I pulled my extra Sig from the compartment, then covered my warrior wife as she stepped onto the Baia’s port gunwale and vaulted the gap to the upside-down pontoon boat. She sloshed across the hull between the two damaged metal tubes.
Jake, seeing her approach, grabbed a knife from his hip and struggled to his feet. I nearly put a round through his chest, but Ange beat me to it. In a flash, she kicked the blade free of his grasp, then threw him onto his back. He yelled and groaned and cursed her between struggled attempts for air.
The guy may have been considered tough in his own narrow-minded little circle, but he was no match for Ange. Even if he hadn’t been banged up bad from the crash, she’d have still handed him his ass on a platter without breaking a sweat.
The big guy leaned back and shook. He was dying, that much was clear. Blood poured out from his head and chest.
“Tell us where your buddy Deacon Lynch is hiding out and we’ll consider getting you some help,” Ange said.
Jake coughed and wheezed. “Screw… you…” he said.
Ange shrugged. “Remember, you attacked us. When someone touches a flame, it’s not the fire’s fault if they get burned.”
The white supremacist dropped his head back, gagged for a few seconds, then breathed his last. Ange jumped back onto the Baia, and the damaged pontoon boat soon took on too much water and sank to the bottom, joining the aluminum utility boat. We marked the location on our GPS, then accelerated away from the scene.
We motored back into the bay and dropped anchor in Sandwich Cove on the western shore of Elliot Key. We decided that we were in the clear following the encounter. The Aryan Order was unlikely to have more of their little troop out on the water. We downed a few shots of tequila to take the edge off, locked the saloon door, then switched on the security system and passed out in the main cabin.
We awoke naturally just after 0700 and ate a quick breakfast. While downing some poppy seed muffins from Blue Heaven Bakery, I called Jane Verona and then the Coast Guard station in Islamorada to let them know what had happened.
Neither Ange nor I cared for dealing with law enforcement, with all the red tape and protocols, but we understood that it was a necessary pain in the rear. Our democracy would quickly crumble without all the red tape and protocols, so we told them everything.
A Coast Guard patrol boat came out, along with detectives from the Homestead Police Department, and we showed them the scene where the two boats rested on the bottom. They were only in twelve feet of water, so bringing them up wouldn’t be difficult with the proper salvage equipment. They found one of the bodies, but the two others had vanished. Eaten by sharks, no doubt.
We spent over an hour with them, then motored southwest to the Coast Guard station in Islamorada and spent nearly another two hours talking to officers. They asked all the questions and checked all the boxes. Formalities. All of them knew what had happened to John Ridley. They also were very familiar with the Aryan Order. And most of them knew us.
It wasn’t exactly Ange’s and my first interaction with law enforcement in the Keys. We’d made a name for ourselves over the past few years, and they often joked that we should be put on the payroll. Needless to say, the evidence was all in our favor. We had clearly been attacked and had acted in self-defense. We were both free to go.
We walked out alongside Jane, who’d driven up from Key West to vouch for us and to help in any way she could.
“Any word on Lynch?” we asked her as we stepped out from the air-conditioned Coast Guard building and into the hot sun.
It was a quarter past noon. Following the rules had taken a while, but not as long as I’d expected.
“Nothing,” Jane said. “But what you two did the past few days was a major blow to his group. Perhaps even a crippling one. My guess is he’s running.”
We thanked her for making the trip, then asked her to keep us in the loop. Flip-flopping down the private government dock, we boarded the Baia and headed back to Key West.
“You don’t want to stop over at Queen Anne’s to drop her off for repairs?” Ange said. “I’m sure Nick would have a good laugh from seeing us again so soon.”
“Nah, I think we’re fine. There isn’t any damage beyond cosmetic. We can throw a blanket over the holes on the sunbed, and the one in the transom’s hard to spot unless you’re close.” I paused, then added, “Let’s give it a few more months. Might be more damage then.”
Ange laughed. “We keep this up for a few more years and we’re gonna finance an expansion at that boatyard.”
I cruised us out of Snake Creek, then kicked up to our cruising speed, heading home. Ange sat at the dinette beside me, seemingly lost in thought. After ten minutes of uncommon silence, I asked her what she was thinking.
“I’m just surprised is all,” she said. “Really surprised.”
She paused and I bit.
“About what?”
“That you don’t want to head back to Jones Lagoon and search for the Civil War gold.”
“You saw Lynch’s boys. They mowed that place back and forth with their mag all day. If something was there, they’d have found it.”
Ange fell quiet again, clearly not convinced. “It’s just out of character for you not to at least be curious,” she finally said with a wink.
“Oh, I am curious,” I said. I motored us around a few jet skis that were flying a
