BACKWATER CARTEL

KURT HUNTER MYSTERIES

STEVEN BECKER

THE WHITE MARLIN PRESS LLC

Copyright © 2025 by Steven Becker

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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.

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1

As I watched the huddle of humans around Mariposa’s desk through the glass doors, I wondered if every other boss just back from vacation feels like they have missed something. More than a few might become paranoid about their employees meeting in this manner. Some would call it a case of the mice at play while the cat was away. That usually wasn’t an issue with my team, though. Just back from the Virgin Islands, I was ready to see what had gone on in my absence. One big change I’d noticed on the walk past the docks on the way into the headquarters building for Biscayne National Park was that the ICE Midnight Express run by Johnny Wells had been replaced at the dock by a forty-odd-foot FWC patrol boat.

Our team wasn't great at keeping in touch, but with Wayne Dumont in charge during my absence, there was nothing to worry about. We saw the park through different lenses, but that wasn’t a bad thing. His police background had taught him to sniff out trouble with the nose of a bloodhound. My approach was more about stumbling across something—usually when I was fishing. In too many cases, the deed had already been done, resulting in a floater, the term for a dead body. I was the investigator, he was the cop, and he was the person I trusted in my absence.

Biscayne National Park has a unique set of challenges. Miami’s skyline, clearly visible from the northern end of the park, was a constant reminder that we were just downstream of a major metropolitan area that had a tendency to dump its trash here. As Special Agent in Charge, it was my job to protect the park from those who, though they often didn’t mean to or did so out of ignorance, harmed one of our nation’s treasures.

The conversation between Mariposa, our receptionist and media director; Sam, our tech wizard; and Wayne, our policeman, was getting heated. My curiosity got the best of me, and I pushed through the doors. The conversation stopped as three sets of eyes turned to me.

“What are you doing back? Thought you were going to take some vacation time down there?” Mariposa asked.

Her tone wasn’t accusatory. Justine, my wife and an ace forensic analyst for the Miami-Dade Police Department, and I had gone down on the business of a murder that had occurred in the Virgin Islands National Park.

What had started as a simple murder investigation uncovered a drug ring and ended with a treasure hunt, the latter with our friend Mac Travis. The trip had been like being part of an action-adventure movie, with Justine discovering a horde of gold coins at the end. Trading the paradise we lived in for a visit to another only served to remind us of how special our park was. The Virgin Islands were a beautiful place, but unless you knew the off-the-beaten-path spots, it was just another overcrowded tourist destination. No beach or excursion was going to change that, so we’d decided to head back.

I ignored the question. “What are you all getting on about?”

There was no reason to think I had to moderate the discussion, but our morning huddles were rarely as animated as I had glimpsed through the door.

Wayne was the first to answer. “Trying to figure out what to do with these characters we caught staging crimes and then filming them.”

This sounded like it was clearly in Wayne’s court. Murder cases, which I mainly handled, are not usually easy, but they are straightforward. There’s a victim and a perp. Motive, opportunity, and means all need to be dealt with to find the killer. The investigations are more about grinding through the case and checking off boxes than needing any intuitive Sherlock Holmes-type genius. They are also in the past.

Policing was more about the present: stopping bad behavior. The good ones, like Wayne, handled it proactively. This incident had apparently slipped through the cracks, probably because of its uniqueness.

“They just need a permit for that, right?” I glanced at Mariposa for confirmation. Several times a year, we had requests from studios to film in the park. From what I understood, it was a fairly straightforward process. Like everything else, the movie game had changed. Ultra-high-resolution portable cameras make it possible to film a production-quality piece on a low budget. GoPros and drones had replaced heavy equipment and helicopters. Lately, we’d seen our share of social media influencers using the park as a backdrop in their posts. For the most part, they were complimentary, and we left them alone.

“Except for the fact that these were actually crimes,” Wayne said.

I was ready for a chorus of “Only in Miami,” but it never came.

“Then charge them with the crimes.”

“But they aren’t crimes,” Sam said.

All of a sudden, that beach in St. Thomas was looking pretty good. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”

“Easy, Kurt, don’t get your blood pressure up, just coming back from vacation and all,” Mariposa said.

“It was work,” I huffed. “Okay. Upstairs in ten minutes. I want the evidence, videos, everything.”

“That might be a problem,” Wayne said.

My eyebrows shot up.

“They put them up on social and then deleted them,” Sam said.

“Make that five minutes.” I stormed off to the break room, got a cup of coffee, and headed upstairs without sparing a glance at the three of them still huddled together.

I sat in the conference room and sipped the coffee, trying to figure out what I had just witnessed. Before I could make any sense of it, Sam walked in, dropped into the adjacent chair, and set her laptop on the table.

“I can show you.” She opened the screen.

I held up a hand. “Let’s just do this once.”

Mariposa and Wayne were just behind her. A glance at my watch told me it had been only four minutes, telling me that this was more serious than I thought. They all started to talk at once.

I held up my hands. “We’re going to go around the room and everyone tell their story, okay?” This felt like kindergarten. The question I wanted to ask had been used by my daughter’s first grade teacher: “Is this how we treat our friends?”

The military has a procedure where the lower ranks speak first so as not to be influenced by their superiors’ opinions. I had used that strategy before, but this didn’t feel like the right time. I glanced at Wayne and nodded.

“Of course it was at the sandbar.”

Here was something we could all agree on. The sandbar parties had migrated down to the park over the last few years and had been nothing but trouble. Mixing sun, alcohol, loud music, and a delicate environment is not a good combination.

“I was called in last Saturday when someone reported a man had boarded another guy’s boat. The people who called it in said he didn’t appear to have permission, and the occupants asked him not to. He did leave after a minute, but some cash and jewelry were missing. A drone caught footage, and before I got there, Sam found it on Instagram.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going yet, but it brought up what had become a touchy subject. While there are plenty of out-of-the-way places to go in the park if you don’t want to be around people, sandbar parties are, by nature, a community thing. We call it “bellying up to the bar,” where boaters nose their craft onto the sandbar, often within inches of each other. That kind of behavior can be seen as an implied contract that you are joining a community party and are willing to accept what goes on there.

The other side of the coin is that boarding someone’s boat without permission is piracy.

“You’re not going down the piracy road, are you?”

“Damned how it looked,” Wayne said.

“Can we see it?”

“I swear I saw it, but it’s gone,” Sam said.

She looked and sounded exasperated. Sam was not one to buckle under pressure—or make mistakes. She obviously thought this was her fault. I suspected that after the crime was reported, the perp or perps deleted the footage.

“Do you remember whose account it was?” The footage being deleted was not on her.

“I should have taken a screenshot. I’m sorry.”

I nodded, accepting her apology without making a big deal about it. Sam would learn from her mistake, if it really was one. Even I knew how to take screenshots but would never have thought to do it at that stage.

“Can we go to the website and ask for a copy?”

“Meta? Kurt, really? That Virgin Island sun got to your head?” Mariposa said, laying her Caribbean accent on heavily to make it obvious she was kidding. “You need a warrant for that, and even then, they’ll drag their feet.”

She was right, which left us without video. “Was this the first incident of this sort in the park?” I asked Wayne.

“Far as I know. You never really know what goes on at those parties. Gotta be a lot of unreported crime. No one’s gonna call in a petty theft when they’re out on a boat full of alcohol and whatever.”

The sandbars were not without fights, but they were usually resolved by the time we reached the area. We were grateful for that. No one wanted to haul a drunk across five miles of open water in a small boat.

We were actually late in the game to the sandbar scene. Miami had several notorious party locations and much more experience in dealing with them. Out of necessity, Miami-Dade was our backup. Lacking our own facilities, we used their holding cells and forensics lab, which was how I had met Justine. The saving grace with Miami-Dade was that I usually gave them the credit for any arrests. In many ways, the pristine beauty of the park was better preserved without a crime blotter attached to it.

The other agency with park jurisdiction was the FWC, or the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. Though we shared our small marina with them, there was no love lost between us. I saw them regularly, and we did our best to ignore each other, though that wasn’t always possible, as I had to pass one of their “patrol” boats camped out at the Bayfront Park boat ramp every time I headed out. I’d heard the “Ranger Rick” crack from them more than any other.

I chose the lesser of two evils. “Why don’t we get in touch with Miami-Dade and see if they have anything similar going on?”

The room fell silent. I knew it felt like consorting with the enemy, but if they had something we could use, it was the right thing to do.

Wayne cleared his throat as if he was reluctantly going to take it on himself.

“I can go online and search their case files,” Sam said.

I hesitated. Her methods often fell along the border of legal and almost legal. I kind of wanted to know, but understood plausible deniability wasn’t only reserved for the president. Tapping into their records for the purposes of law enforcement seemed appropriate—and I knew she wouldn’t get caught.

“Give it a shot. And anyone else you can think of as well.”

That settled the matter for the time being, and I was finally able to ask what happened to Johnny Wells. Mariposa was the gossip hub, so I turned to her.

“What’s that FWC boat doing in Johnny’s slip?”

2

The debate about form over function might predate the first sailing skiff. If it didn’t, it could certainly have started there. In order to have the discussion, there needs to be an intersection between artisans and engineers. Opinions on aesthetics vary; those on performance are more objective. Applied to moving craft, speed usually wins, with stability in second place. The ugliest of designs can be the fastest, though this rarely, if ever, happens. Something about a boat’s lines, its sweep and contour, tells how well a vessel will perform. There are outliers. The utilitarian twin-engine RHIB, with its foam-filled gunwales, is hard on the eyes—at least in my opinion—but they do perform.

“That thing’s a beast,” Wayne said.

We were walking by the FWC OPV, or ocean patrol vessel, where we stopped to study the new arrival.

Law enforcement vehicles are usually easy to spot. With a minimum of chrome and beefed-up accessories, they stand out even when you’re not looking for them. A vanilla Crown Victoria with a cattle guard on its bumper, used by police departments everywhere, is a good example. Police boats are less identifiable, as most begin their law enforcement careers as confiscated craft. The government’s answer to drug runners’ cigarette boats of the ’80s was to grab one and repurpose it, then grab another and do the same. There was little uniformity to organizations’ fleets, which had all manner of go-fast boats which meant the police fleets were just as eclectic.

I wasn’t sure if Johnny Wells’ Midnight Express had started that way. But it had been modified to chase down drug traffickers and smugglers running from Miami to the Bahamas. For that run, maybe there was a faster drug-running boat. But while the Express’ shock-absorbing seats, machine-gun mounts, and four 300 HP engines were pure utility, no boat looked better in action.

On the other hand, the FWC boat might have been great at what it did, but it was an ugly beast. The forty-five-foot Guardian was an Endurance-class vessel suitable for multi-day patrols. Though it was only two feet longer than the Midnight Express, it was an entirely different craft. While the Express shone with a polished, indigo-blue gelcoat, the Guardian looked more like a steel-hulled warship. The deep “V” design with high gunwales was probably effective in high seas.

But that was only the beginning of what I thought of as the fallacy of the craft. Big seas, which the FWC boat was definitely capable of handling, were anathema for smugglers. The lightweight design of their boats could handle waves, but speed and efficiency—necessary elements for drug running—were sacrificed in the process. So, when the wind howled, they simply stayed home. Maybe on the west coast of Florida, where the motherships sat in the deep waters of the Gulf waiting to be offloaded by smaller boats—usually commercial fishermen types—the Guardian’s design might have been effective. But stationed in Biscayne Bay, it was wasted, which aligned with my general feeling about the FWC and how it operated.

I’d mingled with them, knew a few good officers, and taken down some corrupt ones. That didn’t make them unique and was typical of any force. From my observations, the 80:20 rule applied to police the same as everything else. Eighty percent were good, hard-working officers, while 20 percent gave the rest of the department a bad name.

Wayne gestured at the dock. “Guess that’s the difference between patrol and pursuit. It’s ugly as hell either way.”

Wayne could have taught an advanced degree in policing. The difference had never occurred to me.

“Good point. Doesn’t make her any easier to look at.”

I mocked the new pronoun thing—except where it applied to boats. You could tell a boat guy from a landlubber by the pronouns they used to refer to a craft. “It” for landlubbers, “she” for seamen. Wayne as a non-boater used “it.”

We moved past the boat to the marina where ours and the FWC ’s more standard boats were docked.

Biscayne National Park encompasses two distinct bodies of water separated by a string of barrier islands that are the geographic northern terminus of the Florida Keys. The inside, as we call it, is Biscayne Bay, a generally shallow, shoal-infested body of water. The outside is the Atlantic Ocean. The water up to and including the reef that is about five miles off the barrier islands is ours as well. The open water is generally deeper and exposed.

The boat of choice is a single or double-engine center console. Able to handle the shallow waters of the bay as well as the open waters of the Atlantic.

We stopped along the railing and looked out at the marina. The ugly FWC boat still held center stage.

I had no idea, but would bet that the FWC had designed her. There was nothing sleek about the vessel. From its wide hull to the boxy wheelhouse with what appeared to be an RV air conditioner on top, the craft was all utility—no form, all function. I just couldn’t figure out what the function was.

“So, I get the patrol and pursuit business, Wayne, but don’t you think this tub is a little extreme?” Just having the boat in my sight was enough to bring up everything about the FWC that I didn’t like.

“Kurt, Wayne,” Sam called out, thankfully before I could start a rant.

We hurried back to the entrance and followed her upstairs. “You found something?”

“Yeah. Good idea to contact Miami-Dade.”

That was a first. I tried to hide my surprise. “Go on.”

“They were super helpful, or at least Dominique, the guy I spoke to, was.”

That explained it. She had found a fellow nerd.

We sat side by side at a table with her laptop in between us. A few keystrokes later, a video started. The scene was exactly as described. Wayne would have said the man gave the appearance of being inebriated; I called him drunk, as he boarded another party's boat, clearly against their wishes.

The footage was movie quality, the drone operator manipulating camera angles to the point where it appeared scripted. The robbery was documented, and the man escaped, not appearing to be quite as drunk as before. It took a long second after the clip ended to realize that his face had been obscured the entire time.

“What kind of money are we talking about?” I wasn’t one to dedicate resources based on the level of crime. Prosecutors thought differently, though. A misdemeanor, in this case, a theft of under $750, would be ignored.

“It’s a felony theft, but barely. Maybe a grand total,” Wayne said.

Even the dimmest public defender would plead that down to a misdemeanor. “What about boarding the boat without permission?”

“That’s a different can of worms, but hard to prove.”

I thought about how to proceed, thinking the best thing to do was to speak to the DA’s office. That was the last thing I wanted to. My gut told me to find the perp first, then worry about the charges. I knew what I saw, and unless some other evidence came in to the contrary, I would push the DA for a piracy prosecution. It wasn’t for the crime itself, but the overall well-being of the park. Back in the Wild West, they used to hang horse thieves. Stealing a horse had never been thought of as a capital crime. The sentence was more to deter future horse thefts—and it worked. I felt the same about the sandbar crowd.

The video show was over and Sam left. The one thing I could count on after being gone for a week was a stack of paperwork and emails waiting to be answered. I would need at least a couple of days to sort out what could probably be done in a few hours if it were anyone but me.

“Any idea how to catch the guy?” I asked Wayne.

“I’ll have to think on that. If he’s like most of these other knuckleheads, he’ll be back this weekend. I can spend some patrol time out there. Maybe Sam can send a drone up, too?”

“Good idea. I’ll speak to her. We might get Mariposa to do some social stuff. Post queries on some of the sandbar groups to see if anyone recognizes him.”

“New school detecting. Good idea.”

“What else are you working on?” I knew the paperwork would be waiting upstairs, but I would rather hear it from Wayne directly. It was the usual cop stuff, mostly people disobeying speed limits and the like. The FWC did their own thing, which included using the premise of a safety check in order to board a boat and then search for small or out-of-season fish. I understood that someone had to police the fishing population. There were other ways, in my opinion, than parking in the middle of the channels leading to the boat ramps and pulling over random boaters. Logically, a safety check would occur on the way out. I’d never seen that in practice. Every boat, unless there was something flagrant going on, was pulled over on the way back in.

“Got a couple of illegal campers, a few speeders, and the usual jet ski dudes.”

Personal watercraft were banned from park waters, but our boundaries are not marked, so there was some leeway. When one was well inside the park, we stop them. In most cases, they plead innocence, the same as the speeders who think a no wake zone is a recommendation.

Wayne finished and left to go do his thing. I went downstairs, stopping at Mariposa’s desk to ask her to see what she could milk out of the social media accounts. Back upstairs, I stopped in the doorway of Sam’s office and knocked on the jamb.

“Hey. Got any interest in working some drones this weekend?”

“Check out the sandbars?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking our guy will be back.”

Sam’s office had previously belonged to Martinez, my old boss. I’d given it to her, since he had the park wired ten ways to hell from there and had kept my closet of an office. From her window, I could see the FWC patrol boat still sitting at the dock.

“That thing ever go out?”

“Not yet, but it’s only been a week since they moved it in. Seen a few guys working on it.”

“What happened to Johnny?” I’d planned on calling and checking in with him.

“Key Largo. I guess there’s more going on in Florida Bay than here these days. Heard there was a big bust in Everglades City.”

“Interesting.” I’d run down a case in Everglades City a few years ago and learned all about its smuggling history. The town had become famous in the ’80s, when almost 80 percent of its adult male population was arrested in a massive sting. Motherships from Mexico and points south would meet the local fishermen offshore in the Gulf. The locals would bring the product into the docks there.

It seemed that smuggling tactics were cyclical. There were outside forces at work, but different crimes and methods came in and out of fashion regardless. The only thing wrong with the old methods was that the law had caught on to them. Over time, they forgot or were busy chasing something else and stopped worrying about motherships and small boats. It happened over and over. I wondered if the sandbars were the same, hoping they would soon become a thing of the past.

The parties where groups of boats either rafted together or anchored in proximity had been going on for decades. The style had changed, though, from a few friends or cruisers rafted together to hundreds of boats anchored within feet of each other. The parties could quickly become drunken brawls. At no time were they family friendly, though many brought their kids.

Low interest rates and the pandemic had increased boat sales a hundred-fold. Back in the day, people bought boats designed for their needs: fishing, diving, waterskiing, cruising the Intracoastal Waterway, and even hanging out at sandbars. The new thing was to buy the biggest, flashiest, fastest boat you could afford—or try to. Most of the popular sandbars were only a few miles away from a boat ramp. You didn’t need a thirty footer with three outboard motors to get there and back.

I took my unspoken rant into my tiny office and started my computer. Any thoughts of sandbars and such immediately disappeared when I saw the 433 emails waiting in my inbox. With an audible groan, I leaned in and got to work.

3

I can delete an email as fast as the next guy, but it still took me over an hour to go through my inbox. There were about a dozen that needed my attention, and only six that warranted a response. Another half-hour later, I had caught up on all the intra-office memos and reports.

If an hour and a half after being gone a week was the price I had to pay, so be it. It could have taken longer—or, if I were one of the majority who were always looking for a promotion I would have taken the work with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to advance, but more that I was happy here. Promotions in the National Park Service came more by park postings than job titles. I’d been hired as a special agent and was now Special Agent in Charge. The difference in paperwork between the two positions was astronomical. As a career, the NPS was not for everyone. Biscayne National Park was no one’s first choice except mine. A promotion would mean a bigger, “more desirable” park, probably somewhere out west.

I’d come here almost ten years ago to escape the vengeance of a drug cartel in Northern California. At the time, I had been posted in the Plumas National Forest, my first position with the Department of the Interior. The area was picturesque and quiet, not what most people think of when they think of California. If you can get past the Southern California sprawl and the disaster San Francisco has become, the state is really beautiful and, more often than not, very rural.

The national forest encompassed land in the foothills. That is kind of a misnomer, though, as many of those hills are steeper than the mountain ranges east of the Mississippi. When there are hills, there are streams that feed into rivers. With the right geology, the terrain holds minerals. This was gold mining country, where most of my time was spent. Claims, permits, methods, and the hard crowd willing to go through all that for the chance at a few shiny flakes made the job a challenge.

Hunting is allowed in national forests, but that is only for a couple of months a year. We had fewer problems with hunters than the miners, which was why I spent much of my time walking the streams and rivers. I’m not sure if anyone knew that I carried a four-piece fly rod with me. If they did, they didn’t seem to care, as it was the instrument that helped me find the largest pot grow on public land at the time.

Northern California’s climate is perfect for growing weed, and with vast tracts of public land, it’s easy to find a remote patch. The challenge is water. During the growing season from April to October, it rarely and sometimes never rains. That makes irrigation a problem. Using a portable generator and a pump to pull water from the streams and rivers is the standard practice.

I had found an intake pipe buried under a rock while removing a wayward fly from a branch. Chasing the line uphill, I stumbled onto the grow site, and the trouble began when I reported it. After several death threats, a firebomb targeting my house, and a divorce, I applied for an open position at Biscayne National Park to be close to where my ex had moved with our daughter.

I had established myself here and was promoted. The brass was happy that I was happy, probably because no one else wanted the job. The Miami influence was undeniable. We were literally neighbors and downstream of a top ten metro area. With that came the good, the bad, and the ugly. Aside from that, the park deserved every bit of recognition as one of the most beautiful, if no longer pristine, places in the country.

The water quality inside the bay has been declining for years. In an ironic twist, nutrients from agricultural runoff do most of the damage. Warmer water temperatures mixed with fertilizer in the runoff promote algae growth, which strangles and suffocates coral. Measures have been taken, with some success.

From my perspective, the park was rebounding. The water was clearer, and there was more seagrass than when I first started here. The old-timers, mainly the fishing guides I had befriended, tell a story of days when you could walk across the schools of fish.

My phone’s vibration brought me back. I glanced at the display and saw it was Johnny Wells.

“Hey, Kurt. Heard you had some action down in the islands.”

I filled Johnny in on our adventure and waited for the answer to my unspoken question.

“So, we got moved out. Down to Key Largo for better access to the Gulf.”

“I heard.” I knew it would be lame to say that I would miss them, so I asked about the new FWC boat.

“Yeah, that behemoth. Not sure what those cats are up to. They’ve teamed up with the feds, NOAA or some shit, and can work halfway to the Bahamas.”

Law enforcement jurisdictions on the water were as tricky as fishing regulations. There were the state waters, three miles offshore on the Atlantic side and nine miles into the Gulf, then federal waters to 200 miles, or where the adjacent country’s waters started. That was called the Exclusive Economic Zone, or EEZ. In the case of the Bahamas, which are between forty and eighty miles to the east, the difference is split.

“I don’t get it.”

Johnny laughed. “You’re not supposed to. I’m thinking this is some kind of play out of Tallahassee. The governor is at war with the feds over the fisheries. I’m leaning toward his thinking, but his answer is the agency under his control.”

“The FWC.”

“Put a federal agent, or certify one of their guys in a dual capacity, and they have the same jurisdiction that we do.”

That explained the NOAA decals I had seen on the boat. “And the feds pay for it.”

If there was one thing I had learned in my investigative career, it was to always follow the money. Though there were crimes committed out of lust or the need for revenge, greed was the gold standard of motives. The first usually applied to murder, and there was a small fraction committed out of stupidity that couldn’t be ignored. Just about everything else is because of greed.

Working from within, I saw the misspending and corruption in every department that I came in contact with. Overpaying, buying outdated technology or just a bad product, or making worthless hires were mistakes that every company made. Government agencies tended to compound theirs. Controlling expenses was an oxymoron in government circles. With less oversight and the only worry about money being that they spend their allocated budget in order to get more, there was endless waste and fraud. The FWC was not immune.

I left my closet and walked down the hallway to Sam’s office, glancing out the window at the behemoth in the marina. Like a train wreck, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Two men were aboard her, but they were out of uniform and didn’t appear to be readying the ship or doing maintenance.

Sam looked up after I didn’t speak. “Kurt?”

“Sorry. Just can’t stop looking at that thing.?”

“What?”

I pointed at the window. “That.”

She didn’t respond and I found myself standing there with nothing to say. “You good on the drones for this weekend?”

She knew that I was punting but went along. “Sure. I’m going to take a couple of days off during the week so I don’t go into overtime, unless⁠—”

I was pretty sure most government workers would have stayed quiet and taken the easy OT. Thankful that my guys looked out for both me and the park, I nodded my okay and left. Slipping past Mariposa, I left the building and walked toward the new boat.

Fixation on a topic was a problem of mine. If there were an Overthinkers Anonymous, I wouldn’t miss a meeting. When a thought or problem got into my head, I couldn’t rest until it was replaced with something either more critical or more fun. Until then, it was all I could think about. The FWC patrol boat currently occupied that position in my mind.

A minute later, I found myself standing amidships of the boat.

“Can I help you?” a voice called down from the deck.

The offshore patrol vessel was much taller than the Midnight Express. The aluminum hull catamaran looked like it would be a better platform for a giant pontoon boat, and I couldn’t get past the NOAA and FWC markings on the same vessel. I peered up but didn’t see the man.

“Kurt Hunter. Special Agent in Charge here.”

“Park Service?” the invisible voice called down.

I could hear disrespect in his tone. Most agencies I had contact with thought of the Park Service as inferior. “Ranger Rick” comments were all too frequent. I waited a long minute until the upper body and head of a man became visible.

Though maybe I should have, I didn’t work on my “look.” I kind of understood the younger guys preening and primping, but as a middle-aged man, it didn’t work for me. I couldn’t imagine sitting in front of a mirror, trying to imagine what facial hair or a different haircut would look like. I comb my hair, let it fall where it falls, and shave my entire face without a second thought. How some of these guys ended up with their perfect salt-and-pepper, three-day beards was beyond me—and made me a little suspicious.

The face above me had that over-groomed look. From his carefully shaved head to his sculpted facial hair, it was all too perfect.

Appearances influence people. Looking like as much of a badass as the perps you chase had its advantages. Workouts and body type played into this as well. There were the muscle guys who endlessly worked their biceps and abs, and those more interested in performance who worked their backs and glutes.

This guy was the antithesis of me. Buzzed head, perfect beard, expensive sunglasses, and a vibe to match. We both might be working in a national park, but this guy was all Miami, so I understood a part of it. Add his attitude, though, and it left a bad taste in my mouth.

Car and boat guys were pretty similar in one way. The easiest way to break the tension or start a conversation was to ask for specs. I couldn’t tell you what the miles per gallon in my truck were, or what wide-open-throttle RPMs on the boat were, but I bet this guy could.

“What kind of speed do you get?”

Now he seemed interested and stepped over to the lower section of the deck near the transom. I could see his bulky upper torso above the handrail. Visible through the wire rail was the rest of his body, which quickly tapered to a skinny waist and no legs. It was clear he didn’t do leg day at the gym.

“Cruises at forty-two, wide open just under fifty, conditions depending. Got twin Cummins diesels and a jet propulsion system.”

It was faster than I suspected and pretty badass, but I wasn’t going to admit that. “Must have a shallow draft to run the bay.”

“Just under five feet.”

For many locations, that was plenty. For here, where many of the channels and cuts were three feet or less, it was worthless. My question was still “Why here?” I chose not to ask, as he continued to rattle off specs I didn’t care about.

At this point, I had to admit to a little bit of boat envy. Johnny’s Midnight Express could do all that and more, with a design perfect for the shallow bay as well as offshore. I still wasn’t clear why the switch had been made.

I scanned the boat’s decks, which were pretty austere. A good working platform, but lacking the machine-gun mounts on the Midnight Express.

I was comparing apples to oranges with a strong bias toward the apples.

“You FWC?” I asked.

“Yeah. Certified as NOAA as well, so we can operate wherever.”

I guessed “wherever” meant the dock in my marina. That pretty much ended the conversation, but I had to ask.

“So, when are you taking her out?”

4

Shakespeare knew his character traits. When he said that the eyes are the window to the soul, he was right on. But it was another saying, that cowards die a thousand deaths while heroes die only once, that came to mind as I studied the man I assumed was the captain. Sunglasses obscured any truth to the first observation but proved the latter one true.

Dark glasses were essential for surviving the sun in Florida. There was also a type of person who used them for other purposes, mainly to obscure their expressions. We were both in the shade, making them a tool for something other than UV protection.

I didn’t want to base our relationship on first impressions. He had as much as forced that on me with his carefully cultured look. The shaved head, facial hair, and sunglasses look were played out, though. Too many non-badasses had adopted it. Coupled with his gym body, when he moved away from the closed railing, my impression was that he was a poser.

The look he had crafted worked in two ways. There was the external, how he appeared to others. The other, less direct one was internal, kind of like armor. Through it all, I could sense that he appeared confused by our conversation. Maybe he was thinking that I wanted to take a ride; maybe that didn’t work for him. Finally, he just ignored my question, muttering something about waiting for orders.

I walked back toward the “small boat” marina thinking about the encounter. He hadn’t introduced himself, which left my mind free to assign him a nickname, one of my favorite pastimes. I discarded the obvious: Chrome Dome, Baldy, Toe Head, Egghead, or Cue Ball. After several moments of thought, I came up with Dimple. A combination of dumbass and pimple.

I stepped aboard my RHIB. Expecting a layer of dried salt that would have accumulated after sitting for over a week, the boat almost glistened. I knew it was Wayne’s work. He was one of those guys who washed his car every Saturday morning, whether it needed it or not. The slip next to mine was empty, meaning he was out on patrol.

There were two other empty slips, both usually occupied by FWC boats. If I were a betting man, I would wager that one was sitting outside the marina in the channel leading to the boat ramp at Bayfront Park and the other was in a similar location at Black Point Park.

To police the fishing community, these were logical spots. There was little point driving around and wasting taxpayers’ gas money when the low-hanging fruit passed right by each patrol boat. The tactic was efficient. I’d watched one of the boats at work before. At fifteen minutes a stop, which allowed them to check licenses and safety gear before opening coolers and fish boxes, they could stop four boats an hour. An infraction that required a ticket took about ten minutes longer.

The patrol boats sent a message that was more valuable than the individual stops. With the random nature of which boats were pulled over, every captain was put on notice. Even after sending that message, there were still a large number of citations written.

The problem with all of this was that not only did I dislike the tactic, but there was no probable cause for the stops. Using a safety check as a cover for a search was, at least in my opinion, unconstitutional. Performing the checks when boaters were returning to the dock failed to whitewash the agency’s attempts.

I tried to put my disdain for the agency aside and dutifully waved to the two officers lying in wait. The inlet to the park headquarters and Bayfront Park was a long, marked channel. The usual parade of boats was moving in and out, everything from center consoles with fishing rods sticking up like a porcupine’s quills to the trawlers and sailboats that docked at the marina beyond the park.

My right hand reached automatically for the throttle when I reached the last red marker. Below the triangular-shaped placard was a rectangular sign that said resume normal speed. After the long idle run through the channel, boats usually pushed their limits for a long minute until either the conditions or common sense had them back off. Of course, there were those who kept on pounding. That type usually kept a battery-powered screw gun aboard to tighten every fastener after each trip.

I glanced behind me to see if anyone was about to plow through me. There was a large enough gap between boats for me to slide to the side of the marker and stop.

I had no plan; nowhere to go. The feeling wasn’t new. Back in the day, which was when Martinez ran the park from his office, I broke the water into quadrants and, if nothing else was happening, patrolled one each day. Martinez liked that plan. It meant I was doing something, though I’m not sure he knew that I intentionally avoided his surveillance cameras and often fished the area.

It wasn’t a bad plan. I had gotten my first big break in California that way. I also had a penchant for hooking more bodies than fish. Wayne generally worked the busier northern end of the park. In a park without gates, fees, or more than imaginary borders, it is impossible to know how many people visit at any one time. Sam had not only tapped into Martinez’s old camera network but had set up a few new ones of her own, from which she was able to do statistical sampling about the park’s visitors.

We already knew that Boca Chita and Elliott Keys were the busiest. They had small marinas and campgrounds and were within easy striking distance of small boats from Miami. Those areas required policing, and Wayne was a policeman. Knowing he would be there, I headed south.

From Caesar Creek, one of the busier passes between the bay and the ocean, to the south, there were no developed areas, and it was much quieter. That didn’t mean that nothing ever happened there. The winding creeks and shallow flats were tailored for another type of frequent flyer in the park: smugglers.

There were only a few deepwater passes between Caesar Creek and North Key Largo. Johnny Wells and I had worked together many times there. He would work the outside and I the inside. Our cooperative efforts weren’t exactly “back in the day,” but I guessed with Johnny moved to Key Largo, they would be known as our good old days.

I got tired of lamenting, and with no direction in mind, I headed toward Adams Key, my old home base. The island just off the southern tip of Elliot Key had a day-use area and two residences, which were assigned to park personal. One house had been mine until Justine and I got married and I moved to Miami. Ray, our maintenance chief, had occupied the other house until recently, when his growing family had forced their move to the mainland. Wayne lived in my old place. Ray’s place was currently vacant, something that irked him to no end.

I usually felt better after a boat ride. Today was no different as I pulled up to the long concrete seawall at Adams Key. Two other boats were alongside, neither Wayne’s. Feeling a little nostalgic, I hopped off the boat and started toward the picnic area. Two families occupied the tables. I stayed clear. They weren’t doing anything wrong, and I didn’t want to give the impression that I was watching.

Until something caught my eye.

Smoke, turkey vultures, and gunshots were just a few of the signs of trouble we watched for. None of these was present. Who I was looking at was the spitting image, of at least what I had been able to see, of the man in the video we’d watched at headquarters. He sat in plain sight on one of the picnic tables, holding a device that looked like one of the portable video games my daughter used to play. When I heard a whir above, I knew it was a drone, and he was controlling it.

I had already placed my right hand on my sidearm and taken several steps toward him, my intent to make a quick arrest. My brain pulled me back. Besides not having a prosecutable offense, knowing the video had been made with a drone intrigued me, and I backed off. Moving behind a large palmetto, I glanced back. He seemed intent on whatever he was doing and hadn’t appeared to notice me.

I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and started a video. Zooming in on his face, the image appeared grainy, but was good enough to make a positive ID. I zoomed back out, trying to figure out what he was up to.

His eyes were fixed on the screen, so I focused on the drone hovering above the two families. A minute later, it skittered toward the water. I glanced back at the man, whose focus remained on the controller, then watched the drone. The two boats I assumed belonged to the families in the picnic area were still docked. The drone hovered over them for a long second, then took off toward the inlet.

Soldier Key is the northernmost of the chain of islands that form the Florida Keys. From that point, access from Biscayne Bay to the Atlantic Ocean is limited to three marked channels and a handful of unmarked ones. Caesar Creek lies just southeast and across from Bayfront Park, making it a busy cut.

The channel was well-marked but had several blind turns. There were two routes that led to a pass through the barrier islands. One skirted Adams Key, where one of those turns lay. The drone followed it, heading east toward the ocean and almost out of sight. To pursue it, I needed the boat, so I hustled to the seawall. Taking the dock lines with me, I hopped aboard. That broke one of the cardinal sins of boating: Never untie a boat until at least one engine is running. The current took hold of the boat, pulling it back into the bay before I was able to get the engines started. My mistake had been intentional but could have ended badly.

Turning inside the channel was a trick, but with the twin engines, I was able to spin in place by putting one in forward and the other in reverse. The maneuver cost me valuable time, though. I had intended to call Wayne and let him know about the drone. With the engines revved at 420 RPMs, it was too loud to talk. I had no choice but to pursue it alone. Not the best idea, but far from the first time I had walked into the unknown. As if on cue, my scar from a bullet I had once taken started to itch, a reminder of how badly this could turn out.

Some might want to deny it, but humans are predators. Those who don’t hunt or fish might disagree. I’ve watched firsthand as nearly vegans ask after catching a fish if they can keep it. They have never experienced the focus of the rush of pursuit of prey or the adrenaline dump after the kill.

But at some point, for the rest of us, it was all about the chase.

