Predator in the Keys Read online

  MATTHEW RIEF

  PREDATOR IN THE KEYS

  A LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURE

  FLORIDA KEYS ADVENTURE SERIES

  VOLUME 7

  Copyright © 2019 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

  PREDATOR IN THE KEYS

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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

  THE END

  About the Author

  Logan Dodge Adventures

  Gold in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 1)

  Hunted in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 2)

  Revenge in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 3)

  Betrayed in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 4)

  Redemption in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 5)

  Corruption in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 6)

  Predator in the Keys

  (Florida Keys Adventure Series Book 7)

  If you’re interested in receiving my newsletter for updates on my upcoming books, you can sign up on my website:

  matthewrief.com

  PROLOGUE

  Gulf of Mexico

  1999

  The low-profile go-fast boat raced across the water, leaving a long trail of bubbles in its moonlit wake. It appeared in a noisy blur, then vanished into the dark horizon. There one moment and gone the next. Like the passing of a low-flying fighter jet.

  Below deck, a middle-aged man with dark skin and midnight-black hair stood hunched over the helm. A wiry young man sat beside him, staring at a small panel of screens. The control space was just big enough for two. The sleek, narrow-hulled craft had been custom designed with two major purposes in mind: speed and stealth. Comfort wasn’t a priority. The stern was for the engines and fuel, and the bow was for their cargo. What space remained for the cockpit was barely larger than a phone booth.

  Both men were sweating profusely in the hot, cramped space. The sounds of the engines were loud, making it difficult to think, let alone communicate. Both men were feeling the tension, the weight of the entire operation resting on their shoulders.

  The middle-aged man reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter. He flipped it over and read the words mi amor handwritten on the back. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked down.

  He’d never meant to lead the life he was living. Growing up in rural Panama, he’d been raised to be a coffee farmer. His parents had been killed by gang violence when he was young, and a life of crime had become his only means of survival. But this was it, he told himself. One final run; one last push into harm’s way. Once it was over, he’d take his cut, return to his family and run away with them. He’d given the narcos twenty years of his life. He’d give them no more.

  “Rodrigo!” the young man said suddenly over the loud rumbling engines. “There is an aircraft flying toward us.”

  The experienced drug runner leaned over the young man’s shoulder and peered at the radar screen. The echo was moving fast and was only five miles north of their current position.

  He squeezed his sweaty hands, tightening them into strong fists.

  They’d already had to change plans thanks to a Coast Guard patrol boat blocking their approach to Miami. Rodrigo knew there was no way that they could motor past a Jayhawk helicopter without being seen. It was possible that it wasn’t military, but the chances were slim. It was 0300. Not exactly a popular time for private pilots to fly about in the Gulf.

  Rodrigo glanced at the speedometer. The row of six 250-hp engines were rocketing them across the water at eighty knots, a daredevilish speed for a boat. He gazed at the fuel gauge and shook his head. The indicator was getting dangerously low. The boat had been throttling at full speed since leaving the Northern Yucatan nearly four hours earlier. Since that time, the engines had guzzled down more than five hundred gallons of fuel. They were running out of time.

  Rodrigo grabbed his chart, hoping for some kind of miracle. He could hear the beeping echo as it came closer and closer. With the clock ticking down, he examined the nearby geography and quickly made a decision.

  Grabbing the throttles, he eased back, bringing their speed all the way down to thirty knots.

  “What are you doing, Rodrigo?” the young man said.

  By way of an answer, Rodrigo turned the helm to the right, putting them on an easterly course.

  “We’re going upriver, Samar,” he said. “Shark River,” he added, reading the label on the chart.

  They had no choice but to hide. Turning back out into the Gulf would be suicide. They’d be sitting ducks in a matter of minutes when their fuel ran out. No, their only hope would be to hide and make contact with their people in the States in order to orchestrate their recovery.

  Rodrigo kept a sharp eye on their speed and depth. He pushed open the hatch and breathed in the fresh ocean air. Popping his head out, he navigated the sleek craft through the mouth of the river, keeping a sharp eye out for land and other boats. The drug-running craft rode low in the water, the topside having less than a foot of freeboard above the waterline.

  A few miles up the tangle of waterways, he idled the engines and waited, their eyes locked on the passing echo. They both held their breath, and sweat coated their brows. They watched as the chopper skirted the edges of their radar. Both men let out a sigh of relief as the aircraft flew by, keeping to a straight course without deviating in their direction.

  Rodrigo smiled, but only for a brief moment. He glanced over at the fuel gauge and shook his head. He didn’t need to perform a calculation to know that they didn’t have enough fuel to reach their new drop-off location near Chokoloskee Bay. If they tried to go for it, he knew that the engines would sputter, die off, and leave them stranded in the Gulf.

