WOOD’S TRIAL

MAC TRAVIS ADVENTURES

STEVEN BECKER

Copyright © 2025 by Steven Becker

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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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PROLOGUE

The good news was that he could see it coming. The bad news was that he could see it coming.

An island, a piece of land surrounded by water, had its pros and cons as somewhere to live. For Mac Travis, his Florida Keys island home, which sat eight miles from its nearest neighbor, held mostly pros. Bill Woodson, known as Wood, had gradually “settled” the island twenty-odd years ago. With his passing, Wood’s daughter, Mel, became its owner.

She and Mac had lived there together for a decade until the call of mainland civilization pulled Mel just a little too hard. Mac understood. He just couldn’t live any other way.

What was seemingly the biggest con was actually not. The most-asked question of Keys’ residents was how they could live there with so many hurricanes.

It is a misnomer that the Keys are a hurricane magnet. A little research shows that the Gulf Coast holds that title. That’s not to say the Keys are immune. The current season, from May through November, had given a few scares but nothing worse than a single higher-than-normal tide. That said, it took only a wobble from one of the many storms passing on either the Gulf or Atlantic side to cause problems.

As with anything, complacency was slowly settling over the Keys. The locals still remembered Hurricane Irma. Some flinched every time a storm formed and still carried a little PTSD, which was now embedded in their psyche. Others had moved on. The majority slowly forgot.

There was nothing to worry about the present late-season system, still a mid-level low that had formed over the eastern Caribbean. The mountains in Hispaniola and Cuba had done their work, and the storm remained disorganized, barely a tropical depression, as it passed the Keys.

As it often did this time of year, once the storm reached the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico, that would change. Fueled by warmer waters, the depression would become more organized and probably become a hurricane before it, like so many others, made landfall along the Gulf Coast.

The cons of small-island living were mostly inconvenience-related. There was no mini-mart to buy a quart of ice cream or a six-pack of beer. Everything, from shopping to doctor’s appointments, needed to be planned days in advance because of the possibility of bad weather.

This time, there was no real danger, just inconvenience. A quick downburst from one of the many squalls moving low and fast below a mostly blue sky dumped its rain and then quickly moved on. With an uninterrupted view from his stilt house, Mac could see plenty more in the distance. These small cells could be dangerous. Each held the potential for lightning and gusty winds.

That meant Mac would have to leave immediately to get his errands done. The boat ride to Big Pine Key was mostly in protected waters, so the danger factor was low. There was just a good chance it would be a wet, miserable ride—another con of living out here.

Another squall passed overhead, noticeable by the staccato burst on the house’s metal roof. Mac stood in front of the small closet, shook his head, and then walked out the door.

He already had the empty gas cans, propane tanks, and his trash secured in Reef Runner, his topless center console. That was the routine.

Besides reprovisioning the staples of his existence on the island, he would need to go to a real store and that meant interacting with people—one of the cons of living on the mainland.

Then there were the tourists.

A squall hit him just minutes after leaving the island. Mac had known he was going to get wet at some point. Even though it was November, a phenomenon known as hurricane heat, often a precursor or clue to the development of a system, had settled over the island chain. Despite the unseasonably hot temperatures, he was chilled by the evaporative effect of the wind on his wet clothes and the thought of what faced him on the mainland.

1

It wasn’t until the lunch break that reality set in. The last twenty-four hours, beginning with the wet boat ride, had been a rush to get here. There was probably nowhere else in the country where Mac’s last-minute search for slacks, a collared shirt, and real shoes would be more difficult than hooking an elusive marlin.

Even more odd was the way the jury summons was delivered.

There was no postal service on the island. Mac kept a PO box at the Marathon Post Office but rarely checked it. Mail delivery wasn’t the only thing lacking on the island. Living off the grid meant having no bills. A solar system provided power, rainwater supplied his water needs, and propane and gas were procured in portable tanks.

Mac had sold his commercial fishing licenses and made a trade for his lobster and crab trap tags. There was no administrative correspondence besides his resident fishing license, which he could renew online.

One of the older postmen had done him a favor by bringing the jury summons out in person. Though the man had been heading past the island on a fishing trip anyway, it was still a gift that Mac could have done without.