I scanned the sky ahead, looking for the drone, losing it as I flew through the slow speed zone. Zipping above the surface, the drone had no such restriction. I steered the channel like it was a Formula One course, barely keeping the drone in sight.

Then it stopped.

I immediately back off the throttles, but without brakes, it took a long way to bleed off the 30 MPH I had been running. That brought me around another blind corner and a near-collision with two boats.

Without the benefit of Wayne’s briefing about the activity at the sandbar, I would have overlooked the drone and the boats. I’d seen the man running the drone, I’d followed the drone, and now it had stopped near two boats. On the surface, there was nothing here.

My plan had been to follow the drone. That, unfortunately, was the extent of it. As I skirted the closer boat, a quad-engine Yellowfin center console in the thirty-plus foot range, I had to decide how to handle this. Not for the first time, my principles got in the way. It would have been too easy to flip the switch and activate the light bar, then, claiming it was a safety inspection, board the boat. It had been less than an hour since I’d had the conversation in my head about the FWC doing the same thing at the boat ramp. That took that option off the table.

A confrontation was pointless. There was no evidence of any crime. In hindsight, I should have detained the man on Adams Key. That was now water under the bridge, or through the creek, as it were.

In addition to their lack of brakes, boats need speed to steer. I had come to a near stop and had to add power to swerve away from the first boat. About the only thing I did right was to switch on the wide-angle, forward-facing camera Sam had mounted just under the T-top.

I hated it when technology saved me, but it was better than losing.

5

I wanted to stop, could have stopped. With even the slightest indication that something was wrong, I would have. I had nothing and continued on through the channel, dropping to the posted slow speed. The incoming tide brought in gin-clear water, clearly delineating the flats from the deeper water. That wasn’t always the case when the long string of markers leading through the flats to the Atlantic Ocean was necessary. Once I passed the last red marker on my port side, I turned toward the north and followed the shoreline of Elliot Key.

The largest of the barrier islands, Elliot Key was once occupied by a few families, pioneers engaged in pineapple farming, sponging, wrecking, and fishing. Today, the island offers camping, picnicking, wildlife watching, and a hiking trail. The amenities are on the bay side, leaving the Atlantic side with a more or less pristine coast. The “less” meaning the piles of trash and seaweed brought in by the predominant southeast breeze.

Once past the island, I slowed and turned into Sands Cut, the shallow channel between Elliott and Sands Keys. With an average depth of two or three feet, the channel had a name but wasn’t marked. My boat could handle a foot and a half of water, so unless it was a very low tide, I could pass. I straightened the bow and pushed the throttle forward, hard at first, and then backed off when the boat came up on plane.

Another rule of boating is that if you are going to hit, hit slow. That works around docks, visible hazards, and other boats. Running through a shallow area, speed is your friend. Once a boat reaches a certain speed, it will plane out, which lifts the hull, reducing the surface area in the water.

Once the hull was leveled out, I trimmed the propellers up to a point just before they began to cavitate. This lifted the hull adding some free speed.

On one side of the cut was what many visitors expected from a national park. On the other side was the sandbar party. I counted fifteen boats anchored on the sand spit. When I started at the park, that would have been a large turnout on a holiday weekend. Now, midweek, it was modest, though it was still early. By late afternoon, if the thunderstorms stayed away, there would be at least two dozen or more boats.

I spotted Wayne’s boat idling around the deeper water and headed that way. He saw me coming and waved. I closed slowly, allowing the soft sides of the foam-filled inflatable to act as a cushion as the boats met. We tied off, and I hopped over the gunwales.

“Hey, boss. Not like you to be checking out the bar.”

“I’ll leave that to you.” I told him about my encounter with the man, the drone, and the two boats in Caesar Creek.

“Same guy? Wonder what they’re up to?”

“I played it badly and had to pull out before I could figure it out. Might have some video.”

He picked up his phone. I gave him a questioning look, not sure what he was up to.

“Sam can download it remotely. Got some kind of Wi-Fi something or other.”

I was glad he didn’t get all the technology either, though he knew more than I did. A minute later, my phone pinged with a text from Sam. The video was attached.

Wayne and I huddled under the shade of the T-top and watched the footage.

“I know that boat.” He turned toward Sands Cut, where I had come through just a few minutes earlier. “There it is.”

I watched as the boat pulled in, slowed much later than I would have, and idled toward an empty spot along the sandbar. Looking back at the cut, I waited for the other boat. After a long minute, it didn’t appear. That was my first worry that something was wrong.

“Can you tell if the guy from the video is aboard?” Wayne’s eyesight, along with all his other observational skills, was better than mine.

“Can’t tell from here. Let me see the video again.”

We watched and turned to the newly arrived boat at the same time. “There’s another guy aboard that wasn’t in the video. Must be him,” I said. “Keep an eye on things here. I’m going to run back to Caesars.”

“Right on. Let me know.”

I hopped back aboard the RHIB. Wayne released the lines, and I backed away. Turning to the south, I sped along the inside of Elliott Key. As I approached Adams Key, I saw the two boats still at the seawall and the families at the day-use area. Everything appeared okay there, so I turned into the channel.

The second boat was still there. This time, I slowed well in advance and idled toward it. Not that it mattered. It was drifting with the tide, and it appeared as if no one was aboard. The bitter taste of bile rose in my throat as I approached, expecting to see several bodies on the deck. Part of the function of the gunwales was to keep the water out and keep the people in. They also prevented me from seeing the deck until I was almost upon the boat.

The 27-foot Cobia, easily identifiable because it was labeled with silver letters on the side, was empty. I took a sip from my water bottle to get the taste of anticipated death out of my mouth but sensed something was wrong—that could be just as bad. This wasn’t the first time I had found a boat adrift in the park and probably wouldn’t be the last.

I inched forward until the sides of the boats touched and tied off. Scenarios ran through my head, moving from bad to worse. Had the boat been anchored instead of drifting, the scene might have been innocent. In a pass with strong currents, it wasn’t likely that whoever was aboard had swum over to explore one of the adjacent keys. That left me two choices: either set the anchor and leave the boat here, or tow it to Adams Key. My wife, the forensics guru, would scold me for contaminating a possible crime scene, which ruled out option number one. That was a bad idea anyway, as the boat would swing with the tide, whose force could possibly pull the anchor.

Grasping the Cobia’s handrail, I moved the RHIB forward until I could reach the bow, where I secured a long line from my hold. Bringing it back to the stern, I tied a quick bridle to the cleats on either side of the transom and moved back to the helm. Turning away from the flats, I idled toward the center of the channel. The line came taunt, and a second later the boat was trailing behind me. Just as I pulled back into the channel I heard a buzz.

Mosquitos here can be on the level of a B52 bomber. This was louder though. I glanced at the sky but couldn’t see anything. Turning back to the task at hand, I tried t to ignore it as I entered the channel.

The RHIB is a good tow vessel. With twin engines and soft sides, it is easy to maneuver and almost indestructible. My problem wasn’t the boat, but the channel. Towing is a dance requiring the right amount of space between the boats and the correct speed. Both factors are dependent on conditions. Heavy weather requires the lead and tow boats to be in the same position on different waves. Having one boat climbing out of a trough while the other is surfing down one can result in the two boats colliding or the tow line snapping.

Winding channels are equally challenging. Too long a line will lead to wide swings and, in a cut like Caesar Creek, result in the towed vessel swinging wide and possibly grounding. Too short, and a collision is often unavoidable. Dedicated tow vessels often have aluminum cages around their engines for just this reason.

In order to keep the Cobia off the flats, I kept the line short and worked the throttles to ease into and pull out of the tight bends. By the time I nestled the boat against the seawall at Adams Key, I felt like I had done a workout. The Park Service has this thing about concrete and overbuilding, so I wasn’t finished. Forgetting to set fenders out on the Cobia meant I had to sprint over, jump aboard, and drop a pair before the boat collided with the concrete seawall.

With both boats secured, I called Wayne.

“Still there?”

“Yeah, what about on your end?”

“Found the boat adrift with no one aboard.”

“That doesn’t sound good for the home team. What do you want to do?”

A plan would have been nice, but I had no clues or evidence that a crime had even been committed. I was on circumstantial ice waiting for it to crack. What I did have was the guy from the robbery the other day, the boat, and some video.

“Stay with them. See if you can run the registration and find out who owns the boat. I’m going to head back to headquarters to work with Sam on the video.” I had another thought. “See if you can get close and get some headshots of whoever’s aboard. Might help.”

“Done on the registration. I’ll see what I can do to get pictures. You know, one of those cameras with the long lenses would be good for this, right?”

It wasn’t really a question, and I made a mental note to add one to the budget. That was the kind of stuff I rarely thought about. Had Martinez ordered me to pull a surveillance shift, I would have died inside. Wayne could do them all day, and I wanted to keep it that way. Before I pulled away, I thought that it might be a good idea to have Justine take a look. Boats make poor crime scenes. The conditions attack evidence that could be gone in a flash during a short rainstorm. Even without a storm, the saltwater, humidity, and sun would obliterate anything aboard within a few days.

Justine has some kind of intuition and answered on the first ring. “Hey. What’s happening in the great big world of Special Agent Kurt Hunter?”

“Thinking about a date night. Maybe a little nostalgic trip back to Adams Key tonight?”

“How romantic. I’ll bring the bug spray and my kit.”

How she knew that I needed her expertise was beyond me. “I’ll grab some food and stuff. Meet you at the park marina when you get off?”

“Sure. Not like I need to go get dolled up or anything.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice, though I wouldn’t mind seeing her crawl around the deck of the boat in a short skirt. With that image in mind, I hopped aboard the RHIB, started the engines, and released the lines. I was just about to pull out when I saw another Park Service boat approach.

Of our fleet of four boats, the other three were identical center consoles. From this distance, I couldn’t tell who was aboard, but I could see fishing rods sticking up from the rocket launcher behind the leaning post. Sam was a joyrider, and Wayne’s technique for catching fish was a trip to the grocery store or going out to dinner. That meant this was Ray.

My old neighbor would have slid right by if we hadn’t caught eyes. Ray didn’t work directly for me, but we worked together often enough. He had taught me the ropes of both working with Martinez and the waters, which included fishing.

“Snapper?” I asked after eyeing the rods. One of my earliest investigative milestones was to identify what a fisherman was after by their gear. Ray was loaded with spinning reels, mostly light tackle, perfect for the late afternoon snapper bite on the reef.

“Yellowtail are spawning. We should go some time.”

“You bet. Give a yell.”

“Full moon’s in three days. Meet you at five on Friday.” With that, he pulled away and accelerated to just over the posted speed.

I shook my head, knowing he had done it on purpose. That didn’t matter, though. Any fishing trip with Ray was bound to be epic. With the images of Justine and now a cooler of fish in my head, I smiled all the way back to headquarters.

My good mood ended when I saw Sam run out to the dock when I pulled in. I passed the FWC boat, which still hadn’t moved, and slid into my slip.

“You HAVE to see this.” Sam was holding her phone out.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t see the video from the boat. “Right behind you,” I said, hopping off.

I had meant to have a look on a larger screen. Sam had something else in mind. She held out the phone, shading the screen from the sun. I expected to see my footage, but this was different.

It was a post of a couple being taken off the Cobia—at gunpoint.

6

Once inside, Sam relented and loaded the video onto a real screen. “Okay. Can you see now?”

Before I could comment, she continued. “That’s the same guy. The others were in the original shot, too. No sign of the ones from the other boat, at least with what we have.”

She was working with two videos. One was taken from the camera mounted on the T-top of my boat. The other was one of our sandbar cams. The former relied on the position of my boat and the sun. I had at least lucked out in that regard, and the video was good. Had I shot it into the sun, I would have heard about it. The second was from a long-range camera mounted on Elliott Key. The image was all right given the distance, but more useful for surveys than for viewing individual actions.

From the sandbar cam, we could do little more than count heads. I picked up my phone and called Wayne, asking him to see if he could work in closer. “Did you check the social account it was posted to last time?”

“Nothing yet. The last one was published a few hours after the fact. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Okay.” I turned to leave. The question of why post any of this to social media had been on my mind. Of our group, Mariposa and Sam were the best to answer the question. “What do they gain by posting it and then taking it down?”

“You mean the last one?”

I nodded.

“It’s all about likes and followers. Hold on.” Sam’s fingers flew around her keyboard. A few seconds later, the video was replaced by a screenshot from the group responsible for what we now called the Pirate Post.

“What about it?”

“That other video had 8.6K likes. After only being live for maybe an hour, that’s money.” A few clicks later, she had the profile page showing the owner’s info. “Anything over ten thousand followers and you’re making money. They’ve got ten times that.”

There are some things that I am too old to know and have no interest in learning. As they say, I have people for that. Knowing the term “social influencer” and understanding how they make money are two different things.

“Okay, I have to ask. How does it work?”

“Pretty basic, really. Instagram and Facebook get them in the door, then move them to YouTube or a subscription site to make the money. Some models and athletes can do it through endorsements, too.”

She had the “bio” page pulled up. Though I don’t know the ins and outs of the financial end, I understood what I was looking at. The page was for a company called Miami on Fire, and their profile picture was a logo, a flame coming out from a video camera. There were spaces for more information, but none were filled out. We wouldn’t be taking a ride to their place of business, if they even had one, to make an arrest.

“Check this out,” Sam said.

“One video? With that many followers, you’d think there would be hundreds.”

“Watch.”

A racing boat came into the frame. Seconds later, it burst into flames. A caption followed: “Want to see more, check us out at miamionfire.com.”

“Bet they have a paywall there,” Sam said as she typed the website address into a new window. The same scene played out at the top with a banner below: “Click here to get in on all the action.”

She clicked, and a new page opened, similar to most subscription pages. The gist of it was that for twenty bucks a month, you got ten exclusive videos showing the underbelly of Miami. I had seen similar sites on Facebook and Instagram showing Miami sandbar shenanigans or boat-ramp failures. I was especially a fan of the latter. These were free, though I’m sure there was some way the operators were making money, maybe by ads.

I reached into my wallet and handed Sam my credit card.

She took it. “You’re really going to sign up?”

“No. You are.”

A minute later, we were watching the sandbar video taken a few days ago. That was the latest in a series of about fifty. After two or three, it was apparent that they were using actors to create reality. “Go back to the beginning.”

Sam scrolled back in time, which was only about six months. We watched the first few. The quality was inferior to their most recent product, but the scenes appeared real.

“They started making money and then ran out of content,” Sam said. “Classic.”

That I could understand. All kinds of businesses start with a great idea that gets things going. At some point, they need something new. A few get lucky, but companies like Apple are one in a trillion. Most fail after the second or third product. It was probably either easy, lucky, or both to get the first few videos, but they apparently couldn’t continue.

“Ever see anyone do something like this?”

“What? The staging-crimes thing or fake content?” She paused, probably to make sure I was with her. “No on the first. Pretty common on the second. You have no idea how far people will go to get clicks.”

I had a pretty good idea. The motive was the most common—money. Miami had been a popular location for TV shows and movies for years. That meant there was a strong local population of actors, producers, and production people. It wouldn’t be difficult to stage the crimes.

Now that I was a site member, we watched the video from the sandbar. At first glance, it appeared real, but knowing what I did now, after the second or third time through, I got the feeling it was scripted. That was a conundrum. There was no crime in shooting a movie. The best we had was filming without a permit, which I wasn’t sure applied to what appeared to be a small production. Law enforcement hadn’t been called in. Someone thought they had witnessed a crime, but it was just playacting. There was a case to be made for obstructing justice. They had done the same to me today.

That got my attention. Crime or not, they were wasting our time, and I didn’t like the way they were operating in the park.

“See what you can dig up on these people and let me know when they post today’s video,” I said.

“Roger, boss.”

I left her office and walked down to my closet. With a half hour until Justine arrived, I finished cleaning up my emails and paperwork. For whatever reason, the tedious tasks tended to compress or expand into my available time. Just as I finished, Justine stepped into the room.

“Hey, lover boy.” She kissed me on top of my head.

“Ready?”

“Always. Oh, that. I thought this was like a date thing.”

“Maybe if you’re a good girl.”

“You mean solve your case for you. Care to share?”

I told her what I knew so far, hoping it wouldn’t influence her investigation. To Justine, evidence is evidence and not open for interpretation. For the most part she was right, but somewhere there was a defense lawyer waiting to challenge that.

Sam and Mariposa cornered us on the way out. By us, I mean Justine. I had no patience for that kind of girl chatter and left them to it to get the boat ready. That gave me another pass by the FWC boat, still sitting at the dock.

How some agencies used their assets—or don’t—often perplexes me. Yes, we were guilty of having an extra boat as well. There was a reason no one used it, as it had belonged to my old nemesis, Susan McLeash. Word on the dock was that it was cursed. The truth of it was that it had been so infrequently used that even Justine couldn’t have pulled any evidence showing Susan’s previous presence.

Otherwise, we had a couple of off-road vehicles, two pickups, and the boats that Wayne and I used. The FWC had half a dozen small boats in the marina and usually ran only one or two at a time. If you think a boat is an inanimate object, make sure you don’t tell the boat. Though they are much more reliable than even a decade ago, they were fickle creatures. Like a horse, they need to be run. Left in a stable or a dock was not good for either.

Aside from their functionality, there was the money issue. Leaving a boat in the water is expensive. In warm water environments like ours, a slime layer forms within a week. With a month of disuse, barnacles begin to cover the bottom. Even with bottom paint, it is still a major job to haul and scrape the bottom.

I glanced back at the entrance to headquarters, and then to the FWC boat. With no sign of anyone, curiosity got the better of me. As nonchalantly as possible, I walked to the seawall and peered over the side. As I expected, the first stages of aquatic growth clung to the hull. My investigative skills were not required to tell me it hadn’t moved since it had arrived.

Just as I looked up, Justine appeared. There was no point playing innocent.

“See something down there?”

“I’ll tell you on the way out,” I said and moved toward my boat. Her two hard cases containing her equipment were already aboard. I followed her over the side and started the engines while she released the lines. A few minutes later, we idled past the FWC patrol boat stationed at the ramp. I gave the obligatory wave and continued up the channel.

Reaching the last marker, I accelerated and headed to Adams Key. My promise to tell Justine what I had been looking at was swallowed by the sound of the twin engines. We rode in silence across the bay, enjoying both each other and what might be the last nice evening before summer.

South Florida has two seasons: summer and hell. Mid-April was nearing the latter. Once the heat moved in, everything changed. A nighttime ride was okay, as long as you were moving. Once stopped, if the heat didn’t get you, the bugs would. It was the price of living in the tropics, though, and one I was willing to pay.

For the second time today, the moment I came within sight of Adams Key, I knew something was wrong. I slowed the boat and stared at the seawall.

“What’s up, Kimosabe?”

“I left a boat here earlier that I had towed in from the cut. Cobia, gray bottom paint, T-top, upper twenty-foot range with twins outboards.”

“You calling in a BOLO? Maybe the owners found it and took it.”

I checked my watch. Sam often worked later hours, but she had been ready to leave when Justine and I saw her. “I’ll call in the registration in the morning and figure it out.” I huffed out in frustration.

To my surprise, Justine didn’t appear upset. Usually, first crack at a virgin case got her more excited than it maybe should have. I knew it would have been a simple matter for her to check out the boat, especially since there might not have been a crime committed.

She reached for one of her cases. “Maybe we can have that date night after all.” She released the catches and opened the case. Instead of her regular gear, there was a bottle of wine, a couple of glasses, and a Tupperware container.

I laughed. “Really? That’s what you think of my asking for help?”

“Easy, big boy. Without a crime, there is no evidence.”

“Picnic table?” I asked.

“Nah, the bugs’ll kill us. If Rays’s house is still empty, we can sit on the screen porch.”

That was the best idea I’d heard all day. I closed the case and idled forward on the sea wall to the area closer to the residences. Justine secured the boat while I lifted our picnic up to the seawall. I hopped up and offered her a hand, which she refused.

Justine had at one time been a competitive stand-up paddler. Those days ended when she chose her career over a corporate sponsorship. She still stayed in shape, though, annihilating me several times a week in our paddle workouts. With an easy stride, she joined me on the seawall. With the case in hand, I led her to Ray’s old house.

7

Ray had moved out—sort of. His fishing gear, stone-crab traps, pinfish traps, and an assortment of boat parts were still under the house, where he had kept them when he lived here. It was not an issue until we needed the residence. Moving to the mainland had been hard for Ray. I make it sound like he was against it. He loved his kids and was a great father. Any good parent knows there are sacrifices involved in raising kids. For Ray, it was five miles of water. He didn’t have it that bad.

For the right person, living five miles across the bay from a three-mile drive to a grocery store was no big deal. The remoteness, natural beauty, and instant access to the ocean and bay made it worth it. I had thought about offering the house to Sam but was worried the solar-powered electrical system would require an infrastructure upgrade to run her computer servers.

Part of the deal was that the furniture was included with the residence. The pieces were typical of what you would expect from the Park Service—utilitarian, meaning indestructible. Justine and I settled into the surprisingly comfortable love seat on the screened porch. I opened the case and pulled out the bottle of wine and a corkscrew. I had just pulled the cork when my phone blasted with a siren alert.

Justine gave me a look, but I knew from the ringtone that it was Wayne. Not one to fool with these kinds of things, Sam had set up Mariposa, Wayne, Justine, and herself with identifiable ringtones. Hers was, of course, a bullhorn.

“Wonder what mine is?” Justine asked. “On second thought, never mind.”

I smiled at her and picked up the phone. “Hey.”

“Where are you? We’ve got some action here. I think they’re doing it again.”

“Ray’s house.”

“Really?”

“His old one on Adams.”

“Can you run down here? I’m by the sandbar on the inside.”

I glanced at Justine to see her reaction. As I expected, she was all smiles. In her world, action beats sitting on a couch anytime. I could have taken it personally, but I knew I was dealing with someone who got more excited by a corpse than by things others deemed much more interesting,

She grabbed the bottle from my hand, slammed the cork in it, placed it back in the case, and closed the lid before I asked if she wanted to go. With the answer obvious, I took the case and carried it back to the boat. Within two minutes of Wayne’s call, we were aboard with the engines running and the lines free.

Before heading out, I wanted a sitrep. All our boats had VHF radios, but we relied almost exclusively on cell phones. Though the radios were always on in case of an emergency, the open airwaves made tactical communications easy to intercept.

Wayne picked up on the first ring.

“Inside or outside? We’re pushing off now.”

“We?”

“Justine is with me.”

“At least you’ve got backup.”

The phone was on speaker, causing her to smile. She knew better than to chit-chat and stayed silent. “Which way?”

“Both boats are here. I’ve got pictures and video of everyone aboard. They look like they’re about to leave.”

“Okay. On our way.” We both knew cop-speak, or radio etiquette. The “rogers” and “wilcos” had gone out the window once cell phones had replaced walkie-talkie-type radios.

I glanced at Justine, who nodded that she was ready, and pushed the throttles down. The sun was about two fingers laid horizontally above the horizon. That meant about thirty minutes before it set. There was a running debate about when navigation lights should be turned on. I could tell who I was talking to when talk of civil or nautical twilight was brought up. The law says sunset, not twilight, making the discussion meaningless. For the record, civil twilight is when the sun is six degrees below the horizon. Nautical twilight is twelve degrees, a time dark enough for a reliable reading if using celestial navigation.

Things were different in the twenty-first century, and I turned the backlight on my chartplotter to night mode. Otherwise, there was enough light to navigate by the red and green day-markers. The blinking red light on the last marker was barely visible. Because of the diminishing light, I followed the same track as I had earlier, using the chartplotter to navigate.

Just before I slowed to make the turn into Sands Cut, my phone vibrated. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Wayne. Sam had been after me to get headsets to make communication in these circumstances easier. She was right (again), and I made a mental note to take care of that tomorrow. For now, I had to slow down to take the call.

“Drone’s up and they’re heading your way.”

“Okay. How do you want to play it?” In this case, I was backup. Wayne understood the situation, and I would do as he said.

“Stay offshore about half a mile and turn on the radar. I’ll follow and keep you posted.”

“Right.” I disconnected, handed the phone to Justine, and turned to starboard. The head sea, as it often is with the wind out of the east or southeast, forced me to watch my speed and trim as we moved steadily offshore.

I knew what Wayne needed me to do. With the only boat in our fleet equipped with radar, he wanted me as an observer. The distance was far enough offshore for the RHIB to be invisible to the two boats as well as to allow the radar to function without the landmass interfering.

A few minutes later, we were in position. I switched off the navigation lights, leaving on the white light mounted to a pole on top of the hard top. To anyone looking out to sea, we would look like a boat fishing the patch reefs. Justine watched the water for any boat traffic. I changed the display from the chartplotter to radar, then sat back and waited.

This was something that Johnny and I had done before. The drawback was that in order to provide a useful signature, the observer needed to be far enough offshore to negate the returns from land. As I sat there waiting, I thought this might be something the newly arrived FWC boat might be good at.

Even that was a stretch. Smugglers had moved in the direction of using submersibles. Their next step was drones. Johnny had shared a video of a new Ukrainian unmanned boat that would be perfect for smugglers. The cartels understood there was a cost to moving their goods. The idea was to reduce shrinkage, a term used in retail for inventory that was lost or stolen. Like a legitimate business, they accounted for and expected a certain percentage of their goods to be lost or confiscated.

At only twenty feet long with a six-foot beam and a two-foot rise above the water, the unmanned craft were capable of traveling over 500 miles and could carry almost 2,000 pounds of explosives. Their intended purpose was to ram and destroy Russian vessels. Substitute drugs or weapons for the explosives, and you had a money-making machine. The cost to build the military model was around a quarter of a million dollars. The cartels might be known for violence, but they were businessmen. As On War author Carl von Clausewitz said, “war is the continuation of politics by other means.” The cartels used violence in the same manner. Despite their reputations, any business plan would consider that kind of investment in line with the product it could move.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Justine asked.

I snapped out of my reverie. “Nothing.”

“Right. Nothing on the radar?”

A few vessels, probably out fishing the reef, showed on the eastern edge of the screen. Otherwise, it was empty. I was about to zoom in closer when I saw a return on the outer perimeter.

Reading radar is an art. Some units are even capable of showing birds, which are useful for fishermen chasing pelagic species. This signature was moving in a straight line—definitely a boat. A second later, another followed.

I could make out a turn to the north before the first boat disappeared in the clutter returned from the landmass of Sands and Boca Chica Keys. Running on the outside, he could maintain a course parallel and a few hundred feet from shore without worrying about hazards. The second boat made the same turn a minute later and disappeared as well.

My utility as an observer was over, but I had an idea where they were headed. I pushed the throttle forward and turned to follow, then called Wayne.

“Hey. You got them?”

“Heading north, hugging the coast. My bet is Stiltsville.”

“Figures. I hate that place.”

“How do you want to play it?”

“Radar isn’t going to help. You’re faster. Stay offshore and run dark. See if you can get ahead. I’ll follow.”

We disconnected. I shut off the white light and pushed the throttle forward gently until the bow began to drop. Once the attitude of the craft evened out, I slammed the throttle to its stop. Running wide-open throttle at night can be daunting, especially in a side chop. I slowly turned the bow about forty-five degrees toward the west, plotting an intercept course in my mind.

A glance over at Justine showed she was enjoying the ride. No surprise there. She had no fear that I had ever seen. Still, precautions needed to be taken. “Grab the vests and PFDs from the console. The shotgun, too.”

She slowly crept forward using the line strung along the gunwales for support. Procedure would have had us wearing the vests and PFDs anytime while onboard. That was a rule I skirted as often as possible. Like many employees, we were allowed to use the Park Service vehicles and boats for some personal uses. Tonight, I had rationalized our ride as personal time. Like it or not, at this point, the protective devices were both necessary. Justine put her gear on and then held the wheel while I donned mine.

Discomfort can also be reassuring. In the South Florida heat, the gear could be stifling. Heading into an unknown situation it gave a sense of protection.

I took the wheel back and continued on course.

The radar screen showed nothing but clutter on our landward, or port, side. The other three directions were clear, but not useful in this situation. I changed the display back to the nautical chart, which at least showed the hazards.

Aside from a few small rocks, Boca Chita was the last solid piece of land until Cape Florida on the south end of Key Biscayne, a.k.a., the end of Miami. The chartplotter showed the hazards, which were nonstop starting with the Ragged Keys and ending with the sprawling flats and skinny channels surrounding Stiltsville.

The Stiltsville “neighborhood” was once a compilation of two dozen structures built over the flats, originally barges and yachts run aground. Later, many were converted to more permanent structures. Seven remained and were the bane of the park. The buildings were held in a trust, but the Park Service was responsible for their maintenance. They had been retrofitted with hurricane straps but little else had been done. Many in Miami were attached to the lure of the place. Crawfish Eddies, The Bikini Club, The Calvert, and Quarterdeck all had rich histories of gangsters, politicians, and celebrities enjoying what was advertised as salt and sun, but was more likely gambling and prostitution. It was no coincidence that the first structures had been built in the 1920s at the start of Prohibition.

My hope was that we were not going there. Besides the natural hazards, the buildings were dark and dangerous: The perfect place to film one of the videos this group was selling. I was pretty sure there were enough locations to do a series.

8

I stayed offshore with my lights off, waiting for Wayne to call with a report. Both boats were faster than his Park Service center console, but I didn’t think they had evaded him.

Running dark had been a longtime tactic of smugglers. Navigation lights were designed to allow boats to be seen from a distance and they certainly worked. There are other ways to identify a boat in the dark. While one is running, a long white wake stretches many lengths behind a boat. It is clearly identifiable and easier to spot than the boat itself. At anchor or drifting, it is harder, though by studying the horizon, the outline, generally darker than the night sky, can often be seen.

If someone were specifically looking for us, we would be spotted. To a casual observer, we would be invisible. That appeared to be the case as the two boats had their own agenda and didn’t know we were out here.

“You see anything?” I asked Justine, who was scanning the water with binoculars.

“Nada. Some date, cowboy.”

I shrugged off the comment, but the inaction was bothering me as well. “We’re going to make an end run around Stiltsville and come in the back door.”

“Sounds fun.” She put the binoculars down and braced herself.

The need to do something, anything, was wired into me. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d acted impulsively. Watching and waiting might have been the right play, but I didn’t have it in me. Sometimes my actions failed, causing unintended consequences. Those were on me and I took responsibility. Most times, some kind of action at least stirred the pot enough to produce a lead.

There were several skinny, unmarked channels through the flats that were passable. During the day, I would be able to use the water color to identify safe passage. The old adage “brown brown run aground” was absolutely true in these waters. The darker color indicated shallow grass beds or coral formations. At night, it was all ink black. Biscayne Channel was the only safe passage..

Looking ahead, I could see the four lighted markers identifying the channel. The pair of red and green lights flashing at two-second intervals indicated the beginning or end. I headed outside of both lights, making a wide turn to line the bow up with the space between them.

Once inside the channel, navigation was straightforward. The other pair of red and green lights indicated the end and placed us inside Biscayne Bay. I turned to port, heading south, and sped toward the five structures built just off the channel.

The distinctive outlines of the A-frame House on our starboard side and the Leshaw House, damaged by fire a few years ago, on the port, were both dark. Just past the Leshaw property was the Baldwin House. Further ahead, I could see the low roofline of the Ellenburg House. The Bay Chateau appeared on the port side as we exited the channel.

In the adjacent channel lay the Hicks House. It was a likely spot for night action, lying in deeper water than the others, which were built over shallow flats.

The approach on the bay side was no less tricky than the ocean side. There were several markers and buoys in the dark water ahead. None were lit, and unless you knew their purpose, they seemed random. From my patrols and several incidents here, I knew the way.

The outlines of the remaining structures became visible as we approached. There was still no sign of the two boats or Wayne. Just as I was starting to second-guess my decision, Justine called out.

“Wake at eleven o’clock.”

I turned to port in the direction she indicated and saw the white wake. The vessel was not visible, but a few seconds later, the other boat appeared. With the moon in the east, I could see the outline of the boat. Neither boat had its nav lights on, which would allow for an easy stop and ticket. I wanted more, though.

Slowing to idle speed to hide my own wake, I watched the boats turn into the unmarked channel leading to the Hicks House. A single pile, invisible in the dark, marked the northern entrance to the narrow channel. With the engines running quietly, I was able to call Wayne. Once the call connected, I set the phone to speaker and placed it on the helm.

“They’re heading to the Hicks House,” Wayne said.

“I’m to the north of the channel.”

Wayne chuckled. He knew what he was dealing with. In the police world, leaving my post would have been cause for disciplinary action. With only the two of us in the field, we operated differently. At this point, we both knew what the other would do in any given situation—and accepted it. What was important was that we had each other’s backs.

Justine picked up the binoculars and scanned the scene ahead. “They launched a drone.”

“Your call now, Kurt.”

I thought about how to handle this. The only true crime to date was the suspicion that the man who had seemingly committed the robbery at the sandbar was aboard one of the boats. Otherwise, we could stop them for not using their navigation lights. Both options were risky, as we were outnumbered and had no idea if they had weapons or not.

The other option was worse. Calling Miami-Dade would result in a shit show that I feared would be filmed, which might be their intention or, at least, an unexpected bonus. It was one thing for Miami-Dade to get bad press. With a department that size, it was impossible for everything to go right, and there were people actively looking for anything that went wrong.

If Wayne and I stormed in and they filmed it, the fallout would be on the Park Service. With my previous missteps with the media, that was something that I couldn’t afford.

“We wait. Let them finish whatever they’re doing. We’ll stop them once that damned drone is down.”

With phones, body cams, and drones now commonplace, we couldn’t afford a mistake. Waiting for the drone to go away made sense from a self-preservation standpoint, but we would still have to be careful. Ours weren’t the only boats equipped with cameras, and the people aboard surely had phones.

An incident, or better yet, a chase with the Park Service, would satisfy their subscribers. With the way things go viral nowadays, it could also increase their base. All this would be at our expense, something I was not about to let happen.

This whole scene was giving me Miami Vice vibes, and I briefly wondered what Crockett and Tubbs would do. The late ’80s had seen the advent of GPS. Video cameras were bulky, expensive, and required a lab to develop the film. Drones were something only seen in comic books and sci-fi movies.

I did have an idea, ironically based on 100-year-old technology. Regardless of the camera used, either a larger aperture or some kind of thermal imaging was required for a nighttime shoot. Either would be rendered unusable by a bright light.

Spotlights had been used aboard boats for as long as there had been lights. They, like everything else, had gone through many iterations. What started as directional oil lamps became fragile filament bulbs, which evolved into halogen or sodium vapor bulbs, and were now LED lights. Each of our boats was equipped with a rotating spotlight like those on police cars mounted on our T-tops. I had a small worry about mine, which hadn’t been used in the two years since I’d had the boat. With anything marine, that meant there was a high likelihood that it wouldn’t work. As badly as I wanted to check it before proceeding, testing the light would give me away.

The sound of revving engines drifted across the water. I glanced back at the old house and saw both boats with their lights on zigzagging back and forth between the channel and the house. Whether they knew we were here and wouldn’t take the bait, or they had no idea of our whereabouts, they had decided to move forward.

Subscription models are a beautiful thing for businesses. People will sign up on impulse and either forget or won’t bother to cancel. Commercial gyms had been operating under that model for years. There was a line, though, and crossing it, which generally meant upsetting the subscribers, was a sure way for them to take that little bit of effort to cancel.

Bad or no content would do that. Promise “X” amount of videos in a specific time period and you’d better deliver. That meant pressure to produce, which could lead to carelessness and mistakes. These people’s first mistake was not knowing Wayne and I were here. I was counting on the second to make an arrest.

