We got in touch with local police as well as the Guard again. They notified us that an extensive search was underway, but no sign of the jet skis or Deacon Lynch and his men had been found.
I sat against the starboard gunwale and looked out over the canal.
How in the hell had this happened? And how in the hell had they managed to get away?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Just minutes after we shut off the Baia’s engines, a man wearing a hiking hat appeared on the shore, walking our direction from the west on the northern shoreline. He carried a fishing pole in one hand and a tackle box in the other. He froze when he saw our boat, then strode out onto the bridge and peered down at us.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said when he was within earshot of us. “I’ve never seen so much commotion before. You guys don’t look like drug runners, but be aware that I’ve got my Beretta locked and loaded if you try to make a move. I was in the Army.”
“We’re not drug runners,” Ange said from up on the bow. “We were chasing a group of criminals who stole from us and tried to kill us.”
The man paused. He set his tackle box on the road, then lowered his sunglasses as he leaned over the railing.
“Two jet skis and a skiff?” the guy said.
Ange glanced back and Jack and me.
“That’s right,” I said. I pointed skywards. “The Coasties are looking for them as well, and the police have been notified. You happen to see where they went?”
“Didn’t see, no. But after they zipped by and scared all the fish off, they turned a bend about a half mile farther up. Soon after that, their engines went silent.”
The words were still being uttered from his lips when I stepped for the saloon door and pulled it open.
“You’re not going anywhere without me, Dodge,” Ange said, reading my mind and following right on my heels.
Atticus, sensing the seriousness of the situation, sat on the deck and watched us patiently as we strode into the main cabin. We each grabbed a pair of socks and running shoes, then stormed back up to the deck. Seeing what we’d grabbed, Jack manned the helm, started the engines, put the throttle in reverse, and carefully backed us up to the northern shoreline. He got the swim platform within five feet of the rocky edge, and I gave him a thumbs-up. I pocketed my cellphone, then told my friend we’d be right back.
“Be careful,” he said as Ange and I made the leap to the shore.
The moment the soles of our shoes hit the rock, we jumped onto the dirt pathway running parallel to the canal and took off.
“Half a mile, you say?” I said to the fisherman as we sprang over the road.
“Give or take,” he said. “Hey, you want me to come with?”
He dropped his pole and tightened the strap of his hat. He was wearing flip-flops and baggy shorts.
We waved him off, told him to stay and direct the police when they arrived, then bolted nearly into a sprint.
Three minutes later, our hearts pounding and our breathing rushed, we reached a sharp bend in the canal. It turned into a short straightaway, then bowed back to the west up ahead. I stopped halfway, pressed my hands to my hips, and looked around.
“Oh, come on. Tired already, babe?” Ange said. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
I didn’t answer. The serious expression on my face as I stared at the nearby shoreline was all the reply she needed. She followed my gaze and strode alongside me toward the water, quickly realizing what I was staring at. There were boot prints in a small section of mud between two rocks. And there were hull marks left by boats being brought up onto the shore. Two of the hull marks continued farther up into the grass, then trailed off as the residual mud was wiped away. We followed the dry land wake of the boats. Broken twigs, slightly flattened grass, that kind of thing. They led inland twenty yards to tight rows of palm trees.
“Logan!” Ange said, pointing down one of the rows. Something white and shiny stuck out from the palm trees. We dashed toward it and saw two jet skis resting in a row and mostly covered in palm branches.
Jogging back to the shore, we stumbled upon a set of recent tire marks indicating that Lynch and his gang had motored off in a vehicle of some kind.
A police car arrived a few minutes later, followed closely by two more. They took over the scene and we told them everything we knew.
By the time we made it back to the Baia, it was just after 1100.
“Right back, huh?” Jack said, sitting on the sunbed on the Baia’s deck. He’d shut off the engine and dropped the anchor and had his laptop and cellphone out in front of him.
He raised the anchor, started her up, and eased back so we could climb aboard.
“I didn’t hear any gunshots,” he said. “No Lynch?”
“No. But we found their jet skis.”
We jumped onto the swim platform, then collapsed onto the half-moon cushioned seat around the dinette. It was over eighty degrees and our shirts were soaked with sweat. Jack grabbed two bottled waters from down in the galley and handed them to us.
“So, what do we do now?” he said as we quenched our thirst.
It was a good question. We’d all undergone one hell of an emotional roller coaster. One minute, we were pulling gold bars out of a bonafide buried treasure chest, and the
