Avenged in the Keys Read online

  MATTHEW RIEF

  AVENGED IN THE KEYS

  A LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURE

  FLORIDA KEYS ADVENTURE SERIES

  VOLUME 11

  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

  CONTENTS

  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

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  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

  Avenged in the Keys

  JASON WAKE NOVELS

  Caribbean Wake

  Join the Adventure!

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

  matthewrief.com

  Acknowledgements:

  My incredible editor, Eliza Dee (clioediting.com). This series would never have made it to eleven books were it not for her guidance, knowledge, and impeccable eye for detail. My manuscripts are returned coated in red every time, and would be a pain to read were it not for Eliza.

  My two talented, insightful, and perceptive proofreaders:

  Donna Rich ([email protected]), and Nancy Brown (redlineproofreading.com).

  ONE

  Jones Lagoon

  Upper Florida Keys

  John Ridley dipped the end of his paddle into the clear water and pulled, propelling his kayak through the calm lagoon. Attached to the right side of his twelve-foot orange sit-atop was a high-powered metal detector. It was secured in place by an intricate combination of bungee cords and a nylon belt, allowing John to scan over the shallows as he paddled.

  John was in his early seventies and had a lean build and tanned skin from decades spent under the tropical sun. He wore a pair of white swim trunks and a blue shirt with all the buttons undone, allowing it to blow freely in the soothing breeze. Around his waist he had a leather fanny pack that was cracked from age. He used it to store his finds.

  He wore a pair of vintage aviator sunglasses. They were the same style he’d worn while serving as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. A remnant of a way-back-when chapter of his life. A time and place long gone.

  He kept a steady eye on the detector’s LCD screen as he paddled slowly through the lagoon. He’d been metal detecting up and down the Florida Keys for the past twenty years. It was his daily ritual, a form of meditation, but also a source of primal excitement at the same time.

  You never know what you might find. What lost objects lie waiting and whispering just beneath your toes.

  It didn’t matter that the vast majority of what he’d found over the years was bottle caps, rusted old fishing hooks, or soda cans. It was the lure, the infinite possibility that made his heart stir every time he dug up a pile of sand.

  He lost himself in the gentle rhythmic paddling, observing the dinner-plate-sized coil at the end of the device’s stem. He listened carefully, and his mind anticipated the glorious high-pitched beeping sound.

  Though it was only eight in the morning, the air was already seventy degrees. The shallow water surrounding him was calm, the sky clear and big. He had the lagoon completely to himself. Closed in by tall, thick mangroves on all sides, he could’ve had the entire world to himself and it would’ve looked and felt the same. He relished the quiet, the peacefulness and serenity of it all.

  John watched as an anhinga wading near the shore snatched a fish, then gobbled it up. As he observed the bird partake in its morning meal, a beep resounded through the detector’s speaker. John blinked, then smiled. He stopped himself using the paddle’s blades, then grabbed a pole with a metal scoop attached to the end of it. He adjusted the detector to relocate the hit, then slid off the kayak into the waist-deep water and dug the scoop through the bottom. Lifting the scoop, he sifted out the sand and silt by shaking it back and forth. As the sand washed away, he spotted something resting in the bottom of the scoop.

  It was an oval-shaped object roughly the size of a can of sardines. But it was thinner and coated in a layer of green-and-black grime.

  John pulled the object out and examined it carefully. Judging by its appearance, he estimated that it had spent well over ten years beneath the waves.

  Rubbing a thumb over one of the object’s flat surfaces, he felt distinct ridges. There were engraved symbols. Letters. John was barely able to distinguish them despite the heavy level of corrosion.

  CS

  John’s heart thumped in his chest.

  As in, the Confederate States of America.

  His broad grin turned into a laugh and he gave a quick dance right there in the lagoon, like a prospector who’d just pulled a nugget from a river. He knew exactly what it was; he’d seen one just like it at a museum in Charleston years earlier. It was a Confederate soldier’s belt buckle.

  You never know what you might find. What lost objects lie waiting and whispering just beneath your toes.

  But one big question took control of his mind as the realization of what he’d found set in: how had a Confederate belt buckle ended up in that middle-of-nowhere lagoon in the Upper Florida Keys?

  Too excited to continue, he wrapped the artifact in a cloth, zipped it into his fanny pack, then climbed back onto his kayak. Wanting to get his find cleaned so that he could examine it properly, he marked the position where he’d found it on a map, then paddled out of the lagoon.