  “What are we going to do now?” Samar asked apprehensively.

  Rodrigo grabbed the chart again and examined it under the dim cockpit lights. He spotted an out-of-the-way inlet a quarter of a mile farther upriver. Rising up into the night air for a better view, he eased forward on the throttles and navigated the craft to their destination. When they reached the inlet, it was exactly how he’d hoped it would be: empty, quiet, and dark.

  He killed the engines, and Samar tied them off to a few thick branches on the shore. It was humid and there were bugs everywhere, so they stayed inside and power
ed on a small portable fan. Rodrigo leaned back to get some sleep, but his mind wouldn’t allow it. He checked his phone again—still no signal. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere.

  He looked forward at a small wooden compartment door behind Samar. They had over a thousand pounds of cocaine loaded up into that boat. At the going rate of seventy-five dollars per gram, that meant well over thirty million dollars’ worth of product. But the white powder was worthless if they couldn’t exchange it with their boys in the States.

  After two hours of sitting quietly in the dark, trying to get ahold of the buyers on his phone, Rodrigo heard the distant humming of an engine. The two sat quietly and listened as the unwelcome sound grew louder and louder.

  ~~~

  “Why are we stopping?” the man grunted.

  He looked over his shoulder at the guy piloting the airboat.

  “I see something,” the man seated at the controls replied.

  Both men were big and bulky. The pilot was bald; the guy up front had short black hair and burn scars covering much of his face. They were both dressed from head to toe in camouflage, and their faces were covered in dark paint.

  Baldy strode over to the starboard gunwale for a better look. He was a hard, rough man, just like his companion. Down a narrow channel to his right, he spotted an object against the shore. It was big and dark. It just barely rose out of the water. Looked like a large floating log. But logs don’t have engines, and this thing had a whole row of them clamped down to its stern.

  “Holy shit,” Baldy said.

  He took a deep drag from the Marlboro in his mouth, then exhaled the smoke.

  “You know what that is, Jeb?” he continued. “It’s a smuggling boat. I saw a picture once. Drug runners down in South America use them to bring illegal shit into the states.”

  The big guy with the burn scars looked over at the strange-looking boat and shrugged.

  “So what? It don’t affect us none. Let’s get a move on.”

  “You don’t got a lick of sense, do ya?” Baldy snarled. “We stumble on a fucking gold mine and you wanna tuck tail and run. The hell’s the matter with you?”

  The guys had been living off the grid and away from the eyes of the law as best they could for a few years. With their finances running low, they were in dire need of cash.

  “Screw you, Buck,” Jeb replied. “We don’t even know if there’s anything aboard.”

  Buck paused. A dark, sinister smile appeared on his face.

  “Yeah, well, there’s one way we can damn sure find out.”

  He snatched the silver Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband and aimed it at the barely visible boat.

  “We’re going over there.”

  He sat back at the controls, started up the big engine, and accelerated them over toward the boat. Stealth wasn’t an option in an airboat. If there were people still aboard, they’d have already heard them. So Buck had his revolver ready and Jeb had an arrow nocked and ready to draw back in his compound hunting bow.

  Buck killed the engine when they were fifty feet away, letting them drift the remaining distance.

  “It looks abandoned,” Jeb said. “Been here for God knows how long.”

  Buck shook his head.

  “You idiot,” he said. “Look at the paint. Look at the damn hull. No corrosion. This shit’s new.”

  The two guys froze as they heard a sound coming from the stern of the boat. They both raised their weapons and watched as the rear hatch hinged open. Suddenly, Rodrigo’s head popped out. He stared at the two intruders for a few seconds, his right hand gripping his custom Beretta M9.

  “You lost or sumthin’?” Buck said, breaking the short, tension-filled silence.

  Rodrigo didn’t speak for a few seconds. He analyzed the two big guys, trying to figure out what kind of men they were.

  “You know, if ya lost, we can help you,” Buck continued. “Get you wherever it is you’re lookin’ to go.”

  Rodrigo eyed the guy skeptically. He got a bad vibe from them but wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with options.

  “Why would you help us?” Rodrigo said.

  Buck raised his eyebrows slightly and gave a strange smile that put his nasty yellow teeth on full display. “Could be… mutually beneficial.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ll help you for a price.”

  Rodrigo shrugged. “We don’t have money.”

  “No?” Buck said. “Well, you’ve got sumthin’ on that boat of yours.”

  Rodrigo looked out over the water.

  “We’ll give you a pound for fuel,” he said. “That’s worth over thirty thousand dollars.”