I called Wayne and let him know my plan. With nothing else on the table besides a boat race, which we would lose, there were no other options. I disconnected the call and settled in to wait. Justine was getting antsy—no surprise there. Our lack of patience in these kinds of situations had long been established, and I hoped they would finish the shoot before she drove me to move early.

Justine was about to say something when the boats suddenly stopped. Without knowing their script, I had no idea what to expect next. They might be finished, or this could just be a pause in the action. From what I had seen of their other clips, the videos were short. Every minute they dragged out the shooting increased their chances of being seen.

Stiltsville lay at the extreme northern end of the park, barely a mile from Key Biscayne, which was the beginning (or end) of Miami. The geography was no coincidence. The community, which had started in the 1920s, gained notoriety after a Life magazine article in 1941. With twenty-seven structures, Stitsville peaked in 1959. Between fires, raids, and storms, the community began to dwindle. What the authorities couldn’t do, nature took care of. After Hurricane Donna in 1960 and Hurricane Betsy in 1965, only seventeen structures remained. Some were added and others demolished over the next quarter century before the sea bottom and structures were handed over to the National Park Service and incorporated into Biscayne National Park in 1985.

The narrow channels were like roads running through a subdivision. What I intended to do wasn’t new. Roadblocks had been used for as long as lights.

Suddenly, their navigation lights came back on. I trusted Wayne knew his part and didn’t wait. Leaving my lights off, I pushed the throttles forward to a high idle and moved toward the mouth of the channel. The boats had just started to move as I entered the cut and turned sideways. Once in position, I hit the spotlight switch, praying that it would work.

The LED beam lit the entire channel. The boats stopped, unsure of what was happening. On the other end, Wayne’s light also flashed on. They were caught in the channel, blinded and facing two unknown adversaries. Using the spotlights instead of our light bars allowed a degree of anonymity. The blinding beams of the spotlights assured that no camera would be able to acquire an image of us.

The feeling of safety was an illusion. A shotgun or well-aimed rifle could take out the lights with one shot. I waited, asking Justine to stay low, but no shots came. That didn’t mean we were safe, though. I was expecting the scene to erupt in gunfire any second. Alternating forward and reverse with the throttle levers, I crabwalked the RHIB toward the two boats. Without the benefit of twin engines, Wayne headed bow-first into the channel from his end.

The seconds dragged on as we closed on the boats, which remained stationary. At some point, I would have to reveal that we were law enforcement. Just before I hit the switch for the light bar, one of the boats took off, running directly for us.

9

“Get down!” I yelled at Justine.

The reflection on the still water accentuated the blue and white lights as they strobed across the dark waters. Grabbing the shotgun, I ducked behind the gunwale and tried to control my breathing. Within seconds, a life-or-death game of chicken was about to play out in the confines of the narrow channel.

I had several advantages besides my badge. As far as I knew, they didn’t have any firearms or were not willing to use them. They hadn’t been put in this position before, though.

The larger boat was a Yellowfin, a high-end custom manufacturer. Boat building has always been about reducing weight. With the trend toward larger center consoles with multiple engines, it had become extreme. The techniques improved speed but also sacrificed strength.

The foam-filled sides of the RHIB, which could absorb an impact and stop bullets, made mine the sturdier craft. That was in theory, not in practice as scale had to be taken into account. A machine weighing in excess of 10,000 pounds ramming us at 40 MPH would be damaging to them and devastating to our RHIB. I rose slightly and turned to evaluate the scene. The boat was up on plane, heading directly toward us. On the other end of the channel, I could see the Cobia reflecting the blues and whites from Wayne’s light bar. It appeared the other boat had attempted to flee in that direction and had been apprehended.

That left me and the Yellowfin. At 33 feet, powered by three 300 HP engines, there was no comparison in size or power.

Generals have dealt with opponents attacking with overwhelming force for millennia, even before Sun Tzu penned The Art of War over 2,000 years ago. His tactical manual handled many common situations that armies might face. Overwhelming force was one of them. Avoiding the fight was the obvious answer. If that was not possible, then deception was next on the list. Terrain could also come into play.

Usually, when terrain is considered, it is assumed to be land. Mountains, rivers, valleys, and gorges all have their place in determining when and where to face an enemy force. Most people think of the ocean as flat, with wind or storm-driven waves as its predominant feature. Beneath the surface, the sea floor has the same features as land. Instead of topography, it is called bathymetry. The concept is the same. In this case, the channel and flats made up the battlefield.

I held the shotgun close, a shell in the breach. A warning shot may or may not be effective. It might deter them if they had no firearms. They might also feel threatened enough to use theirs, if they had any. Escalation was not my intent, and though in the heat of the moment it might not make sense, the paperwork I would have to fill out after discharging my weapon was the final consideration.

Keeping the gun at my side, I moved to the helm. Taking control of the searchlight, I shone it directly at the oncoming boat. Unless you are experienced or prepared, night vision aboard a vessel is difficult to maintain. There are tradeoffs that must be considered, use of electronics being the biggest. Many boaters had no idea how to put their chartplotter in night mode. Even if they did, there was still the engine gauges and radio to consider. The backlit display from any one of those would hinder the driver’s vision.

The searchlight would destroy night vision. Keeping the light on their helm, I handed the shotgun to Justine, I checked the release on my holster,, and turned toward the Yellowfin. With the mic in one hand and the wheel in the other, I placed the selector on the hailer setting.

“This is the National Park Service. Prepare to be boarded.”

Calling out that I was with the NPS didn’t exactly instill fear in people. Instead of more speed, weapons, or men, I was using every tactical advantage I had. Disorienting the driver with the light was the first step. Once I was within a few boat lengths, I shut it off but allowed the blue and white strobing lights to flash across the faces of the three men and one woman aboard. Instead of looking angry or aggressive, they looked scared.

I had expected a fight and was worried that this was too easy. “Hands where I can see them,” I called over the hailer. They probably could have heard and understood the command without it, but my amplified voice made me appear larger than life.

I turned to Justine. “Grab the flex cuffs from the console.”

“Right, Batman. You going to deputize me first?”

“Okay. You’re deputized, now get them before they change their minds.”

She returned a second later and handed me four pairs of cuffs. “Take the helm,” I told her. “Once I’m aboard, idle a boat length or so away and call Wayne. If it goes bad, get out of here.”

I waited for her to nod. Asking for a promise was pointless. Even the acknowledgment wasn’t worth much. Justine would do what Justine did. She’d saved me more than once, though, so there was that. She took the wheel and inched toward the Yellowfin. The captain and passengers had complied and had their hands raised.

When the soft side of the RHIB touched the gelcoat of the Yellowfin, I hopped over the gunwales, landing easily on the deck with my right hand ready to draw my sidearm.

“What’s the problem, officer?” the man behind the wheel asked.

I glanced at their faces, not seeing the man from the video. Running without navigation lights and on the suspicion of something I couldn’t yet put a name to were actions that would be torn apart by a defense attorney. But they were enough to board.

“Evading law enforcement.” I focused my attention on the captain. It was sketchy at best as the chase had started without Wayne or I identifying ourselves.

“You’re Park Service. Is this even your jurisdiction?” he asked, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

The tone was not confrontational, so I answered. “Stiltsville is inside the park boundaries. It’s a dangerous place during the day. Any activity at night is deemed suspicious and dangerous without proper use of your nav lights. What are you guys doing out here, anyway?”

“Just cruising around.”

Though I did have probable cause to board their craft, I had to be careful with my investigation. “The other boat that was out here, Cobia 27?” I was working under the assumption that anyone cruising around in a Yellowfin would know his boats and be willing to show off that knowledge.

“Yeah. Pretty good eye for boats for a ranger.”

I usually took offense at “Ranger Rick” comments. Some were spiteful. Omit the “Rick” tag, though, and they were pretty innocent. I had to imagine that not many people knew the hierarchy of the NPS. I’d gotten what I wanted and continued my line of questioning.

“I found an abandoned Cobia in Caesar Creek earlier. Towed it over to Adams Key. When I came back a few hours later, it was gone.”

“This ain’t a Cobia. I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

His language had turned a little rough as he went on the defensive. That told me a lot about who I was dealing with. “Just asking.”

“Well,” he paused, thinking of how to respond.

The right answer was to shut up. Guilty people don’t often do that and tend to incriminate themselves in an attempt to prove their innocence. On my end, I let the seconds tick by without saying anything. I set an internal wager that he wouldn’t last twenty seconds.

He didn’t last ten.

“Those guys just came up on us. We were just minding our own business, checking out the houses at night.”

“Did they threaten you?” I hoped the lie would continue. Once that seal is cracked, anything can happen.

He hesitated, no doubt wondering if he should throw his cohorts under the bus or the boat in this case. I glanced toward the other end of the channel. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Between the spotlight shining in their eyes and the subsequent boarding, I doubt he had given thought to checking on the other half of his operation. I followed his gaze and saw the two boats together at the end of the channel.

Now it was my turn to be surprised as the man lunged for the helm. I might not always follow them, but I knew my protocols. The first thing I had done after boarding was to ensure the boat’s engines were shut down. There was no misinterpreting the man’s action. Drawing my sidearm, I ordered him to step away from the helm. His actions, along with the earlier attempt to evade us, allowed me to take the next step, and I cuffed everyone aboard. Any questions from an attorney would be answered that I was protecting myself.

I immediately felt safer and called Wayne. He had the man from the video in custody. This is where things could get tricky for us. With no police infrastructure, we rely on Miami-Dade for holding and interrogating prisoners. The deal was that they got credit for the arrests. Even with that carrot, there were still attitudes when we brought in a case.

There was no other option, so I called their dispatch number. Grace Herrera, my sole contact within the agency, had been promoted upstairs, leaving me speaking with the desk sergeant. I identified myself.

“What now, Hunter?”

I let the snarkery go. “Six suspects. One arrest for robbery. Two for evading law enforcement.” I could sense his interest waning. This would be another Kurt Hunter special that took more work on their end than it was worth. “Two boats. One’s a Yellowfin.”

That got his attention. “You don’t say. I can send two crews out to take them into custody and impound the boats. What’s the other one?”

“Cobia 27.”

“Okay. Sit tight.”

The boats were the key to getting his cooperation. The department’s best shot at upgrading its fleet was through confiscated boats. The Yellowfin outclassed most of their other boats. If they chose not to use the boats themselves, they would be entitled to sell them at auction. Either scenario was worth dealing with me and my suspects.

I called out to Justine, who to my surprise had actually listened and kept her distance. She idled over, and I explained that Miami-Dade was headed over. “You can take the boat and head back. I’ll get a ride with Wayne.”

We both knew it would be in her best interest to not be here when her fellow officers arrived. Justine’s loyalty to the department was mainly due to them being the only game in town. The next largest forensic lab was the Florida Department of Law Enforcement in Tampa. She took enough jabs for being married to me, and there were too many ways her presence here could be misinterpreted.

“You’re sure?”

“Best thing. I’ll catch you at home later.” Both our vehicles were in Homestead.

“Roger, boss.” She spun the wheel and idled out of the channel. At about the same time as I saw flashing lights heading toward us from the north, Justine was far enough to the south the RHIB wouldn’t be notice. I turned my attention to the incoming boats and directed one toward Wayne and the Cobia. The other idled toward the Yellowfin.

“Nice boat, Hunter. You swim here or do some action-hero shit?”

“Sebastian.” I muttered the officer’s name, realizing that there was already a major hole in my story.

“You want to bring them aboard? Then we can set up the tow.”

Thankfully, he glanced toward the other boats and saw Wayne. Despite the interagency conflict, Wayne was still police. The Miami-Dade cops respected that. I helped him tie off to the Yellowfin and transfer the occupants aboard the police boat. The other officer on board set them in the bow and cuffed them to the rail. Once they were secure, I helped them rig the Yellowfin and waited for Wayne.

Miami-Dade can be a lot of things. Efficient was one of them. They knew how to get the most done with the least amount of work and, within a few minutes, they were underway with the suspects aboard and the boats towing behind.

10

“Where’s Justine?” Wayne asked.

“Heading back to headquarters. I didn’t want those knuckleheads to see her.”

“Guess you’ll be needing a ride back, then.”

I hadn’t thought that he might just head home to Adams Key from Stiltsville. Running me to the mainland and back out to Adams would take him another forty minutes. To make matters worse, I was going to inconvenience him further. “Yes. I’d like you with me when we talk to them.” I didn’t say it to appease him. With six suspects in custody and only the charges of unsafe operation and attempting to evade us to hold them on, we were grasping at straws. I knew there was something here, though. Having both of our perspectives might be the key.

“Sure thing. Come on, then. I would say that daylight’s burning, but we’ll be lucky to wrap this up before sunrise.”

That was the truth of it. We didn’t work shifts or even set schedules. Between us, we covered what was needed. A lot of the time was patrol work, giving out tickets or policing the sandbars. You could set your watch to that action and take days off when it rained or the wind was blowing. Weekends from noon to sunset were the busiest.

I had stumbled across my share of what I called “real” crime. There was the more-than-occasional dead body, along with plentiful smuggling activity and a good dose of breaking park rules, mainly environmental stuff. The Everglades or the miles of mangrove shoreline in the park were easy places to get rid of things you didn’t want found. Between the turkey vultures, snakes, crabs, gators, and crocs, bodies didn’t last long. Even though the murders might not have been committed inside the park boundaries, if the body was discovered in the park, the case still fell to me.

We had left the scene as soon as the second police boat had the Cobia under tow. The run back to headquarters was fairly straightforward as long as you stayed to the center of the bay. Wayne knew the way around the hazards along the way, giving me time to think about what my end game was.

Though there was some ego involved that these shenanigans were going on in “my” park, there was something deeper and more important at play. For good or bad, now that Miami-Dade was involved, the media would get hold of the story. I wanted to craft the narrative to make this an example of how to behave in a national park. Unfortunately, this wasn’t something I was very good at. What I needed was evidence.

The guy in the video was key. Though we knew the crime had been fabricated, they didn’t know we knew. Boarding another boat without permission was the same as entering a home. If vacant, it would be called breaking and entering. When people were present, it was labeled assault. That charge would be added to the burglary when he was booked.

I wanted more, though. The two charges and the burglary were of no real significance; I suspected the DA’s office would work out a plea deal. The sandbar parties weren’t going to stop. My hope was that this might tame them a little.

That meant a talk with the DA as well, something I did not relish. It wasn’t a Miami thing. I’d had to work with prosecutors elsewhere. Their goals and mine were supposed to be aligned but were often at odds. I wanted criminals off the street. They were more concerned with politics. With the current state of affairs, I wasn’t sure how that would play.

I had my strategy planned out. Since there were few times when I was not operating the boat, I sat back and tried to enjoy the ride. After the night’s activities and knowing what was to come, I was on edge.

Even after a decade on the water, running at night was still stressful. I tried to relax, knowing Wayne knew what he was doing. Still, my eyes panned the water, searching for threats—or fishermen. The warmer weather increased the water temperature, which made a perfect habitat for the snapper to spawn. Right now, it was the mangrove snapper. The next full moon would induce the yellowtail and mutton snappers.

Fishing just after sunset not only gets you out of the hot sun, but the bite can be incredible. Ray and I had spent many evenings sitting on the reef catching fish after fish, most of them keepers.

Nighttime also brought out the bad element. “We own the night” is a catchphrase used by the army. It may be more apropos to smugglers. Even before advancements in marine electronics, it was worth the risk to run dark.

Ahead were several areas where the water was disturbed by shoals and reefs. Most were well-marked, even at night. Depending on the tide, it wasn’t unusual to see waves breaking over the obstacles.

My gaze shifted to one such phenomenon until I realized that it shouldn’t be there. “What’s that?” I pointed to the white wake.

“Nothing there that I know of,” Wayne answered. He glanced down at the chartplotter screen. Even though he had it memorized, he was a trust-but-verify guy. “Damned if I know.”

When I first spotted it, the wake was stationary. Now it seemed to accelerate from nowhere. That meant a boat, but I didn’t see any nav lights or a telltale silhouette on the horizon. What I did see was a hump on the water, moving like a whale on steroids.

Wayne switched on the spotlight and maneuvered it toward the object, which at this point appeared to be moving around 40 MPH. My first reaction was frustration with our equipment. This was the second time today that we didn’t have the horsepower to pursue. A thought about claiming the Yellowfin for the park flashed through my mind. Miami-Dade had it now, and possession being nine-tenths of the law, I dismissed it, trying to figure out what we were looking at.

Something nagged at my memory, and the video that Johnny had sent came back to me. I studied the vessel, because it surely wasn’t natural. It was just about out of range of the spotlight, and within a second, it was gone. I was sure what I had seen, though.

The object suddenly vanished into the night. Wayne switched off the spotlight. “Maybe the camera got a shot.”

“Hope so.” There was nothing we could do now, but I planned on calling Johnny on the drive to Miami.

The little bit of excitement gave me enough of an adrenaline bump to wake me up. I stayed vigilant the rest of the ride, but the water was quiet. Whatever we had seen had been alone.

As we pulled into the marina, Wayne was saying he’d get to bed at sunrise. I was hoping I got there at all. With the boat secured, we headed to our separate vehicles. The blessing was that there was little traffic this time of night. That didn’t make the drive any easier. The old saying that nothing good happens after midnight applied to the roads as well. Add in ongoing construction, and the drive could be harrowing.

I didn’t mind the first delay. Though I’m not much of a “no cell phone while driving” guy, I preferred to talk when stationary. I used the construction zone to call Johnny Wells.

“I think I saw one of those Sea Babies,” I said, describing the circumstance and what it had looked like.

“Heard they were around. Those guys probably picked up on our being reassigned and the FWC long-range boat taking our spot there. With a pile of cash and no approvals to worry about, the cartels can spin their business plans like a top.”

“They’re that available?” I asked.

“Cash talks. Could have bought one from the Ukrainians. You’d be crazy to think all that money and material we’re giving them is going toward the fight. Place was corrupt before and hasn’t changed. They’re just the victims now.”

I didn’t want to get into politics. “How do we find out?”

“I can make some calls. Doubt your new FWC friends will be helpful, but you never know.”

There was no missing the patrol boat sitting at the dock when we returned. “I don’t think that boat’s moved since it got here.”

“So you said.”

From his tone, I guessed that Johnny wasn’t happy with his move. I thanked him for the information and told him I would forward a copy of any video that was worthwhile, then disconnected.

Forty minutes later, I took a deep breath and pulled open the station door. Wayne was in uniform, which got us a hard look, and we were able to cut the line. The officer working the desk called back, and we waited a few long minutes before the door cracked open.

“Hunter, Wayne,” Sebastian said. “Interview rooms aren’t for rent. Didn’t you see the ‘No Vacancy’ sign out front?”

“Busy night?” I tried to sympathize.

He shook his head as if we had contributed to it. We had, but he was going to get credit for the arrest. I was ready to remind him of that when he opened the door all the way and motioned for us to follow.

I kept my head up and gazed ahead, feeling the looks of the other officers present. Wayne greeted a few as we passed through the open area cluttered with desks.

“I’ve only got two rooms. You’ll have to cycle through them,” Sebastian said. He called over to a uniform and asked him to assist us.

“Thanks.” I almost said I owed him one but stopped short. If there really was something here, he would get the arrest and the two boats. The Yellowfin alone would grant him hero status.

“How do you want to do it?” I asked Wayne.

He glanced at his watch and shook his head, realizing he wasn’t getting any sleep either. “Best split up. Divide and conquer. Start at the bottom and let the guy we know sweat it out.”

“Makes sense.” I walked to the first door and nodded at the uniform, who opened the door for Wayne. The corridor had a handful of doors on each side. I walked to the next one and glanced into the small window cut into the door.

“This one good?” The uniform didn’t wait for an answer. He punched in a code, and the door opened.

I can usually tell how an interview is going to go before I sit down. Some guys are squirmers, others overly stoic. A cocky attitude tells me this isn’t their first dance. Those guys either want a lawyer or a deal.

The man sitting across the table was a squirmer. That type usually thinks asking for a lawyer is a sign of guilt. This one surprised me and asked right away.

“You’re not accused of anything,” I explained.

“Then why am I here? I forgot to turn the lights on and had no idea who you were. Like you said, Stiltsville can be a scary place.”

He might not need a lawyer after all. I bit down on a smile. What I would’ve liked to do was to threaten him that I was ready to confiscate the Yellowfin. I wasn’t sure he was the owner. The boat had come up registered to a corporation, not an unusual or illegal tactic to avoid liability and write off some of the expenses. In the case of the video business, it might actually be considered legitimate.

Sam had run the registration number. We had the name of the company, but the only other information publicly available was the registered agent, an attorney in Miami. I immediately recognized the address on Brickell Avenue in downtown Miami as the same as my five-figure attorney, Daniel J. Viscount. I added his name to my call list for the morning. At this point, the corporate veil remained in place.

Instead of the stick, I used honey.

“Let’s save some time and money here⁠—”

“I’m all for that.” He interrupted me like a CEO. All business.

“Give me something, and you can walk right now. And your buddies, too.”

He started to stutter.

11

Whispering is a tool that can convey intimacy, deceit, power, or paranoia. A prominent politician had mastered whispering to the point that he could whisper-yell.

When I whispered, it was often on the paranoid end of the spectrum. Working within Miami-Dade’s facility meant I had to suffer several consequences. Aside from the Ranger Rick barbs, the interview rooms were monitored with audio and video equipment. The Miranda warning states that anything said can and will be used against you. In this case, it applied to the interviewer as well as the interviewee.

The only thing I had on the people we’d brought in was evading law enforcement, and that was pretty flimsy. Running without navigation lights and filming without a permit would hardly warrant impounding two boats and bringing six suspects in for questioning. Looking back on what happened, they wouldn’t need an attorney on the level of Daniel J. Viscount to point out that I might have incited the incident by using the spotlights instead of our light bars. The last thing I wanted was for Miami-Dade to get a sense of the thin ice I was on after conning them into helping by using the boats as bait.

I leaned forward and whispered, “Evading law enforcement is a felony.” There was no point in adding the petty charges. I changed my tone but not the volume and continued before he could protest. “Someone’s going to have to take the fall for that.” I paused. “Some cooperation could go a long way.” We both knew I didn’t have much.

“Andy Werner.” He extended his hand like we were making a deal. “What exactly are you after here?” Sensing an end to this, he shifted into negotiation mode.

That was a good question. I was relying on my gut, which is not always the best strategy.

Growing up during the tech bubble of the late ’90s, I’d watched my father navigate the field of the new, suddenly wealthy entrepreneurs all looking to outdo each other. Working and being around him as he built custom homes was often more about handling their egos than construction. The experience had taught me a lot about how to deal with these type of people. These weren’t the Rockefellers or Carnegies of previous booms. They were younger, bolder, and didn’t have to wait until mid-life to earn their fortunes or take control of their trust funds.

What I learned was that there are two types of entrepreneurs. The mercurial innovators and the more stoic operators. A successful long term enterprise needs both. I laughed to myself, thinking about how people would see Wayne and me fitting that equation.

The moral of the story is to work for the operator and avoid the innovator. I’d pegged the man across the table as an innovator. Instead of relying on the experience and ability of an attorney, he thought of himself as smarter than one. We called the type bulletproof and invisible. What this type failed to grasp is the superhero status is all in their minds. I had learned the value of a good lawyer, hence my relationship with Daniel J. Viscount, Esquire.

Any activity around Stiltsville at night could be deemed dangerous. Even if there were no nefarious intentions, the structures were generally unsafe and unlit. That alone would have warranted a stop. In the end, though, it could and probably would be argued that we had failed to identify ourselves as law enforcement. Two boats approached from different directions and blinded them with spotlights while approaching. In their shoes, I would have acted the same way.

The only thing I had was the truth, and Miami-Dade wasn’t going to like it. I had no choice but to make it sound more serious than it actually was.

“I know what you’re up to.” That statement could be interpreted in a number of ways. There were no laws against making movies. It was the selling of them that was not ethical and, in a flash, I realized illegal—maybe. As a businessman, he had to know that offering fictional videos as if they were real life was walking a line. Deepfakes were AI creations that were now being prosecuted. His videos were similar, though without harm being done, I wasn’t sure there was really an offense. Still, I left it hanging there.

Many suspects would have broken then. He didn’t waiver, leaving me no choice but to get what I could. “I want your promise that you’ll stay out of the park.” Filming without a permit was weaker than the other charges. Leaving it out strengthened my argument.

He nodded. That part was easy. Being Miami, there was no lack of locations where he could shoot.

“Next, I want all the raw footage shot inside the park.” Sam wasn’t going to like going through hours of footage, but If there really was a crime, she would want to find it.

After a long minute’s deliberation, he grasped that this was the best-case scenario. The pay-for-view video business could continue, just not in the park. The boat was not going to become an asset on Miami-Dade’s balance sheet. Most importantly, he could walk away.

“Okay. What about charging my people?”

My hands were tied here. My reputation would suffer if I let everyone walk. I could stomach that. The bigger issue was ensuring that we had Miami-Dade’s cooperation if and when we needed it. “The two captains will be charged. I doubt they’ll stick, though.”

He muddled this around for a minute. We both knew the men would be released in time for breakfast. “Okay.”

“Great. Here’s my email.” I handed him a card. “Our system is air-gapped. You’ll have to come by the office.”

I wasn’t sure what air-gapped meant but I wasn’t going to turn down an invitation to see the operation. With their registered address an attorney’s office and no address on the website, I agreed.

In the hallway, I glanced at my watch. Three a.m. was too early to get Sam involved, though I did think about it. Wayne appeared from one of the other rooms. “Anything?”

“Not that one. Tech guy. Works by the job.”

“I think I have the head honcho in there,” I cocked my head toward the interview room I had just left. “He’s ready to deal.”

“Nice. Figured that one would lawyer up. What’s the catch?”

“We charge the two captains and get out of here. I’ll explain the rest later.” I was well aware of the time. Avoiding the shift change in a couple of hours was my goal. Another level of scrutiny and questions would arrive with the day shift.

“Two’re better than none.”

We finished the interviews in less than an hour. When we compared notes after releasing them, our list looked like the roster of a production company. The clock was still ticking, and I needed a change of scenery.

“Go ahead and book the guys. They’ll be out on bail in a couple of hours anyway.”

“Got it. You going to finish the main man?”

I nodded. “Get some rest. I’ll catch you up later.”

I left Wayne to handle the booking and returned to the interview room. The minute the uniform opened the door to the interview room, I knew something had changed. I realized my mistake. Giving a thinker too much time to think is a bad idea. He’d probably come up with a dozen scenarios of how this could play out and decided that our agreement was null.

Self-sabotage is another characteristic of an innovator. Risk is their fuel. They understand Thomas Edison’s view on failure: not as setbacks, but as valuable learning opportunities and stepping stones to success. Edison famously stated, "I have not failed 10,000 times. I have not failed once. I have succeeded in proving that those 10,000 ways will not work.”

That kind of thinking is all good when making a static product where the only cost for failure is time and money. The new breed of entrepreneurs has this same attitude, only on steroids. They lack the discipline of a scientist and often throw stuff against the wall just to see if it sticks.

“I’ve got a different deal.”

Control is important in an interview, and I had lost mine. I studied the man. It was apparent from his body language and expression that he had changed since our last talk. That extra hour had given him time to think. In most cases, that worked in my favor. People’s minds tend to gravitate toward worst-case scenarios when they are alone in a locked room.

Florida law gives time parameters on how long a suspect can be held without being charged. We had detained the man on suspicion of what amounted to being around someone we suspected of committing a crime, or an accessory. That was a pretty weak argument if he wanted to push it. Technically, Miami-Dade had up to eight hours to hold a suspect without a court order or arrest. In this case, federal law was more lenient. Though it was clear the law had been written for terrorist activity and life-threatening crimes, we had no time limit.

That didn’t mean it was wise. I glanced at my watch. It was going on 4 a.m. The men had been in custody for about four hours. We had the advantage that at night, people’s expectations about the efficiency of just about anything, including the judicial process, are relaxed. Still, we were walking a line.

Despite my anger at myself, it was stupid to ignore him. “Okay. I’m listening.”

He sat up, leaned forward, and cleared his throat as if he was about to present the latest earnings figures to the board of directors. “What if I was to provide you with something you could take to the bank?”

I gave him a sideways look, inadvertently glancing at the camera with the little red light mounted in the corner.

He followed my gaze. “Shit, not a payoff. Listen. We’ve caught something on film a couple of times now. Something running at high speed. Looked like a high-tech submersible.”

He had me at “high speed.” I had to be careful, though. Apprehending a smuggling ring using a new technology trumped his petty crimes. I sat back, thinking. Our previous deal would have allowed him to walk out of here with the promise of turning over the raw footage of the robbery. The obvious question was, why offer more? My guess was that he was looking for blanket immunity.

“I still have to charge the captains.”

“That’s fine. They’ll be out by noon and well compensated.”

If not for what Wayne and I had seen on the way back from Stiltsville, I would have ignored his claim. But we had seen something too close to what he was describing to ignore. He was correct that if he had what he said, it was big. The question still was, why offer more? That could wait, though.

The best thing for all of us was to get out of here before the night shift ran out of patience or the day shift came in. “Do you have a place we can watch it?”

“Our office is not far from here.”

“Sounds good.” I handed him back his phone. “Text me the address. I’ll handle the logistics and meet you shortly.”

“Coffee’s on me.” He rose as if to leave.

“Give me a minute.”

“You’re not playing games, are you?”

“No. Just a minute.”

He sat back down, clearly not being used to having to wait for what he wanted. I took note of the trait. You never know if something like that will be useful. Negotiations weren’t my strong point. Dealing with a CEO type, I needed all the leverage I could get.

I left the room and explained to the desk sergeant what I was doing.

“Two BS arrests for all that?” he asked, not really surprised.

“There’s still the boats you impounded.”

That brought a smile to his face. Whether the group was released or not, the department had control of the boats. Once that happened, they would dig in. They could disappear them as easily as they could return them.

“Alright, Hunter. We’ll handle things on our end. Get the rest out of here before shift change.”

I thanked him and walked back to the interview room. “You’re good to go.”

The uniform escorted the group to the public area, where they stood in a semicircle staring at each other. Jail had been a team building exercise. A bond had been formed between them from the shared experience, making me wonder that, if my career in law enforcement went bad, maybe I had a future as a corporate trainer. After a long minute in the purgatory of not knowing if they were truly free or not, they left.

“Nothing like being detained to make you appreciate freedom. So what’s the plan, boss?” Wayne asked.

I checked my phone and saw the text from the CEO. “We’ve got some video to watch.”

12

The office of Miami on Fire was trendy, having an industrial look and an open floor plan. Seating arrangements and tables, rather than cubicles and desks, filled the space. Instead of bulky desktop computers, a row of servers and an entire wall of flat-screen monitors dominated the large room. The servers seemed like taking a step back in time; the monitors like being in a nightclub. Trusses with spot lights, an industrial version of track lighting, hung from the high ceiling. The exposed ductwork and the concrete floor reinforced the high-tech image.

Sometimes people called me a Luddite, but I knew state-of-the-art technology when I saw it. I glanced at the servers. “No cloud?”

“Air-gapped. Hackers are incessant.”

He seemed more upset about the ethereal threat to his data than being stuck in an interview room for most of the night. An air gap, or physical space between computers and a network, including the internet, was the only safe way to subvert hackers. In some regard, the cost of online security was baffling. Even I knew that online videos could be copied from any user’s browser. The air gap was cheap and secure. All work had to be done here or be physically downloaded, which I doubted was allowed. Remote work would not be available. To suffer that kind of inconvenience meant there was something else involved—at least, some serious paranoia.

Considering his reaction at the mention of hackers, I guessed it was his decision. In any event, he had not misled us. We had to physically be here to see the footage. I regretted my decision to let Sam sleep. This would have been like going to Disney World for her.

“Sit down over there.” He indicated to a seating arrangement in front of the screens. “Latte, cappuccino?”

“Black works for me,” Wayne said.

“Double that,” I said, and watched him walk over to a wall built out more like a back bar in a restaurant than an office kitchenette. The centerpiece was a machine generating the fuel source for this kind of work: a gleaming espresso maker. Andy fiddled with it, as if our simple requests were novel. Finally, he turned back to us. “Espresso is as close as I can get.”

“Add some hot water and we’re good.” Yes, I knew what an americano was.

He turned to the machine and brewed our drinks, then decided to be one of the guys and made the same for himself. He brought our cups over and sat down at an adjacent table with a laptop. With what he thought was a sleight of hand, he pulled an SD card from his pocket and inserted it into the computer. Settling back into the couch, I waited for the show. A cluster of four screens in the center of the wall lit up and the video started.

“Let me know if you want to jump forward, rewind, or pause.”

My body craved sleep. The last thing I wanted to do was sit through the entire video. “Roll it,” I said, knowing this might be my only shot at seeing it without a warrant.

The americano helped, but the video was as promised: raw footage. Those who thought it was easy to make a production-quality video that gives the illusion of being shot in real time are mistaken. It was true that many viral videos are happenstance. From their early work, it appeared that Miami on Fire had started this way. Random people get lucky. To maintain that and build a business around it takes time and effort.

The video started with the two boats racing toward Stiltsville. Shot during the golden hour, the time just before sunset, the lighting was perfect. The drone followed the two boats as they cut into the channel. As if on cue, the scene stopped abruptly. The next view was full-on dark and pretty much what Wayne and I had seen when we arrived. The scene dragged on with the boats randomly weaving in and out and around the structures. There was no apparent plot, which made me believe the sequence would be edited to fit the script.

Seeing the footage reminded me of the permit situation, possibly something I could use as leverage. Permits were required to make a movie, film, or even record audio in a national park. The rules, which applied equally to Hollywood studios and content creators, were clear. In every case but one, this production company had dodged them. Having six people involved was no coincidence. Having eight would have required a permit. The same with their equipment, which was all handheld. They also didn’t require specific use of an area of the park. There were only two items that could be construed as them crossing the line. Andy and Miami on Fire had definitely caused the park expense. We wouldn’t have been here and up all night if not for them. Whether they had adversely impacted park resources, values, and other visitors was a matter of debate.

With the multitude of wannabe YouTube stars filming everything they did, every fish they caught, every moment at the sandbar, content creators were as incessant as the mosquitos. I glanced at Wayne, who appeared to be having the same thought. I shook my head discreetly, thinking that card would be better played when I needed it.

The man had missed our interaction, and we had missed what we were here for.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

“Can you rewind it?” I asked, as if I had.

A few seconds later, the same vessel that Wayne and I had seen on our return trip to headquarters shot through the channel. “Freeze it.”

He manipulated the screen to get the best view. “I’ll send a still to your email.”

“Great.” We were toward the end of the footage when I remembered the real reason we were here. “I’ll need the entire video from tonight as well as the sandbar and anything else in the park.”

He put on his CEO face. “That’s a lot of footage.”

I saw the word “proprietary” forming on his lips. It remained unsaid and he nodded.

“And no more shooting inside the park.”

“Scout’s honor.”

In theory, the promise solved the immediate problem, and we had stumbled across a much larger one in the process. “A copy of all the video segments showing that boat in or out would be good, too.”

He made a face like this would be a lot of work but relented. “I’ll get it edited and send it.”

We left on good terms, more in case that I might need him again than that I had liked him. My gut told me there was still something going on. Maybe something would come of it—maybe not. I didn’t mind the feeling. It would remain with me as a reminder.

We were into daylight hours now, which meant that I could contact Daniel J. Viscount.

“You hungry?” I asked Wayne as we left the building. A few years back, I would have ignored the need for sleep and food. I knew better now.

“Anything to get the taste of that espresso out of my mouth. Horrid stuff.”

I laughed, having felt the same. We found a small coffee shop nearby and took a table near the back corner, each of us sitting with our backs to the wall out of habit. After ordering, we sat back and sipped “real” coffee.