Located a block and a half from Duval Street on Key West, the county courthouse was an isolated microcosm of sanity in a sea of debauchery. Inside the building, one lost the sense of how close to the famed party street they were. Once Mac walked out the door to seek out a sandwich on his lunch break, he was struck by the irony of the proximity between the havens of law-abiders and law-breakers.

Mac’s last-minute stop at the discount store on Big Pine had yielded clothes that at least met the dress code. Wearing them was a form of torture, though.

The torture continued through the unending comments by the judge, who was now thanking and releasing the seventy-year-old residents who had been summoned but asked to be excused. The medical professionals and attorneys were long gone.

Mac was fine doing his civic duty. He just wanted to get on with it.

The jury pool was cut in half by the exit of the seniors. Mac’s name was called toward the last of the remaining thirty candidates from whom the jury would be selected. The cut was the luck of the draw. Mac’s fortune, as it often did, ran cold. He followed the group led by a bailiff and accepted his fate.

Moved to a different, smaller courtroom where he assumed the trial would take place, the judge again began his onerous instructional jibber-jabber. Mac glanced around the room, thankful that he didn’t recognize anyone. He was in the minority in that regard. As he soon found out as the judge had each candidate answer questions about themselves, many were civil servants and knew each other. To them, the trial would simply be a diversion from their regular jobs, from which they were excused with full pay.

If Mac had received enough notice, he would have at least requested to postpone his service. There was always a chance that he wouldn’t be needed at a later date. He had no problem kicking the can down the road whenever it had anything to do with the government.

He was still in a daze when the judge outlined the trial. The defendant, defense attorney, and prosecutor were introduced, and he named a list of witnesses. Mac was still trying to figure out how to get excused before lunch, which would spare him a twenty-dollar tab, and didn’t catch the question if anyone knew one of the parties involved.

Then, the judge mentioned that there was a confidential informant: Alan Trufante.

Mac did know him and should have spoken. He had been consumed by his own thoughts, fretting about his answers while he watched the wireless microphone systematically make its rounds through the ranks of the prospective jurors. The questions were basic for most. A surprising number of the pool were acquainted with the judge or one of the attorneys.

Most of the questions were fairly simple and mundane: How long have you lived here? Where were you before? Marital status? The last few were the tricky ones. No, he was not related to any law enforcement professionals, but he also did not necessarily trust their testimony. Mac wondered if that was something you could actually say. None of the others had.

Mac was hung up on one of the standard questions—his occupation. He could always say he was retired, but that might lead the attorneys to think he had the time available to serve. Though he did, commuting to Key West was a multi-hour ordeal. His choices were either a thirty-mile boat ride, which would take over an hour in good weather and twice that in bad, or a combination of a twelve-mile run in protected waters followed by a forty-five-minute car ride. Neither appealed to him.

That wasn’t a hardship the judge was going to buy into, or that Mac wanted to explain.

At first, time passed slowly as each person took their turn. When the microphone began to make its way to him, Mac still didn’t know what to say. Before he knew it, the deputy handed it to him.

“My name is Mac Travis.” His voice sounded odd. “Been here about thirty years now. Originally from Galveston. Single. No family in law enforcement.”

“And what do you do for work, Mr. Travis?” the judge asked.

He wasn’t just prying. The same question had been asked and answered two dozen times before it was his turn. As it turned out, the question was somewhat important to the selection process. Subtracting the tourists and transients, Key West was a surprisingly small town. Many knew someone involved in the case.

Mac paused, his answer still uncertain. It seemed all eyes in the room were on him. “I’m retired. Do a little fishing and diving.”

The next question was the one he really didn’t want to answer. “And before that?”

“Some construction, salvage, and commercial fishing.”

Mac was so caught up in his answer that he simply said “Yes” to the question of whether he could evaluate a law enforcement officer’s testimony fairly.

Mac handed the microphone back to the deputy. Their eyes met briefly, and a flash of recognition passed between them. Mac wasn’t sure, but he thought he had met the man.

That shouldn’t have been a surprise. The larger ABC agencies rotated their officers and agents in and out of the Keys. The local sheriff’s office and Key West PD were often multi-generational in composition.

Mac moved his gaze to the prosecutor, who was writing something down, and then to the defendant, who met his eyes. Both were bad signs.

An uneasy feeling settled in his gut and came to fruition when his juror number was called. Mac rose slowly and moved to the jury box, careful not to make eye contact with the defendant or his attorney. Mac was sure he didn’t recognize either.