  He traveled four miles south to a marina in North Key Largo. It would’ve been difficult for most people, but John kept himself active enough to pull it off without having to stop for breaks. He was in good shape, and his excitement fueled him with energy.

  After sliding his kayak out of the water, he loaded it into the back of his old pickup truck and drove south to Key Largo. When he arrived at his simple mobile home in a row of hun
dreds that looked just like it, he quickly shut off the engine and ran inside with his find.

  John lived alone. He had a brother he hadn’t spoken to in over a year and two ex-wives he hadn’t spoken to for much longer than that. The only family he stayed in contact with was his niece who lived in Key West and worked as a journalist for the Keynoter.

  He set his find in a fish tank, then used electrolysis to clean off the corrosion. After two hours in the tank, he picked it out and washed it off.

  One of the things John loved most about prospecting was posting pictures of his finds on an online treasure hunters’ forum. The place was a haven for adventurers from all over the world. A gathering place for like-minded individuals. They were teachers, doctors, boat captains, and businessmen. Everyday people who shared a love for metal detecting and lost artifacts.

  He uploaded two pictures of the newly restored buckle, both front and back shots. Within minutes, comments began pouring in. The members verified that it was of course a Confederate belt buckle. But how said buckle had ended up in the Keys was anyone’s guess. As John had reasoned, the real secret lay in the initials carved into the back. Initials he’d only noticed after cleaning his find.

  W.S.

  He didn’t know who it was, but he vowed to find out.

  After spending the rest of the morning interacting with various interested parties around the world, he chatted with a few locals who wanted to come and see the find for themselves. Always eager to meet new people and talk treasure, John gave them his address and said that he was usually free in the evening.

  John also got in contact with his niece in Key West.

  Harper loves things like this. Hell, maybe she’ll even write a story about me in the paper.

  The afternoon passed by in a blur. John had been so enthralled by his find that, by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he forgot that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He cooked a frozen pizza, then turned on a baseball game. It was Florida’s new and not-so-improved Miami Marlins versus the Yankees. The Bronx Bombers were already up by three in the second inning, but he decided to watch it anyway as he ate piece after piece of hot, cheesy Red Baron.

  He swallowed a bite, washed it down with cold beer, then perked up when he heard the doorbell.

  That’ll be Harper.

  His niece had a passion for telling the stories, both old and new, of the island chain’s inhabitants. He was expecting that she’d be just as intrigued as he was.

  Turns out I was right.

  He bounded for the door with a big smile on his face, excited to show his niece the history he’d pulled from the sand that morning. But when he pulled open the door, it wasn’t his niece standing in the doorway. It was two men, both with stone cold expressions on their faces.

  The man closest to John was well-built, with wide-shoulders and a dark scraggly beard. The guy beside him was middle aged with a round belly and a bald head.

  The guy with the beard touched the grip of a handgun shoved into his waistband and said, “May we come in?”

  John fumbled backward into the living room as the two guys barged in without another word and slammed the door shut behind them. In his rushed steps, John knocked over his tray of food and nearly fell to the carpet beside the TV.

  “Where’s the buckle?” the man with the beard grunted.

  John froze, then slid a hand into his front pocket and pulled out the brass trinket. He handed it to the man, who looked it over briefly then pocketed the item.

  “Where did you find it?” he growled.

  John’s heart pounded, but he forced himself to remain calm and think through the situation as he stepped all the way back into the kitchen.

  “Just north of here,” he stammered. “Up in Jones Lagoon.”

  “Show me,” the man demanded, pulling out his phone and bringing up a map on the screen.

  With shaky hands, John showed the stranger the spot.

  “Who else knows?” baldy said, speaking for the first time.

  John blinked and shook his head. “No one I… I haven’t told anyone but you.”

  The man with the thick beard smiled and slid his handgun free. It was a suppressed Ruger .22. “Good.”

  The moment the word left his lips, the stranger’s smile turned sinister and he slowly raised the barrel. John’s jaw fell to the floor. He froze for a fraction of a second, then knew what he had to do. He was too far from the guy to make a break and try to take him down. But he had a pistol of his own stashed away in a hiding place on the counter at his back.