“That works,” Wayne said with a smile.

Coffee fuels more than the tech industry. Law enforcement carries a bad reputation for their affection for coffee and donuts. Both were often required to function fully in a job where one’s level of alertness could cost or save lives.

After a long silence while we processed what we had seen, I asked Wayne what he thought.

“What, filming without a permit? Or the charges that are probably being dropped as we speak?”

I brought the coffee cup to my mouth to hide my expression. Wayne caught it anyway.

“I know you better than to think you’re going after them for paperwork and a fee.” He yawned. “Definitely did waste our resources and affected the park. You think his promise is enough?”

“Yeah. There’s plenty of other locations around. Now that they’re a known quantity, they’ll stay away.”

“So, that leaves the video.”

Our breakfasts arrived before we could discuss what to do about the mystery vessel. There’s something about being up all night that makes me hungry. I finished my plate quickly and waited for Wayne to push his aside.

“I’m going to call Johnny and see what he thinks,” I said.

“Ought to talk to the FWC, too. It’s their territory now. You start playing favorites, it’s going to cost you.”

He was right, but I often had a problem staying in my lane. My counter to that was to rationalize my actions as part of the investigation that had inadvertently turned into something else. The filming and associated chaos were one thing—smuggling was another.

Smuggling was all about mitigating risks: one being that they would use a random schedule and not run on consecutive nights. My guess was that they would wait at least a week. That gave me some time to figure out how to handle it.

I picked up the check on the Park Service credit card. Our all-nighter was part of the job. We, rather Wayne, would get comp time for the hours, but that didn’t help right now.

“I’m going to bed for a week.”

We split up. We were out by the Turnpike, which meant I had to face rush hour traffic to get home. The traffic to pay a visit to Daniel J. would be even worse. I’d never had the misfortune to work shifts. There had been no night shift in either the Plumas National Forest or Biscayne National Park. That suited me, because I could never have been able to sleep during the day. Wayne had worked enough swing shifts that it was second nature to him. I envied him that but knew that the best thing for me was to keep going.

The coward’s way out, at least as far as traffic was concerned, was to head to the park. I called Viscount on the way. Our relationship had developed from me cleaning out my bank account to pay him to a quid pro quo arrangement. At first, we’d both kept score. After a half-dozen years, it was no longer necessary. His practice was a mix of family law, which is where he had helped me, and carefully chosen defense work. In both arenas, he preferred the image of a defender of justice. Piercing corporate veils was something he relished.

That left me a half hour to think, which in my current state was not a good thing. Sleep deprivation affects the body and mind. I was tired, but the breakfast had bolstered my energy reserves. The problem was mental. It was a time I shouldn’t be making complex decisions.

When I saw the FWC patrol boat still docked at the marina, it didn’t mean that I wouldn’t.

13

The fine line between investigating and eavesdropping is situation-dependent. When a voice coming from the patrol boat caught my attention, I couldn’t help myself and slowed as I walked by. The conversation was one-sided, indicating a phone call. The speaker’s accent was a unique phenomenon common to second- or third-generation immigrants, who spoke their native language at home and English everywhere else.

He was clearly upset. Not to judge, but when you lived in a city where almost three-quarters of the population was Hispanic, there were things you noticed. We called it the Cuban thing—angry and loud.

I couldn’t help but overhear his side of the conversation. When I heard something about fuel reimbursements for the last few weeks, I stopped. From my personal observation, the boat hadn’t left the dock all week. Wayne and Sam had commented that it hadn’t during the week prior, when Justine and I were in the Virgin Islands.

The FWC uses a combination of state and federal funding from the Sport Fish Restoration and Boating Trust Fund to pay for fuel. To make things more convenient for their personnel, they issue special fuel cards assigned to individual employees or equipment for fuel purchases.

“What do you want me to do if the card’s maxed out? Not work? Do I have to remind you that if we don’t clock hours, there is no grant money?” There was a pause while the other party must have been talking. “We’ve been on the reef working for you for the last month. Fix it. I got another call coming in.”

He disconnected that call and answered the other in a totally different tone of voice. “Sure thing. How many guys?” There was a pause. “Okay. Turnpike near the Palmetto. We’ll be there at eight.”

The boat fell quiet. I continued walking past like nothing had happened. My head was spinning from more than sleep deprivation. Even in my addled state, I knew what I heard. The question was what to do about it.

The mantra “make good decisions” had been force-fed to my daughter as she grew up. (That had been rule number one, surpassing rule number two: that boys were idiots.)

I totally ignored my own advice—rules number one and two—and turned around. Under the premise of being a good neighbor, I walked to the gangway leading from the dock to the boat and called out.

I could hear footsteps on the steel deck as the man approached. “What can I do for you?” He said it before he could see me. When he saw the Park Service uniform, his tone changed. “I’m a little busy.”

The attitude was too familiar, common to most of the FWC officers. Our areas of interest overlapped, but our missions and methods were different, causing constant tension. Sharing the same facility didn’t help either.

“Kurt Hunter. Special Agent in Charge. Just wanted to introduce myself.”

“Okay, Kurt Hunter. I’m Rafael. We good?”

“Sure.” I started to walk away. Then, ignoring his dismissal, I turned around. “Can you have a look at something for me?” I pulled out my phone and loaded the still image of the vessel we had seen.

“Like I said, I’m busy.”

He wasn’t even in uniform. “Just take a second.” I held out the phone.

His curiosity seemed to pique. Taking the offered device, he zoomed in on the picture. “New to me. I’m assuming these are bad guys?”

“Not sure. We saw it cruising up by Stiltsville last night. Thought you might be interested.”

“Yeah. We’re mostly working south right now. I’ll let you know if I see anything suspicious.”

I picked up the hint of sarcasm. “Thanks.”

The blast of a klaxon came from his phone. He gave me a hard look, which appeared to be more practiced than real. A long second later, he answered his phone, then paused, waiting for me to walk away.

The encounter had left a bad taste in my mouth. The blast of cold air that hit me as I entered the headquarters building was as cleansing as it was cold. Air conditioning was Florida’s nectar of the gods and made everything better.

“You look like hell.” Mariposa’s sing-song voice made the statement sound nice.

“Up all night on that video case. Wayne, too. I wouldn’t bother him today.”

“He’s already called in.” She raised an eyebrow, admonishing me for not doing the same.

I was too tired for a smart comment, so I let it go. “Sam here?” I’d seen her car in the lot, but the question got me out of any further discussion.

“Upstairs. Cup of coffee help?”

“That would be great,” I said, accepting the peace offering.

Mariposa was the last of our original team. Once led by Martinez, with his surveillance system and fake golf trophies, and backed by Susan McLeach, his pit viper special agent, it had been the two of us against the evil empire. We were friends outside of work as well. An invitation to her house for dinner was always welcome, both for her cooking and her husband’s guests-only rum.

I took the coffee upstairs and knocked on the jamb of Sam’s open door.

“Hey. Heard you had some action last night. Care to share?”

I wasn’t sure if it was her sitting behind Martinez’s old desk or her surly attitude that made me wonder who was in charge. “Check this out.” I pulled out the SD card with a copy of the mysterious vessel that Andy had given me. Seconds later, it was displayed on her monitor.

“That’s pretty badass. What is it?”

“Looks like one of those submersibles the smugglers have been using, but more high tech. Can you do some digging and see what you can find?”

“Hold the phone.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. One screen changed to some kind of search engine. Seconds later, the other showed a similar craft.

A video started playing that reminded me of the drone footage from Miami on Fire. An audio track accompanied the boat flying through the water. The boat stopped and began to rotate in an unnatural way. I rubbed my eyes, not sure if it was the video or me.

“It’s AI. Looks like an ad for this thing.”

An announcer’s voice came on. In a deep salesman’s voice, he described the craft. He listed the specs and range, which surprised me. Running at nearly 50 MPH with a range of 500 miles and a payload just shy of a ton, the craft was a smuggler’s dream.

“They’re like the Sea Babies that the Ukrainian navy is using to attack Russian ships.”

Once the narrator got into the weapons systems, I started to get scared. “Can you send the video from last night, along with this, to Johnny and ask him to call me?”

“Sure thing. You know, you really look like you should get some sleep.”

I was out the door, the thought of sleep gone.

For thousands of years, geographic features have been used to mark boundaries. Most, national parks are delineated by mountains, rivers, and valleys. But the open water of Biscayne National Park looks different every day and has few distinguishing features. Broad Creek in the south and Biscayne Channel in the north mark the two short sides of the 270-square-mile polygonal park, most of which is water. The ten-fathom line, which translates to sixty feet of water running along the reef, marked the eastern border. A depth finder or chartplotter are needed to find the boundary. To the west, the park extends inland no more than a mile in a not-so-straight line, again a loosely defined border.

Smugglers probably don’t give a second thought to whether they are running their loads inside or outside of the park. I didn’t care if it mattered to them—it did to me. An unmanned drone, capable of fighting off naval ships and helicopters, bothered me.

I knew I could be exaggerating the danger. Smugglers had been using submersibles for years. I had read that earlier in the month, a man was sentenced to twenty years in a US federal prison. “Juanca,” as he liked to be called, was a boatbuilder for a drug cartel, having overseen the construction of at least five semi-submersibles designed to deliver cocaine to the American market.

Johnny Wells kept me apprised of the goings-on in the smuggling community. He estimated there were more than a hundred similar narco-subs out there, mostly post-2006, when the first was captured. At least for now, the submersible had become the new go-fast boat.

For the military, drones had been replacing manned craft in the air and seas. Each iteration set them light years ahead of the previous models. There was no reason this wouldn’t apply to the drug world. Cartels were awash in cash to the extent that there were rumored to be huge caches of buried greenbacks throughout Miami because the cartels didn’t know what to do with it.

Prior to the 1985 kidnapping, torture, and murder of DEA agent “Kiki” Camerena, there had been an unwritten rule that the cartels stayed away from US law enforcement agents. That protection was now a thing of the past.

The manhunt following the murder had been successful, at least in the apprehension of the perpetrators. There were unintended consequences, though. First, the Guadalajara cartel, which was responsible, was broken into splinter groups that formed the basis of today’s powerful drug organizations, including the Sinaloa cartel led by “El Chapo” Guzman, at one time considered the most powerful drug trafficker in the world.

Second, and perhaps more significantly, it marked a new level of brazenness by the cartels, which had spilled over onto American soil. If it wasn’t already in use, utilizing an armed drone would find its way into their playbook. That gave “the war on drugs” a new meaning.

I sat down in my closet and stared at the blank computer screen. After a while my eyes closed. My lack of productivity and the inability to even check my emails were reminders that I should be home trying to get some sleep.

My phone vibrated on the metal desk, waking me from my stupor. The small stimulus released enough dopamine into my bloodstream to answer; otherwise, I would have ignored it. When the caller ID showed Johnny Wells, I shot forward, wide awake.

“Yo, Kurt.”

“Johnny.”

“Got the stuff from Sam. We should talk.”

Another thing about being up all night were the extra hunger pangs. It has been proven that a lack of sleep causes overeating. I was a textbook example. Only Justine’s mandatory paddle sessions served to keep my waist in check.

“Wanna grab a bite?”

“Sure. I’m on call. Can you head down this way?”

“Yeah. Can you do Alabama Jacks?” Headquarters was in a culinary dead zone. The town of Homestead, or “civilization,” was ten miles away in the wrong direction. Florida City, the northern terminus of “the Stretch,” an eighteen-mile segment of US 1 that cut through the southern Everglades connecting the mainland to the Keys, was closer, but the extent of its gastronomical offerings was Sonny’s BBQ, which was now serving take out from a tent after a fire in their kitchen, and Cracker Barrel.

Card Sound Road, which was the alternate route to Key Largo, had a place called Alabama Jacks that lay about halfway between us.

“I can do that. Now good?”

“Sure. Probably take me a little longer.”

“The beer’s cold. I’m good.”

I was out the door a minute later, driving past the seemingly endless acres of landscape farms. Much of the land that is now Miami was once part of the Everglades. In the land boom of the 1920s, with no restrictions or oversight, the developers rerouted the historic water flow and “created” land. Canals were excavated to deal with the literal sheet of water that had flowed through the Everglades. A movement to undo the damage and reroute the flow, which is vital to Biscayne and Florida Bay, has been long in the works.

The canals had fostered a large and mainly unappreciated agricultural area, which I drove through a part of on my way to Florida City. I turned left at the single stoplight and passed through a section of US 1, littered with fast-food restaurants, hotels, and gas stations. The turn for Card Sound Road was just outside of town. I turned left and, after a few miles’ drive that passed through mangroves, a few creeks, a couple of bridges, and more mangroves, turned into the parking lot situated just short of the Card Sound Bridge.

Johnny’s truck was already there.

14

Every restaurant or bar owner dreams that their place will somehow become iconic. There are several necessary ingredients. First is the location. On the water is always a good start, though Alabama Jacks is more like water-adjacent. The canal running out back is manmade and cut just off the bay, but the larger body of water is just down the street. There are docks for visiting boats, which helps. The atmosphere feels authentic, not fabricated. This is no Margaritaville. Though it has been rebuilt several times after hurricanes have damaged it, the old wood and tin roof give the feeling they have been there since the restaurant opened in 1957. The establishment is almost seventy years old and still features original menu items like lima bean soup and crab cakes.

Many people take Card Sound Road, the original highway, whereas the section of US 1 known as “the Stretch” was the railroad route, just to start or end their vacations there. Still, the feeling is more local than tourist.

Johnny was sitting at a table on the back porch, sipping a beer. I joined him and ordered one as well. Some justify day-drinking by quoting the Jimmy Buffett anthem “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere” to rationalize their actions. In my case, it was five o’clock about eighteen hours ago. After several adrenaline and dopamine rushes, I was fading fast and planned to head home after this.

There are a set of unwritten rules that fall under the label of “secret men’s business.” Knowing when it was mandatory to drink a beer was one. I could milk my single beer for an hour and not be mocked but not having one at all was a transgression of trust. I’m not a lightweight, but because of a lack of sleep and fatigue, I felt the first few sips fast. That said, a good burger and fries go a long way to mitigate the alcohol.

Johnny and I sat quietly for a minute, nursing our beers. It didn’t take long for the dam to burst, though. We ordered and, while we waited for the food, recanted old stories we’d both told several times—more secret men’s business. When the food arrived, Johnny ordered another beer, while I passed and asked for an iced tea. We ate in silence, then sat back, ready to talk about why we were really here.

“What do you make of that Sea Baby thing?” I asked.

“We’ve gotten a heads-up about rumors of a USV, or unmanned surface vehicle. This is the first I’ve heard of one being sighted.”

“Like a drone?

“Exactly.”

Pretty badass by the specs. The Midnight Express can take it. Not sure what that FWC boat is going to do.”

“Finding it is a problem. With only two feet of hull exposed, the radar signature is shit. It does mean they need deeper water, though. Knowing what channels they are using helps.”

Smuggling was more of an art than a science. The smugglers’ goal was to stay a step ahead of their pursuers, which meant utilizing maneuverability and speed. Playing offense was much easier than defense, which gave the smugglers the advantage. Once the law caught up to their latest method, the smugglers simply pivoted. The go-fast boats of the ’80s and ’90s had been replaced by motherships and small craft that could skim the flats as a means to evade law enforcement. Now it looked like unmanned craft were the future.

As cool as the drones were, they were limited. Their operators called pilots, whether operating craft at sea or in the air, gave the impression they were all airborne. Technically, “Pilot” was first a nautical term that predated aircraft by 2,000 years. By definition, a pilot is a person who is familiar with the local waters and conditions. That was where the definitions differed. What the current “Pilots” lacked was local knowledge. A savvy captain can read the water ahead and see color changes and currents. The remotely operated drones didn’t have that advantage. In a narrow or shallow channel, that could mean disaster. At least for now, they needed to stay within the deep, well-marked channels.

I’d read what I could find on the specs of the Sea Babies, but their draft hadn’t been listed. As if he were reading my mind, Johnny pecked at the screen of his phone and handed it to me.

“‘Sea Baby’ has become a generic term, kind of like go-fast boat. I’m thinking this is a Magura-class USV.”

“USV meaning a surface vessel?”

“Yeah, they look like submersibles, but they don’t go totally under. The draft would be dependent on the cargo. I’d say three to five feet from the look of it.”

“That means it’s restricted to a handful of passes. They wouldn’t risk it on some of the shallow or winding ones.”

“Deep water” is a relative term. A commercial fishing boat will often require eight to ten feet of water, whereas container ships will need fifty. Go-fast boats and Johnny’s Midnight Express needed three feet. Boat envy was the reason I knew the last stat. I had the specifications for the Midnight Express memorized. Three feet was not a lot of water in most areas. Inside of the Florida Reef Tract, which starts in the park and runs through the Keys to the Dry Tortugas, three feet can be a lot. There were large areas covered with a foot of water and exposed at low tide.

“Fully loaded, they’re probably half a mil. Smugglers edition, maybe three hundred. That’s pocket change for the cartels. They’re also a generation behind, so they might have got a discount from the surplus outlet.”

We laughed, but what he said brought up something else. “So they need a contact to buy them.”

“Arms R Us.”

“It might be easier to find the supplier than actually catch one and trace it back.”

“Point. Even if we spot it, the only way to stop it would be firepower. The guy sitting wherever running the sucker isn’t going to allow us to take it—and he might shoot back. I’d bet they have a self-destruct mechanism too.”

Catching one wouldn’t solve the larger problem. We needed to take down the people.

Politics and the human toll aside, the Ukrainian conflict has redefined warfare. In the three years since Russia launched its invasion, unmanned craft on both land and sea have become commonplace tools of war. The current weapons were already several iterations from the original, many unimaginable at the start of the conflict.

“You working on anything right now?” I asked.

“Just the usual ICE stuff.”

“ How does your jurisdiction work with the FWC?” This was not something I could ignore. If I had to choose a partner, it would be Johnny.

“Vague. They’re aligned with NOAA, so they have jurisdiction in federal waters.” He sat back for a minute and finished his beer. “Not sure what they’re up to. Word is that boat’s been sitting at the dock since it got there.”

I told Johnny about what I had learned. He sat back again.

“You get something, give a yell. I’ll see what I can do.”

We left together, and a long hour later I was home on the couch. Sleep came instantly, which bought me a few hours until Justine came home. Even after several years of marriage, I never knew what I was in for when she walked through the door. Some days, we would grab the boards and head out for a paddle, the intensity again dictated by her energy levels. That was the case today.

“You’ll thank me later,” she said as we headed out the door.

There were two kinds of paddlers. The difference was similar to that between joggers and runners, though more extreme. Pokers floated around, taking slow, easy strokes. Any reason to stop was a good one. There was some merit to this approach, watching wildlife being the major one. We fell into the other group. Even a casual paddle, which Justine called a “piddle paddle,” was considerably harder than it sounded, and certainly no breaks were allowed. After that, the intensity climbed to unbearable levels.

When we started, I was still in that post-nap purgatory between wake and sleep, so I rolled with the punches. By the time we finished, a hard hour and fifteen minutes later, I was wide awake. Back at the dock by our condo, covered in sweat—I thanked her.

A long, hot shower had me relaxed and feeling somewhat normal. Our domestic life was often upset by our work. Tonight was fairly normal. I had wrapped up some loose ends, at least as far as I could figure.

Johnny had the video and the resources to look into the USV. I had an arrangement with the content producer to stay out of the park. I’d gotten a snarky message from Sebastian that the production men had been released. Miami-Dade was probably pissed. With no confiscated boats or arrests, they would consider the use of their resources a waste of time. That would only add to my bad reputation, but honestly, it was a long climb out of the hole I was already in.

The result of a long day and night’s work should have left me in peace, but the concurrent images of the USV running through the park and the FWC boat sitting at the dock bothered me. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough to keep me from sleeping.

All-nighters were common to college students, partiers, medical professionals, firefighters, and law enforcement. I had the distinction of having done more than one in three of those categories. That meant I knew what I was dealing with—the second day is always worse than the first. I woke with a headache, and the first word I said when my feet touched the floor was an expletive.

“How’re you feeling, lover boy?” Justine asked, fresh from the shower.

“You know the drill. I’ll be alright tomorrow.” Though less of an expert than I was, having qualified in only two of the categories, Justine knew my pain.

“Can we take it easy tonight?” The workout had helped last night, but I could feel it in my muscles this morning.

HIIT, or high-intensity interval training, had been a thing for a while. It was actually a thing with athletes before it hit the mainstream. With a coach who knew what they were doing, the workouts could be very effective. To those who thought more was better, they could break you down. Instead of thinking “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger,” the wiser approach was to pick your battles. Last night was one I should have passed on.

I hobbled into the shower, getting a sideways glance from my wife, which I ignored, blaming my condition on her. The hot water loosened me up, and a cold finish cleared my head.

“What’s the plan, Batman?” Justine asked as she filled our coffee mugs.

I had shown her the video and told her what I had discovered before we went to bed. My answer was an uneasy “I don’t know.” I wasn’t sure if I was on a case, had a case, needed to make it a case, or to put the whole incident to bed. I’d left the USV issue in Johnny Wells’ more than capable hands, and as long as the producer kept his word that whole misadventure was a nonissue, then everything should be copesetic.

And that was where it stayed until I reached headquarters and saw the FWC boat still at the dock. I stood by the bow, staring at what appeared to be a waste of taxpayer money, when Wayne came up beside me.

“Still here?” he asked.

“Still here.” I told him about my meeting with Johnny.

“Good move. These guys”—he cocked his head toward the boat—“aren’t going to do anything.”

We both stared at the patrol boat for a while, then headed inside. Wayne’s work life was routine. He would check if anything had come in overnight, then head out to the public areas of the park. I was the opposite and found myself sitting in my closet with a cup of coffee, staring at the walls.

Admitting to yourself that you’re not at a hundred percent is hard. There were all kinds of rationalizations. Even with my legitimate excuse, I was still somewhere between feeling like I was getting old or was just sucking at life. In between self-admonitions, my thoughts returned to the patrol boat.

I had accepted long ago that I was an outlier in government service. Not saying there weren’t a lot of hard-working, dedicated people. The institutions themselves were the problem. Necessity had little meaning. Once an agency, project, or task force was established, maintaining levels of funding became the minimum metric for success. That meant that every penny allocated needed to be spent. Like corporations, they were entities and had lives of their own, often with similar sins as the people who ran them. Greed and lust for power were at the top of the list.

I was one of the few who couldn’t stomach the norm and fought against it at every turn. I was the dog with a bone, often not smart enough to know when it was time to bury it. The FWC boat had moved into the vacant space in my mind and would stay there until something more important took it over.

I had found my white whale.

15

My mind wandered, flitting on the double-edged sword between purpose and intention. One without the other was meaningless. Without intention, purpose was an elusive target, an idea with no plan. Without purpose, intention was a loose cannon. Wanting to take down the FWC crew was my purpose, but I had no idea how to achieve it. What I had to prevent was my tendency to run into a hailstorm of bullets and figure it out later.

That latter approach, though effective in some situations, was not the right course. The FWC as an organization was one thing. The people who worked for it was another. Just because one was incompetent didn’t mean the other was. Though that could cut both ways, after overhearing the captain’s calls, I needed to be cautious.

Following the money was always a good strategy. I’d heard the captain talking about both fuel expenditures and night work. Strangely, I had resources for both.

My first move was to call Grace Herrera, my sole ally with Miami-Dade. Grace had been a detective when we first met. Through a mix of merit and circumstance, she was now a captain. We’d worked together several times with good results. With her promotions, she was out of my day-to-day orbit, but this was more of a request for information than for a favor.

She answered, always a good sign, and we exchanged niceties for a few minutes.

“Heard you caused a stir the other night,” she said.

I gave her the story from my perspective. Where I was allergic to the media, she thrived in that environment, which was one of the reasons for her rise in the department. The content-provider business was on her radar as well. Apparently, there were other groups doing the same thing in the county itself.

I sensed her interest waning and eased into my question with my usual abruptness. “What can you tell me about how the units that work nights at the road construction sites work? I know it’s off the books, but is it assigned or volunteer?”

“What are you after, Hunter? I haven’t heard of any bodies being fished out of the bay.”

Her response clearly indicated that I should stay in my lane. I was conflicted about how much to tell her. Aiding and abetting my quest to get to the bottom of the apparent corruption of the FWC patrol boat’s captain and maybe their crew was crossing a line. It wasn’t my job to police other agencies. They had their own internal affairs people for that. Grace had the same kind of sense of justice that I did. It was one of the reasons we clicked. She would probably agree to help. I was reluctant to put her in that position and posed the question from curiosity rather than an accusation.

“Just heard about some guys double-timing it.”

“Not in our department.”

“No.”

“You sure this is something you want to pursue? The last time you went after the FWC, it didn’t end well.”

My attempt at subterfuge had failed. “They’re in my backyard.”

“I know. I guess if I’m not going to stop you, so I might as well help, but know upfront that you’re kicking a hornet's nest.”

“Thanks.” She could have reacted differently, maybe even asking if Justine knew what I was up to. That would have surely released the bees.

“Road work is a voluntary overtime assignment. In this case, the construction companies reimburse the department directly. Then the guys get paid.”

“So how would an outside agency get in on that?”

“The one thing I can tell you is that we ain’t cheap. I’m sure there are companies paying cash for anyone with a marked vehicle. All our vehicles have GPS trackers. Other agencies are not as careful with their assets.”

From what I had seen with Miami-Dade, the other agencies must be really loose. I kept that thought to myself. The GPS trackers did give me an idea, though.

“Appreciate the help. We should get together one of these days.”

“Kurt Hunter, social director. That’s a good one. I’ll call your wife.” She paused. “Be careful with this. People see a revenue stream being taken away, they’ll want to protect it.”

“I will.”

I sat back and thought about the conversation and what good I would be doing if I pursued this. Corruption had never sat well with me, but aside from the captain being a jerk and the boat sitting in my marina, it was really none of my business. That was where the USV came in. Skimming money was one thing, not doing your job in protecting my park another.

Ultimately, what I wanted was Johnny Wells and the Midnight Express back and the FWC boat gone.

One option was to go above the crew’s head. I discarded that immediately. Every agency protects its own. Finding a sympathetic ear in the FWC chain of command was not only difficult, but it came with the risk of someone informing the crew that I was making inquiries.

After getting a glimpse behind the curtain of the night-work arena, my next step was a trip across to the fuel dock at Bayfront Park. It was a toss-up between driving or taking the boat. I chose the latter as a chance to fill up and grease the wheels a little with a tip. I always tipped the attendants at the fuel dock for their help out of my own pocket. That led to a level of trust that often allowed some discreet information gathering.

I hopped aboard my boat, started the engines, tossed the lines, and gave the FWC boat a determined look as I passed by a few minutes later. Exiting the marina, I cut across the channel to the fuel dock. The long dock was empty, as it usually was. Gas on the water was about a dollar more a gallon than at a land-based station. Most boaters using the ramp fill up before or after they get here. The marina beyond the ramp had some larger boats that used the facility as well as the boats in our marina.

I coasted up to the dock. Jake hustled from the shack and greeted me, tossing across a bow and stern line.

Jake handed me the nozzle. “Hey, Kurt.”

“Hey.” I opened the gas cap and started to fill the tank. The water-adjacent job kept Jake in touch with the fishing guides, the commercial fishermen, and law enforcement, as well as the marina gossip. If you wanted to know where the bonefish were and what they were biting, how the offshore fishing was, who was screwing who, or what kind of trouble was going on, he was your man.

Extracting the information took some finesse. I always tipped, which helped. Still, there was a ritual. Small talk first, which in my case was usually fishing-related. We started with the weather, then got to the important stuff.

“How’s the bite?”

“Heard the bones are on the southern flats late. Tarpon at the bridges.”

Saltwater fishermen can be classified into two main categories and several subcategories. Inshore guys are either catch-and-release, for tarpon, bonefish, and permit—the trifecta, or grand slam; or fillet-and-release, for snook, redfish, and trout. Offshore guys are broken down under the same lines with one additional subcategory. Trollers are looking for sailfish and marlin, which are released, or mahi, wahoo, or tuna, which are prized meat fish. Bottom fishermen are after snapper or grouper. There are others seeking specific species, but most fall within these guidelines.

Jake was an inshore catch-and-release guy and, more specifically, a fly fisherman. Some might see working the fuel dock and fly fishing as being opposites. Pumping gas and seeking trophy fish on the fly seems incongruent. The difference was that anything on the water was a dream job for his type of guy. Jake could talk fishing all day. He could discuss fly patterns and tides with the flats guys or talk about the bite with the bait soakers and trollers.

When our conversation reached which flies were working for which species at what tidal stage, I nudged the conversation forward. Fly fishing was a purist endeavor, requiring the participant to be part entomologist as well as a technical angler. Enthusiasts lived and died over casting technique and fly selection. I was neither but still enjoyed the sport.

When I heard the gurgling sound coming from the gas tank, I cut off the nozzle and handed it back to him. After signing the credit card receipt and sliding in a twenty, I got around to business.

“What do you think about the new FWC boat?”

“I can see the bow from here. That’s about it. That thing’s a waste of taxpayer money.”

I bit down on my snark after hearing that comment from a guy who made most of his money from tips. “See any of the crew?”

“Yeah, dude fills up his boat every week. Hits me up with some weird-looking debit card.”

“What kind of boat does he run?”

“One of those new Sea Hunter cats with quads. Twelve hundred freakin’ horsepower.”

And a monster gas bill. I found it ironic that with marine fuel—an ethanol-free blend known as REC 90—at nearly five dollars a gallon, that three, four, or even five outboards had become a thing. I knew it was mostly about status. Check out any sandbar and you could see the twins and triple outboard configurations on boats that go less than ten miles a trip. Even for offshore anglers, the trend is curious.

Even more interesting were the guys who ran them—who were often obsessed with fuel economy in their land vehicles—when conversely it was a status symbol to have a 500-gallon fuel tank or to burn a hundred gallons a trip chasing fish.

“Damn. He fish it?”

“Yeah. It’s rigged with outriggers and an open-array radar setup that can see birds from three miles out. Got a fortune in gear and electric reels, too.”

With the Gulf Stream usually less than a dozen and sometimes as close as three miles offshore, that kind of horsepower was seriously overkill. The swordfish grounds, which lie in a thousand feet of water, were less than thirty miles off the barrier islands, still close enough for a small boat on the right day.

Boats were often described as holes in the water that you throw money in. A thirty-plus-foot cat with quad engines was a chasm. The hundred-hour service alone cost almost five grand.

My biases aside, it was a personal decision. What bothered me was that I knew within a few thousand dollars what the officer made. The FWC pays slightly better than the Park Service, but no one working for either could afford that boat.

“You know where he keeps it?” Thirty-six feet was a lot to tow, especially if he used it every week.

Jake looked up and cocked his head at the marina beyond the boat ramps. “Back in there.”

He must have noticed my expression.

“Yeah, not real bright.”

Not judging Jake, but if he had figured out that not only could the officer probably not afford the boat, or even its upkeep, keeping it in plain sight was a bad idea. South Florida was the money-laundering capital of the US, or at least, one of them. The DEA might get the accolades with their pictures standing behind tables full of drugs, guns, and cash, but the IRS caught as many, if not more, dealers by following the money. There were all kinds of money-laundering schemes. Buying a seven-figure boat was not one of them.

I thanked Jake and idled away from the dock. Turning around, I passed the boat ramps and entered the marina. The small enclosed basin with its four-and-a-half finger piers held about 200 boats.

I didn’t realize my mistake until I was past the second pier. Peering down the third row, I saw the boat—and then the man. Unfortunately, he saw me too.

16

There was no benefit to being aggressive. A guy in a marina working on his boat was far from suspicious. There were actually a number of ways an FWC officer making around a hundred grand a year could own a million-dollar boat.

I’d learned my lesson in judging people from the paddleboard races I had competed in with Justine. The hour or so leading up to a race is a hurry-up-and-wait event. It was hard not to prejudge the competition. That was generally a mistake. Equipment, body type, or apparent fitness had little to do with how people placed. Technique tended to be the overriding factor, and that couldn’t be judged until the race started.

Trying to guess how much money someone had was just as pointless. Without access to their financials, there were some clues, but even those could point in the wrong direction. Inheritances, investments, and just good decision-making separated people who one might think were in the same economic class. My investigations had proven that math, or lack of it, crossed socioeconomic lines as well. Just because someone appeared to have money didn’t mean they could do addition, which invariably led to repossessions and foreclosures.

Still, large purchases, flashy clothes, jewelry, and conspicuous spending were red flags. Sam would be able to crack that nut. Past a credit score, it would be mostly black hat research, though. I wondered how far I could trust her to stay within the lines. Poking around a fellow LEO’s financials was risky.

I put my speculation aside. We had averted our eyes but were still basically staring at each other in a passive-aggressive way. I had to do something. My bet after meeting and overhearing the phone conversation was that he was an alpha. There would only be one winner in a head-to-head meeting. I decided on the friendly approach and turned into the fairway between the finger piers.

He knew I was coming and moved toward the bow. I waved, feeling foolish, but I had to set the tone. “Hell of a boat.” Complimenting a guy like this about their boat or truck was the surest way to make friends.

“Great deal. Couldn’t resist.”

“I’ve been eyeing the thirty-two. Used one just came up.” Coincidences can boil down to a numbers game. I knew my boats like some enthusiasts knew cars and trucks. The reasons ranged from the need to identify them, to curiosity, and even envy. Production builders have thousands of boats in a market like South Florida. Sea Hunter was a custom builder putting out a couple hundred boats per year. With a dozen models, you could extrapolate that only a handful were 42s. Over a ten-year span, that meant fewer than a hundred were available in the world. They were popular here, but I would guess that if there were two dozen in the area, that would be a lot. I made a mental note to ask Sam to check that DMV database.

“I had a thirty-six but this one came up and I had to have her..” He patted the perfect gelcoat like it was an infant. “Have a look if you want.”

I noticed the pronoun and then decided I had nothing to lose. Even with the foam-filled sides of my boat, I was still leery of pulling next to his. Instead, I found an empty slip three spaces down, backed in, and tied off. That was the first point in my favor. The second was when I took my shoes off before boarding.

“Don’t worry about it. This thing is overbuilt.”

The boat was in pristine condition. I did not intend to be the first person to scar or blemish it. That was one of the things that drove me crazy about show-quality boats and cars. Until that first scratch or ding, the owners were obsessive about their condition.

The tour started immediately at the transom with the four 300 HP Mercury outboards hanging on the custom bracket complete with walk-thru door.

“Lot of power. What’ll she do?”

“Wide-open throttle in flat conditions, I can hit sixty.”

I wasn’t going to be the dick who asked if that was knots or miles per hour. The 10 percent difference didn’t matter when you were going that fast. “Bet it handles rough weather pretty well.”

He gave me a sideways glance that said, “Of course it does.” Ignoring the question, he moved on. “Three live wells, and check this out.” There were two rows of three seats. From the back of the second, he released a latch, dropping a table. “Rigging station.”

The boat was not my style, but this was cool. Dealing with tackle aboard a small boat can be a challenge. I glanced at the tackle boxes nested in their slots. Each was labeled: deep drop, sword, trolling, deep bottom, and kite. I noticed two things. First, there was no “light” tackle. That meant he used the boat for what it was intended. The second was the organization. You could tell a tournament-level angler by how he stored his tackle. If I had to judge him on this alone, he would have gotten an A.

We walked forward to the helm, which had a display as big as the flat screen in my living room.

“Twin twenty-four-inch screens. Radar, zoodar, lidar, we got it all.” Moving forward, he showed me the interior of the console, which was as big as our bathroom at home. Forward were a pair of lounge seats and enough open-deck space for four anglers.