People tended to cycle through the Keys, although many people born there stayed for life. Others floated in and out as their circumstances changed. With the high cost of living, mid-life crisis escapees seemed to be a specialty. Only a small number of people who became enamored with the island lifestyle after a brief visit actually stayed and called it home.

Wood used to say that the newcomers were like marbles, rolling south until they ran out of inertia. Each had their own gravity. Some stopped along the way. The more dedicated—or misdirected—ones rolled all the way to the end of US 1—Key West.

Mac had been in a sort of hibernation since he’d moved out to the island almost ten years ago, losing track of the flow of people. There had been a time when he lived in Marathon and knew the local riffraff. Now, his self-isolation insulated him—definitely a checkmark in the pro column.

Trufante still knew them all, and as he sat in the jury box studying the other jurors and half-listening to the judge’s instructions, he wondered what set of unlikely circumstances had landed Trufante in this position.

The irony of the judge calling him out by name, along with the title of “confidential informant,” bothered Mac. The Cajun could provide law enforcement with a wealth of information, but that wasn’t his thing. One of the reasons he had survived here this long was that he was considered trustworthy, though the meaning differed in his circles.

Then Mac’s number was called: number five of the seven jurors selected. Following the judge’s directions, the jurors were escorted to the deliberation room, where they were given a briefing by a deputy, who Mac also didn’t recognize.

Mac knew that sooner or later, his luck was going to run out. The Keys were serviced by several law enforcement agencies, including the Monroe County Sheriff, Florida Highway Patrol, Key West Police, and the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, known as the FWC. With the exception of the last group, the other agencies worked together, with many officers doing double duty. These were often more long-term residents, and with the half-dozen sheriff’s deputies he had already had contact with, it was purely a numbers game before he ran into one he knew—or who knew him.

Mac’s attention turned to the other jurors. He knew from his brief experience running charters that within every group there are always certain characters. There is the know-it-all, the comic, the giggler, the complainer, and the quiet one. He generally took the role of the latter.

Small talk broke the silence, and within minutes, he became aware of the chasm between the residents of the City of Key West and the rest of the Keys. The city dwellers chatted about Vegas like it was Mecca, not surprisingly since the cities were similar, at least in their outlaw feel. Mac just listened.

A few minutes later, the deputy knocked on the door and led the jurors back to the courtroom for opening statements. Mac was alert now, feeling the eyes of the attorneys and the defendant on him. The process to get to this point had been mindless, but now he needed to pay attention—and find out what kind of trouble Trufante had gotten himself into this time.

The prosecutor started first, outlining her case. No surprise it involved drugs. Between sketchy lifestyle choices and a well-deserved reputation as a smuggler’s paradise, drugs were a part of the Keys’ culture.

As Mac listened, he tried to process the case and how Trufante played into it. Since Mac had stopped commercial fishing, Trufante had been “between jobs.” He picked up work where he could but didn’t have the steady income Mac had once provided. Mac wasn’t sure if being a CI for law enforcement was actually a paying gig and something the Cajun did often, or if this was a one-time-only, get-out-of-jail-free card.

2

Another problem confronted Mac when the judge called a recess for the day. The good news was an assurance that the trial would conclude the following day. The bad was that traveling back and forth between Key West and the island was pretty much out of the question.

Mac now regretted his decision not to claim the logistics of his commute as a hardship. He hadn’t wanted to get into his personal life but learning that Trufante was involved in the case had shaken that possibility from his mind.

There was no way he was staying on Key West. Prices aside, he didn’t want anything to do with the nightlife that consumed the island. He drove back up-island, thinking that he could spend the night on Trufante’s couch, hoping that in the process, he might be able to extricate the details of this CI business from Pamela.

A hundred yards after crossing the bridge over the Cow Key Channel, which meant he was officially out of Key West, he thought of his late friend Mike’s daughter Maddie. Mac hadn’t spoken to her since they’d fished together several months ago.

Relationships were hard on him. Many might think that introverts and loners are one and the same. Though very different, in Mac’s case, the traits were the main contributors to his social dysfunction. Outside of current work friends, of which he had none at the present time, he was, in most regards, a retired recluse. There were few people he kept in touch with. Mel was still in Washington, and from his infrequent conversations with her, he didn’t expect her back. Mac had left his relationship with Ronnie in limbo since returning from a recent adventure in the Virgin Islands.