  John spun and bolted across the linoleum. He managed just two steps before a silenced round burst from the man’s weapon, striking John in the back. He grunted and twisted and fell hard to the floor. The bearded man closed the distance as John struggled for air. The stranger took aim again, and ended John’s life with a quick second pull of the trigger

  TWO

  Harper Ridley squeaked her Ford Bronco convertible to a stop along the curb and stepped out. Though in her late forties, she looked and moved like a much younger woman. She had long dark hair kept in a ponytail, glasses, a trim figure, and pale skin. A writer for the Keynoter for the past twenty years, Harper was always on the lookout for a good story. And her uncle assured her that this time, his find was the real deal.

  It was the photograph that had convinced her, and the deep curiosity it summoned.

  How had a Confederate belt buckle ended up in the Keys?

  The mystery puzzled her enough to get off work early and make the hundred-mile drive northeast, taking on the traffic of US-1.

  As she strode across an uneven cobblestone path, she noted that the front lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in a month. There were also patches of overgrown weeds gnawing at the walkway’s edges, and the planter boxes flanking the green front door were so crowded with growth that she couldn’t tell what had originally been planted.

  How many times do I have to remind him to take care of the place?

  The truth was she’d lost count. Her uncle Johnny was always metal detecting, or getting lost in a Cussler novel in his study, or watching a baseball game. He’d never cared for tasks like yard work.

  She picked out a silver key from the ring in her hand and slid it into the lock. She twisted, but there was no resistance. No sliding metal against metal.

  Uncle Johnny never leaves his door unlocked. Or at least that’s what he always tells me.

  She shrugged it off, removed the key, then twisted the knob and pushed. She figured he must’ve forgotten with all the excitement. After all, it had been a while since he’d found anything beyond quarters and bottle caps.

  She pocketed her keys and stepped through onto the shag carpet. The TV in the small living room was on, displaying a baseball game.

  Shutting the door behind her, she said, “Hey, Uncle, I thought you nev—”

  She turned around and froze as her eyes focused on the living room floor. There was a food tray on its side with an upside-down plate and a spilled beer bottle on the carpet.

  Harper froze, then crept toward the mess.

  “Uncle Johnny?” she said, her tone serious and her voice raised.

  There was no reply. No sound beside the game’s broadcaster spewing off random stats about the hitter shuffling into the box.

  She flicked off the TV and listened.

  “Hey, Johnny?” she said again, her voice laced with worry.

  She dropped her notebook, tiptoed over the spilled food, then dipped into the kitchen. The smell of cooked pizza filled her nostrils, along with something else. It was faint, but it smelled like sulfur, and charcoal.

  The second her shoes hit the linoleum, she spotted bare feet extending out from the edge of the cabinets. Another step and she saw John’s body lying facefirst in a puddle of blood.

  Harper gasped. She dropped down, placed her hands against her uncle’s motionless body, then forced him onto his back. His face was covered in a layer of deep red, his eyes shut and
his mouth open.

  Tears welled up in Harper’s eyes and she began to shake as she placed two fingers against his neck.

  No pulse.

  Given her occupation, she’d seen bodies before, but never family. And never by surprise.

  Her breathing frantic, she looked over his corpse. He had a bullet wound to his lower back and one to his neck. He’d been gunned down right there in his house.

  Looking around, she tried to piece together the story. Telling stories had been her job for most of her life. She couldn’t help it.

  The mess in the living room meant that most likely a scuffle had broken out. Or, perhaps her uncle had run for it.

  But why would he go into the kitchen?

  Then her blurry eyes scanned in front of her and she saw a row of cereal boxes on the counter beside the fridge. One of them, a box of Fruit Loops with a labeled expiration date from the early nineties, was empty. It was where he stashed his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. She remembered that from when she used to hang out with him when she was younger. She’d almost poured herself a bowl of alloy and polymer when he’d stopped her in the act.

  She looked back at John’s corpse and tried her best to compose herself.

  What the hell am I doing? I need to call 911. I need to…

  She clutched her phone, then froze as she heard a sound coming from down the hallway behind her. A slight creaking of floorboards. Footsteps. And they were getting louder.

  Harper glanced back at John, focusing on the part of his bloodied neck where she’d placed her fingers moments earlier. His body was still warm. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air.

  The killer is still here.

  Her heart hammered like an angry drummer. She sprang to her feet and lunged across the kitchen. The approaching steps grew louder as she grabbed the empty box of cereal with two shaky hands, reached inside, and gripped the silver revolver.