Rod holders were everywhere—by my quick count, over sixty. Justine and I had a theory that you could calculate the cost of a boat by the number of holders. Ten-to-twenty grand apiece was our base price. It worked for small boats with four or six, as well as the large ones. Non-anglers think it absurd that anyone could need that many. On a well-laid-out boat like this, each one served a purpose. There were holders dedicated to storage and those set at angles for every possible sea condition. To a hardcore angler, their importance couldn’t be overstated.

Along the way, we talked fishing. The common ground had loosened him up a little. Seeing as he was amicable to boat tours, I took a chance. “I’d like to check out the patrol boat one of these days if you’re heading out.”

“Sure, I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

He had conveniently ignored the “heading out” part. I stepped back onto the dock and thanked him. If nothing else, we had upgraded our relationship from adversaries to frenemies—at least for now.

“I’ll take you up on that.” Figuring I’d make my exit while we were on good terms.

“See you around the docks,” he said.

“Or on the water.”

I couldn’t help myself and knew by his expression I had struck a nerve, but this might work in my favor. For him to react to a seemingly toothless line like that, he had to be bordering on paranoia.

I left it at that and walked back toward my boat, unable to escape the envy when I thought about a place to mount a tackle station on my personal boat, a twenty-four-foot center console. I wanted nothing to do with the headaches the Sea Hunter came with, but that was cool.

Our boat was fuel efficient enough to use five-gallon containers filled at the gas station. With a single engine, maintenance was simple and reasonable. I did the hundred-hour services myself and had a mechanic or talked Ray into doing every fourth one, which included dropping the lower unit and replacing the impeller.

Fatigue weighed heavy on me as I hopped aboard the RHIB, started the engines, released the lines, and headed out of the channel. I considered myself pretty normal, falling about halfway on the introvert/extrovert scale. Social situations didn’t bother me, but I didn’t seek them out, either. The verbal jousting and posturing in my conversation with Rafael had left me drained.

I was tired and wired, the worst of my all-nighter taking its toll. Returning to headquarters seemed like too much work. So did patrolling. Figuring I was entitled to some time off, I continued out of the channel. Jake had mentioned that the creeks around the southern, much quieter, barrier islands had been fishing well. With the light breeze, I would have liked using my fly rod, but I had a spinning rod stored under the gunwale.

The ride across the bay seemed to quiet my mind, or at least it felt that way. Running on fumes seemed to have that effect as well. I reached the mouth of one of the small, unmarked creeks and slowed. “Creek” was a misnomer here. Technically, the narrow, winding waterways should be tributaries flowing from their source to something larger. The definition, though not what most people pictured, broadly applied to the sheltered cuts through the mangroves leading from the ocean to the bay.

Removing the rod from its holder, I checked the lure, a small gold spoon, and waited for the boat to settle. Covering ground was all-important in this kind of fishing. Without the scent of bait, the angler needed to locate the fish. I waited a long minute until the current turned and started to push the boat. Now that I knew the drift, I moved upstream and into position.

The water was a pale green, turbid from the outgoing tide. I couldn’t see the snook and redfish that might be lurking under the overhanging mangrove branches, but I suspected they were there. The urge to make that first cast overcame me. I misjudged the wind and the lure snagged a branch. As I pulled the line, bringing the boat close enough to remove the hook, a feeling of dread came over me.

The chances of finding a body here were minuscule. I had done it before, though, and more than once. Sid, our medical examiner, always asks if I’ve been fishing whenever I call something in.

I removed the lure and repositioned it. My memories of snagging bodies were strong, though, and I lost interest after a few drifts. With my brain having moved on to murder, I realized that was what was missing from this case.

Murders got my blood flowing. A clear crime, a handful of suspects. Figuring out the corners of the puzzle: motive, means, opportunity, and the trigger, and then filling in the rest gave me direction. Pulling threads was a tactic in those investigations, one I used often. That wasn’t random, like it felt now.

I was working two non-cases. The content creators had been dealt with, at least for the present. There was no reason not to believe the promise that they would stop filming in the park. The USV was a blip on my radar. One sighting meant nothing. For all I knew, it could have been our own navy testing it. Finally, my grouchy crusade against the FWC was jousting at windmills.

I was drifting toward the mouth of the creek, thinking about what thread to pull next, when my phone rang. The shrill tone was incongruous with my surroundings and caught me off guard. When I started here ten years ago, cell phone service was spotty at best. Real seclusion had been possible. Now the entire bay had coverage.

The screen showed an unrecognized number. I automatically started to refuse the call when I saw it was from a 305 area code. That meant local, and probably not a telemarketer. I still had a 530 number from California for my personal cell. Most telemarketers disguised their numbers by using that prefix.

With nothing to lose, I answered.

“Hunter.”

“I’ve got something you’ve gotta see.”

The voice was excited, but my sleep-deprived brain couldn’t place it.

“Agent Hunter?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I realized it was the guy from Miami on Fire. “What’s up?”

“We were reviewing some video, trying to put together a clip.” He paused. “You didn’t say that we couldn’t use old footage from the park, right? Anyway⁠—”

I was trying to process his interpretation of our deal and missed the point of the call. “I’m not so sure that is a good idea.” Then I remembered he had called me, not to ask permission or forgiveness, but to tell me something. “What did you find?”

“The sub, or whatever it is.” He paused again. “Several times.”

17

"It's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission" is a quote attributed to Grace Hopper, a US naval officer and computer-programming pioneer. It had become one of the mottos that I mainly used when there wasn’t time to run something up the flagpole. Though I had a fairly direct path to my superior in Atlanta, there were situations when there was no time to reach out. That was one reason my frequent forging ahead was hard to argue against. The other was my win/loss record.

In baseball terms, I was a long-ball hitter, either hitting a home run or striking out. The baseball analogy ended there. With a good batting average being .300, that meant an acceptable failure rate for a hitter was near 70 percent. I didn’t have anywhere near that much leeway. Working on instinct and trusting my gut had solved more cases than when I ignored them. But those ethereal insights weren’t something I could express to my higher-ups, and so I had earned a reputation as a loose cannon.

I knew the playing field well. Andy wasn’t asking for permission, but also hadn’t yet done anything yet with the footage, though he said he intended to. Since he seemed to be offering something to me in return for the ability to use it. That allowed me a loophole. By staying silent, I could imply permission without granting it.

Some might see it as a “cover your ass” situation. That thought ran through my mind. Saying no would have been all too easy—except for the new video footage. He had no obligation to show it to me.

“How can I get a copy?”

“Do we have a deal?”

When I had told him not to film in my backyard, I was walking a thin line. The production company had met only one of the five criteria that required a permit to operate inside the park, but that was my interpretation. A lawyer could argue they had not impacted park resources or visitors beyond normal visitor use. I could respond that staging a crime was a violation, though there were arguments against that as well.

Whether it would have held up or not, my threat, all too similar to the grumpy old man yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off his lawn, had worked. I decided to use my own logic against him.

“Are you asking for forgiveness or permission?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. If you want the raw footage, You’ll have to come up an get a physical copy.”

“Sure. Expect a call from a woman named Sam.”

“Right, kinda like the Johnny Cash song, “A Boy Named Sue.”

I couldn’t fault him for his sense of humor. Twice now today, I had taken somewhat of a shine to someone I didn’t want to like.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

When he disconnected, I wasn’t sure who had gotten the best of the exchange. That judgment would have to wait until I saw the video.

I’d set my rod down while we talked. Picking up the reel, I started to retrieve the line and felt a tug.

With the lure having fallen to the bottom, I feared the worst. Lifting the rod high, I yanked the rod tip, trying to free the hook.

It pulled back, something the dead weight of a corpse wouldn’t. I thought I might have snagged weeds and pulled again. Suddenly, line peeled off the reel, telling me it was a big fish. A second later, a large silver flash appeared as the fish jumped and ran. The brief explosion told me it was a tarpon, probably in the eighty-pound class.

Any luck involved in hooking a fish that size was used up when the fight began. On light tackle, the angler must be perfect. Unfortunately, that meant a long fight. Time was a conundrum in catch-and-release fishing. With appropriately sized tackle, a fish could be brought to the boat, revived, and released in good condition. Lightweight tackle in this situation violated one of the cornerstones of the catch-and-release fishery—allowing the fish to fight another day. That and having to get back and talk to Sam gave me the rationalization I needed to cut off the fish.

The fight had ended on good terms. The only damage was the hook, which would usually float free once the pressure was off, or worst case, rust away in a few days. I tied a loop knot at the end of the line and placed it around the crank, then stowed the rod, and headed back to headquarters.

The fish had left an afterglow that lasted until I saw the FWC boat was still there. A steady stream of water poured from one of the discharges, probably from the water-cooled air conditioner. No one was visible on deck as I idled past. With my boat secured, I headed upstairs to Sam’s office and explained what I needed her to do.

“He can’t email it?”

“No, the system is air-gapped.”

“Do you even know what that is?”

Despite the snark, I had her attention. “Run up there and get a copy.”

“Holy shit—air-gapped computers. How cool. On my way.”

She was out the door before I could say another word. I regretted not going with her for about three and a half minutes, the time it took me to lock myself in my office and fall asleep.

I had no idea what time it was when something woke me, and I shot forward in my chair. My eyes cracked open to see Sam hovering in front of me.

“Got something?” I croaked.

“I need to spend some more time with this but there are at least four sighting.”

Though I thought I had only nodded off for a few seconds, I wondered if I had been asleep for long enough for her to review all the footage. “How did you do that so fast?”

“I dumped the still shot and the footage into an AI bot and asked it to search for anything similar. It could have missed stuff, so I’d rather take the time to go through all of it now that we know something is here.”

And that’s why I put up with her surliness. Between Sam’s abilities and the power of AI, which I was just beginning to grasp, we had a one-woman tech machine.

“Okay. Let me know. I’m heading home.”

“Good idea. You look like shit.”

I glanced back at her, but her face was buried behind her trio of monitors. “Good hunting.”

She answered with a grunt. With the strange feeling that her computer was more important or interesting than I was, I left her office. Before heading out, I checked in with Mariposa and asked her to keep an eye on the production company’s site. We had set up our paid subscription for just this reason.

“Will do, Kurt. Get some sleep.”

I left headquarters and headed for my truck. Though the drive home was simple, I usually used the maps app on my phone to direct me around the inevitable traffic. A five-mile stretch of two lanes through densely planted nurseries took me to the Turnpike. From there, I had the choice between taking SR 874 to SR 826, otherwise known as the Shula, to the Palmetto, which was more or less the hypotenuse of a triangle, or taking SR 836, a direct east-west route that would be the two legs. The decision was based on travel time. Between the continuing construction projects and the frequent crashes or disabled vehicles, there was usually some kind of holdup on one or both routes.

When I saw the construction icon hovering over SR 874, instead of avoiding it, I decided to take it. I was more tired after my nap, and I knew the best thing was to gut it out and go to bed at my regular time. Checking the construction site would both delay the inevitable and possibly give me an insight into the world of LEO overtime work. The Park Service truck and my uniform might serve as the introduction I needed.

Finding the construction site was the easiest thing I had done all day. I pulled over near a string of commercial vehicles and heavy equipment, all with flashing yellow lights. I turned my blue lights on in an attempt to fit in and left the truck. Walking along the shoulder, I found a man in a hard hat who appeared to be in charge.

“You the boss?”

He eyed my uniform. “Park Service? What do you want with me?”

At least he wasn’t a Ranger Rick guy. “Heard you were offering overtime to some of the FWC guys.” I didn’t often associate myself with the FWC, but in this instance, an outsider might have inferred the two agencies worked together. It would at least be logical that their people talked.

“Yeah, we got a few guys working. You looking for work?”

“I could use some cash.” I tested the waters to see if he would insist that the pay came through the department.

“We can make an arrangement.” He glanced down the line of trucks. “No problem using the vehicle?”

“No.”

“Shift is eight to five. Can you work tonight?”

I didn’t want to take the chance of putting him off, but I needed sleep. “Tomorrow’s better.”

“Okay. Show up and I’ll pay you at the end of the shift. No truck, no work.”

I had often wondered about the practice of paying the off-duty officers. The supervisor had just reinforced what I had suspected. The vehicle was more important than the officer in it. “No problem. I’ll be here.”

Driving home, I realized I had made a fatal mistake in promising I’d work. The Park Service owned me from nine to five, though those hours were thrown out the window when I was working a case. After that was Justine time. With her, it was always better to ask permission than forgiveness. The latter always cost me something.

That coin did have two sides, and I was surprised to see that her car wasn’t in its spot at home when I pulled into mine. It usually wasn’t hard to figure out what she was working on. Miami news was the quick, reliable source. Once inside, I changed and turned on the TV.

I remember when the three networks, and national and local papers, were the only ways to get news. All three sources had adjusted badly to the rise of cable news and the internet. Without a subscription, trying to read the online versions of most newspapers was a futile process. Banners, pop-up ads, and subscription boxes take up more screen space than the news. I still found the local channels were my best bet, though I had to suffer through the weather and sports reporters, which were better served by online sources, before they got to the local news.

The answer came quickly.

Miami during the ’70s and ’80s was famous for its drug wars. The cartels were just forming then and chose to stay within their role as exporters and let the locals take care of distribution. Everything was copasetic for a while—until Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cartel set up shop in Miami, displacing the Cuban Mafia and taking control of the drug trade.

New York might have been the melting pot in the early 1900s. Miami had taken that role a century later. As it was with the gangs of New York, the same happened with the Mexican, Central American, Caribbean, and South American peoples in South Florida. Though similar in appearance, they were extremely ethnocentric and hated anyone outside of their tribe. Though it is not black and white—it is racism.

Those lines extended from legitimate businesses to the trenches of the drug trade, where they accounted for a large portion of South Florida’s violent crimes. The gang wars of LA and Chicago had nothing on the cartel violence in Miami.

Before social media and the internet, there were some rules journalists lived and died by. The National Enquirer aside, most legitimate news agencies verified their stories through several independent sources before publishing. The internet had opened up an instantaneous portal for news. The time lag between learning of a story and publishing about it, which once had been limited by time slots and delivery schedules, was gone. In the rush to get the story out first, journalistic integrity had died.

I had learned to be wary of anything published online. The nightly news, often half a day behind in its reporting—which caused their ratings to plummet—was still the best bet to get the real story.

I watched the report of the event, which had occurred hours earlier, and knew where my wife was. Though she’d moved into more of a supervisory position, the size of the scene meant she would be directly involved.

I’d been in and around similar events and felt my pulse start to accelerate as the camera panned across the waterfront. At least a half-dozen chalk lines where men or women had fallen were scattered and ringed with crime scene tape. From the comfort of my living room, I could see the quantity of shell casings scattered along the walkway. From the look of it, this had been a pitched battle with automatic weapons.

The burned-out husks of several cars were nearby, but it was the water in the background that caught my eye.

Reading water is an acquired skill. Once learned, it becomes second nature. Every time I pass a bridge, my eye automatically goes to the water around the piers. Within a few seconds, I know the volume and stage of the tide. Disturbed water will also draw my eye, whether it’s bait, eddies, tide against wind, or other phenomena.

The small wake Steve me in. I reached for the remote and hit the pause button. If I hadn’t seen a USV up close, I would have thought the water was being pushed across a shoal. Now that I knew what they looked like, there was no denying it was the same craft I had seen earlier.

The tie to the cartels was clear.

18

I usually fall asleep on the couch if Justine is still out, and I did it again. Somewhere in the dark of night, she had come home and dragged me to bed. When I woke at six feeling like I had a hangover, she was still asleep.

Aside from my Quixotic quest against the FWC and curiosity about a mysterious vessel I had little chance of catching, the only thing on my plate was Sam. It was about four hours too early for her.

“Damn, this can’t continue.” Justine rolled over, seemingly wide awake.

“What?”

“Sleeping in. Get up. We’re going for a paddle.” She must have caught my expression. “Don’t worry. You’ll thank me later.”

At least she had the sense to make it an easy day and called for a piddle-paddle. Too many people think that unless you’re panting on the floor making sweat angels you didn’t get a good workout. In one sense, that is correct. What the “if it doesn’t kill me it will make me stronger” crowd doesn’t understand is that it is killing them if they do that kind of workout too often.

Technically, a workout is one event in a training plan. The saying that “there is more than one way to skin a cat” applies to training ideologies, as it does to most other things. Consistency is king, and that won’t happen when you are hammering it day in and day out—especially into your forties. The rule of thumb with a slowish paddle is that you must be able to talk in sentences.

I soon fell into a comfortable rhythm, and the pace allowed us to talk.

“I saw the cartel shooting on TV. Guess you were working that.”

“Nah, I was with my boyfriend.”

“Hanging out with Sid again?” The un-retired medical examiner from New Jersey was a father figure to her. Her preternatural draw to an autopsy was a bit unnerving, and Sid worked nights.

“Pretty straightforward. With a hundred shell casings, the cause of death is pretty clear.”

“You didn’t happen to see a weird-looking boat run by?”

“Nah, it’s all about the scene.”

I had watched Justine work on numerous occasions. Her focus and attention to detail was legendary. “Anything interesting?”

“No, just five less bad guys out there. You’d think they’d run out at some point.”

I knew better. Nature would always fill a void. There was a limitless supply of young men willing to risk their lives for a piece of the action. The low-level members, or soldiers, had little if any education and few prospects. Violence was their means of achieving the American dream.

“Any idea what cartels were involved?” The easiest way to identify gangs or cartels was through tattoos. The smart ones knew better than to litter their bodies with permanent identifying marks. Imagery had replaced the simple identifiers like a gang’s initials, but it was still helpful. The good ones are intertwined in complex designs. A jaguar, or some kind of religious design with embedded snakes and skulls, was pretty clear but not incriminating.

“We’re thinking the Jalisco and Sinaloa.”

“Any idea why?”

“Could be anything. I’m just the forensics chick.”

We fell silent as we exited the river and paddled through the rougher water around the high-rise condos on Brickel Key, the midpoint of our six-mile trip. Paddling rough water was like a flow experience, a hard-to-attain state where concentration, skill, and fear intersect. Finding the pattern of the waves was essential to staying upright. Any distraction could result in a dunking.

Fifteen minutes later, we entered the calmer river again, and a moment after that we resumed our conversation. I was distracted from our usual banter, not by the effort, but by the two cartels that were involved. Understanding the ever-changing power structure of the cartels was difficult. Leadership changes, either through assassination or imprisonment, but never retirement, were frequent. There were always side deals on the import/export side. What bothered me was that this kind of violence usually happened among the up-and-coming cartels. Once they became established, the organizations became more business-oriented, though that didn’t mean they were less violent. Their strikes were usually more surgical, to make a point, rather than a gunfight.

The transport vessel had to be the cause.

“Who’s heading up the effort for Miami-Dade?”

“Your buddy Grace is running a task force.”

At least I had someone to talk to, though I didn’t envy her for heading up a team of different agencies, especially when the DEA was involved. We had spoken before the incident, but about the overtime work, not the USV, so she had no reason to share any information. In my usual manner, I had accidentally stumbled across the transport vessel. It occurred to me that she might not even be aware of it. That left me an opportunity for a conversation where I could offer her something with no strings attached.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Justine said as she slid her board against the floating dock. In a cat-like move, she hopped off, reached down, and had her board slung over her head faster than I could drop to my knees to make my pathetic exit.

I hadn’t answered her last statement, but neither did I ignore it. Justine had seen this show before and was well aware of my tendency to wander off the reservation. Fortunately, my investigations are not restricted by the park’s boundaries. I was free to pursue a case anywhere it led me. The only problem at this point was that I didn’t have a case—I had a quest.

“I know. Stay in my lane.” I shivered as I stepped through the sliding glass door off the porch of our condo.

I showered, changed, pecked Justine on the lips, and made the obligatory “thank you for making us go” comment on my way out the door. The ride to headquarters gave me some time to try and corral my random thoughts and goals. I now had a link between the unmanned vessel operating in the park and the cartels. It wasn’t proof, but enough that I didn’t need to ask permission to follow up. It was my job to prevent these kinds of things from happening in the park. With the new focus, my irritation with the FWC vessel and its captain faded into the background.

I thought I had sorted out my thoughts when I arrived at headquarters and saw the FWC boat sitting there. Invoking my own version of the Serenity Prayer, I decided my mantra for the day was to focus on what I could and should control. That could and should have been my mantra every day, but I had a streak of self-sabotage in my DNA.

I unlocked the door and entered, making a cup of coffee on the way upstairs. The early morning hours, when no one else was around, were my most productive time. I sat in my little office, cleared my inbox, and sat back, sipping the hot brew and staring at a map of the park pinned to the wall.

After ten years, I knew each area like the back of my hand. The paper was two-dimensional, but I saw the park in four. The names and shapes were only reminders that triggered three-dimensional images. Once that was clear in my mind, I focused on the vibe of each location—the fourth dimension.

Each spot held memories. What started as random incidents had become trends. The sandbar parties, found bodies, smuggler hideaways, and even fish I had caught brought the two-dimensional names and shapes to life. There were places that felt dirty, and others clean. Some changed like the tide. Those images and feelings were from a street-level view. Moving back to a bird’s-eye view, I was able to see trends. Seen as a dot distribution map with a different color assigned for good and bad, it was clear that the north, or Miami end, of the park was where most of the bad stuff happened. The southern end had clusters as well, but there were as many positive as negative.

Seeing the USV cruise through the channel the other night added a dark spot to an already crowded area. That left me wondering—if I was going to run a narco drone across the bay, why would I do it there? Several answers came to mind. The first was detection. At one time, there were nine helium-filled aerostat blimps floating above the waters of South Florida and the Bahamas. New and better technologies, as well as high operating costs, had forced all but “Fat Albert,” flying over Cudjoe Key, to be deflated. We were at the northern end of its range, but it was still effective in the southern end of the park.

The other issue was density. From Caesar Creek south, there was about a quarter of the boat traffic as in the northern area. The trick to smuggling through those waters was to blend in. Commercial fishing boats were about the only way to do that. Between their high profiles, deep drafts, and maximum speeds of around 20 MPH, the boats are easy to spot, cumbersome, and slow. The unmanned USV running at 50 MPH would seem out of place.

With Miami’s skyline and everything that came with it in plain sight, including a multitude of go-fast boats, the northern end of the park made sense for where the USV could transit the area unnoticed. Between the heavy boat traffic and the out-islands, radar would be ineffective. Observation was possible, but that would require equipment and manpower that I didn’t have. Grace’s task force, combining the resources of local agencies, might work, but that wasn’t my thing. From my experience, the involved parties spent so much time jockeying for power, deflecting blame, or trying to take credit that they were ineffective. Despite my reservations, I would talk to Grace. If and when it came down to it, I would need help.

What I needed was a plan.

Staring at a problem was a surprisingly effective way to come up with a solution, though few people were willing to do so. It’s kind of like admitting defeat. I’d often wandered along the road less traveled in my investigations and knew an answer was there. Before my subconscious could churn through possible solutions, I sensed someone behind me.

It was still early, and I expected it was Wayne. When I turned around, I was surprised to see Sam standing there. “A little early for you?”

She ignored the comment. “I think I found something.”

I followed her to her office and sat at the side of her desk where I could see the monitors. Each one had an image of the USV. Not wanting to reward her by asking what I was looking at, I studied the images. The setting appeared the same. The images were shot at different conditions and angles. The location was the largest cluster of dark spots on my mental map of the park. There was no doubt they were shot in and around Stiltsville.

Aside from that, I couldn’t figure out what tied them together.

“Okay. What am I missing?”

“Watch the timestamps.”

Different images rolled through the monitors. I didn’t need to watch the time stamps. It was clear that the time of day was the same.

“They’re running on a schedule.” I continued to watch and noticed some were heading out and others returning. “So they depart at ten and return at midnight.”

“Right.”

“Consistent days?”

“The dataset is too small to ascertain that with any level of certainty.”

I gave her a sideways glance, wondering where she had picked up the legal speak. “But you have a theory.”

“They’re all on a Friday night.”

I glanced at the timestamps again, focusing on the dates. Each was at the same time, a week apart. With the next run only a few days away, I had some time to work out a strategy to stop the vessel. The FWC boat came to mind. From my conversation with the foreman running the construction site, I understood that they worked Sunday through Thursday nights. That left the captain without an excuse to help.

It also occurred to me that if he declined, I had some ammunition to go after him as well.

19

The more I thought about it, the more pressing my need to find out the real story behind Rafael and the FWC boat became. From Sam’s office window, the insignia of NOAA and the FWC were visible on the boxy wheelhouse. I’d had no luck on the latter front, but maybe the former might yield some results. In theory, a fellow federal agency should cooperate. Unfortunately, my experience told me otherwise.

On the surface, the partnership between the FWC and NOAA made sense. I had a feeling that if I dug deeper, it would reveal a shell game between the two agencies. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s power was a result of two “laws”: one in its overall operating scheme and the other in its implementation.

Politicians are big on ideas and concepts. I call them “Feel-Good Laws,” where they will vote for a measure and then wash their hands of how it is implemented. Agencies, administrations, and task forces are set up to handle the details. With the natural tendency of unelected bureaucrats to cling to and expand their power, the result opens the door for personal agendas and abuses of power. The suffix “administration” is the “FBI clue” of this inevitability.

The other is called “Goodhart's Law,” which states that “When a measure becomes a target, it ceases to be a good measure.” This law, named after British economist Charles Goodhart, highlights how using a metric as a target can lead to unintended consequences and distortions in the system.

This was the fodder that NOAA thrived on.

A major concern in South Florida is the decline of the coral reef. Diseases that cripple and, without treatment, kill coral, and bleaching, where the coral polyps expel their symbiotic algae, called zooxanthellae, leaving the coral white, have become commonplace. The main causes are water quality, which is controllable, and water temperature, which, regardless of why it happens, is not.

The quest to save the reef illustrates both types of laws. A savvy politician will push forward a bill to save the coral, leaving its implementation up to NOAA. That’s part one. Part two begins with the agency basing the success of the program on a metric—coral cover.

NOAA's mission is broad and encompasses diverse areas, such as climate research, weather forecasting, fisheries management, and coastal zone management, which includes the barrier reef running from the park through the Keys to the Dry Tortugas. In that regard, they are similar to the FWC, which handles everything from turtle nesting surveys to law enforcement.

Instead of propagating and planting corals that match the percentage of species on an existing reef, the goal is more easily accomplished by focusing on staghorn and elkhorn corals. Both are fast-growing, but also the first to suffer when conditions degrade. A slew of non-profits, all working under NOAA's guidance and, therefore, their metrics, have sprung up, all focusing on two things: raising money which is easiest accomplished by focusing on the fast-growing species.

Bringing non-profits in makes sense, but they are also often corrupt, many using the majority of funds for “administrative” expenses. From what I have witnessed first-hand, their efforts are a drop in the bucket, while other means could be just as successful. By gearing all efforts toward coral cover, they are ignoring other equally effective methods like artificial reefs.

There have been some poorly executed and environmentally dangerous efforts at creating habitat. A properly prepared and placed shipwreck or other structure will have fish on it the next day. Within a week, it will have a slime coat, which is the first step for coral growth and attachment.

With grant money already allocated by the state of Florida, an artificial reef program could have an immediate effect by not only providing habitat but also by giving fishermen and divers other locations away from the fragile reef. To install the reefs, permits are needed and issued through NOAA, which requires expensive and time-consuming steps, like having an archaeological survey performed on prospective sites. From what I have seen, there is not much history in 95 percent of the areas, which are nothing but sandy bottom.

Instead of working with a multi-pronged approach, they focus on measures like promoting “reef-safe” sunscreens. I don’t want chemicals in the water or touching coral, but the studies providing the data used much larger sample sizes per unit of seawater than would ever be seen in nature, providing a result to meet the metric. Sure, there are damaging chemicals in the products, but in the scope of the ocean, they aren’t even a drop in the bucket. Now, in a knee-jerk reaction to appear to be doing something, some municipalities have banned the sale of non-approved sunscreens.

I was getting wound up just thinking about it and moved away from the window. The result of my inner rant was to cross NOAA off my list of contacts. The bitter taste remained in my mouth, though.

“What are you so worked up about?” Sam asked.

I glanced back at her, wondering if my head was on fire.

“You have one of those GPS trackers around?” Whether it was a good decision or not, I was going to follow my gut instead of my brain.

“Sure, what for?”

I paused, not wanting to implicate her in my plan. “Want to see how many miles I’m putting on my boat.” I knew the excuse was lame. For once, she didn’t question me, probably happy to have something else to track.

With the small disk in hand, I left her office and headed to the patrol boat, hoping for the promised tour. The first thing I noticed was that the discharge from the water-cooled air conditioner had stopped. This time of the year, that told me with a high degree of certainty that the ship was empty.

Boarding a vessel uninvited is the same as breaking into a home. Whether the door is locked or not speaks to the severity of the crime, not the act itself.

I saw a small light on and scanned the void between the ship and dock, looking for a power line. The thick, yellow cable was absent, telling me that the light was working off the battery. I’m sure the ship had a huge battery bank, but even a minor current draw without the aid of the engines or shore power would eventually drain them.

It was as good an excuse as any. Moving to the gangplank, I banged on the hull and called out. After a long minute, I repeated the call. When no one answered, I stepped onto the aluminum walkway, walked across the void, and boarded the vessel. Had the air conditioner been running, I would have been wary. Without it, the enclosed areas would be sweltering.

The disk felt heavy in my hand as I moved to the bridge, looking for a place to stash it. The equipment was surprisingly spartan—even outdated. That didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. Aside from user interfaces, the underlying technology in marine electronics had remained the same since President Clinton signed legislation to eliminate signal degradation in non-military GPS systems, improving accuracy for everyone. The constellation of satellites was now permanently available to civilians.

Even with the older equipment, I worried about interference. The engine room posed the same issues, being encased in metal. The galley was out as well. The last thing I needed was a crewman discovering the disk while searching for something to eat. I finally settled on the captain’s cabin. Higher in the ship than the crew’s space, the small room had windows that offered a view of the sky.

The cabin was clearly little used, as was the ship. On a mostly empty bookshelf, I found a 2019 copy of the Eldridge Tide and Pilot Book. The once-valuable guide had been made almost obsolete by computers and cell phones. Even an older model GPS, like the one in the bridge, would have tide and current tables incorporated into it.

In some areas, the guide is essential to planning. The east coast of Florida is not one. The tides are predictable and generally have a small tidal range. Ironically, they are more important to the sandbar crowd than to the captains of larger vessels confined to deepwater channels.

I slipped the book off the shelf and slid the disk inside, then replaced it. Checking the shelf, the only sign of my action was the displacement of some dust. I blew it carefully back into place and left the cabin.

The ship and docks were quiet as I slipped off. The majority of the traffic was from the tour operators licensed by the Park Service to run snorkel and eco tours. They had already gone out for the day and wouldn’t be back until after lunch. Aside from them, it was only Wayne and I and the two or three FWC officers who regularly used the marina.

I was back in Sam’s office about twenty minutes after leaving.

“Can you check it?”

She tapped a few keys and made a face, which turned into a skeptical look at me. “That’s not on your boat, is it?”

Before I could answer, she swung the screen so I could see it. The blue dot was clearly on top of the FWC vessel shown in the satellite overlay. Even Google had caught the boat at the dock.

Excuses flooded through my head, none passing the screening process. At this point, whether she wanted to be or not, Sam was complicit. Ethically, I had a duty to keep her in the loop. I told her what I suspected.

“I could have helped tracking the fuel bills and debit card.” She seemed upset.

“I didn’t want you to play Sancho.” Her face changed to confusion. “You know Don Quixote? Jousting at windmills?”

“Whatever.” Her expression remained.

Fortunately, I had experience with my daughter, who was the same age as Sam, to get me through what was clearly a generation gap. From her, I knew the best way was to get her to buy in. When you’re dealing with a hacker, that means asking them to hack.

“Can you get into the FWC or NOAA computers and dig around?”

The frown turned upside down. She flipped the screen around and started typing. After a long minute, she glanced up at me. “This isn’t instantaneous.”

“Right.” I got up and left her to work.

Now that we had what appeared to be a schedule for the USV, I had some time to think and maybe come up with a plan. Three days wasn’t enough time to drop sonar buoys, but it was enough to get the FWC boys to do their job. The problem was the patrol boat was the tortoise and the USV the hare—only this time it wasn’t going to catch up. I wasn’t sure how or what they’d be able to do. Johnny Wells had the best chance of taking down the USV. I kicked my feet up on my old steel desk and called.

“Hey, bud. Anything on that USV?”

One of the many reasons we got along was there was no need for small talk. That was good and bad, though. Johnny had officiated our marriage several years ago. Otherwise, our social contact had been minimal. I was one of those guys who developed friendships through work. Unfortunately, I wasn’t good at keeping them going when jobs changed.

I told him about the additional footage and the schedule.

“Your FWC boys should be chomping at the bit for that one.”

“No action on that front.”

“They’re watching me pretty closely here.”

Johnny and I had done enough off-the-books stuff that, despite our successes, we still warranted suspicion.

“The boat’s got AIS, anyway. They’ll know in a hot second if I take her up there.”

I wondered if the FWC boat had the automated tracker as well. The answer could have been found on any number of online websites set up to track commercial shipping, cruisers, and any boat with a seven-figure loan. I took a second’s silence to scold myself for taking the risk of planting the GPS tracker. “Any ideas?”

“Find out where their base of operations is. We can take them on land. Not sure I could even catch that thing in the water.”

20

Johnny’s solution made sense. The USVs had to be coming from somewhere in Miami. Using that particular channel for transit was not random. Before the construction of Government Cut in the early 1900s, Biscayne Channel was the preferred deepwater route to Miami. The longer route through the bay to the Atlantic Ocean was and still is well-marked and deep enough for most vessels.

If I were running an unmanned narcotics-laden drone at high speed and trying to avoid detection, it was the logical choice. That meant the base of operations was likely between the Featherbed Banks, an area of shoals and flats cutting across the bay, to the Rickenbacker Causeway to the north. Navigating either hazard at night was hard enough at the helm of a well-equipped boat. Between the tidal flow and the narrow gaps between the pilings of the short bridge in the Causeway to the marked, but windy, passage between the Featherbed Banks, navigation was challenging.

I headed back to my office and stared at the chart on my wall. Electronic maps and charts are great for smaller areas, but there is nothing like that two-by-three-foot piece of paper to get the big picture.

Biscayne Bay extends through Miami and northern Dade County to the Broward County line, just south of Fort Lauderdale. The waters throughout the Miami area are littered with spoil islands, an unlikely name for the prime real estate they have become.

Most of the islands beneath the multi-million-dollar homes to the north of the Causeway are manmade, built during the boom of the 1920s. Dodge and Fisher islands were created earlier from the construction of Government Cut. The two main islands connected by and below the Causeway are Virginia Key and Key Biscayne. Both are natural islands whose shorelines have been expanded and altered over time.

Both areas have large swaths of both developed and undeveloped land. Looking at the map, there was no apparent area where the base could be located without being noticed. My focus shifted a hair north to the U-shaped basin cut into Virginia Key. Located just on the other side of the Causeway, it didn’t meet my initial criteria, but it was not far from it. A short idle-speed trip would have the USV out of the basin and under the bridge.

Doing so without being seen would be a challenge, though. The basin was dotted with cruisers and liveaboards at anchor. If it were an established mooring field, I would have dismissed it. There is a difference between boaters who choose to pay for a mooring ball and those willing to swing on their anchor. The latter are generally risk takers and averse to reporting any activity unless it affects them directly. A mooring field is more like a subdivision governed by the rules of a homeowners association.