Maddie was different. He’d encouraged and even mentored her to take over her father’s charter business after he passed. There had been no debt to settle between her father, Mike Hayes, and Mac, but he felt he owed Maddie something. One thing could be said about Mac by both his friends and enemies: Once he started something, he saw it through—to the bitter end.

Whether it was out of honor or loyalty or convenience, Mac pulled over and called Maddie, hoping he could crash overnight on her boat. Things were never so simple. Once they got talking, Mac agreed to meet her for dinner.

The Hogfish Bar and Grill was an oasis in the commercial end of Stock Island. Known as Key West’s red-headed stepchild, the island provided reasonably priced marinas for commercial boats and somewhat affordable housing for Key West workers. Mac waved to a few of the former and found Maddie at the bar.

“Hey, girl.”

Enough years separated them so that their relationship was more like father and daughter than friends.

She stood up and hugged him, whether he liked it or not. “Hey, Mac. Get you a beer?”

Mac sensed a happiness in her. “Sure.” He would let her tell him how things were when she was ready.

The bartender brought over another bottle of Iguana Bait from the local Florida Keys Brewing Company. They clinked bottles, which for Mac was more comfortable than a hug. He was well aware that most displays of affection were heartfelt but also intended to make him just a little uncomfortable.

Fishermen had a social code. Before asking about what was biting or where the bait was, the conversation icebreaker was always the weather. If the tropics were quiet, meaning there were no hurricanes brewing, the conversation was short—“hot and humid”—the only variable being how hot.

“You get on any lobster?” Mac felt bad, realizing he hadn’t spoken to her since the opener in August.

“Did well. Ran a few charters.” She looked almost defiantly at him. “Don’t say it. I know Dad wouldn’t approve, but at least it’s not sandbar tours.”

Mac nodded and sipped the beer, his defense mechanism for uncomfortable conversations. Mike had been a hardcore charter captain. One of those guys who lived off repeat business rather than the cruise ship excursions. He was a classic captain. One who could conjure fish out of nowhere while weaving an unforgettable story. Maddie had shown promise as a charter captain, but the game had changed since her dad’s days.

Key West had always been unique. The Capital of Weird aside, most of the island chain had a reputation as a quiet fishing and diving community. When and how it had become a partiers’ paradise was uncertain. As with many things, it probably happened slowly and finished quickly. All of a sudden, before anyone noticed, Miami had moved into the Upper Keys, and vacation rentals and resorts had taken a firm root in the Middle and Lower Keys.

Some communities had taken a stand against the short-term traffic. They soon found out they couldn’t control who bought properties and how they were used. With more and more people demanding sandbar parties instead of fishing or diving, the vibe had changed.

Maybe Mike would have made it without changing his ways. The problem was less Maddie taking over the business than the circumstances. Whether it was the loss of Mike or the island chain’s transformation, repeat customers had just stopped coming. One of the problems with long-term clients was they got old. Even with her dad’s former contacts, Maddie didn’t stand much of a chance unless she changed her business model to meet the times. That meant running dive trips, lobster trips, and eco charters, a.k.a. sandbar, excursions—anything that paid the bills.

“Not judging. I get it.”

Maddie seemed relieved. They drank and talked for a while until a loud voice broke through the crowded bar. Maddie shied away as if stung by a wasp. Mac noticed and turned to see a heavy-set guy dressed in a long-sleeved fishing shirt and shorts. His ankle-high rubber boots were incongruous with his hair, which was bleached to the point that Mac suspected there was product involved. The white spots around his eyes with thin stripes leading back to his ears, which looked like a negative of a raccoon’s face, told Mac he was probably a charter guy. From the look of the two men flanking him, Mac assumed he was the captain.

“Can we get out of here?” Maddie asked. “Maybe the Cuban place. I’m buying.”

Mac was stuck. A paternal instinct he didn’t know existed took over. Fighting other people’s battles was not his thing, but neither was he going to let a blowhard charter captain bully his friend’s daughter.

Acting on instinct, Mac rose and moved toward the three men.

“Mac freakin’ Travis,” the captain called out.

