Revenge in the Keys Read online

  As his hands grazed over the side of the torpedo, he spotted something unusual in the beam of his flashlight. It looked like a marking of some kind, but it was covered by grime and a cluster of barnacles and sea urchins. Grabbing his dive knife, he slid the sharpened steel blade carefully, scraping off decades of growth and muck and revealing a black symbol etched into the side of the torpedo. He gasped and his eyes grew wide. It looked like a skull and crossbones, and directly underneath the symbol were letters spelling out TOXISCH.

  Instinctively, he moved a few inches back from the torpedo. His German wasn’t great, but it didn’t take a linguist to realize what the word meant. After taking a few moments to search the torpedo and finding nothing else, he glanced at his pressure gauge. He had just north of four hundred PSI in his second tank, meaning that it was time to head back up.

  He rose slowly, breathing out the entire time to ensure that no air expanded dangerously in his lungs. During the entire ascent, he could think about nothing but the U-boat, and especially the mysterious torpedo.

  After he surfaced, climbed aboard the yacht and removed all his gear, he told Joseph to start up the engines. His mate had surfaced twenty minutes earlier in order to watch over the yacht and was sitting with one leg over the side and one planted on the deck.

  “We’re nuh a guh bring up di loot?” he asked.

  “We have no choice,” Owen replied, shrugging. “Damn thing’s stuck there.”

  “Wah bout dat ship? I’ve neva seen nuhting like dat before.”

  Owen patted himself down with a clean towel, then slid back into his tee shirt. “Let’s keep that between us.” He’d been thinking over a plan for the past half hour and had a pretty good idea of how he wanted to play it. “All we gotta do is get a boat with a crane. Doesn’t have to be a big one—just enough to get that box up. Once we have it, we’ll deliver it as planned, take down these drug runners, and then we’ll deal with the U-boat.”

  The young man thought it over a moment, then said, “U-boat, Captain?”

  As the two prepared to make way, pulling up the anchor, starting the engines and charting their course, Owen explained everything he knew about the Kriegsmarine and their impressive fleet of submarines. When everything was ready to go, they eased up on plane and cruised due southwest. Owen had an old Navy buddy in Varadero, Cuba, who owned a salvage business, making it the best option for getting a necessary rig quickly and without the usual hurdles of going through a bigger company. But before he headed there, Owen had a quick stop to make.

  Both he and his mate were up on the bridge, with Joseph manning the helm and Owen seated beside him, writing diligently on a half sheet of paper.

  “Wah dat, Captain?”

  “It’s a riddle.”

  “A riddle? Fi what?”

  Owen thought it over for a moment, then replied, “Insurance. Just in case.”

  Less than an hour later, they arrived at the location Owen had instructed him to head towards, roughly a quarter of a mile south of the Thunderbolt wreck. Once the engines were off and they’d dropped anchor, Owen folded the paper and enclosed it in a plastic waterproof box. He then donned his full scuba gear, slid the plastic box into a pouch in his BCD and secured the Velcro around it.

  “Isn’t dis a popular site?” Joseph asked as Owen stepped over the transom, sat on the swim platform and donned his fins.

  Owen smiled, “Not where I’m going.” Then, just before he dropped down, he added, “Keep a watchful eye. This will take a little while. If you see anything suspicious, let me know with the communicator.” He pointed to his forearm, where he had a small device strapped to his wetsuit. It had two buttons, one red and one yellow. Joseph had the same device, and if either of them pressed the red button, it meant that they needed help. The yellow meant “look at me”; either look up at the boat, or don a mask and look below, depending on who pressed it. It also required three rhythmic presses to work, so occasional accidental presses weren’t an issue. It was a device Owen had invented himself and had used for years while diving.

  Just under an hour later, Owen returned. He climbed aboard, and before he’d even slipped out of his BCD, he told Joseph to make waves for Varadero. Within a few minutes, he had the yacht up on plane and at her cruising speed of twenty-seven knots, heading south. Since it was three in the morning and neither of them had slept yet, Owen decided that they would take turns manning the helm so the other could get some shut-eye.