The high-and-dry marina next to the old Marine Stadium was the largest in the area and offered fuel, a necessity for the USV operation. I’d been in the area several times and tried to picture it in my mind. The basin was cut and dredged, its U-shape clearly not natural. It had been constructed along with the Marine Stadium in the early 1960s. Built originally for speedboat racing, the 1,600-seat facility had lain in a state of disrepair since Hurricane AnSteve hit the area in 1992.

Deep water, fuel, access from land via the Causeway, and the cover of the decrepit stadium worked together to provide a likely base.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the only location that I could see working. The potential discovery released a surge of dopamine. I tried to ignore the reward hormone and bit back on the urge to head there right now. I at least needed to swap out the Park Service truck for Justine’s car and change out of my uniform.

“Without me?” Justine said when I asked if she needed the car.

Having the pickup at my disposal and only two parking spaces at our condo left us with one personal vehicle. “I’m guessing you want to go.”

“What, and miss a chance to race the rowers?”

The Miami Rowing Club was based just down from the stadium. The only similarity between rowing and paddling was that they were both human-powered water sports. Rowers regarded themselves as the superior breed. With their English and Ivy League pedigrees, they thought they were a cut above an ordinary paddler. From a paddler’s perspective, sitting backward and following the cues from a pint-sized coxman or a coach on a powerboat screaming through a megaphone was just stupid.

Our earlier paddle had energized me more than worn me out, so the additional exercise wasn’t a problem. I had to admit paddling through the basin was the perfect way to scope out the facility.

“Okay. What time are you off?”

“Got a lot going on with this cartel murder. How about now? I can take a break and come back.”

I smiled to myself. “Perfect. I’ll meet you at home.”

With a shorter drive, Justine was waiting by her car with the boards and paddles strapped to the roof rack when I got home. I ducked inside to change clothes, grabbed my phone case, and hopped into the passenger seat.

“I thought we could head around from Hobie Beach.”

“Sounds good.” The beach would require us to paddle under the fishing pier, but power boats were restricted to the opening in the center. We left the condo and headed through Coral Gables to the Causeway. Once over, we parked, and a few minutes later were paddling around the point.

Fishermen were scattered, singly and in groups, dropping lines between the pilings from a section of the old bridge that had been converted to a fishing pier. We found and passed under a vacant section and turned into the basin.

On our right was the marina, which took up the tip of the peninsula. With room for 300 craft, including slips and dry storage, it was the largest in the area. We paused in the entrance and checked out the slips that were just beyond the breakwater and the three-tier racks loaded with small boats behind them. A large forklift was moving back and forth, shuffling boats between the water and the racks.

There was no doubt it was a busy facility. Twenty strong strokes—yes, I counted—got me across the entrance. That meant it was about 200 feet across. The narrow channel leading into the marina left few good angles to see the water outside. A large boat with a high profile might have been visible, but the USV was more in the water than out. It would be very hard to see, if not understand, what it was. In addition, most of the action would be during the day or early evening. Anyone living aboard in the marina would be more interested in their immediate neighborhood than any activity that didn’t affect them.

The wind hit us as we rounded the corner and entered the carved-out basin. Staying close to the south side, where the Marine Stadium had just come into view, we paddled along the breakwater protecting the marina. It was slow going with the wind in my face. I glanced over at Justine and saw a determined smile. For me, the conditions were an inconvenience; for her, a challenge. With each stroke she pulled further away, and I had to dig deep to match her speed.

She must have sensed my effort—which, with my labored breathing, didn’t take much—and accelerated. Our reconnaissance mission had turned into a race. The only problem was that there was no established finish line. I suffered through it until we reached the stadium, then slowed. I was used to second place and was well aware of my status as the first loser.

Built down to and over the water’s edge, the stadium was in clear disrepair and had become a mecca for graffiti artists. Most of the seats remained in place, but there was an akimbo feel to the place, not quite tilted, but not quite right either.

I’d done some quick research on the ride over. The structure was constructed entirely from concrete, which was easy to see. The article called it a “folded cantilever roof.” I saw it more as a line of tents overhanging most of the seating. Sited to face north, it was out of the sun for a good part of the day. The stadium had been placed on a list of “America's Most Endangered Historic Places.” The National Trust designated the stadium as a National Treasure in March 2012. Looking at it, I didn’t really see it.

The designations were probably the result of a lobbying effort to raise funds for restoration attempts, which had been in limbo since the early 2000s. As far as I knew, there was still no clear plan for its refurbishment or future use, though some structural work was evident near the waterline.

I’d seen pictures and had conjured in my mind some kind of secret submarine base, but it was nothing more than an open seating area. Something about it reminded me of Stiltsville, and I expected it was, or had been, a hub for some kind of nefarious activity.

“Not much here.” Justine echoed my thoughts. “There’re a couple of singles out. I’m gonna have some fun.”

She took off in the direction of a cluster of solo rowers. I watched their technique and knew she had little chance. The difference was the types of craft. Her fourteen-foot race board was no match for the thin sculls powered by two oars rather than one. I watched her paddle toward them for a minute, then turned and continued past the stadium along a deserted parking lot.

The neighborhood improved once I passed the stadium’s parking lot, where the Miami Rowing Club came into view. Two long, floating docks projected out from the shoreline and rows of sculls, from the singles like those out on the water to tandems, quads, and eight-man shells, lay in neat rows. School must have been out because the facility was busy with teenagers either working out or preparing to take out their craft.

The last building was the MAST Academy, a magnet high school specializing in maritime and science technology. There was no need to go any further, so I turned around and let the wind push me back. I glanced back to see Justine digging in against a rower. She’d catch me when she was ready.

Without having to worry about my balance or stroke, I casually surveyed the site from a different angle. Closer to shore, my perspective changed. Instead of the arena blending into the water as I had thought, there was a five- or six-foot space between the water and the bottom of the seating area, which appeared to float over the water.

I took a couple of strokes on my right side, using the blade to steer me closer. The tideline was visible on the rocks below. About a foot above the water, the concrete changed, and a ring of crustaceans surrounded the piling. The high-tide mark told me that the space was accessible at all tides.

In order to see underneath, I dropped to my knees and peered inside. It was dark. A string of bare light bulbs protected by plastic cages hung from the beam. The construction lights were off, but I could see as far as the concrete bulkhead about ten feet in.

The black outline of something that didn’t quite fit in showed against the bulkhead. I knew because of the ongoing structural work that I was probably just looking at a construction area.

Just as I was about to slide underneath the structure to investigate further, I heard a voice.

21

Already jumpy, I didn’t recognize the voice as Justine’s until I had smacked my head against the bottom of the structure.

“Shoot, that hurt,” she said. “You okay there, coach?”

I rubbed my head and checked my hand. At least there wasn’t any blood. “I’m good. You have that flashlight thing on your watch?” Her sportswatch had all the bells and whistles. I didn’t want or need to know how slow I was going, so I just used my trusty old G Shock.

The tide had pulled us out into the open. Justine activated the light, which was really just a blank screen on high power, and we paddled back underneath the structure. The flashlight feature, which was probably useful for illuminating a lock at night, didn’t make a dent in the darkness.

“Not much, huh?” she said.

I didn’t want to give up, but unless we were right on top of whatever was back there, the light was useless. The paddleboard was also not the safest craft to use to inspect dark and possibly dangerous places. Even kneeling on it, the board was unstable.

I was about to tell her to abort when I heard two voices. My heart skipped several beats when I realized Justine’s secret decoder watch was illuminating them us. One of the voices was familiar. The conversation was muted and echoed off the concrete and water, making it hard to understand. What I did know was that one of the men was Rafael, and he seemed to be in charge.

Several quiet strokes got me within hearing range.

“Just get it done,” he said and turned away. Another man was with him, who looked like one of his crewmen.

I thought I had missed my chance as Rafael started to climb the bank. Suddenly, he turned around. I froze, thinking I had been spotted.

“Do me right here and I’ve got a couple other no-bid contracts.”

It seemed like our boy had his hand in several pots. I waited until the other man left, then returned to the daylight. Squinting into the sun, I moved quickly away. Justine, not seeing any aggression in my stroke, quickly passed me.

“I’m not racing.”

“Just making sure.”

One day, the universe would align, and I would beat her. Today was not that day, nor was I even thinking about it. I had Rafael on my mind.

“Are we watching the Miami version of the Sopranos or what?” Justine asked.

It had been no-show jobs on the series, but this was close enough. I’d been on the requisitioning end of the funds-disbursement side before and knew that, in an effort to be more efficient—meaning time, not money—the Park Service had a threshold of $5,000 for work or purchases without having to qualify the vendor. In the scheme of things, it wasn’t much money, but it took care of pencils, bullets, and minor maintenance. For larger purchases, we had to shop in the case of hard goods or solicit bids in the case of construction work. With the Park Services’ penchant for concrete and overbuilding, even repairing a crack in the sidewalk was over the limit with the current guidelines.

The sentiment was the same as with the Feel-Good Laws. The rationale was that empowering mid-management to make decisions on their own was good for morale and efficiency. In the end, the unintended consequences outweighed the good.

I like my laws. Two of my favorites, which I often used in working my cases, were Occam’s and Hanlon’s Razor. Occam stated that the simplest explanation is usually the best. Hanlon, who said to never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by incompetence, was my litmus test in analyzing people and their motivations. The laws were universal and applied equally to government work as well as the private sector. Parkinson’s Law, which stated that work expanded so as to fill the time available for its completion, and Hick’s Law, which said that decision-making time increases logarithmically with the number of possible choices, described government workers pretty well. Finally, the granddaddy of them all, Murphy’s Law—stating that anything that could go wrong will—ignored karma and applied equally to all.

No-bid contracts opened the door for corruption, nepotism, and a host of other inefficiencies. They were an easy way for administrators to boost their egos and fill their pockets.

There were a number of reasons the two men could have been having that conversation underneath a condemned stadium. None were good. Two of the laws neatly explained what I had just witnessed. I’d been around Rafael long enough to place him firmly on the malice side of Hanlon’s Razor. Occam’s Razor told me that since their conversation occurred at the structural work in progress, the construction itself was the likely topic.

Once I had that bit of clarity, my first reaction was that the size of the job should have required bidding, bonding, and a host of other hoops the winning contractor would have had to jump through. My father had always shied away from government work and explained the contractors' side as a vipers’ pit. Bidding was so competitive that the firm that was awarded the contract often bid it at cost, relying on change orders to make their money.

Ironically, after the competitive bidding process, the change orders were accepted at face value. They were inevitable and expensive, allowing plenty of profit to make up for the at-cost bid.

We were able to slide out of the structure without being seen and, with the wind behind us, we reached the beach and had the boards loaded in about half the time it had taken to paddle out. Justine was all smiles, and this time it was her turn to issue the obligatory “thanks for making us go.” It was racing the rowers that had done the trick.

I had a theory about women and exercise after watching Justine and our competitive paddler friends. During intense exercise, some kind of hormonal release occurs that makes them happy. Men will do the work but don’t experience the same feeling.

I smiled as well because I finally had a concrete reason, no pun intended, to go after Rafael. That thought buoyed my mood for the ride home until I realized that I had failed in my intended mission. Rafael’s indiscretions were a poor substitute for finding the smuggler’s base. His actions were also in the realm of internal affairs, not the Park Service.

After a decade’s experience of having it beaten into me, I understood the limits of my jurisdiction. Fingering a corrupt FWC officer was outside the lines. What I needed was someone on the inside. My relationship with the FWC hadn’t exactly been a cordial one. My only hope was that Wayne had done better.

I pulled out my phone, watching the sea of brake lights ahead of us heading back over the Causeway.

“Hey. Haven’t seen you for a minute,” Wayne said.

“I’ve been working the smuggler thing.”

“Any luck?”

“Thought I had a hit, but no joy. I did see our friend Rafael, though.” I told Wayne what I had heard as well as about seeing him on his boat.

“You IA now?”

“I was hoping you might know someone up the ladder with the FWC.”

“You sure you want to kick this hornet’s nest?”

“I think I already have.”

“Okay. I know a guy. Let me make a call.”

He sounded reluctant, and I didn’t want him to think I was pulling rank. “If you’re not comfortable, it’s cool. I know I’m off the reservation.”

“Nah. I got thicker skin than that. Besides, dudes like that give us all a bad name.”

“Okay. Stay out of it after that. You have to work with some of these guys.”

“So do you.”

I let it go. “Anything else going on?”

“Nah, pretty quiet. Won’t be bad until the weekend.”

Though you wouldn’t know it from the weather, South Florida followed the traditional seasons, at least in behavior. It might be ninety degrees in mid-May, but summer didn’t officially start until Memorial Day.

“Sam tell you about the smugglers running on Friday nights?” I asked him.

“You think they’ll hold that pattern after the shooting?”

“I think so. It’s like a serial killer. The more they get away with it, the more brazen they’ll get.”

“Roger that. I’ll be available.”

“Cool. Let me know when you reach your buddy.”

Justine pulled into our parking space as I finished. She had remained quiet while I spoke with Wayne, but I knew she was listening. I was almost afraid to look at her as she stopped the car. She would be either basking in post-paddle endorphins or fuming about my sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. When I did risk it, her face was set in stone. I braced myself for what was coming.

“You need more than you two to go after the cartel.”

At least it wasn’t a no. “Grace runs that task force. I can call her but⁠—”

“Could go either way, Batman.”

One of the pillars of the cartel’s strategy was to infiltrate law enforcement. In Mexico, they had effectively neutered any threat from that quarter. Here, the process was harder, but cash was king. Some guys couldn’t say no. I was always reluctant to draw on Miami-Dade’s resources. In this case, it would be the right thing to do, but there was still a risk.

Miami-Dade didn’t have a monopoly on corruption in South Florida. I knew of at least a few DEA agents who had been compromised in the past. With the FWC’s massive reach, the agency was a likely target for the cartels. That led me down the same road I had been traveling. I started to wonder if everything was connected.

The universe works in strange ways. Karma may or may not be a thing, but as a concept, it is worth abiding by. The Law of Attraction is also out there. My view was that wishful thinking and asking a higher power to grant wishes was a bad strategy. There was something to be said for the subconscious workings of it, though.

Ask, believe, and receive is another form of prayer. There may be no scientific basis for it, but people have been doing it from campfires to board rooms to Super Bowl locker rooms over thousands of years. Probability is involved in any outcome. Some prayers are going to be answered, others seemingly ignored.

My mind had twisted things before, and I wondered if it had done so again. I hadn’t done it intentionally, but I was following the same formula, trying to connect the FWC to the cartel.

22

It was almost seven by the time we’d showered, and we were about to fix dinner when I remembered I was supposed to work the night shift. Instead of the grilled chicken and veggies we had planned, I grabbed a sandwich and headed out the door. A few seconds later, I was back for my laptop.

“You sure you want to do this? Easy to lose someone out there in the dark. And be careful of the gators in the berms.”

In South Florida, if there was grass and water there were gators, and the median between the north and southbound lanes was no exception. It was a fact of life for anyone who spent time outside. Her concern, though tongue-in-cheek, was justified. Though gators were apex predators, they were secondary to a human with a grudge and a gun, something I might also run into tonight.

I kissed her on the top of the head, told her I had no intention of leaving the truck, and left again. Living east of I-95 meant that I would have to fight the tail end of rush-hour traffic to reach the construction site. The minutes started to tick by, and I wondered what would happen if I showed up late.

My concern was unfounded. Arriving right at eight, I was assigned to follow a truck putting out barricades. Ever since I’d lived in Florida, it had been impossible to go anywhere without hitting a construction zone. The work moved from one highway to another and then back again in a never-ending cycle that never seemed to catch up to the demand.

I was worried about being bored, but my construction background and curiosity kept me occupied for the first few hours. As a driver, I cursed the miles-long stretches of orange and white cones and barricades. At one time, there was a joke that Bob’s Barricades were so common they should replace the Northern Mockingbird as the state bird of Florida. As much of an inconvenience as they were the company was a classic story of someone seeing a need and filling it. The company had been founded by a Miami policeman named Bob. He was now a millionaire. The fascination soon wore off and by ten, my usual bedtime, I was yawning and wondering how I would make it through the night. With the miles of cones deployed, I was moved into a position near the southern end of the work. For the first half hour, I was alert. As the minutes ticked by without incident, I realized it was the law enforcement vehicles, specifically our light bars, that the construction company was paying for. Hiring the officers was a necessary evil to use the cars.

Drivers had become immune to the yellow-and-white construction lights, especially now that many trucks engaged in any kind of trade had them. The blue-and-red lights were a different matter, causing drivers to automatically slow when they saw them. It was the nighttime version of leaving unoccupied police vehicles along busy roadways during daylight.

My job was to occupy the vehicle while the light bar did the work. That led me to my laptop. I cracked the lid and, using my phone as a hotspot, started to run through my emails. With nothing else to do, I dealt with them one at a time until I reached the last screen. Most messages came in during working hours, and I jumped when I heard the notification that I had received a new one—even more so when I saw it was from Wayne.

I skipped over the last dozen unopened messages and read his. A name jumped out at me: Steve Downes—and undercover crewman for the FWC Guardian and associate of Rafael.

Staring at the name, my mind started to spin. My first thought was how I could have misread the situation. The second was that I wasn’t supposed to see through the ruse. I had to give him credit. Undercover work is brutal, and he was doing a commendable job. Now that I knew, my worry was exposing him.

I glanced in my mirrors and saw several other police cars behind me. Three more were in front. I thought it was overkill and, having driven through these zones enough times, found them a distraction and often disorienting. My brain started to spin, thinking about what I perceived as a waste of money, again going in places it didn’t belong.

I froze when two of the other officers exited their vehicles and approached. Steeling myself for the Ranger Rick comments, I lowered the window. A knot gripped my stomach when I saw the FWC uniforms. It tightened when I recognized the two men.

“Heard the Park Service doesn’t pay that well,” said a tall man who I identified as one of the crew from the patrol boat, possibly Steve.

I tried to analyze his tone but wasn’t sure if I was the butt of a joke or if this was some kind of attempt at camaraderie. My focus fell on Rafael as he started to raise his hands. I flinched, then saw the coffee cups.

“Can’t get through this without some fuel.” He handed me a cup. “This is Steve. Works for me.”

“Thanks. First time. My daughter’s going to vet school. I need some extra cash.”

It wasn’t really a lie. Allie was out of school now, but extra revenue would have helped with expenses back then. I got a nod of sympathy. Despite the interagency squabbles, law enforcement is still a brotherhood. Out here, sitting in our cars with nothing to do except watch the strobing lights and construction vehicles, there was no competition. We were just a couple of guys trying to supplement our income, which also gave us something to talk about.

I was wondering how to get Steve alone when Rafael’s phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. “Girlfriend checking up on me.”

He walked out of earshot, leaving Steve and me by ourselves.

“What’s your game, Hunter?”

“Just trying to make ends meet.” I knew it was the wrong thing to say. Part of me still clung to the crewman, a nameless guy I could hate. The Perception Law, which said perception was 90 percent of reality, applied here. I had to get my mind around that other 10 percent. Even after getting Wayne’s email, I still thought of Steve in the same light. It was easy having him as a target. Now, I had two things to get over: first, my failure to spot him as an undercover agent, and second, how to work with him without exposing him. The saving grace was that after working with Miami-Dade for nearly a decade, I understood that I didn’t have to like him.

One of the key aspects of undercover work is that you have to represent who you really are. Infiltrating a biker gang means you actually have to like the lifestyle. That meant fighting and drinking had to be in your DNA. The same applied to Steve’s position. I didn’t know him other than by his association with Rafael. He was certainly different in appearance from the captain. Long and lean with a full head of hair rather than stocky and bald. He could have been a modern-day Laurel to Rafael’s Hardy.

I glanced over at Rafael. He was a dozen feet away, engrossed in his conversation. I thought about inviting Steve into the truck, kind of like coming over for coffee. Rafael would become suspicious, though, so we talked through the open window. The construction noise was more than enough to give us privacy.

I hadn’t been around Steve for long enough to have any opinion about him—even my usual nickname and prejudgment. My next few words could make the difference between a productive relationship or make our existing one worse. It would have been nice to have some time to consider them, but it appeared that Rafael was wrapping up his call.

I took a leap. “I got your name through channels.”

His body stiffened for a brief second before he processed what I had said. Turning toward his partner, he waved him away and stuck his face close to mine in a confrontational gesture. “Don’t blow this, Hunter.”

I raised my hands in surrender. If anyone was watching, it would appear that I was trying to appease him. “You had me fooled.”

“What do you want from me? I’m close to blowing this open. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Not my intention. I might be able to help.”

He gave me the stink eye. I was waiting for the condescending “What can a park ranger do for me?” but it never came. His expression hadn’t changed, making me wonder if he was sincere in his investigation. Just because he was IA didn’t mean he was clean. It was actually the perfect cover. The onus to cooperate was on him as well as me.

We fell into an uncomfortable silence, which felt like a ceasefire where both sides are staring down the other, waiting for the order to resume hostilities. He hadn’t walked away, though, so I decided on a peace offering.

“I placed a GPS tracker on your boat.” I told him the location.

“Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“I’ve got some information that might help.” I told him about overhearing the conversation in the bowels of the Marine Stadium.

He nodded. “Give me your phone.”

I handed it to him. He pecked around for a minute. “There’s a draft of an email that has my number. It’s secure.”

His body language changed again. Without a word, he walked away. I could hear Rafael ask what I wanted. Steve’s response was lost to a piercing backup alarm from a piece of equipment. I was sure it wasn’t flattering. This time, that was a good thing.

I spent the next hour working through a summary with all the information I had gathered about the smuggling operation. I had assumed Steve’s mission concerned the fuel reimbursements and the no-bid work, so I left his involvement to that. I added what I knew about the USV and my suspicions about the cartel, and that Rafael might be involved. Once finished compiling the information, rather than send it to my boss in Atlanta, I sent it to Justine.

I was back to the permission/forgiveness equation. If something should happen, she would know what to do with it. I remembered Steve had left his contact information in a draft, so I copied and pasted my summary there as well. I hit the send button, heard the swoosh sound, and sat back, starting to wonder why Steve had been planted aboard the vessel over fuel reimbursements. Between the GPS tracker and the observations I had made, I could make a case against the captain right now. Even the FWC wouldn’t risk an undercover agent for a simple internal affairs investigation. There had to be something more. I reviewed the email, trying to find a connection between the captain and the cartel’s smuggling operation.

Moving Johnny Wells to Key Largo was suspicious. I wondered if someone had purposefully pulled some strings. It certainly worked in the smugglers’ favor to remove the Midnight Express from the playing field. If the move had been made to facilitate the smugglers, then this went higher than Rafael.

The realization was like a shot of adrenaline. What to do about it was another matter. Most law enforcement agencies were evaluated on their closure rates, which meant the crime had already been committed. Resources were allocated to prevention, mostly through a show of force. My performance, for example, was judged on the quantity of crimes themselves, with prevention as the goal. With my boss in Atlanta and my previous track record of successes, I was free to pursue whatever I felt was in the best interest of the park.

The Park Service operated under a dual mandate, which often contradicted itself. The goal was to preserve the parks and, at the same time, to allow the public access to enjoy them. With man being the main enemy of preservation, we often walked a tightrope.

The FWC was tasked with the same mandate, though they chose to pursue it in a different manner. Their idea of deterrence was what I saw as harassing the public with random safety checks. In my opinion, that was short-sighted. Steve and I were on the same side, but that didn’t mean we had the same goal.

To move forward, I needed to find out what his goal was.

23

Steve avoided me for the rest of the shift. I wasn’t expecting us to be BFFs or even friendly. Buddying up with Special Agent Kurt Hunter was a surefire way to make enemies and possibly blow his cover.

After a while, the strobing of the lights became hypnotic. I started to doze off and was surprised when there was a knock on my window—even more so when I saw it was Steve. I unscrewed my eyes and saw the faintest hint of gray in the sky.

“Meet me for breakfast at Mario’s.”

He walked away without waiting for a response. An onlooker might have thought our short exchange was confrontational. I checked my phone and saw it was almost five—what looked to be the end of one shift and the beginning of another. I wasn’t sure of the protocol for the end of the shift and ended up following the other officers, who pulled onto the highway at five sharp.

Homestead was once the center of an agricultural area that rivaled the I-5 breadbasket of California. For decades, it coexisted with the Air Force base, which was now a reserve facility, and the tourists passing through on their way to the Keys. As things tended to happen, first slowly and then quickly, the tomato fields changed to landscape nurseries and then subdivisions.

Mario’s was a local place, void of the tourists passing through. There was less chance of being seen together here than in the Cracker Barrel on US 1, where the local law enforcement often hung out.

Steve was at a corner table, seated with his back to the wall, when I arrived. Habits die hard, and I took the adjacent seat instead of sitting across the table from him with my back to the door.

“You’re not going to keep up this overtime charade, are you?”

I had decided to be truthful in hopes of gaining his cooperation. “No. Just sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You seem to have a reputation for that.”

Before I could object, he continued. “At least you get results.”

The server appeared with a pot of coffee. She refilled Steve’s cup and poured me one, asking, “You want to order anything, sweetie?”

I glanced at Steve, and he nodded. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, bacon, and hash browns.”

I’m usually an omelet guy, but that dish has many interpretations. I wasn’t willing to risk the Homestead version. Black coffee and a standard American breakfast was the cop special, and I wanted to fit in.

“Same.” She nodded and walked away. I waited until she was out of earshot before I asked if he’d seen my email.

“Yeah, that USV is out of my purview. I’m more interested in the no-bid contracts and fuel reimbursements.”

I was about to ask why it didn’t bother him that a cartel was running drugs in the bay but stopped short. Internal affairs guys were wired differently. They had to be able to prosecute fellow officers. I had some of those attributes as well. This had all started with my curiosity about the FWC ship not going out. Steve was not the captain and had no say in what Rafael did or didn’t do. In order to carry out his assignment, he had to be a good crewmate and gain the confidence of the captain, not oppose him, as I would have.

“What can I do to help?” I asked. My goal was to get the FWC ship and the smugglers out of my backyard. If he could help with either, that was better than nothing.

Fortunately, our breakfast arrived, which gave me some time to think. An idea occurred to me while I chewed the last piece of bacon.

“The no-bid jobs. How are they organized?”

“You mean how do they find out about them?”

“Yeah. Is there a network or something?” At this point, there was probably an app for that. From my experience with my father, I knew there was a good old boys’ network. Colluding on bids, where companies worked together to submit non-competitive proposals, often to inflate prices or ensure a specific contractor won, had been going on for years, especially in government work.

From what I had learned about the Miami Marine Stadium project, the work was being doled out in small increments until a master plan could be approved. Unable or unwilling to foot the bill for a public project, the county was soliciting plans from the private sector. Until then, the stadium lay in the public domain, which meant the county needed to maintain it.

On the surface, the jobs seemed small and insignificant. Lump a handful of no-bid contracts together, and there was a lot of money involved.

The state of Florida, in an effort to keep out the carpetbaggers, had designed the process for the certification of contractors to be difficult. There was a fair amount of money involved, a two-day test, and requirements for net worth, bonding, and insurance. It had worked to keep the station-wagon handyman from Indiana out but had also created another problem.

The system was rigged against the small guys, making it too expensive or difficult to obtain a license for the one house a year they wanted to build. That left the door open for what I called the clearinghouse contractor—those willing to allow others to use their license for cash.

“Does he have the license?”

“No. There’s a guy that pulls permits for a group of them.”

If it were up to me, I would work my way up the food chain. Steve’s objective was to weed out corruption within the department. It dawned on me that there might be a way to do both and, in the process, see if there was a connection to the cartel and the USV.

When we walked out the door, our relationship had changed, at least under the surface. To any onlooker, it would appear the same, as we split up without comment. I reached the truck and sat for a minute trying to digest everything. Staying up all night again was taking its toll, but my mind was spinning.

There was a certain satisfaction from proving what some might see as a conspiracy theory. Learning that the FWC captain was under investigation was only part of it, though. As I drove to headquarters, I thought about the meeting I had stumbled upon at the Marine Stadium, wondering if it was too much of a coincidence that it had occurred in the very spot I suspected as being the USV base.

Proving one conspiracy theory didn’t change the fact that they were labeled “conspiracies” for a reason. A debater might have brought up that calling any issue a conspiracy would automatically qualify the accuser as being a lunatic. It did give me some confidence, though, that might have been misplaced. My hope was that Steve was open-minded enough to see there might be more going on than he had been tasked with.

Agencies preached against mission creep which often occurred when there was no definitive goal and things became muddled. Steve’s job was to get enough evidence on the captain to prosecute. The degree didn’t matter as long as the mission was accomplished. With an undercover operative, it was important to get them out as soon as possible.

A terrorist threat might have been different. When there is an imminent threat to lives, the mission shifts and everyone gets involved. Smuggling is a continuous enterprise, with several other agencies better equipped to combat it than the FWC. I could very well have made a mistake in trying to enlist Steve in my cause. If he turned the information over to the DEA, I would be shut out.

Why that mattered was another issue. Mission creep was a problem for me as well. It all came down to the cartel using the park’s waters. That made it my business, or at least how I rationalized it.

I pulled into headquarters and walked around to the entrance, passing the FWC boat. Knowing Steve’s true role, it didn’t bother me as much as it previously had. Once I was past its looming hulk, I scanned the marina and realized our ramshackle collection of small boats was no match for a drug cartel.

I needed help.

Johnny Wells was out of play, which left me one choice—Miami-Dade. They had the resources, but I was probably still in the doghouse for not securing the Yellowfin for them. Thinking about the boat gave me another idea.

I had another fleet at my disposal, as long as I could provide them with opportunities for content. If this worked out the way I hoped, they would have a viral video, and I would have at least proof that the USV was running through Miami. With any luck, we might even be able to take them down. My heart rate picked up just thinking about scooping Miami-Dade, and the handful of alphabet agencies that should have been involved.

In my sleep-deprived state, I failed to see any downside. I knew better but called Andy anyway.

“We haven’t been in the park since we spoke.”

“That’s not why I’m calling.” The line was quiet while he waited for whatever bad news I was going to hit him with. “I’ve actually got a permit here with your name on it.”

“We never requested one.”

“I did.” I laid out my idea.

There was no pause this time. “You sure this is legit?”

“Yeah. It’s gotta be Friday night. Okay?”

“Dude, you name it. We’ll be there. I can even write you into the script.”

The mention of a script made me think of editing. “I’ll pass on that. As for the footage, you can do what you want with it, but I need an unedited copy.”

“Sure thing, man.”

I had earned his trust by keeping the video shot from last Saturday confidential.

“I’ll start on a storyboard. You sure you don’t want a role? Could be your big shot.”

I laughed.

“We should meet out there the day before and run through camera angles and such.”

“We have a drone that I can donate to the cause.” We made plans to meet at five o’clock the next day.

Energized from the deal, I entered the office and stopped at Mariposa’s desk. “Are Sam and Wayne around?”

“Good morning to you, too. Looking rough again there, Kurt. Is there something we should talk about?”

The comment went over my head. “Can you get everyone together?”

She cocked an eye and looked at me. “An intervention might not be a bad idea.”

I let her have her joke and waited while she called Wayne and Sam. When she said they were both on their way in, I glanced at my watch and saw it wasn’t even eight yet. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want anything?”

“No, I’m good, but get yourself an extra large. You look like you need it.” She laughed.

I stopped in the restroom on my way to the kitchenette. Looking in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. Forget about not letting the homeless use the bathroom at Starbucks. They probably wouldn’t have let me in. I washed my face and slicked back my hair, though it made little difference.

Wayne and Sam were gathered around Mariposa’s desk when I returned.

“What’s up, boss?” Wayne asked.

“Rough night?” Sam piped in.

I told them about the night shift and meeting Steve. Then I went into my idea for the USV. “Any problem working two drones in the same area?” I asked Sam.

“Nah. I just need to coordinate with them.”

“Okay. We’ll meet here tomorrow at four. The meetings at five. Wayne, up to you if you want to ride with us or meet us.”

“What about me?” Mariposa asked.

I thought back on the ten years we had worked together. I had never seen her aboard a boat. “Always welcome.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Anything I can do on the social end of things, just let me know.”

Protocol was to send social media posts up the chain of command before releasing. In this case, Andy would probably either do a live feed or release the footage immediately. Once that was out, all bets were off. There was also no way it could be swept under the rug.

24

Sleep is good. There was no other way to say it. A good night's sleep can run rings around all the diets, workout trends, and supplements out there. To say I felt better the next day was an understatement. My mind had been far from clear when I had brought Andy and company into my scheme. Looking back, it might not have been my best decision but it wasn’t a bad one either.

Quality films and TV shows shot in our national parks are almost always good for the parks. No matter which park they are filmed in, they have a positive impact on visitation numbers everywhere. I didn’t expect that to be the case for this project. A video highlighting the influence of the cartels was not good for business.

The Law of Unintended Consequences cannot be ignored. Not many related out to Newton’s Third Law which states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I had always thought of it as a precursor. Though he was speaking of physical forces, the same idea applied to decisions, laws, policies—everything. That didn’t mean all unintended consequences were bad. Some were good. An abstract example came from an economist named Adam Smith in the 18th century. Smith referred to an Invisible Hand, which creates unintended social benefits and public good by individuals acting in their own self-interest. These days, there was little evidence of that, though.

Overwhelming data show that consequences are often negative. Even the word itself implies trouble. That was certainly the case here. Another con that I had failed to consider was the real chance of someone getting hurt (or worse). From the video, it was inconclusive whether the USV was armed. Even if it wasn’t, the cartels often chose payback over direct action. They could easily trace the video to Miami on Fire and from there to Andy. I was pretty sure in his rush to accept my offer that he hadn’t considered the risks involved, either.

The high that had gotten me through yesterday was gone, replaced by a nagging feeling that I was doing the wrong thing. Doubt like this was not unique and was associated with two phobias: Atelophobia, the fear of imperfection and making mistakes, and decidophobia, the intense fear of making wrong decisions. Knowing there were documented disorders associated with how I was feeling did not make it any easier.

I sat at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. Some days I needed the java to wake up; other days, to clear my head. This morning I needed it for both, as well as giving me an excuse to sit and think.

That was before Justine entered the room. She noticed my mood immediately. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

“Got an hour?”

“That bad?” She poured a cup of coffee and sat next to me.

This was a rare case of asking for permission rather than forgiveness. I wasn’t sure how much to tell her but decided on all of it, as she had already seen the email and would find out the rest eventually. I also wanted her with me.

“We’re doing a run-through this afternoon at five if you want to come.”

“Oh hell yeah. I can back-burner this cartel murder stuff. Funny that everyone gets their panties in a wad over it, but you don’t need a lot of evidence when they’re all dead.”

Justine lived for evidence. That was not only her job but her passion. The drawback was that she didn’t see the human side of the equation. In the case of a cartel shooting, unless it extended to innocents, no one cared if they killed each other off. With equal quantities of tattoos and brass casings from each side, there was little anyone cared to investigate. The authorities wanted the head honchos, not the soldiers who were treated as cannon fodder, not potential leaders. Unintended consequences applied to their strategy as well, as the soldiers were eager to claim power and step into the leadership roles. When they did, they were often more violent than their predecessors. In this case, cutting off the head of the snake often led to the snake turning into the mythical hydra.

“I have a plan.”

“Oh, really. Do tell.”

When I finished, she seemed tepid about it. “That’s a little vague, even from you.”

I had planted a seed, though, and could almost see her mind working. She finally conceded that it could work. “Getting the drone thing on video is not evidence of anything. You know that, right?”

Another unintended consequence of my plan. “Okay, change evidence to proof.”

“Semantics aren’t going to bail you out of this one. If this goes to court, they’ll walk.”

“Unless we get the USV.”

“And you have an idea how to do that?”

She was right, of course. The best I could hope for from the video was to prove that the USV was real. There was still no one to arrest or prosecute. The only crime being committed I could think of was operating an unregistered vessel.