Mac studied his face, taking a long moment to see it without the beard and styled hair. Before he could answer, the man stuck out his hand. Mac was forced to shake, which led to a bro hug, causing him to cringe. He remembered the guy now and realized he’d made a mistake. They should have immediately left.

Maddie had respected and learned from her father. This guy, Josh Gardner, had simply taken from his. Mac wasn’t sure what had become of the old man but hadn’t heard anything about the brash captain in a while. That meant little since Mac wasn’t plugged into the Coconut Telegraph. James Gardner could still be around, up to his old tricks.

Carl Hiaasen had written a book where a man fakes his death by cutting off his arm and paying a fishing mate to have a client “catch” it. The elder Gardner could have been that guy—and the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. It was widely accepted that James’ rise from working as a captain on another man’s boat to owning a fleet of his own had not been a legitimate accomplishment.

Hiaasen’s book had been made into a TV series—James Gardner’s easily could have. The worrisome thing was that neither story was all that unusual in the Florida Keys.

“How’s the old man?”

“Shit, he’s living large in an assisted living place in Lauderdale. Wild action there, my man.” Josh slapped Mac on the arm.

“Give him my best,” Mac said, brushing past Josh. Maddie was in lockstep right behind him.

“See you, Mads.”

There was something in the way he said it that chilled Mac.

The short drive to the restaurant was quiet, each decompressing from the run-in. Mac replayed the incident in his head, wondering if he should have reacted differently.

To many in the Keys, Mac Travis was an enigma. Known for being non-confrontational, he also had a reputation as a fighter. Depending on who you asked, the description varied. Mac had no issue with fighting and was better with his fists than his tongue. He’d learned little from Mel, who could spar verbally with the best of them. When it came down to it, Mac was often lost for words, thinking of what he should have said later. Those kinds of confrontations wore him out. Fighting was often just easier.

“What were you doing down here?” Maddie asked.

Their conversation in the bar had been mostly about fishing. “Jury duty, if you can believe it.” Mac was about to say something about Trufante being involved. He held his tongue. It wasn’t because of the judge’s warning about not discussing the case. Besides his other attributes, Mac was also known for his discretion. Trufante’s involvement would remain a secret until he figured out what was going on.

“Did you get picked?”

He nodded. “Can you believe it? That’s kind of why I called.” Mac regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. He decided to just ask about what he wanted rather than suffer another silence. “I was hoping I could crash aboard the boat tonight.”

Maddie smiled. “You don’t want to stay with me and my sister and her kids?”

Maddie’s living situation had been tense the last time they had seen each other. Rather than stay with Brittany and her two kids, he would have suffered the street.

Maddie understood. “There’s no AC, but you’re welcome to it for as long as you need.”

“The judge said the case would wrap up tomorrow, so just for the night.”

“No worries. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything—and thank you.”

The conversation moved back toward fishing and lobstering once they had ordered. As essentially a hunter-gatherer, Mac looked forward to the meal. His lifestyle meant there were no last-minute trips to the grocery store. The size of the solar array and battery bank on the island limited him to a propane refrigerator that was much smaller than the current residential models. That meant he had to fish every few days. Mac generally relied on the sea’s bounty and his resurrected vegetable garden. That wasn’t a problem for Mac—except when the weather didn’t cooperate.

From where he and Maddie sat, they were closer to Havana than a Walmart, something the residents were proud of. For Mac, a trip to the Winn Dixie on Big Pine or the Publix on Marathon was an all-day ordeal.

When Mac went out to eat, which was a rare occurrence, he ordered what he couldn’t get on the island—which meant meat.

People behaved in one of two ways when they ate: They either talked or they didn’t. Mac was glad Maddie was the latter. With the meal finished, they headed back to the marina.

“She looks good,” Mac said, stepping aboard the old Luhrs. “Your dad would be proud.”

One of Mac’s social inadequacies was not keeping in touch with friends. He and Mike hadn’t spoken in several years when Mac had knocked on his door and found him bedridden. And Maddie’s sister was a classic Key West train wreck. Wood’s marble analogy wasn’t exclusive to the newcomers. Brittany was a native who scored far down on the sane and sensible scale.

That left Maddie, who had left the Keys for college, with the responsibility of helping her dad before he passed and staying on to take care of her family.