  He took the first watch and told Joseph he’d wake him up in two hours. It wouldn’t be a full night’s sleep, by any means, but it would be better than nothing. In four hours, they would reach Varadero, and Owen wanted them both awake and ready to meet his friend.

  As Joseph slept, Owen grabbed his backpack from the main cabin and headed up to the flybridge. He plopped down on the cushioned seat and kept a watchful eye on the horizon. Since most of the clouds had passed, he had a nice view of the moon and the stars above.

  Once he was sure that Joseph was passed out, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a brand-new Suunto Core digital dive watch. It was the same watch his son Logan always used, and he’d given it to Owen as a birthday present earlier that year. Owen was old-school and preferred analog. His son had tried to convince him of the benefits the watch had built in, but Owen could never part ways with his old watch.

  Holding the Suunto watch in his hands for a moment, he flipped it over, revealing a silver backing. He grabbed his dive knife, used the fine pointed tip to carve a few words into it, and then exchanged it with the silver Omega he was wearing.

  “He’ll figure it out,” he said to himself as he placed his analog dive watch in his backpack. “He’s smart.”

  He was confident that things would work out smoothly but knew from years of experience that it was always best to plan for the worst. The U-boat they’d found was remarkable, and Owen spent the rest of the two hours thinking about it and wondering what its story was. He also thought about the torpedo and wondered what kind of toxic contents the Nazis had loaded it up with.

  Two hours went by quickly and, after a brief discussion with his mate, Owen went down into the main cabin, fell onto the queen-sized bed and closed his eyes. What felt like only seconds later, he woke up to the sound of a high-pitched rhythmic ringing coming from his front pocket. Reaching into his pocket, he glanced at the front screen of his cell phone, realizing it had been an hour and a half since he’d collapsed, then answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Captain,” Joseph said, “wi get anotha boat approaching. Yuh might wa come up here.”

  He told his mate he’d be right up, then rolled out of bed and moved down the passageway, through the salon, and out the sliding glass door. Wondering who in the hell was bothering them now, he heard the loud roar of multiple large outboard engines approaching their position quickly. Stepping over to the port side, he saw two large Cigarette go-fast boats cruising through the water at over eighty knots.

  It was five in the morning, and the first hints of red sunlight were just starting to rise over the eastern horizon, sending a faint glow over the entire sky. Grabbing his monocular, Owen focused on the approaching boats and saw that they each had at least five men aboard, and a few of them had rifles in their hands.

  Without a word, Owen headed swiftly through the salon and into the main cabin. Kneeling on the starboard side of the bed, he pulled out the drawer, reached under the plywood and pulled out his MK23. After sliding it into the back of his waistband, he headed back up for the cockpit.

  The boats had cruised much closer, and Owen recognized one of the guys standing on the bow of the leading yacht. At six and a half feet tall and 250 pounds of muscle, the massive Hispanic body of Pedro Campos was unmistakable. But it was his short black Mohawk that differentiated him from his twin brother, Hector, who stood on the bow of the second boat and had a similar Goliath-like build. They were the two drug-running pirates Owen was working for in order to take down their entire operati
on from the inside. The plan had worked relatively smoothly—that was, until they’d had to wait in Miami longer than planned, then dump their haul into the ocean.

  The first boat pulled up along the starboard side of the yacht, and Pedro vaulted over both gunwales, causing the yacht to rock slightly as his massive frame hit the deck. He was followed instantly by two other thugs. Walking his massive frame over towards Owen, who was standing on the port side and staring at the men, he glared and pointed a large finger into Owen’s face.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he said, his face fuming with rage. He was wearing a skintight black tee shirt with jagged white edges radiating from the word Tapout in the center, a remnant from the days when he and his brother had been professional MMA fighters. He also wore a pair of faded blue jeans and black tactical boots, making him look even taller than he already was.