But our conversation had germinated a seed of something that might work, although it was way too early in its development to reveal it.

I needed a better understanding of some specific laws. What I was thinking of was like getting a ticket from a red-light camera or being caught speeding by radar, but on a much larger scale. Unfortunately, the vessel didn’t have a registration or tag.

Finding its base again became my top priority.

I studied the map on my phone, looking for any other venue that might work for a smuggling endeavor. Despite its reputation, Miami was a two-trick pony as far as smuggling was concerned. With the DEA playing catch-up in the ’70s and ’80s, go-fast boats and small planes had worked. Once the feds upgraded their radar and obtained some go-fast boats of their own—mostly from confiscations—both had ended. Miami became a distribution hub. The import side moved west to the Everglades and the Keys.

From Government Cut north, the shoreline was one continuous stretch of high-rises. The Intracoastal, running parallel and often less than a half-mile inland from the ocean, was lined with condos, restaurants, and marinas. The few green spaces along the Intracoastal and beaches bordering the ocean were set aside as parks and were constantly busy.

The USV was a different animal, needing little space to refuel and unload. With my phone in one hand and coffee mug in the other, I studied the shoreline again. The Marine Stadium was still my top pick. There were other areas that met the criteria, mostly along the Miami River. I discounted them because of the novelty of the USV. Having to run past Brickell Key and downtown Miami, it was sure to attract attention.

With phones and social media, grabbing ten seconds of fame was easier than it used to be. Anyone seeing the novel craft would capture an image or video. Within minutes, it would be all over the internet.

I added overhead cover to my list of criteria. Google Earth alone had been the undoing of several smuggling enterprises. Despite my attempts to find another suitable location, my focus kept returning to the Marine Stadium.

“What’s your next move?” Justine asked, as if reading my mind.

I could have taken the morning off and gone to the meeting at five with a more polished plan. That wasn’t my nature, though. “Thinking of taking a run by the Marine Stadium again.”

“It does make sense as a location.”

I shrugged. “That’s all I got.” She started gathering her things for work. “I’ll meet you back here at three-thirty. We can take our boat over to Stiltsville.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Justine pecked me on the cheek and was out the door.

I was stepping off the reservation. Few cases began and ended in the park, so this was nothing new. Some started there, usually with me finding a floater. Others ended there when the perp tried to use the backwaters as an escape route. My jurisdiction was often muddled. Though a statute in our guidelines gave me the authority to pursue a case beyond the park’s boundaries, in this case I was looking for trouble.

It was a good idea for anyone going out on the water to leave a float plan with someone ashore. They didn’t need to be complicated. Departure point, time, destination, and expected duration of the trip were plenty of information to start a search. In this case, I called Wayne and told him that Justine and I would meet him later and more importantly, where I was going now—just in case.

I was stuck with the Park Service truck which, though fairly discreet, would stand out in the near-empty parking lot of the Marine Stadium. After rattling the problem around in my head for a few minutes, I decided to load my bike in the back. The ride from our place to Virginia Key was doable, except for the Miami traffic. Bike lanes had begun to appear on many roads in the last few years. I had mixed thoughts about them. They did allow some space, but drivers—the Miami variety—rarely checked for riders when making a turn. E-bikes and scooters had only made the problem worse.

I changed out of my uniform, selecting a pair of quick-dry shorts and a shirt, grabbed a Miami Dolphins ball cap, and headed out the door. The Marine Stadium lot was mostly empty, so I parked by Hobie Beach, grabbed the bike from the back, and rode over to the Marine Stadium.

The facility was cordoned off by a temporary chain-link fence. The only gate was marked as a construction entrance with a pair of vehicles parked there. Thankfully, neither belonged to Rafael. There were multiple places I could have breached the fencing, as had the many graffiti artists who had adorned the concrete structure with their work over the years.

There was no need for subterfuge as I rode through the open gate, ready to play the lost tourist if anyone asked. From my previous recon trip, I knew where the work was being performed. The crew had been near the eastern pilings, so I started on the west end, closest to the peninsula. Leaving the bike in an old rack, I started toward the construction area on foot.

The pilings in this area had been completed. My construction background got the better of me as I examined the repairs. My experience was mostly from working with my father building custom homes. The limit of my marine construction experience was watching the repairs being made to the seawalls in the park. The takeaway I had from any national park project was “don’t try this at home.” The Park Service overbuilds in a big way. I had seen walking bridges built to take the weight of a train and kayak launches suitable for ocean-going vessels.

The system used here appeared to be a polymer of some sort wrapped around the piling that was then filled with epoxy grout. A pile of galvanized rebar on the ground told me they were steel reinforced as well. I’m sure there was a lot more work than was visible. As was the case with most construction projects, there was more that you didn’t see than you did.

I moved down the line of pilings, navigating my way through what was now a staging area. You can tell a good contractor by the way he runs his site. The ramshackle mess of materials and debris lying here was enough that if I were inspecting the job, I would have been worried about the quality of the work being done. With my construction sense offended, I almost didn’t notice that the mess actually had a purpose.

I stepped back in my mind and tried to see the site from above. When it became clear, I moved toward an area concealed by pallets loaded with bags of epoxy grout. The material acted as both a visual and a physical barrier. I moved toward it, trying to find a way through. A forklift was parked nearby, but starting it was out of the question. I had approached a stack, ready to climb over it, when I heard a man behind me.

“Hey! What are you doing over there?”

25

We are wired with a primal reaction called the “sympathetic adrenomedullary response,” or the “acute stress response.” It is the physiological reaction best known as the fight-or-flight response. I would add “hide” as the third response. The reaction is dictated by the amygdala and is generally out of our control, though it is possible to train it. In my case, the training was from putting myself in bad situations too often.

As I heard the sound of work boots crunching on the concrete floor, I felt my thoughts slipping out of my control. Stopping and taking several deep breaths brought my focus back to what was happening around me instead of inside me. The thinking part of my mind flashed through the three scenarios and settled on hiding. Fighting an unknown assailant was risky. Dressed in plain clothes, I did not carry my service weapon, a clear mistake. I had some training in hand-to-hand combat. None would be any good if the man had a gun. Running was much the same. A bullet was a lot faster than I was.

I ducked down behind a pallet loaded with shrink-wrapped bags of epoxy. Every breath seemed loud, and my heartbeat echoed in my ears. This was another reaction of the sympathetic nervous system, triggered by the release of adrenaline and cortisol, which increases heart rate and blood pressure. This increased blood flow can affect the auditory system, potentially causing or exacerbating pulsatile tinnitus, where the pulsing sound is perceived in time with the heartbeat. Not important in itself, but I find knowing why things happen to me helps me deal with them.

I was aware the effect was purely in my head and continued to breathe deeply, focusing on the sound of boots on concrete.

“Anyone here?” he called out.

This time, he sounded unsure. I had based my decision to hide on the tried-and-true principle that if you can’t see them, they can’t see you. I’d only heard the man and not seen him. There were a number of angles where I could have missed him, but I was playing the odds. From this point, he could either continue to search alone, call in his coworkers, or abandon the effort. I was counting on the latter. A few minutes passed, and I was rewarded as the sound of the footsteps receded.

A good decision would have been to get out of there. That wasn’t the way my mind worked. Instead, I rose slowly and surveyed the area. Not seeing or hearing any sign of a search, I moved through what appeared to be a corridor constructed with the pallets and waited. Filtering out my own breath and heartbeat, I determined that the only sound was from the construction work on the other end of the structure.

I turned my attention to the opening before me. The pathway was clear, just wide enough for a forklift to navigate. I moved around a corner and was faced with another ninety-degree turn heading the other way, less than a half-dozen paces away. Moving through what resembled a maze, the memory of a shoot house that had been part of my training came to me. The pallets appeared to have been intentionally placed to create a pathway designed for cover and concealment.

The orderly area inside the chaotic outer site had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Inconsistencies solve cases, and though this could have been the diligent work of one worker, I doubted it. The culture of an organization either forces workers to comply or pushes them out. This area had been constructed with military precision.

I moved through the maze. Reaching the interior, I found myself facing a smooth plastic wall constructed of the same polymer material used to encase the pilings. At first glance, it appeared to be stationary. Running my hand across the smooth material, I felt a seam that had been epoxied together. It still could have been an assembly being prepared to be placed around a piling, but it seemed too large for the piers surrounding me. The rounded shape concealed whatever was inside from land but seemed to be open toward the water.

I touched the material again and found it rigid. Pushing against it, the wall held its shape. Designed to contain hundreds of pounds of epoxy grout, it had to be strong. The serpentine corridor worked both as an exit route and an aid to an attack. I paused for a long minute to make sure I wasn’t being followed. The sound of hammers on steel could be heard from the other end of the stadium. There was nothing nearby.

I slowly moved along the plasticized barrier. The concrete floor fell away to rock, then mud, but the height of the material made it impossible to see around. My next step was on the shoreline. A glance to each side told me the tide was out, and I was able to see a line of undulating formwork that appeared to be intended to create a retaining wall. I studied it, trying to overcome my disappointment. Glancing back at the corridor, I wondered if I was delusional about the construction. The pallets could have been placed with access by a forklift in mind or maybe by an ex-military delivery driver.

Still, the deliberate order surrounded by chaos bothered me, as did the shape of the material in front of me. I would have expected, if it were to be a retaining wall, it would be straight. In the construction world, something round is expensive—often two or three times as much as straight runs. Concrete had no prejudices about shape, but the polymer formwork would be much more expensive than steel or plywood panels.

My research had told me that the architect who had designed the stadium had won an award for its original design. A scandal of sorts later ensued, as it was discovered he had taken elements of other buildings and combined them for his plan. I couldn’t fault him for that. There are only eight notes in a musical scale that have led to innumerable permutations. The same applies to shapes and their application.

About fifteen feet of water separated the formwork from the existing concrete. Without seeing the plans for the structure, I had no idea if it was decorative or built for a purpose. Irregular shapes had long been known to resist the effects of currents and tides. I could see both the form and function of creating a curved seawall in front of the stadium. The breadth of the water between the formwork and the existing structure was greater than I would have expected, but it could also be used to create a water feature.

The muddy shoreline below the tide line threatened to suck me in, forcing me to retreat to solid ground. I leaned out as much as possible but was unable to see the backside of the partition. The adjacent pallets were stacked two high. A glance along the shoreline told me they were set about twenty feet in from the edge. Without being able to use the forklift to move them, I was forced to climb.

The slick surface of the shrink wrap made it difficult. I kicked harder. The plastic resisted, but I was able to gain some purchase from the shape of the bags. Slipping several times, I finally reached the top, climbed up, and peered over the edge, expecting to see some kind of a moon pool from a James Bond movie. What was there was much more utilitarian but appeared to be a dock of sorts. The reason the form was convex was now apparent. The concave shape on the inside created a convex slip, rather than a square-edged one. In my mind, I pictured the USV fitting perfectly in the contours—or at least I thought it did.

It didn’t matter because the vessel was not there.

Yellow fuel containers, designated for diesel, were arranged in a row. Lines were coiled near a pair of cleats at either end. A pair of hand trucks used to move packages had been left near the center. There was nothing to indicate that the slip was permanent or had been used by the smugglers or the USV. On the surface, there was nothing unusual about the arrangement. The nature of the stadium overhanging the water would require a boat for construction, maintenance, and day-to-day operations.

Still, the placement of the pallets and the shape of the structure told me otherwise. Justine’s voice came to me: “Evidence.”

Working my way down was more difficult than the climb up. I finally hung from the slick material and dropped to the ground. The area looked much the same as it had from above.

As an investigator, I built and solved cases around people. That was in direct contrast to Justine, who lived and died by all kinds of evidence. Being polar opposites in our means and methods had contributed to our successes. Just because I didn’t rely on physical evidence didn’t mean I wasn’t capable of finding and collecting it. My wife’s voice in my head guided me through the process.

I started at ground level, moving slowly in a grid pattern looking for anything that might help my cause. While many investigators and prosecutors used evidence as their primary tool, it had its drawbacks. Subjectivity in analysis, lack of scientific validity, confirmation bias, insufficient standards, and potential for misinterpretation or mishandling were all present in something as simple as a cigarette butt.

It was just as true that people were unreliable—and they were. I saw the human aspect of a crime differently. Eyewitnesses were known to be mistaken as often as they were correct, but that was not what I used them for. Getting people to talk and open up often revealed the insights I needed to solve a case. People, rather than evidence, had more often than not led me to the answer.

So far in this case, there was a noticeable lack of people (and their insights), which left me in my current situation as I slowly scanned the concrete floor. Several times my mind started to wander, and I had to retrace my steps. My first pass at ground level revealed nothing. I started again, including the surrounding area in my search. This was a little more interesting, but there were no revelations. The cleats, dock line, and fuel containers were all generic. The best case was that there might be some fingerprints on the containers. I had no kit and little hope that any prints might be a match for anyone in the system. It was the same for DNA.

The cartels had matched the advancements in forensic science by constantly bringing in new blood from their homelands with no priors here. The evidence might help in a conviction, but we were stuck with low-level operatives. Upper management didn’t fill gas cans.

I worked the area to the best of my ability but came up empty. My expectations had been low to start with, so I wasn’t really disappointed. There was one other method that had worked in the past that I tried next. I let my mind and eyes wander, not focusing on anything in particular. An observer might think I was doing nothing, which was essentially correct.

Allowing my mind to cycle through the input from my eyes without judgment or forethought often opened it to new ideas. To and outsider it I would have appeared that I had given up. When the pieces of the puzzle all fit, the answer becomes clear. I was looking at the sharp edge of Occam’s Razor.

I knew I was right. I just had to prove it.

26

That the object of my search was a boat was part of the problem. The tide changed the water twice a day, leaving no sign that a boat of any kind had been here. That wasn’t true of its interaction with the hard dock. The only place I hadn’t looked was on the outside of the seawall.

Managing a boat was generally intuitive—except for docking. Even the best operators often left residue on hard surfaces when they came in too fast or misjudged the tide and wind.

I was down on my stomach, extending my head over the water, when I heard someone behind me.

My position was vulnerable and the run, fight, or hide options were all off the table.

“Thought I heard someone earlier.”

The voice was the same. I guessed my movements weren’t as stealthy as I thought.

“Back onto the pavement and hands behind your head.”

It was another voice. One I recognized. I complied, keeping my head down. My only advantage, if you could call it one, was that I hadn’t been recognized—yet. That probably wouldn’t last long. I was not going to get away claiming I was a product representative checking on the formwork system.

The water was my only chance for escaping without revealing my identity. Had I not known the men, I could have probably talked my way out of it. Though Rafael and I had found some common ground, we were far from friends. He was already wary of me, and Steve would do what he had to protect his identity. He had asked me not to step on his toes, and I clearly had. Whatever good guy to good guy vibe we had would disappear the second he saw me.

I gritted my teeth and, pushing myself forward like a seal, slid into the bay. The warm water did nothing for the chill running down my spine as I waited for their response. Expecting anything from a gunshot to ridicule, I submerged myself, reached out, and stroked through the water ahead of me. At the limit of my breath, I surfaced and took several more strokes directly away from the shore before risking a look back.

They were still standing there. I was too far away to hear them, but from their body language, I was the morning’s amusement. There was no telling what story they were telling themselves, but I was clearly no longer a threat and hadn’t been recognized. I swam parallel about two hundred feet from the shoreline, glancing back every dozen or so strokes. A few minutes later, they had moved on.

The basin itself was fairly safe for a swimmer. The no wake zone was set aside for rowers. Otherwise, boats moved along at idle speed—except for the launches alongside the rowers, who moved at the speed of the crew. There had been a couple of eights on the water when I arrived. I wouldn’t worry about a single or double, but the eight-man shells could reach speeds of 15 MPH. That meant the launch was doing the same and usually looking back at the crew, not forward for a swimmer.

The elitism common to the rowing community means they believe they own the water. To an extent they do, as the sixty-plus-foot shells are limited in their maneuverability. The rules of the road on the water are often open to interpretation. The definition of a “least maneuverable craft” is often subjective, though few would question that anything besides a sailboat in irons is less able to avoid another craft than an eight-man shell.

That didn’t make it any less fearsome when I heard an engine behind me and glanced back to see a pair of shells and their accompanying launch pulling toward me.

Of the twenty people in the mix, only two, the coxmen, were looking forward. For the first time, I noticed the buoys marking their lanes. In my attempt to avoid Rafael and Steve recognizing me, I had swum away from shore and right into the rowing lanes. To make matters worse, the launch was on the landward side. My only means of escape was to swim further out to the area where the cruisers and boaters frequented.

I swam perpendicular to the lanes and reached the buoy just as the eight-man shell pulled past. The coxman saw me as they passed and gave a condescending head shake before calling out the next set of instructions. Holding onto the last in the long line of buoys, I caught my breath, then glanced shoreward looking for a good place to exit the water. After the close encounter with the rowing shells, I had no intention of swimming back across the lanes.

The marina appeared to be my best bet. I looked both ways for any boat traffic and swam for shore. Boulders had been placed to prevent erosion along the high-and-dry area of the marina. The rocks looked innocuous from a distance but were covered with barnacles and algae above and below the water line. I found what appeared to be the least hostile exit point and climbed out of the water, surprisingly free of blood.

I sat on a rock and caught my breath, allowing the combination of heat and wind to start drying me off. Within a few minutes, I had recovered and dried off enough to appear that I was just sweating heavily. I got up and started walking toward the street.

Some guys can’t walk across a parking lot without eyeing every vehicle. I was the same with boats. The high-and-dry section of the marina had two three -story racks full of boats. Additional craft, either too large for the lift or in the process of being put in or taken out of the water, were set on individual racks. I moved toward the shade of the first rack and walked toward the marina and the point. I could have crossed the peninsula there, but something told me to be thorough and check out the marina.

My gut still told me that there was something going on between Rafael and the cartel and that it was happening at the Marine Stadium. The layout of the pallets leading to the boat slip was not a coincidence, nor was the two men’s reaction to seeing me there.

The USV was not there, though. It could have been out on a run, but the dock area appeared as if it was used to fuel and load the vessel. That meant the USV was nearby, and where better to look for a boat than a marina? The size, weight, and visibility ruled out the dry dock. That left the water.

The marina had a variety of boats. Most were sailboats or larger trawlers, which required a water berth. Some were there out of convenience, though. The high-and-dry forklift operation was a popular option and a successful business model. Able to store thee or four times the number of boats in the same area, with the only capital outlay being the forklift and racking system, overhead was low and the volume covered the higher land costs.

The system worked for the casual boater who didn’t mind waiting a short time for their boat to be splashed. For those with no space for a trailer, didn’t have the skill to pull one, or even own a truck, it made sense. For the hardcore boater, it was inconvenient. If you had enough money for a seven-figure boat, the storage cost was negligible. In Miami, where status was measured in stuff, storing a boat in a slip had a prestige associated with it.

Each finger pier had a locking gate. Without access, I was unable to walk the docks, but I could see most of the boats from the public area. There was certainly nothing that looked like the USV. I’d had about enough and started to cut across the parking lot when I saw several commercial boats docked toward the inside of the basin.

That was nothing unusual. The utilitarian commercial docks were across the water at Dodge Island; the boats here were mostly charters. Sandwich-board signs for fishing, diving, sunset cruises, and sandbar excursions were placed in front of each operation. The boats ranged from older sport fishers to the newer multi-engine catamarans used for fishing and diving. Pontoon boats were the choice for sunsets and sandbars. Several slips were empty, which I figured was par for the course on an offseason Friday.

I walked past the charters and spotted another commercial vessel toward the back. It was a typical workboat, basically a barge with a crane mounted on the deck, common to inland waters everywhere. At first, there seemed to be nothing unusual about this one. Except there was something big on deck. I walked toward it and found myself in front of a locked gate. Through the slats, I could see something on the deck.

Hiding in plain sight was the USV.

It was both unusual and ordinary at the same time. Odd-looking research vessels were fairly common. People noticed them, maybe took a picture and speculated about their use, then moved on. In itself, there was nothing out of place with the USV being stored here.

The secret base idea that had been festering in my mind was a fallacy. Within a quarter mile I had found the vessel, its home base, where it was fitted out and then unloaded for its missions.

I should have been proud of myself, but I hadn’t really accomplished anything—yet. Finding the actual vessel only confirmed its existence, not its use. The same with the dock at the Marine Stadium, which could and probably did have other construction-related uses. I had Rafael at the stadium engaging in something that was probably illicit, but nothing to tie him to the USV. Nor did I have a link between the USV and the cartel.

The weight of despair settled on me as I started walking away from the area. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt like this. Investigations invariably led down rabbit holes that ended up being dead ends. I was familiar with the feeling that I’d never find another clue, never crack another case. I also knew that it was temporary. Something always came up. The easy way out was to go home and take some time off until my meeting at Stiltsville, which I had half a mind to cancel. I was certainly entitled to a couple of hours of rest.

I’d been old enough to watch my father and his business through several rough patches. Construction was a fickle business and subject to downturns. He’d always said that you didn’t get work while sitting on the couch. That advice had paid dividends several times before. It didn’t prop up my mood, but it did give me a dose of resolve.

My problem was what to do in the hours before my meeting with the production company. I walked back over to the fence and intertwined my fingers in the links.

“Hell of a boat,”

The voice startled me. “Yeah, twin screws would be nice, though.”

“You’re not wrong there. Want a look?” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and opened the padlock on the gate.

27

Luck is a nebulous force, for both good and bad, applied to our lives in often uneven or unfair doses. I never considered myself lucky, though some applied the term to me. In my mind, it was more a matter of persistence with a side of the law of large numbers. From my experience, luck was also a matter of timing.

Fishing is a good example. The guy who fishes once a year and catches a trophy is often called lucky, and rightly so. The angler who hones their craft, knows the tides, understands when the fish are biting, and spends time on the water is often called lucky as well. That success is based on practice and persistence.

Fish can be whimsical, refusing a bait floated perfectly in front of their mouths for any number of reasons known only to the fish. But place enough baits in front of enough fish, and you will catch them. That is persistence.

The law of large numbers is the factor in games of chance where the odds prove out. A coin can be flipped a dozen times and land on heads each time. That could be called luck. Flip it a thousand times, and the likelihood of that happening again is minuscule. Probability tells you that at some point, the score will even out.

Understanding the numerical truism and being persistent leads to success. The lack of talent or genetics can all be negated to some degree by putting in the work. That was where I came into the equation. I would consider myself average in most categories, but my closure rate was excellent. It all came down to what my father had said: You can’t get a job sitting on the couch. Talking to enough people would eventually get a positive response.

All that aside, the confluence of forces that put me at that spot when the man had appeared and offered me a better look at the USV could only be described as luck.

I wasn’t going to refuse but didn’t want to appear too eager either. “If you’ve got the time,” I said. He slid the chain off the gate and motioned me through.

I stifled the questions running through my mind as we walked down the gangway toward the USV. My first reaction was that it was larger than I’d thought. That was no surprise. The videos only showed the smaller part above water. I took in the details. Spend enough time on the water and you become a naval architect or at least a critic of boatbuilding. In the recreational field, it was often the case of form over function. There were serious boats and not-so-serious boats. A lot of those sleek-looking, triple-engine center consoles that never made it past the sandbar were built to impress. Try and take one into a four-foot head sea on a fishing trip, and you would quickly realize that.

Up close, the USV was all function; the small amount of form that made it appear sexy from a distance was in its stealth-like finish and sleek lines, similar to the Saturn V rocket I had seen on display at Cape Canaveral. The rocket gave the same impression from afar. Up close, I was shocked that the collection of sheet metal, rivets, and duct tape had made it to the moon.

Materials and manufacturing methods had changed since the ’60s. The USV had a more finished look than the rocket. It was still rough, though. What I got out of it was a sense of vulnerability, that it was not an unbeatable machine.

“I can’t show you the inside, of course.” The man droned on about the specifications, which I already knew.

It took a forceful effort to move my mind from fanboy to detective. Once I got over the design, I started looking for clues. Markings were always a good sign, but there were none. Every inch of the dull graphite hull was vacant of any identifying marks. I tried to think of a few questions that wouldn’t arouse his suspicion. From what I gathered, he was an engineer, showing off his creation.

There was both comfort and concern in working for the cartel. Engineers were not always the most perceptive people when it came to things outside their field. For all that, he had to know who he was working for and the purpose of the craft. He was in a creative Catch-22. With a near-unlimited budget, he was able to build or at least modify the craft and was probably well paid for it, though the threat of a harsh demise had to loom large.

What he was missing was what creators craved—the ability to show off his work. Hence, his invitation for me to have a better look. His recitation continued and was deep in the weeds of torque and horsepower. Though he undoubtedly had the knowledge and skill to work for any defense contractor or design lab, he had chosen this situation because of the professional freedom it provided. In exchange for their demand for results, the cartel probably provided anything he asked for.

The same fate had befallen others in his trade, especially in wartime. Given a glimpse of the future implications of their work, many would be appalled. But, in the moment, they weren’t able to stop themselves.

He had just about wrapped up the dissertation when I realized that if he knew the strengths of the craft, he also knew the weaknesses. Though he might not be as willing to speak of them, I tried to open the door.

“Be cool to see what it could do on a course.”

“She’s not designed for that. In order to keep the weight down, I chose to use a single engine and forgo any kind of thrusters. With just the rudder to steer, she’s not very responsive.”

I had hit on something but was careful how I proceeded. Asking about the turning radius was probably a bad idea.

“The crane moves her in and out of here, I guess?” Boaters were the same as truck drivers, who would analyze a route to make sure they could turn around. The area around the slip was limited. Without twin engines or a bow thruster, the USV would need the maneuverability of the barge and crane to take the craft to open water.

“Yes. Cumbersome in its present iteration, but I’m working on thrusters.”

I had some answers now, and the last thing I wanted to be was memorable. Maybe it mattered, maybe it didn’t. To him, our meeting had been two guys talking about boats. I had simply hit on his passion. Luck was not something to be trifled with, though. I had more information than I did ten minutes ago, and thanked him for his time.

I was torn between returning to my truck by cutting through the marina and stadium lot or walking the street. Then I remembered I’d left my bicycle by the stadium. Glancing at my phone, I saw I had enough time to take the long way around, retrieve my bicycle, and then get back to the truck with plenty of time to make it home.

In some cities, you can set your clock by the traffic. Miami is not like that. Backups occur at any time of day, with the bridges being major pinch points. Expanding a road is a years-long project; upgrading a bridge is a major undertaking that rarely happens. This often leaves four or six lanes having to merge to two or four, which equals traffic.

The Rickenbacker Causeway was not immune to the phenomenon. I had left ample time, just in case. It turned out I didn’t need it. Normally, that might be cause for celebration. Justine arrived home a few minutes later and was also early. We looked at each other as if something was wrong. Rarely did the stars align and we were both on time.

Our boat, a 24-foot center console, was in the water in a slip in back of our building. The convenience was one of the perks of living here. We hopped aboard and motored out of the river to the Intracoastal, where we headed south. When we were just off the entrance to the Marine Stadium basin off Virginia Key, I slowed and told Justine about my earlier recon trip.

“We’ve got the time,” she said. “Let’s have a look.”

I didn’t suppose a couple on their own boat would cause a disturbance by cruising the stadium. We were hardly the only people who had or would do it. The Marine Stadium was one of those curiosities that people were drawn to.

The Intracoastal is similar to a roadway running up the east coast. There are larger lakes and basins, but for the most part, it is like a two-lane road. In most channels, the markers are red triangles with even numbers and green squares with odd ones. The general rule is “red, right, return,” meaning to keep the red markers to starboard as you are returning from sea. The Intracoastal has its own set of rules using yellow triangles and squares, with the triangles kept to starboard when traveling in a clockwise motion. Most people understand the system, though there are enough boaters who either don’t know or care. Without medians, it paid to be vigilant.

After waiting for two northbound boats, I turned left into the basin, staying close to the south side. We passed the marina. A glance showed the crane. The craft was not visible from many angles and mariners occupying nearby slips had probably seen it, but as those things go, after a couple of times, it became commonplace.

We ran alongside the dry dock and reached the stadium. Our previous paddleboard adventure had been to the east side of the stadium. We were approaching from the west. I hadn’t seen this area from the water before, and I couldn’t see much now. Despite the low freeboard of the center console, which was designed for nearshore waters, the low concrete beam concealed just about anything underneath.

The concrete beam was unbroken for the length of the stadium. At the other end, I turned around. From our height on the water, I couldn’t even see underneath it. I had dropped to my knees on the paddleboard to get under it. I passed the wheel off to Justine and dropped to the deck with my eyes at gunwale height as we made another pass. Everything underneath the beam remained in shadows.

I rose slowly as we idled by the end of the stadium, ready to admit failure. It dawned on me that there was something to be said for non-discovery. Explorers had used the principle to dispel myths about everything from rumored landmasses, islands, and cities of gold. In investigations, the concept was better known as ruling things out.

Though most boats wouldn’t, the USV, with its two-foot clearance above water, would fit below the beam. Its lack of maneuverability told me I was correct about the convex shape of the slip as well.

Non-discovery is usually a letdown. Confirmation is a beautiful thing.

28

I turned my attention to the upcoming production meeting, or at least that was what I thought they called what we were about to do. Andy and Miami on Fire had slipped from my radar since we had received the videos. I asked Justine to check their website for any more recent updates to see what they had been up to. I’m sure Sam had an eye on their account and would have told me if there was anything that went against our agreement, but it never hurt to see what they were doing.

Justine checked her phone. “There’s some promises about something big coming and a couple of short clips that are unrelated.”

“Were they specific about what they had coming?” I imagined something like a movie trailer showing drones attacking a sub.

“No, pretty vague.”

The promise changed my mindset, probably for the better. I had gone into this thinking it would be some wonderful partnership, a win-win for the production company and the Park Service. For a few seconds, I thought about canceling. That wasn’t the right answer either. I needed help. Andy and his crew already knew about the USV. That kept the circle of those in the know contained—and invested. If they could get the takedown of the operation on video, it would be a big win for them. That was enough of an incentive to play by my rules.

We headed south and turned into Biscayne Channel. I could see the outline of Wayne’s Park Service boat tied off to the structure where we had scheduled the meet. Aboard were Sam and Mariposa. I was surprised to see Mariposa, but the chance to flirt with stardom, or in this case a viral video, was enticing. I had told Ray as well, so as not to leave him out, and knowing that once he heard about the meeting, he would place himself at the opposite end of the park. I would need him later, though. The production company’s Yellowfin and the Cobia were alongside on the other side of the house.

I had only the vaguest idea of how an organizational chart for a movie was set up. I knew the top spots were occupied by producers and then the director but not who had power over what—or where I fit in. After thinking about it for way longer than I should have, I decided to take charge of the screenplay.

I turned the helm over to Justine, put out fenders on the port side, readied the lines, and waited as she placed our boat alongside his.

“I hope you have a plan. These guys are all over the place,” Wayne said, as he took the bow line and secured it to a cleat on his boat.

I took care of the stern and hopped aboard. “There’re some developments I need to fill you in on.”

“That’s probably going to have to wait. These guys are buzzing around like crack whores in a meth lab.”

Andy was walking down the dock toward us, which ended the conversation.

“Hunter. Glad you could make it. We have some ideas.”

He extended a fist instead of his hand. I returned the gesture, thankful that it wasn’t one of those handshakes that turned into a man hug.

“This is my wife, Justine.” I gestured toward her.

He gave a dismissive wave, like he had something better to do than meet her. I watched the way his eyes flitted back and forth, a sure sign of over-caffeination or worse. I needed to take control of the situation and be the adult in the room. Everyone was hyped up, probably on some combination of coffee and energy drinks.

“I have some specific ideas about how to set this up,” I said.

“Right. We have a whiteboard in the shade over there.” He led me to the area of the deck with a roof overhead.

I could see that he had already scripted the encounter. That put me in the awkward position of executive producer, usually the guy who puts up the money and has little say about the project. I quickly got over my hurt feelings, realizing that they did this for a living. Whatever my position and what they had in mind, it was my park and I would have veto power. The path of least resistance was to put my ego aside and see if his plans were similar to mine. A little subtle fine tuning would be easier than scrapping his plan entirely.

Someone had drawn a fairly accurate representation of an overhead view of the area. The structures were black, the channel markers properly represented by shape and color, the shoals surrounding the area were brown. I had to give them some credit. There were worse commercial charts out there. Icons in the shape of a boat were a few hundred feet from the entrance and exit of the channel. It was a simple plan, one intended to capture footage of the USV.

I had a different idea and went across to the whiteboard, picked up a blue marker, and Steve a large boat directly in the exit of the channel.

“What’s that? I thought you wanted to keep the Park Service out of this,” he said, a little too jittery about a small change.

I dropped my bombshell. “I do. This is an FWC patrol boat that’s going to take down the USV.”

His tone changed immediately.

“The only other change I would suggest is to position this boat a little further out to sea. The rest is good.” I set the marker down after making the change and turned to Andy, who seemed relieved. There were not many possible variations of the plan. The channel had one entry point and one exit, both clearly marked for a reason—the path of travel the USV would have to use. The strategy was good. The FWC ship didn’t have a chance of catching the much faster USV. It was big enough to block the channel, though, which was what I intended.

Now, I had to make sure Rafael would cooperate. From his history, this might be a problem. Setting him up to receive the credit for the capture of the USV might change that. It might also give Steve the ammunition he needed to complete his investigation.

“Sam, what time does the USV usually come through?”

Andy cut her off before she could answer. “Nine or ten.”

Fire shot from Sam’s eyes. Though normally sassy, Sam was not confrontational unless her technical prowess was attacked. The dude hadn’t done that per se; he had only cut her off, probably because of his overconsumption of energy drinks. I gave her a look that told her to chill.

“Nine-twenty. Set your watch,” she said.

I gave her a silent “that-a girl,” and turned to the CEO. “We need to play it close. I’m not sure if they do any surveillance before sending the USV, but if we’re sitting there for hours, they’ll notice.”

“Setting up a shot like this takes time. Everything’s got to be perfect,” he said. The group behind him nodded their heads in unison.

The discussion was purely academic if I couldn’t get the FWC boat there. “All right. Let’s say we get the boats in position at nine. It would take about twenty minutes for the USV to make it from the dock to here. I’ll have someone watching. That should give everyone plenty of time.”

The tech crews’ body language changed. Instead of eager nods, their heads tilted down and shook. Andy restated my timeline, making it an order. I took this to be a normal state of affairs. Tech guys always wanted more time. They quickly huddled up, making contingency plans.

Like it or not, it was time to bring Grace Herrera and her task force in. A large part of the operation was on their turf.

“Right. Any questions?”

The meeting broke up, and I found myself facing Sam.

“You good?”

“A little tech envy, but yeah.”

I understood. Aside from their overwrought construction standards, the Park Service seemed to be a step behind, especially in technology. “That’s why they’re here.”

“Doesn’t leave me much to do.”

Her body language echoed the tech crew’s. I’d had a glimpse into Andy’s world and didn’t envy him having to be part parent and part CEO.

“Is our drone ready?” I asked her.

“Always. What do you have in mind?” She brightened.

“Just working on something.”

“You’re not cutting me out of the action, are you?”

“Nope.” That seemed to satisfy her, at least for the present time. Sam walked over to Wayne’s boat and hopped aboard. He had watched our meeting and came over to where Justine and I were standing by the whiteboard.

“Girl’s got a bit of an attitude,” he said.

“You’re preaching to the choir there,” Justine said.

There were a lot of names for how I was handling Sam. None were good. I knew it and promised I would deal with it after this was over. “Where’s Mariposa?”

“Over there talking to their social media guru,” Wayne said.