The last time Mac had seen the Luhrs it was in rough shape. With the work Maddie had done, the boat shone like a classic car. The cabin was crammed with fishing gear, which they placed on the deck. Mac covered the rods with a tarp to keep the saltwater and dew off, said goodnight, and thanked Maddie again as she left before turning in for the night.

3

Physics aside, water anywhere is a people magnet. The crystal clear water of the Keys, with its shades of blues and greens, is even more so. On his way back to Key West the next morning, Mac couldn’t help but look at the water beyond the Cow Key bridge. Calm and serene, tinged with turquoise and white, he knew it would be one of those days the guidebooks and the internet advertised as “paradise every day” in the Florida Keys.

However, there are several misnomers about the weather along the island chain. The first is that it is hurricane-prone. The second is that it is always picture-perfect.

The hundred-and-seventy-mile island chain reaches from Biscayne National Park in Miami to the Dry Tortugas. Exposed to both the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico and influenced by the Gulf Stream and the Loop Current, the Keys often experience what the locals simply call “weather.”

From Mac’s experience, those perfect Chamber of Commerce days only happened when he had something that required him to be indoors. That made the windowless courtroom feel even more confining.

Mac sat in the jury box, giving sideways glances at his fellow jurors. Many knew each other, which was not unusual with such a small pool to pull from. He looked down at his uncomfortable shoes, self-conscious that he was wearing the same clothes as the previous day, knowing any delay in the trial would force him to go shopping again.

The bailiff called for quiet and announced the judge. Mac was grateful as the focus turned to the front of the courtroom. Now that he was here, Mac’s curiosity peaked. With no TV on his island, this was as close to entertainment as he got.

That ended shortly before lunch when the prosecuting attorney called Trufante to the stand. The long, lanky Cajun stepped through the passageway between the prosecutor and defense attorney’s desk and moved toward the stand. He glanced over at the jury box, flashing his thousand-dollar grin. There was a pregnant pause when his gaze reached Mac.

Both men froze. Mac knew he had violated the judge’s orders by not disclosing his relationship with his former mate. There was nothing to be done about that now. He was here, Trufante was here, and the world would keep spinning. Ever pragmatic, Mac decided that it wasn’t a problem until it was and sat back.

A smile did breakthrough his deadpan face when he saw Trufante’s distress. The Cajun recovered and proceeded to the stand, where he was sworn in.

Mac leaned forward as the prosecutor approached the witness. The unflappable Trufante smiled. Unless this CI gig was a regular thing for him, being allied to the prosecution would be an unusual occurrence. Mac was sure his smile would disappear when the defense attorney took over.

The first part of Trufante’s testimony was the usual name and address questions. Mac expected the prosecutor to ask his occupation but she moved on to the specifics of the day in question. Those were only some of the answers Mac wanted to hear. He was certain he would have to wait until the defense attorney took over for the rest.

Trufante had a colorful past. He’d arrived in the Keys almost twenty years ago to, in his words, escape the aftermath of Katrina. Over time the real story had come out about his failing concrete business and some shady deals with the state. The Cajun had walked away, taking the contents of the office safe, weathering the storm on a piece of flotant in the bayou, stealing a sailboat, and making a hard and abrupt landfall in the Lower Keys.

Mac and Wood had been partners then and “adopted” Trufante. He’d stuck like glue, both in their construction and salvage business as well as everything since. But a break had been inevitable when Mac had given up commercial fishing and essentially retired. Since then, Trufante had done what he could to provide for himself, maintain his relationship with Pamela, and support his vices.

No denying that things had changed. Wood had passed over a decade ago. Like Mac, their mutual friends had slowed down. Somehow, Trufante had remained the same. It was common knowledge to most anyone who knew him that the catlike Cajun had nine lives, although Mac knew for sure Tru had exhausted that reserve years ago. It defied the laws of nature that he was still here.

Mac jerked his attention back to the courtroom. It had been clear since the opening statement that the defendant was guilty of at least the main charge. As the prosecution continued, Mac became less interested in the actual case than in how being a CI worked. Mac expected the defense attorney would focus on that. For the prosecution, the case was open and shut.

