Standing as tall as I could, I peered through my binoculars, homing in on the source of the sound. I caught a few glimpses of movement over the tops of the mangroves. Looked like a small skiff, no more than sixteen feet long, and it was chugging along slowly. I thought I saw the outlines of two people on board, but being so far away and with the obstructions, it was hard to tell for sure. They had to be at least a mile away.
After standing and observing for a few minutes, one thing was certain, though. Whoever they were, they were motoring back and forth in the lagoon. Searching for something, no doubt. Most likely dragging a sonar device or a magnetometer.
“What do you think?” Ange said, lowering her own pair of binoculars beside me.
“I say we paddle in for a closer look.”
TEN
I started up the Baia’s engines and continued south. There were two ways that I knew of into Jones Lagoon. The main opening between Totten and Little Totten Keys on the western side was the most popular. Then there was also a narrow slit in the mangroves that wound a little over half a mile from the south. We chose the latter and dropped anchor in ten feet of water on the edge of Old Rhodes Channel.
The opening into the mangroves was just fifty yards off our port side. After having a quick bite to eat and downing a bottle of water each, we each packed a waterproof bag. In addition to our masks, snorkels, freedive fins, weight belts, and dive knives, we also grabbed our dark green camouflage full-body wetsuits. Popping open the case of gadgets I’d received from Murph, I pulled out one of the trackers and stashed it in my pocket.
Once ready, we unlashed and climbed onto the kayak. I plopped down in the back, gripped my paddle, and looked over the Baia and surrounding area. Floating between the islands and hugging close to the shoreline of Old Rhodes Key, passing boats would have a hard time spotting her unless they entered the channel. Plus we’d armed the boat’s security system and linked the warning feature to our satellite phone in case we lost service. If anyone set foot on her, we’d know.
Turning the fourteen-foot plastic craft around, we paddled into the opening. Up ahead, we could hear the distant groan of the mysterious boat’s engine, signaling us like a beacon.
As the channel cut north, the rocky and sandy bottom turned dark in an instant. Thick seagrass covered the seafloor from shoreline to shoreline. The waterway widened, then closed in more and more with every pull of the paddles, at times creeping in and allowing just enough space for us to push through.
Soon, bright water up ahead signaled that we were nearing the lagoon. We forced our way through thick tangles of branches, then scanned across the shallow body of water. The mysterious boat was still far off, motoring back and forth on the opposite side of the lagoon. The craft peeked in and out of our line of sight due to the curves of the shore and jutting spits of foliage-infested land.
After waiting for the craft to disappear from view, we quickly paddled out of the channel, cutting across the lagoon and hugging the shore to keep hidden. Deciding that it was time to sneak up closer for a better view, we tied off the kayak between a thick outcropping of branches, then changed into our wetsuits.
Once the 3mm camouflage suits were on, we strapped our weight belts and dive knives, then donned our masks and fins. I also grabbed the tiny tracking device and slid it into my wetsuit pocket.
Breathing through our snorkels, we kicked along the shore, then tucked into the mangroves when the boat came into view. It was just a few hundred yards off and motoring toward us. Ange took a look-see with her monocular, then handed it to me. I slid down my dive mask and focused the lens.
“Two guys,” Ange said.
I spotted them. One sat at the stern, manning the tiller, and the other stood on the bow. They both looked young, maybe mid-twenties, and they had shaved heads and wore tank tops that allowed us to see their collections of tattoos.
Their boat looked like a river fishing skiff, with short gunwales. It had an old flat-bottomed aluminum hull and what looked like a 50-Hp outboard. As they motored closer, then turned around, I spotted a taut nylon rope that was tied off to the boat’s transom and dragging something through the water.
A distant high-pitched ringing sound filled the air. The skinny guy up front pulled a phone from his pocket, then barked at the pilot to stop and shut off the engine. Once the bigger guy manning the tiller complied, Skinny held the phone up to his ear.
They were roughly fifty yards off, but fortunately the guy practically yelled into the speaker, so we caught most of what he said.
“Nuthin’ yet,” he spat after answering.
He grabbed a rag and wiped his brow. The small boat didn’t have a Bimini top or any kind of shade. Both pale-skinned guys were coated in a glistening layer of sweat.
“Nah, no trouble,” Skinny said. “Just us and the sharks out here.”
He paused and listened again.
“Yeah, we’re right at the spot the old bag of bones told us he found the buckle.”
Skinny shook his head, then brushed his long hair off his face.
“We’ll find out soon enough. All right, later.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone in his torn-up denim shorts.
“When’s Jake coming?” said the chubby guy manning the tiller.
Skinny grabbed a soda from a cooler and popped the top. After downing the
