. He stroked his chin, then looked deep into Dante’s eyes.

  “Whoever you are, whatever you did, they will come after you, no?” Ernesto said. “And when they do, we will pay for taking you.”

  Dante held the man’s gaze. “Nobody will look for me. My plane crashed. No survivors. People don’t look for those who are dead.”

  The old fisherman stood stoically for a few seconds.

  “It’s a lot of money, Father,” Javier said. “More than enough to pay off our debts. And to give Mother the care she needs.”

  Ernesto thought about his wife. After she’d developed a rare bone degenerative disease, her health had been steadily declining. And while the government paid for healthcare, it didn’t cover things to make their house more suitable for her condition.

  Ernesto nodded. He took a step toward Dante and extended his right hand.

  “We will take you to Chiquila,” he said. “And we will keep you hidden until then. You have my word.”

  Dante narrowed his gaze, then handed the older man the stack of bills. The two fishermen strode up into the cockpit.

  They refueled the boat in the small fishing town of Arroyos de Mantua, then spent an entire day motoring along the northern edge of Cuba and then completing the jump west to Mexico, a total distance of over two hundred miles.

  Under the dead of night on the following day, Ernesto informed Dante that they were less than ten miles from Chiquila. Hobbling out onto the main deck, Dante looked out over the water and listened as the engine chugged them toward his salvation.

  He was eager to meet with his comrades, but first, he had a few loose ends he needed to deal with. His eyes scanned around the deck, resting on a metal worktable beside him. It was clean, aside from a few old fishing hooks stabbed into a flat piece of cork.

  That will do nicely.

  He smiled, struggled toward the table, and pulled the largest hook free. It was rusted but still sharp. He hid it under his shirt, then stepped back toward the door into the cockpit. Just as he moved back inside, he heard Javier call out from down in the galley.

  “The food’s ready, Dante,” he said.

  Ernesto appeared, stepping up into the cockpit. “Come eat,” he said.

  Dante winced dramatically and lurched forward. Ernesto stepped closer and extended a hand.

  “Easy. I will help you.”

  Just as Ernesto reached him, Dante snatched his wrist, jerked his upper body down, and buried the large rusty fishing hook into the man’s neck. The Cuban gang leader pulled the man in close, pressing his face against his chest so he couldn’t make a sound.

  After a few attempts to break free, Ernesto went motionless. Dante released his grip, letting the fisherman fall to the deck. The fishing hook was still lodged in his throat and blood pooled around him.

  Covered in Ernesto’s blood, Dante staggered down into the galley using a makeshift crutch. He made his way over beside Javier, who was standing over a pot of steaming snapper fish stew.

  Dante moved right beside him and leaned his head over the pot. “Smells good,” he said.

  His right hand gravitated slowly to the handle of a dirty kitchen knife Javier had used to chop the vegetables.

  “It’s a—” Javier began to respond, then froze as his eyes focused on Dante’s blood-soaked shirt. “Shit, are you alri—”

  With the young man focused on the blood, Dante grabbed the knife and stabbed it into Javier’s chest. The sharp blade cut deep, and Javier shook before collapsing to the deck. His life was gone in just a few painful seconds.

  He took a final look at the dead young man, then shrugged it off, filled a bowl with stew, and moved up into the cockpit. He took a bite while looking through the faded windshield.

  Tastes good too.

  The two murders were brutal, even by his standards. But they were necessary losses. And they were humane compared to what he planned to do to the man who’d put him in this desperate situation. The man who’d taken down his operation and nearly killed him.

  He took another bite, then focused his gaze through the glass, looking over the bow. A dark stretch of land appeared on the horizon.

  He’d rendezvous with his remaining comrades. He’d heal and bounce back. Then he’d exact his revenge.

  Logan Dodge. The name burned hot in his mind. You’re a dead man.

  TWO

  Key West, Florida

  Six Months Later

  I woke to my phone buzzing on the nightstand beside me. After quickly silencing it, I kissed my wife on the forehead, then slid out of bed. It was 0400. Still dark outside, and would be for a couple of hours.

  I looked out through our partly open window, relishing the tropical breeze blowing against my face. I grabbed my phone along with my Sig Sauer P226 handgun, then pressed my bare feet to the teak floor and stood up, quietly stepping out onto the second-story porch.

  I’ve always been an early riser. I enjoy the quiet and serenity of the early morning. It’s a time when I can think, plan out the day ahead, and get in a good workout. I’ve found that people rarely fight for your time at four in the morning.

  I stepped up to the railing and stretched while looking out over our dark backyard and the channel beyond it. The air was warm and crisp. There was a strong breeze blowing in from the north, rustling the palm fronds and creating small whitecaps out over the narrow body of water.

  It had been nearly three years since I’d returned to live in Key West after a hiatus of over seventeen years. Of all the places I’d lived, the Florida archipelago was the only place that felt like home.

  I looked out over my dark tropical paradise and smiled as I remembered what day it was. It always came so fast, and the speed only seemed to increase with every passing year.

  Thirty-four.

  I
didn’t feel any different. A little stiffer, maybe.

  I continued to stretch, then closed my eyes and mentally planned out my workout for the day. It was a habit I’d formed while serving in the Navy’s Special Forces. And though I’d been out of the military for eight years and I didn’t technically have a job, it’s a habit I’d maintained.

  I took in a deep breath, then dropped onto my hands and busted out a set of forty push-ups. Just enough to get my blood pumping, to keep myself from collapsing back into my warm bed. An object in motion stays in motion, and human bodies are no different.

  I rose to my feet, invigorated and ready to roll. With my morning workout plan in my head, I turned and headed along the front of the stilt house.

  As I moved along the wraparound porch, I heard a car pulling into our driveway. Rubber tires crunched over the seashells as my phone vibrated to life in my shorts pocket. It was my security system alerting me that someone was paying me a visit.

  In the years since I’d bought the house, I’d never had a visitor so early in the morning. I was one of the few early risers in the tropical community. Most lived on island time.

  I grabbed my Sig and moved toward the left side of the house. Gripping my weapon with both hands, I peered around the edge.

  I relaxed as my eyes focused on a familiar blue Jeep Wrangler. I smiled, let out a sigh, then lowered my Sig.

  Nothing to worry about. Just a crazy conch.

  “Easy, bro,” Jack said. He stood up on the driver’s seat and held up a hand. “I don’t feel like getting shot today.”

  I slid my Sig into my waistband as he cut the headlights, killed the engine, and hopped out. The moment his flip-flops hit the crunched shells, my yellow Lab, Atticus, bounded from the backseat and hightailed it across the driveway. In a blink, he was up the stairs and jumping with reckless abandon into my arms.

  He nearly knocked me over, and I laughed as I petted him.

  “It’s good to see you too, boy,” I said. His tail wagged so hard that he nearly broke the mahogany balusters beside us. He licked my face, and I added, “I know, it’s been forever.”