The details of the intended sale flowed by, including a video that clearly showed the defendant selling an ounce of cocaine to a man whose bayou drawl was all too familiar. None of that surprised Mac. Since Mac’s “retirement,” Trufante had mainly caught bait and worked as a deckhand on other people’s boats. Mac knew the bait business was touch and go. Sometimes, the fish were there, often not. When the stars aligned, meaning there was live bait to catch and a customer to buy it, the business was lucrative. When there was bait and no customers, the fishermen were forced to sell at a discount to the wholesalers, who froze the pilchards, cigar minnows, and ballyhoo. When there were customers and no bait, there was nothing.

The Keys were famous for more than the bounty of the seas.

The usual culprit was drugs. Trufante had dabbled in the trade since he’d arrived. Mac had mixed views on the subject. He found some no more harmful than alcohol and didn’t believe that people should be incarcerated for consumption. Other kinds could kill you, though. Still, to Mac, consumption for most was a choice.

Dealers were a different matter, especially since everything was now linked to the cartels. Back in the day, one of your neighbor’s older brothers was the supply chain. The worst case was that he had cut or stepped on the product too many times, which made it virtually worthless, if harmless. Now, with the cartels running the show, the drugs were often cut with fentanyl or some other deadly ingredient. Instead of the desired effect of hooking their clientele on the now-addictive drugs, the drugs often killed them. Not a great business plan.

There was no question that the defendant was guilty of distribution.

The spur rubbing Mac the wrong way was the added charge of the transaction being within a thousand feet of a place of worship, in this case, a church. Mac knew the area, and there was no way anyone involved besides the police had known the church, which was not even in the line of sight of the parking lot where the deal had gone down, was on anyone’s radar but theirs.

The charge was a good example of why Mac didn’t like the police. What followed was another indictment. As each witness was brought in to testify, Mac realized there were no less than three detectives who had spent a good deal of time on a case involving less than a $2,000 sale. In the drug world, that was nothing. In Key West, the cleaners probably scraped that much cocaine off the club floors every morning. Though he was clearly guilty of distributing drugs, Mac was glad the defendant had requested a jury trial. It was the only way anyone would see the misappropriation of the department’s resources.

Everything changed when the defense counsel took over. It quickly became clear that the defendant had been set up and that Trufante was being paid as a CI. That was interesting in itself, because the Cajun’s cover was now blown. He would be branded as a known informant and possibly be in danger.

The interesting part was the how and why.

Law enforcement had a variety of ways to incarcerate someone. Mac had been held several times but had never been tried or convicted. From those short experiences, he knew that Trufante may or may not have been safe on the inside. He was wearing street clothes, which told Mac he was on the outside and certainly in danger.

The Cajun was prone to exaggeration. His testimony was short and concise, clearly he had been schooled by the prosecutor. None of the detail mattered. He was just confirming what the state had already presented. The detectives had artfully kept him out of the videos, though anyone who knew him would recognize the distinctive bayou drawl. He had nothing to add to the case, and his presence ended his usefulness in the future.

Mac tried to focus. He had been given a responsibility and wouldn’t shirk it. As he listened to the defense attorney cross-examine the Cajun, the questions running through Mac’s head changed.

Before he could answer them, he needed to get over certain biases. The defendant was clearly guilty. He was also a bumbling idiot. There was no way the detectives needed to go to these extremes of manpower and time to catch him. From the earlier testimony, at least three men, plus a tech guy and a CI, had been involved in the setup. Mac hoped the defense’s strategy would address the setup, though he didn’t know if it would do any good.

Mac hated small-time dealers selling small amounts of drugs and thinking they were all that. Instead, he was now hanging on every word, hoping the misappropriation of resources would be revealed.

His concern shifted to Trufante. In Mac’s world, the Cajun was like a moon exerting its gravitational pull on a planet. The earth’s companion was close and regular—others were much further away and not as consistent. That was Trufante’s relationship with Mac. There were extended times when all was good, if sprinkled with random incidences that dragged Mac into situations he’d rather not be in.

Before he knew it, the defense rested its short and inconsequential case. The judge broke for lunch, and Mac found himself with nothing to do for an hour. His questions would remain unanswered until court reconvened. Wandering around Key West was not on Mac’s list of things to do. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to spend twenty bucks on a burger anyway.

Duval Street and Mac were like poles of a magnet. The opposing force turned Mac toward the water. He walked through the townhouses of Truman Annex and found himself at a waterfront park by the Cruise Ship Pier. Hoping the water would be a tonic for his uneasy mind, he made his way to the railing and studied the behemoth in front of him.