  “Get your finger out of my damn face,” Owen fired back. He’d dealt with asshole hotheads hundreds of times in his life and had never been one to back down easily.

  The giant of a man gritted his teeth and then dropped his hand. “You were supposed to have delivered the haul yesterday morning.”

  “He’s running,” Hector said as the second boat pulled alongside the port side. He snarled as he towered behind Owen, then spat a fat dip into the ocean. He looked almost identical to his twin brother except for his hair, which he kept short all over the top of his head, and a tattoo that ran all around his body, revealing itself up the sides of his neck. He was wearing a gray cutoff tee shirt and jeans.

  “Shut up,” Pedro said, eyeing his brother. Then, turning back to Owen, he said, “Are you running?”

  That struck a chord with Owen, and he stepped towards Pedro with his chest raised. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but I agreed to make this run and that’s what I’m gonna do. As far as the schedule goes, that all went to hell when your dumbass buyers in Miami let me idle for two days before bothering to make the exchange. You guys are lucky I stayed. If I’d wanted to run, I could have sold the coke myself and been lounging on an island on the other side of the world by now.”

  Pedro shook his head, then waved a hand in the air. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the loot, and we’re here now, so just hand it over and we’ll be straight.”

  After a brief moment of silence, Owen said, “It’s not here.” Pedro’s eyes grew massive and his mouth dropped open, revealing two gold teeth. But before the massive pirate could speak, Owen added, “We were tracked down and searched by Border Patrol and had no choice but to get rid of it all. If we hadn’t, they would have found everything.”

  “Hid it where?” Pedro asked, he was breathing heavily but trying to control his anger.

  “It’s safe,” Owen assured him. “We were heading to Cuba to get a salvage ship because it’s stuck at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Where is it? What are the coordinates?”

  “Listen to me. We can get the cash, gold, and the diamonds to you, all of it, and we can get it to you by late this evening. We just ne—”

  “Tell me the fucking coordinates!” he barked, getting into Owen’s face. The three other guys gripped their weapons tighter. “You had your chance, Mr. Dodge. And you took too long.”

  Part of him wanted to just tell them, but he could see in their eyes that they would probably put a bullet in his head anyway. And what about the German U-boat? If he told them where the loot was, they would find it for sure. And then what? Maybe they would find a way to use the biological weapon that the Nazis had tried so hard to use. No, he wouldn’t tell them anything.

  “Look, you hired us to do a job and we’re going to do it,” Owen said calmly.

  Pedro was visibly agitated. He thought over Owen’s words for a few seconds, then shook his head and said, “Show us the hiding place.” Then, turning to Joseph, he added, “Both of you.”

  Owen turned and moved confidently past the massive thug. As he opened the sliding glass door, Hector jumped aboard alongside his twin brother and the two followed him and Joseph inside. When they reached the main cabin, Owen bent down, moved the rug and opened the compartment. Joseph moved to the port side of the queen-sized bed, observing his captain.

  Pedro had to walk sideways to fit through the cabin door. He glanced down at the empty storage space, his brother moving along the starboard side and searching the cabin ahead of Owen. Two more thugs entered and stood between Pedro and Owen. The cabin was suddenly very crowded, and Owen could feel the tension building.

  When Pedro glanced back at Owen from the empty compartment, he had an uncharacteristic smile plastered over his face.

  “You know, you fooled us, Mr. Dodge.” Then sighing and shaking his head he added, “We thought you were the real deal.” Owen didn’t like where the conversation was going. Pedro took in a deep breath, then let it out. “And we hate to be made fools of. I have unfortunate news for you. You see, we met a few friends of yours yesterday. Mr. Briggs and Mr. Porter.”

  Owen’s blood began to boil at the mention of the two detectives whom he’d been working with from the beginning of the operation.

  “What did you do to them?”

  Pedro smiled. “Only what they deserved.” Owen’s mind raced. They had been his two points of contact, and he’d relied on them when making decisions. He also counted on them to vouch for his being undercover when the time came. “And now, it’s time to do the same to you.”