The twist in my stomach over Sam did a backflip when I glanced at the group and watched Mariposa holding court. I’d never considered losing her as a possibility. Now I had something else to worry about. I tried to push my employee issues to the back of my mind and walked over to the group.

Andy was standing back. “Hard to keep a handle on them.” I sympathized.

“It’s the biggest challenge I have. One viral video, and everyone’s trying to poach your talent, or they all want raises. We could use someone like her,” he said, clearly referring to Mariposa.

“Same rules apply to her as they do to filming in the park.”

“Just kidding, man. You’re lucky to have her.”

And now I was starting to think that I would be lucky to hold onto her. The angel on my shoulder told me that I should be happy she was being noticed. The devil on the other one said to do whatever I could to keep her. I moved toward the group, planning on shutting things down for now.

“Wayne’s getting ready to go,” I whispered to Mariposa.

“No problem,” she said, then said her goodbyes.

“You fit right in there. Teach them anything?”

“What, those kids?” She laughed. “They’re light years ahead of me. This stuff could drive you nuts. Likes, follows, influencers, platforms, ads. Who would have thought?”

That was good to hear. “I’ll get with you in the morning.”

“Get some sleep. You look like you could use it.”

I nodded and walked her to Wayne’s boat. “Boss lady says to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”

Justine was already aboard our boat, clearly having had her fill of the production company.

“You sure this is a good idea? Teaming up with these guys?” she asked.

“I’m going to call Grace when we get back.” The answer seemed to satisfy her.

We pushed off just as a cooler was hauled from one of the production company’s boats to the dock. It appeared the pre-production party was underway—without us.

29

I woke up with a knot in my stomach. I never understood how athletes dealt with the anxiety of night games. Maybe they got used to the hours of waiting, maybe they just suffered through them. I had done what I could, and now there was nothing to do except wait. I resisted the urge to tweak, change, or abandon the plan multiple times. In situations like this, I usually tried to keep my usual schedule—routine was key. Even though it was probably going to be a late night, I headed into headquarters at my usual time.

I didn’t have much to do, though. Every few minutes, I would take a walk outside to check if anyone was around the FWC boat, which was probably more obvious than just sitting there and staring at it. I finally gave up being secretive and, taking a cue from Wayne, cleaned my boat.

There was something about cleaning a boat that was therapeutic. I fell into the rhythm of washing, rinsing, and then fighting the built-up grime with a magic eraser. Once a boat reached a certain degree of clean, any further detailing was voluntary. The bar was even lower for the RHIB with its black gunwales and deck. At first, I had wondered about its darker color scheme until I realized the fallacy of white decks. Whatever heat they reflected was more than compensated for by the anti-reflective properties of the darker material.

That meant I was finished before I wanted to be. There had been no action from across the way, not that I expected any. Friday morning was the start of the weekend for the nighttime road crews. I had fought with myself about whether to bring Steve in on my plan and decided against it. The action needed to be spontaneous and Rafael’s choice. If I was right, Steve would directly benefit. If I was wrong, he wouldn’t be exposed. He seemed to be competent at what he did, but one slip-up could have consequences. I didn’t want to be the cause of that.

As the minutes ticked by, I had to do something. Without the patrol boat playing its part, the scheme would be just another video of the speeding USV. I had no authority over the FWC. Trying to get that boat to move would take more than me. I’d procrastinated calling Grace. Now it was time.

My fear when dealing with Miami-Dade was overstepping my bounds. The park rarely held a self-contained crime scene. For the cases I handled, mostly homicides, they almost always spilled over the boundaries. When and how to bring in the locals was a judgment call—one that I got wrong as often as right.

Grace answered and listened to my recap and plan. She stayed silent throughout, which I took as a bad sign.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

I knew I was in trouble. “The definition of a task force is an organization created to solve a particular problem,” she said.

She’d left out temporary, but I wasn’t going to bring that up.

“We have experts involved who are willing to put the petty interagency crap aside.”

Her lecture continued. I stayed quiet until I got the feeling she was running out of steam. The fatal flaw in her task force argument was not who was represented but who wasn’t—the FWC. I let her exhaust herself and then asked for her help, and that’s where the trouble really started.

“Those bastards shunned us, and you want to give them the credit.”

A common enemy can be a good thing, but not an angry partner. I explained to her that bringing them in solved all our problems. If the plan failed, my credibility could hardly suffer. If it was a success, we might actually have a working relationship.

“Grace, you’re only looking at the USV angle. You can’t arrest an unmanned craft. The big arrest is going to be at the Marine Stadium. If I call in the tip, they’ll ignore me. And if it helps any, I think these are the same guys from the shoot out the other day,” I added.

“You’re so good at making friends, Kurt.”

I noticed a change in her tone. Humility can be a double-edged sword. My request was sincere. “So, you’ll make a call?”

“I want everything you’ve got on the Marine Stadium and marina angle. We’ll take that part.”

That was going to be more of a SWAT operation than anything I was capable of handling. My concern was that they would want to have a look at the area beforehand, something that might delay the shipment if they were discovered. And if the construction guys were involved, which I suspected, that meant any recon might blow the entire operation.

“I’ve got time this afternoon if you want to take a look. We’d be better coming in from the water.”

“I can arrange for a boat.”

“I’m thinking of paddling. Justine and I were able to get close the other night without anyone suspecting anything.”

“You better have another plan if you think I’m getting on one of those toothpicks.”

“How about if we get a tandem kayak from the rowing club?”

“Better, but not great. If we go in the water, you’re a dead man.”

“Roger that. I’ll meet you at the Rowing Center at noon.”

She agreed, but I could hear the reluctance in her voice. There were water people and there were landlubbers. We’d taken Grace and her significant other on an undercover sandbar trip on a past case. She had been okay, but there was a difference between a boat grounded on a beach and an apparently unstable paddle craft.

I told Mariposa and Sam to meet me back here at eight and headed out. Wayne was still working on his boat. I wandered over and filled him in on my call with Grace.

“You think they’ll bite?” he asked.

“Fridays are perfect for them. The highway crews are off, so there’re no excuses.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“You just need the right bait.”

“Seems your fishing skills have somewhat of a reputation.”

“Sometimes you have to stop cutting bait and fish.”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Says the shiner to the bass.”

“Around here, it's the pilchard to the grouper, but whatever works for you.”

Fishing and bait are impossibly intertwined, with the entire food chain involved. Bait can be anything from a piece of bread—usually Wonder Bread—to a large bonita or an elaborate hundred-dollar lure. There’s the ongoing conversation about live bait, dead bait, or artificials, with each camp swearing their method is best. There are also the super-secret-squirrel baits that an angler will spend more time searching for than the species they target.

Fly fishermen were the purists of the group, followed closely by the bass anglers. My trying to entice the FWC captain to get his boat in the right place at the right time was far from matching the hatch of a caddis or mayfly unique to one river. It was also more subtle than tossing a live bonita in front of a marlin. Some fish were picky; others, like mahi-mahi, were such voracious eaters that it didn’t matter.

I was dealing with a picky eater. Having Grace request his assistance was going to help, kind of like trolling a perfectly rigged ballyhoo past a wahoo. Her call would get his attention. I needed something to make sure he bit—and a hook big and sharp enough to catch him.

When it came to motivating the corrupt, the answer was usually to appeal to their greed. Some wanted fame as well, but my prize was too cautious for that. The wrong kind of attention and his gig was up. Even a nominal promotion, which would mean an office job, would end his scam.

Biscayne Channel was part of his area of operations. I knew first-hand he had little supervision, which was often the inverse of freedom. Even if he did have to run a mission like this up the flagpole, it would certainly be approved. Contacting someone higher up the chain of command was my fallback. I would much rather have him do this on his own. Owning a decision was almost always better than being ordered to do it.

There is a tactic used by fishermen after sailfish and marlin where they will try and entice the fish with a natural hookless bait called a teaser, then swap the bait out with another with a hook. It is so effective that the term “bait and switch” comes from it.

The chance to be involved in a high-profile bust was the teaser. The hook was learning that the USV belonged to the cartel. If he were involved, as I expected, he would be conflicted to the point where he had to take some kind of action. Being caught on the sidelines when he could have taken part in a major takedown would irk his superiors. Allowing the USV to be captured, which I believed he was being paid by the cartel to prevent, would mean retribution. That conflict of interest would be his downfall.

Simplicity in a plan is a beautiful thing. As no plan survives first contact, the less that can go wrong, the better. All I had to do now was to get the patrol boat to block the channel.

I had gone inside to call Grace. A glance through the window told me the patrol boat was still there, of course. There was no discharge from the air conditioning, so I assumed no one was aboard. That gave me a surge of anxiety. Boats were one of those things that broke down less the more they were used. The patrol boat hadn’t been outside the marina in weeks. That left any number of things that could go wrong. I added that to my list of concerns as I paced up and down the hallway.

“You’re making me nervous,” Sam said, as I passed her door for the umpteenth time.

I didn’t want my anxiety to affect the troops, so I headed downstairs and took my nerves outside. A hammering sound came from the maintenance shed. I walked over and found Ray’s feet sticking out from underneath one of our trucks.

“Need help?”

“Yeah. Tell your golf buddy, Martinez, to buy four-wheel drive next time.”

Martinez’s reign of terror was years in the past, but we were still paying for it. Our old school technology was not his fault, but our underpowered boats and two-wheel drive vehicles were. You might think, with the biggest hills in South Florida being the bridges and overpasses, that they weren’t needed. Water was the issue. With our summer rainfall, the dirt and gravel roads running through the land portion of the park were often impassable in a standard-drive vehicle. Slick boat ramps posed another challenge.

“Gonna have to wait a few years.”

He slid out from under the truck. “You need something, or you just come by to chit-chat?”

“You got plans for tonight?”

“Snapper bites hot.”

“I could use your help with an operation if you’re up to it.” I hadn’t considered the patrol boat going rogue. Having Ray keep an eye on it might be a benefit.

Ray glanced through the open garage door at the residence, a park service building that was his current home. Whatever his gripes about not being out at Adams Key, he was still living rent free. “What do you need? Wouldn’t hurt to get out of the house for a while.”

“Great. Meet me on the dock at eight.”

30

Time is fixed, but our perception of it varies depending on our state of consciousness and circumstances. Time has little meaning while we sleep but can be a burden when awake. Time drags while we wait and runs while we enjoy ourselves.

I’d done my recon paddle with Grace, which turned out to be more fun than eventful. She knew the layout now and was good to go. As the clock finally rolled around to go time, I was worn out from waiting.

Once the agreed-upon hour was reached, time took off like a tuna with a pinfish. The entire operation had been organized and rehearsed in my mind, but now it felt like it was unraveling while I tried to institute it.

The FWC boat remained at the dock. A steady stream of water shot from one of the thru-hull fittings, telling me the air conditioning was on, which meant someone was aboard. Grace had called earlier to say she had spoken to Rafael, who had said he’d run the request up his chain of command. I expected that was all talk, a way to blame his superiors if he decided not to participate. The sun flashing off a truck as it pulled into the parking lot caught my eye. A minute later, Steve got out and headed to the dock. I moved away quickly, not wanting to cause any interaction that might put Rafael off.

I crossed the dock to my boat, where Ray, Justine, Sam, and Mariposa were talking. Before I reached it, I heard the patrol boat’s big diesels turn over. I had to work to keep the satisfaction from my face. Inside, I was high-fiving myself. If the boat actually left the dock, it would be a win.

“You guys ready?”

They nodded, excited, though none besides Sam were sure what their roles were.

“Ray, take my old boat. Sam and Mariposa are with you.”

He gave me a look like his assignment was little more than a babysitting gig. That changed a second later when he realized that this wasn’t the same as sitting home watching his kids. They stepped aboard my old center console.

“Vests and PFDs on,” I said, loud enough that all could hear, and pulled my own Kevlar vest and inflatable PFD from the console. Ray gave me another look. I guessed he was fine with the first command, but lukewarm about the second. I shot him a look that said “nonnegotiable” and grabbed the spares from my console. A minute later, our ragtag crew of a mechanic, a forensic specialist, a tech guru, and a social media director was ready. Mariposa, in particular, looked uncomfortable with the gear.

Though they were all very good at their jobs, this was out of their comfort zone—even Ray, who would deny it. My plan for them was to remain at a safe distance. Sam could have run the drone from her office, and Mariposa could have edited the production team’s footage for our purposes, but I felt better with them there. There was something about strength in numbers that felt reassuring.

“Can you handle the wheel and comms?” I asked Justine as I climbed aboard the RHIB. My decision was pragmatic. Captains aboard military vessels rarely take the wheel. I needed to worry about the big picture, not the shoals and hazards around Stiltsville. Justine was as good as or better at the wheel and putting her on communications would also provide a wall of sorts between me and Miami-Dade.

Ray fired the engine. He glanced over, and I nodded for Mariposa and Sam to release the lines. Justine followed suit, and we idled out of the marina. I checked my sidearm and pulled the shotgun from its clips in the console, taking longer than I needed to avoid making any kind of eye contact with the FWC crew. Wayne fell in behind us.

I risked a glance back through the mangroves as we made the turn into the main channel. The patrol boat was free of the dock and moving. Our small flotilla was slowly making its way through the line of markers when I noticed Ray push off to the left.

“You better get ahead of him. He’s going to cut the corner.”

Justine put pressure on the throttles. The boat picked up speed and pulled even with Ray, holding on his port side.

The channel leading to Bayfront Park and headquarters was intolerably long. There were several corners that could be cut if you knew what you were doing, and that meant being aware of the state of the tide. I had a few rules but staying in the channel was one—especially when operating a Park Service boat. My fear was not for our equipment or personnel, but for boaters watching us and following. Many would think the water was passable without taking into account the tide. When they inevitably grounded, the blame fell on us.

We finally reached the last marker and turned to the north. Ray powered up first, taking the turn in a wide sweep. Justine waited until his boat planed out before following. I envied her restraint as I probably would have raced him. She glanced over at me. Before answering, I glanced back at the patrol boat, which had just made the turn. At this point, it was committed, but I wasn’t sure to what. “Running the mission through the chain of command” could have applied to his superiors—but with the FWC, or the cartel?

I nodded and Justine took off, her smile wide as we skimmed the top of the waves. Ray was just ahead and looking back. From paddling craft to speed boats, when there are two boats following the same course, it inevitably turns into a race. I didn’t have to look at the gauges to feel the vibration of the engines as Justine increased the RPMs. Ray, sensing her behind him, did the same. His attempt was futile. Besides having more horsepower, the RHIB was lighter than the center console. A few heartbeats later, I could see the look of defeat on his face as we scooted past.

We sped past the Featherbed Bank and approached the serpentine channels around Stiltsville. Ahead, I could see the outline of the production company's boats already in position. What should have been a warm, fuzzy feeling in my gut with everything going according to plan was anything but, as I tried to look into the future and figure out what I had missed.

I should have looked behind me because when I did, it was the patrol boat that was missing. I scanned the horizon looking for its distinctive shape, but it was absent. My first thought was that it had a breakdown; my second was that we hadn’t established a direct line of communication.

“Can you call Grace and ask her to get in touch with the patrol boat? I don’t see it.”

Justine turned back to confirm that I wasn’t crazy before making the call. Grace and her team were in position at the Marine Stadium, ready to take down the cartel members. They would take the USV as well if it were possible, making our exercise pointless. Sam and the production company’s tech guys agreed that it was unlikely. The USV was controlled from a remote location. At the first sign of trouble, the operator would get it out of there.

In the time lag between asking and hearing back from Grace, all kinds of scenarios went through my mind. The worst was that the FWC captain had informed his cartel connections of our intentions. If he had, then there was more benefit than risk in participating. He would say he had been there, directed by Miami-Dade and the Parks Service, who had bad intel. Nothing he could have done about it. That was the logical way out.

My next thoughts were about the possible mechanical failure of the FWC boat. The only thing aboard the boat that had run in weeks was its air conditioner.

Finally, Justine’s phone rang and I waited while she answered.

“Should be here any minute,” she told me.

“No explanation?”

She shrugged. It didn’t matter. “She had to cut it short. Said a few trucks had pulled up.”

The fear that we had misinterpreted the schedule fell by the wayside. “Give the team a heads-up that we’re on schedule.”

“Roger that, Batman.”

I tried to calculate how long it would take for the USV to reach the channel. There were too many unknowns: mainly, would the operator obey the slow and no wake zones? The distance was short, though, so either way, it would only be a few minutes' difference. That meant in less than half an hour, I either would be covered in glory or filing for unemployment. Grace and Miami-Dade’s involvement was all upside. They could blame any failures on a bad tip. The production company would get some footage, even if we didn’t catch the thing.

I was alone—not an unfamiliar position.

“Easy, tiger. You’ve got this,” Justine said.

I looked away, staring at the horizon and wondering if she had geared her encouragement more for a Little League player or an adult. Thankfully, the thought died when I saw the ungainly shape of the patrol boat break over the horizon.

In the low light, the distance was deceptive. The words etched on a car’s side-view mirrors that “objects are closer than they appear” applied here. The ship was dark, running without nav lights, the only sign of its presence a looming outline on the horizon, the red glow from its bridge, and a white wake trailing behind. The situational awareness of the captain seemed to have brought another mistake to the forefront.

But it wasn’t a mistake.

Running dark had been a strategy employed by smugglers since the beginning of water-borne trade. Then it was oil lamps; now, it was LED lights. The tactic only worked to a degree and only if the boat was stationary. I panned the water, trying to see the scene from the USV operator’s perspective. Without the patrol boat, we had five vessels scattered around the channel and the area. That might have been more boats than usual, but it shouldn’t have been a red flag. Stiltsville was like a magnet, and the channels provided good fishing.

The only problem I saw was that the production company’s boats had their running lights on. Ray and Wayne’s boats were illuminated by their white stern lights, required on small boats while at anchor. Though red-and-green bow lights on the Yellowfin and Cobia should have been off, it gave the scene a real-life feeling. Applied to boating, the law of large numbers would prove about a 50:50 ratio of boaters who knew the law and those who didn’t. Having everyone in compliance would have been a red flag.

I turned back to see the patrol boat lumbering toward us. One of the unknowns of my plan, which were growing with every passing minute, was the overwatch of the USV operator. From what I had seen during my short time with the engineer, the vessel had 360-degree cameras. I had no idea of their range or if they were thermal or infrared. The military used AWACS and aerial drones for surveillance, but that was the “smoke them if you’ve got them principle.” It still came down to cameras and radar. Because of the structures and nearby landmasses, even the most advanced radar was ineffective in the area.

Cartels understood simplicity, and though failure was punished, it was also expected. Retailers used a metric called shrinkage to quantify accepted but unexplained loss of inventory. The cartels had a line item on their profit and loss statements to the same effect.

Unless they had eyes above us, the cameras mounted on the USV would be the extent of their overwatch. They would eventually see the patrol ship, but at the rate the ship was moving toward the channel, it shouldn’t be a worry. It takes a skilled eye to know when two boats are on a collision course.

The buzz of several drones caught my attention as they whipped through the air, in stark comparison to the patrol boat, which could be seen but not heard. The USV probably had sonar, which detected the bottom. There was nothing I knew that could detect surface noise. Still, the insect-like whine of the drones had me on edge.

I was so absorbed in the scene that I had missed Justine taking a call. “We’re a go, hoss.”

31

The waiting was almost over. Grace had called, saying that three trucks had pulled up at the stadium. Another officer reported that the barge had moved into the channel and the crane had deployed the USV. I tried to picture the scene as Justine and I waited.

We were drifting by one of the abandoned houses, using its dark bulk as concealment. The production company was in position, as were Wayne and Ray. I asked Justine to call Sam and have her send our drone up. A few minutes later, I heard the buzz of its miniature rotors as it sped toward Miami.

The production company’s drones were designed for shooting video. In a trade-off to keep them reasonably priced, their range was limited in order to pay for their high-resolution cameras and transmitters. The units required a line of sight to the operator to work. Ours was the opposite, built for increased range and remote operation, allowing Sam to operate it from the comfort of her office.

I had the feed up on my phone and watched as it sped across the water. The view in itself showed little, but a small map in the corner showed its location. Not restricted by shallow water or land, the drone ran in a straight line across the southwest portion of Key Biscayne, then to Virginia Key.

I was half expecting a show of force from Miami-Dade, but the marina and adjacent waters were quiet. There were small boats fishing the bridge and Causeway, and several rowing crews made their way back to the docks. The Intracoastal was busier, but everything seemed normal.

The drone reached the stadium. There were a handful of construction trucks parked near the entrance, probably the vehicles Grace had called in. Though it was after hours, they didn’t look out of place. Again, there were no law enforcement vehicles in sight. If I were running the smuggling operation, it would be a go.

A link to the drone’s feed had been given to all involved, including the FWC crew. There was no need for verbal updates, as we were all watching.

Aside from the small wake trailing from the USV, if I hadn’t known it was there, I wouldn’t have guessed. The engineer had bragged about the stealth technology, which appeared to be doing its job.

Holding a parallel course to the stadium, the USV idled along the shoreline, then suddenly disappeared. The need for the convex slip was clear now, as the operator could simply guide the vessel to the dock instead of having to maneuver.

With tons of concrete protecting the loading area, there was nothing to do except wait until the USV disembarked. That took longer than I expected, and I started to wonder if Miami-Dade had jumped the gun. That fear was put to rest as the USV nosed out from underneath the stadium. She cruised back past the marina and made the turn toward the bridge.

Again, there was no sign of trouble as the USV, running at idle speed, passed through the bridge piers and reached open water. I imagined the scene taking place underneath the stadium as Grace and her team arrested the cartel members assigned to the craft. Whether it was drugs, guns, or cash, there would be contraband involved.

Sam stayed with the craft, which had picked up speed as it made its way past Key Biscayne. Just as it reached Cape Florida, the southernmost point of the island, I glanced out to see where the patrol boat was. Judging the speed of the two boats, I plotted the courses in my head.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” I asked Justine.

“Yeah. No way they make it.”

The plan relied on Rafael. It had been a bad idea from the start, but the only one I had. There was no telling where his loyalties lay, but I suspected he was like most people who took the cartel’s money, saying to themselves it would just be this one time. That was never how it worked out, and it didn’t appear to be any different here.

Plan B was in play. No one knew about it except for Wayne. When my team found out, their reactions would surely differ. Justine would be excited, Ray would be upset that he wasn’t included, and the production team would be wetting their pants.

“Call Wayne and tell him we’re a go for Plan B and ask Grace for backup. The patrol boat doesn’t look like it’s going to play ball.” I had known this was a likely scenario. The captain only had to appear to be doing his job. His defense would be that he was “on the scene.” There could be any number of reasons why he wasn’t in position, from mechanical failure to bad direction from me.

“You going to tell me what you have in mind?”

I could tell from her tone that she was upset. “We’re going to take down the USV.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

Her spirit revived, she made the calls, then looked at me for instructions. “Head to the outside of the channel. Wayne’s going to come from the north. We’ll come up from the south.”

“You’re going to play chicken with the USV. You know it has no people in it, right?”

She was correct in that the USV operator wouldn’t have to make decisions based on human lives, at least on the cartels’ end. I was betting on the smuggling run having become routine and that there would be no superiors looking over its operator’s shoulder. I knew it was a gamble and not supported by the law of large numbers.

The good guys didn’t always win.

Wayne moved toward his backup position while I pointed to ours on the chartplotter. Justine would have to follow a serpentine route to get there, but she knew the waters. That left me free to evaluate the scene. Like every action before it, my original plan hadn’t survived first contact. The radio buzzed with questions, mostly from the production people. Justine glanced over at me, but I shook my head. Andy would thank me later. This would surely be better footage than the original plan.

I risked a glance at the FWC boat, which was still steaming toward us. The verb “steaming” said it all. Coming from the age of steam engines, it now meant that they were running at their most efficient cruising speed—not their fastest.

Without having to navigate the obstacles on this side of the channel, Wayne was near his objective. Justine had just passed the last obstruction along our route and turned toward him. The unknown was the USV. While Justine drove, I pulled up the feed.

The vessel was running fast, though from what I recalled, that was its normal speed. I enlarged the screen showing the location and saw it was just about to enter the channel. The production crew was mostly behind it now, relying on their drones to record the scene. Ray’s boat was beside them, and safe. They would be in the drone's rearview mirror and no longer have an effect on what happened. That was one less thing to worry about. The only lives at stake now were Justine, Wayne, and mine.

I had ruminated on the danger factor that Justine would be exposed to. Left to her own devices, there would be no stopping her. I was just a facilitator. We’d been in situations like this before, and she had saved me more than once. The other side was that if I purposefully excluded her, there would be hell to pay later. That could be as dangerous as the action here.

She reached the position I had indicated and slowed. “How are we going to do this?”

Together, the two Park Service boats were about equal to the length of the FWC patrol boat but nowhere as intimidating. Sitting low in the water, there was a chance the Park Service boats wouldn’t be noticed until it was too late. Before I answered her, I checked on the USV’s location. It had just entered the channel, which meant we had about a minute and a half before it reached us.

“Head straight. When you reach the far side, put it into reverse.”

Her expression told me she had no idea where I was going with this, but she did as I asked. We passed Wayne mid-channel. He would reach the opposite end and reverse as well. Together, we would close the gap and block the center of the channel.

Placing our sterns together had been Wayne’s idea. With our bows pointed away from the impact zone, we had a chance of powering forward and escaping if necessary. My focus turned to the water between us, and my field of view closed. I was powerless to stop the involuntary reaction known as tunnel vision, but before it consumed me, I took a quick look around. The boats appeared to be closing, the patrol boat included. There was no time to calculate their positions or estimate how they might impact the USV. Even if there was, I knew better than to trust my judgment about anything besides what was directly around us.

Wayne was about twenty feet away. With us both in reverse, we would meet in about ten seconds. I didn’t need the drone feed now, as I could see the white streak of the USV’s bow wake heading toward us.

Something looked wrong, and I was just about to hit the light bar, which was Wayne’s and my prearranged signal to bail, when the patrol boat entered my field of view.

32

By whatever name, Time was deserving of its standing in the ring of gods. In the pagan arena, anything that was out of the control of ordinary men was elevated to the status of deity. Time, a.k.a. Chronos, Saturn, Kali, or Shiva, was deserving of the title. In the way the old Norse believed there were three old women weaving the roots of the tree of life and, in effect, toying with man, over the course of an hour, time had seemed to stop, then raced faster than I thought possible, and now skipped a beat.

Or more like five beats, which was all it took for the patrol boat to slide into place and the USV to slow and stop. I had envisioned this as the best-case scenario. Wayne and I raced in to cover the flanks, which sealed the USV in the confines of the channel. As if on cue, Ray and the production crew closed off any avenue of retreat.

Out of instinct, I flipped the switch for the hailer and reached for the mic, then realized I had no idea if anyone was listening. I glanced across at Wayne. It was clear he hadn’t thought this far ahead either. The water started to churn as the USV’s shifting between forward and reverse swung the bow to the left and right, as if the USV were alive and, sensing our indecision, sought a means of escape.

It soon settled back in the water, realizing there was no escape. My heart beat faster, and I was about to call the troops back to a safe distance, fearing that USV might self-destruct. Newer iterations of unmanned drones, like those used by the Ukrainians, included self-defense measures. One was surely a self-destruct mechanism. Thankfully, there was no remote operated, 50-caliber machine gun mounted on its deck, but blowing up the vessel would be child’s play.

“Tell everyone to get back,” I said to Justine.

I guessed everyone else had the same thought and complied immediately. That left Wayne and me, who had to wait for the other boats to move before we had enough room to maneuver out of the channel.

The patrol boat made the first move and began to pull away. The USV seemed to sense the movement, though it was more likely its cameras had relayed it back to the operator. A second later, it stopped, as if to evaluate its options. There might have been enough room for the drone to escape. Its operator thought so and accelerated toward the opening. Before I could say anything, Justine’s competitive nature took over. She slammed down the throttle and sped toward the gap, reaching it just ahead of the USV.

I braced for impact, thinking the operator either hadn’t seen us or didn’t have time to maneuver away.

A long second passed, and nothing happened. I looked toward where I expected the USV to be. Like any cornered prey, the USV stopped and rotated again, checking the area around it. This time, I could see its camera tilt toward the sky. I followed the trajectory and saw a helicopter hovering over us. With the whine of the overhead drones and the boats’ engines, I had missed the distinctive sound of the rotors as it approached.

The Coast Guard had arrived.

The distinctive opening salvo of the fifth branch of the military came over the radio. Oftentimes, it was unwanted. In this case, it was welcome.

“This is the United States Coast Guard⁠—”

The words emanated power. I reached for the mic. “Kurt Hunter, Special Agent in Charge here.”

“Describe your situation.”

In a hot second, the Coast Guard had cut through the interagency squabbles and taken charge. I briefly described the situation and my worry that the vessel might be booby-trapped.

“Stand down. We have a cutter en route.”

Leaving the scene could allow the USV to escape. I was about to express my opinion when I looked up and saw two missiles hanging below the chopper. The Coast Guard’s role in peacetime was mainly search and rescue. Their helicopters, which were common sights over these waters, were usually equipped with life-saving equipment, not ordnance.

Though technically under the direction of the Department of Homeland Security, the Coast Guard was available to the Department of Defense, making the Coasties the heavyweights in the marine enforcement arena.

The only option was to destroy the USV. Justine knew it as well and bemoaned the loss of evidence. There were still people behind this, mainly Rafael and the higher-ups in the cartel. I signaled to Wayne that we should comply and motored back out the other end of the channel. The excitement was over for us, but the production crew was about to get their grand finale. They moved ahead, positioning themselves for the best shot of the helicopter and USV.

A long minute later, the Coast Guard confirmed the area was clear. The pilot swerved toward the mainland and lined up the nose of the chopper with the USV. The water seemed quiet, the chopper rotors the dominate sound. An audible swoosh could be heard as the pilot released one of the missiles. Not even a second later, the water erupted where the USV had been. When it settled back, the craft was gone.

There was no need to look for survivors, but there was still one adversary I needed to get. I turned seaward and saw the FWC boat motoring toward us.

“This could go either way,” I said, indexing the pistol on my right hip.

“Easy there, commander.”

I knew I was wound up, probably too tight. That said, I had no idea what the patrol boat was up to. If he wanted me, I was at least going to stand my ground. I scanned the water and saw the Coast Guard cutter on the horizon. Everyone else must have as well, because it took just a nanosecond for the boats to disperse.

The Yellowfin and Cobia headed back toward Miami. I could only imagine the jubilation aboard as they now had enough footage for several videos. Ray and Wayne were both headed south to headquarters. That left Justine and me alone with the FWC boat.

I thought about pulling the spotlight trick again, but that would only further fan the fire—if there was one. If there wasn’t a problem, it might start one. The only thing I could do was wait. I directed Justine to move to the bay side of the channel where the cutter would be unable to reach us. That would leave us in water too shallow for the patrol boat as well. As much as I wanted to avoid the Coast Guard, which would involve a statement and paperwork, I needed to confront Rafael.

I watched the depth finder tick down from twelve feet to five. “Stop here.”

“Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”

I wasn’t going to lie, so I shrugged in response. Before she could say anything, the patrol boat seemed to accelerate. An image of the RHIB crushed under the bow of the patrol boat ran through my mind. In a second, we would be added to the flotsam from the USV.

Justine slammed down the throttle in response, but we were too late, as the FWC boat seemed to spin on its axis and stop. It was a total cowboy move, one that took a lot of practice. I knew Rafael didn’t have it in him, but there was someone I knew who did.

A second later, the side window by the helm slid open. I knew it was Johnny before he stuck his head into the fresh air.

“Yo, Kurt.” He idled toward us.

Two men, who I recognized from Johnny’s crew, tossed lines over, which we secured. When I finished, I looked up to see Johnny and Steve stepping out of the wheelhouse.

“Nice takedown, chief,” Johnny said.

“Looks like you got one, too.” I was speaking mainly to Steve regarding Rafael.

“Got him on a call giving a heads-up about the USV. All the other stuff pales in comparison.”

I was waiting for something like “A heads-up would’ve been nice,” but he seemed happy enough.

“We’ll meet back at headquarters, and I’ll fill you in,” Johnny said.

I wasn’t going to be fodder for his cowboy antics again. Before he had reached the bridge of the patrol boat, I had the lines free and was speeding away.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Always looking for a new location or adventure to write about, Steven Becker can usually be found on or near the water. He splits his time between Tampa and the Florida Keys - paddling, sailing, diving, fishing or exploring.

Find out more by visiting www.stevenbeckerauthor.com or contact me directly at

booksbybecker@gmail.com.

Mac Travis Adventures: The Wood’s Series

It's easy to become invisible in the Florida Keys. Mac Travis is laying low: Fishing, Diving and doing enough salvage work to pay his bills. Staying under the radar is another matter altogether. An action-packed thriller series featuring plenty of boating, SCUBA diving, fishing and flavored with a generous dose of Conch Republic counterculture.

Check Out The Series Here

★★★★★ Becker is one of those, unfortunately too rare, writers who very obviously knows and can make you feel, even smell, the places he writes about. If you love the Keys, or if you just want to escape there for a few enjoyable hours, get any of the Mac Travis books - and a strong drink

★★★★★This is a terrific series with outstanding details of Florida, especially the Keys. I can imagine myself riding alone with Mac through every turn. Whether it's out on a boat or on an island....I'm there

Kurt Hunter Mysteries: The Backwater Series

Biscayne Bay is a pristine wildness on top of the Florida Keys. It is also a stones throw from Miami and an area notorious for smuggling. If there’s nefarious activity in the park, special agent Kurt Hunter is sure to stumble across it as he patrols the backwaters of Miami.

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★★★★★ This series is one of my favorites. Steven Becker is a genius when it comes to weaving a plot and local color with great characters. It’s like dessert, I eat it first

★★★★★ Great latest and greatest in the series or as a stand alone. I don't want to give up the plot. The characters are more "fleshed out" and have become "real." A truly believable story in and about Florida and Floridians.

Tides of Fortune

What do you do when you’re labeled a pirate in the nineteenth century Caribbean

Follow the adventures of young Captain Van Doren as he and his crew try to avoid the hangman’s noose. With their unique mix of skills, Nick and company roam the waters of the Caribbean looking for a safe haven to spend their wealth. But, the call “Sail on the horizon” often changes the best laid plans.

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★★★★★ This is a great book for those who like me enjoy "factional" books. This is a book that has characters that actually existed and took place in a real place(s). So even though it isn't a true story, it certainly could be. Steven Becker is a terrific writer and it certainly shows in this book of action of piracy, treasure hunting,ship racing etc

The Storm Series

Meet contract agents John and Mako Storm. The father and son duo are as incompatible as water and oil, but necessity often forces them to work together. This thriller series has plenty of international locations, action, and adventure.

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★★★★★ Steven Becker's best book written to date. Great plot and very believable characters. The action is non-stop and the book is hard to put down. Enough plot twists exist for an exciting read. I highly recommend this great action thriller.

★★★★★ A thriller of mega proportions! Plenty of action on the high seas and in the Caribbean islands. The characters ran from high tech to divers to agents in the field. If you are looking for an adrenaline rush by all means get Steven Beckers new E Book

The Will Service Series

If you can build it, sail it, dive it, and fish it—what’s left. Will Service: carpenter, sailor, and fishing guide can do all that. But trouble seems to find him and it takes all his skill and more to extricate himself from it.

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★★★★★ I am a sucker for anything that reminds me of the great John D. MacDonald and Travis McGee. I really enjoyed this book. I hope the new Will Service adventure is out soon, and I hope Will is living on a boat. It sounds as if he will be. I am now an official Will Service fan. Now, Steven Becker needs to ignore everything else and get to work on the next Will Service novel

★★★★★ If you like Cussler you will like Becker! A great read and an action packed thrill ride through the Florida Keys!