  Buck laughed and shook his head. He exchanged glances with Jeb, then said, “We’ll be needin’ half of whatever you got in there.”

  Half? Rodrigo thought.

  The idea was ridiculous. But he figured that they could off the two rednecks once they delivered the fuel they needed.

  “Fine,” Rodrigo said. “We need fuel. You deliver it to us here and we’ll give you half.”

  Buck smiled. “Deal.”

  Rodrigo stepped out onto the deck with Samar right behind him. Holstering his Beretta, he stepped toward the airboat.

  “On second thought,” Buck said, stepping from the bow of the airboat onto the flat deck of the go-fast boat, “we’ll be requiring the payment up front.”

  Rodrigo shifted his position. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable, not liking the turn their conversation had taken. He looked back and forth between the two guys. Buck was just a few feet in front of him, his massive frame towering over his own.

  Seeing the sinister look on both of their faces, Rodrigo quickly drew his weapon. But he wasn’t fast enough. Before he could level the cannon, a loud boom shook the sleepy night air as Buck raised his revolver and pulled the trigger.

  Rodrigo’s head and arms snapped forward as the .45-caliber hollow-point tore into his chest at over a thousand feet per second. The lead round mushroomed, flattening and blasting a hole out his back six inches wide. The momentum from the blow launched his body backward. Blood, cartilage, and shreds of his shirt flew out. His body tumbled over the side and he was dead before he splashed into the murky water.

  Samar stood frozen in shock for a moment. He stared down at the mangled, motionless body of his friend and mentor. His heart raced, his eyes snapped up, and he gave out a shrill cry.

  A moment later, he lunged toward Buck with reckless abandon. The big guy smacked him across the face with the back of his hand, then shattered his left knee with a powerful kick of his boot. Samar fell hard to the mud and wailed in pain as he wrapped his hands around his broken joint. He tried to stand but couldn’t. The pain was too intense.

  “Shut that bitch up,” Jeb said, jumping onto the go-fast boat alongside Buck.

  Buck raised his revolver and pulled the trigger. The round blew Samar’s face apart and blasted a massive hole out the back of his skull. He flew back and splashed into the water beside his mentor. Both big guys stood over the bodies, unfazed and unaffected.

  “Let’s get this shit loaded up,” Buck said as he crawled down into the cockpit.

  The bulky guys barely fit inside, having to shuffle sideways in order to reach a wooden door at the bulkhead. Breaking it open, Buck shined his flashlight inside. There were stacks of sealed plastic-wrapped packages rising from the deck all the way to the overhead. The entire space forward of the cockpit was filled with the illegal drug.

  Buck froze for a moment. His mouth dropped open and he looked back at his companion.

  “Holy mother of coke,” Jeb said. “There’s gotta be hundreds of pounds here.”

  Buck nodded and smiled. They went to work, creating a small assembly line. Buck hauled it up onto the deck while Jeb threw it into their airboat and stacked it. After half an hour, their boat was full and they’d barely made a dent in the haul.

  As they were about to get the hell out of there, Jeb suggested that they cut the b
oat loose.

  “All I’m saying is, when these druggies find out their products gone missin’, they’re gonna come lookin’ for it. So I say we—”

  “We send this thing packing downriver,” Buck finished his sentence. “And we throw some of the coke into the water for good measure. They’ll be real confused then.”

  “What about these two?” Jeb motioned toward the two dead guys floating facedown in the water.

  “That’s the beauty of livin’ in the Glades. Got natural crime scene cleanup crews ready to go. I’ll wager the gators will take them away before the sun’s up.”

  Jeb laughed. “Wait till Dale sees what we got. Beats the hell outta just a hog.”

  They cut the lines, motored the drug-running boat out into the main section of Shark River, and let her go. The current was slower than molasses, but after a few days, she’d reach the Gulf. The two guys wagered that she’d be found much earlier than that and there’d be a big story. Meanwhile, they’d be long gone.

  Buck sat back in the control seat and punched the throttles. In just a few short seconds, they were flying across the water, vanishing into the dark depths of the Glades.

  ONE

  Everglades National Park

  August 2009

  “There it is!” George exclaimed as he stared through his binoculars.

  He pointed up ahead. About half a mile away from them was a small skiff tied off to a shore of mangroves. Their skiff.

  “Oh, thank God,” Rachel replied. She bent down to catch her breath and wiped a layer of sweat from her brow. “I thought we’d never find it.”

  Birdwatching was a favorite pastime of theirs, and they’d been swept up in the beauty and diversity that the Glades offered. It was understandable, considering that the unique landscape was home to over three hundred and sixty species of birds. The pair had ventured a little too far out into the swamps and had gotten lost.