  In an instant, the two thugs standing beside Owen raised their weapons and forced him back. Pedro snatched the classic silver Colt revolver from his hip and aimed it at Owen.

  Owen felt a rush of adrenaline overtake him as the barrel stared him in the eyes. He would only have a split second to react, he thought as he felt the cold steel of his MK23 SOCOM pistol lodged in the back of his shorts, pressed against his back.

  “If we kill them, how will we find the money?” Hector asked, his powerful voice filled with worry.

  “Never mind that,” Pedro snarled. “We can use the GPS built into the yacht to see where they’ve been.”

  Pedro shot Owen an evil smile and thumbed back the hammer of his Colt. Owen felt time slow as the massive man narrowed his gaze.

  “Captain Dodge!” Joseph shouted, just as Pedro was starting to squeeze the trigger. In an instant, the young mate grabbed the shotgun from behind the port side of the bed and trained it at Pedro. But before he could take aim, Pedro shot him two times straight through the chest.

  As the shots were fired, Owen snatched his pistol, aimed it forward and fired off rounds into the thugs in a fraction of a second. Two of the guys went down, but as he moved his aim towards Pedro, he felt a sharp, powerful pain radiate from his back. The explosion of lead through his skin launched him forward and knocked the wind out of him, but he still managed to pull the trigger of his pistol one final time, sending a bullet streaking into Pedro’s side.

  As the massive man lurched sideways, Owen felt more sharp pains travel up his spine and heard the sound of automatic gunfire rattling inside the main cabin. Owen’s body collapsed forward, slamming hard onto the polished teak floorboards. The pain was consuming. Own couldn’t breathe or think. All he could do was watch, weak and helpless, as Hector walked around him and stood with an Uzi in his left hand.

  He grabbed Owen’s MK23, which had fallen to the deck, then helped his brother. As the room around him started to fade, he watched as Pedro and Hector stared down at his dying body. A moment later, they said something Owen couldn’t understand, then turned around and walked towards the salon. Glancing to his right, Owen saw Joseph lying motionless in a pool of blood. Dead.

  And he would be dead soon too, he thought. It was all over. He could feel the blood flowing out of him, could feel the bullets lodged in a trail up his back.

  But as he lay in a storm of unbearable pain, holding on desperately to his last few seconds of life, he felt a sudden surge of resolution. Opening his eyes and focusing them as best as he could, he craw
led on his hands and knees back along the starboard side of the bed. It was a slow and painful endeavor, and after what felt like an eternity, his arms gave out and his body collapsed against the teak floorboards.

  Rolling over onto his side, he pulled out the drawer and dislodged the piece of plywood. Then, he extended his left hand as far as he could and wrapped his fingers tightly around the grenade. Glancing back towards the door, he saw that they’d left it open about six inches.

  Summoning all the strength he had left, he turned around and inched his way towards the door. Every movement was painful, but he tried his best to keep his groans and breathing quiet. The last thing he needed was for the assholes to return and finish the job by putting a bullet in his head.

  When he reached the door, he brought the grenade to his chest, gritted his teeth and pulled the pin. With every ounce of strength he had left in his body, he shot-putted the grenade through the open doorway, causing it to rattle and roll down the passageway.

  Closing his eyes, he felt the last remnants of his life slip away as his head hit the deck. The sound of faint yelling followed by a loud, deck-shaking explosion were the last things that he heard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Key West, Florida

  October 2008

  “Logan, what happened?” Charles asked as I moved swiftly back towards my dinner table.

  I could barely hear him, though, as my mind raced, blocking out the world around me. All I could think about was the news I’d just received from a detective in Curacao: my dad’s gravesite had been desecrated. My blood boiled, but I kept myself calm as I walked along the side aisle of the main dining area of Latitudes Restaurant, weaving around a few formally dressed waiters and waitresses carrying trays of food.