The moment our heads broke the surface, we heard the sound of gunfire echo across the water. It tipped us over the edge even more, knowing that the distant encounter was most likely involving our friends over by the anchored boats. We rose out of the pool and listened carefully. It wasn’t an automatic. It sounded like a pistol—9mm for sure. Most likely Jack’s trusty compact Desert Eagle.
The gunshots stopped and the sounds of the white supremacists’ boats drowned out on the northwestern horizon. Ange and I sloshed back to the site where we’d discovered the gold. There was nothing left in the hole aside from the empty chest that our enemies had broken to pieces in their failed attempts to pull the whole thing free. The gold bars were all gone.
We looked up as the sound of an outboard hummed over the lagoon. Jack and Pete were cruising straight for us, pushing the shallow-draft craft to its limits. Jack eased back on the throttle when he got close, then let momentum carry them nearly right up to us.
“You two all right?” Pete said, jumping out from the skiff and splashing toward us.
“We’re fine,” I said, waving him off.
We were scratched up all over from the branches and jutting limestone, but nothing serious. Besides, our adrenaline was pumping so hard that we didn’t even notice.
“I need my sat phone,” I added. I stormed toward the boat and reached inside.
“Already called the Guard,” Jack said. “And we managed to take down two of them, but the rest got away.”
Not for bloody long.
Pete splashed over to the hole and peeked into the empty chest.
“They took it all,” Ange said.
Pete shook his head. “It’s all right. The important thing is that we’re all okay. How did you two manage to get away from them?”
I climbed onto the boat and offered Ange a hand.
“We’ll tell you the whole story later,” I said. My blood was still boiling. “We’ve got a group of criminals on the run that we need to track down.”
Pete climbed back into the boat and Jack hit the gas, bouncing us across the body of water, winding through the mangroves, and making a beeline for our anchored boats. They dropped Ange and me off on the Baia, and Ange snatched a pair of binoculars and sprinted up onto the bow.
I quickly brought up the anchor with the windlass and Ange secured it in place. Jack jumped onto the deck behind me as I started up the twin 600-Hp engines.
“Pete’s gonna watch the Calypso,” he said.
He joined Ange on the bow, shielded his eyes from the sun, and searched for Lynch and his crew.
After scanning the horizon, Ange glanced over her shoulder.
“Looks like they’re heading into a canal just north of their marina,” Ange yelled. “They’re almost to it.”
“Come on!” I shouted.
They rapidly climbed around the windscreen and plopped down into the cockpit. Just as they held on, I shoved the throttles forward as far as they could go. The engines roared, the props accelerated, and the boat tilted back as we launched through the water. We held on tight as the bow rose high, then splashed down and leveled off. Wind whipped past us as the speedometer needle shot up to the Baia’s top speed of fifty knots.
We rocketed across Biscayne Bay. The mouth of the canal was eight miles from our starting point next to Totten Key, and we cut the distance in just under ten loud, blurry minutes. Jack had dropped down into the saloon with Atticus to calm the dog and keep the Guard updated. We caught a glimpse of a Jayhawk helicopter just as we entered the narrow channel and powered inland.
Less than half a mile up the channel, we hit the first of many bridges that connect the miles of interwoven trails that make up the Biscayne-Everglades Greenway. I slowed, and the Baia’s seven and a half feet were just short enough to make the clearance. Once through, I hit the gas again.
Jack stepped back topside and told us that he’d relayed Lynch’s most recent position to the Guard. We all kept our eyes peeled, hoping to spot a glimpse of our quarries. The problem was that there were miles and miles of canals crisscrossing all around the landscape. Jet skis don’t need much water to operate once on plane, and the tiny craft are nimble, able to fit into the smallest spaces.
We continued to search as I shot us west, heading farther and farther inland. But hope was dying away. We hadn’t spotted them since Ange had seen them enter into the channel over ten minutes earlier. We all knew that they could be anywhere by now. It was looking like a lost cause on our part, and then we had no choice but to stop our chase altogether. Just over two miles from the bay, we encountered a second bridge. I didn’t need to motor close to know that it was much too short for us to fit under.
Sliding back the throttle, I slowed us to an idle. Ange and Jack climbed back up onto the bow for a better look. They scanned the terrain, then lowered their binos. I killed the engine for a few seconds, hoping to hear the escaping boats, but it was quiet. There wasn’t a motor to be heard aside from a passing sedan heading over the bridge.
We watched as the Jayhawk flew back and forth, heading steadily