Cruise ships were a touchy issue in Key West. The shops, restaurants, and excursions needed the tourist dollars. The locals hated them. Some compromises were made, and the volume of traffic had been reduced. That might have kept a few thousand people off the streets several days a week, but it had stirred a hornet’s nest with the companies that made their living running excursions.

Scuba diving, fishing, sailing, snorkeling, and eco tours were all offered to the cruisers. Several companies had massive investments in boats, which meant they needed exposure requiring expensive dock space. Smaller charter companies were forced to extreme measures to survive. Mac was glad Maddie had decided to forgo the excursion market. There was money to be made, but the cost would have been large.

Mac was curious as he watched the small boats line up for their afternoon charters. Many had the same logos on different types of crafts, while others were one-offs. The shiny tower on one of those boats caught Mac’s attention. A fishing boat always drew his eye and this one was no different, except his focus was pulled to the man in the tower, not its gleaming welded framework.

Fishermen, despite outward appearances, were the first adapters to any technology that would put them on fish—at least for their boats. Most had shunned smartphones until they couldn’t afford not to. Mac was one of those. Still, he knew his way around enough to take a picture of the man, his boat, and the cruise ship in the background and send it to Maddie.

4

Mac had a smile on his face when he returned to the jury room. Seeing Josh scrambling for shore excursions had made him forget about Trufante and the trial, at least for a while.

There are many species of fishermen. From freshwater to saltwater, novice to experienced, some are out for a good time, others a trophy catch. To meet the need there are as many types of charters. Within those types are subtypes who want their charter to reflect themselves. Along with the demand come captains and owners ready and willing to accommodate them. For some, it’s a business decision. For others, their ego. The size of their boat or the horsepower hanging on the transom is often reciprocal to their profitability.

Josh’s business plan had been visible in a single glance. A certain class of clientele was attracted to the million-dollar center consoles powered by as many as five outboard engines. Josh using the two mates meant a smaller cut for himself and the business. Mac didn’t need to know how to add to figure that Josh was just scraping by.

Arrogance came in two forms. When someone really is as good as they think, they deserve to carry that attitude. Sports stars seemed to have no problem with that. The second form is unearned and usually adopted to cover one’s own inadequacies. Mac didn’t have time for those guys and Josh was clearly one.

Mac was unable to suppress the feeling of schadenfreude, or pleasure derived from another person's misfortune. He knew it was wrong, but there was a reason a word existed to describe it.

The case presented by the public defender gave him the same feeling for the defendant.

Mac understood what the man was up against. The video clearly showed the defendant making the sale. There was no doubting that. When his lawyer rested his case after cross examining Trufante and presenting only one witness, a man already convicted who had brokered the deal, Mac’s stomach soured. Instead of answering his questions, he had several more.

Many thought that the term “conspiracy theory” had been coined after JFK’s assassination. It actually went back to the assassination of President Garfield in 1881. Since the mid-1960s, it has been used to dismiss alternate versions of an event without further discourse. Labeling something a conspiracy theory virtually dismisses it as lunacy. Using the term is the lazy man’s way of countering an argument.

Mac’s theory about conspiracy theories was that if a secret was known by more than one person, it was no longer a secret. In order for some of the theories to be true, from a faked moon landing to JFK’s assassination, there would have to be hundreds of people involved. That number precluded anything from remaining a secret. A secret government program was an oxymoron.

That didn’t mean that everything visible to the general public was aboveboard. The stink that something was off in this case was clear, and having Trufante in the middle of it, though predictable, was unsettling.

The closing arguments revealed nothing new. The judge made his final remarks to the jury and dismissed the alternate juror. Mac and the other six jurors returned to the jury room and stared at each other for a long moment.

“We have to select a foreman,” one of the women said.

Several sets of eyes fell on Mac, but he shook his head. One of the other men, a local teacher with previous experience, volunteered and was accepted. Another silence ensued.

“How do we do this?” the lady asked. “Secret ballots, or do we just talk about it?”

“I think we should take a quick vote. Show of hands. Who thinks he’s guilty?” the foreman said.

Mac appreciated his efficiency. He glanced at the other faces and saw no resistance. “I’m a little suspect of the church thing, but otherwise, he’s guilty. Do we vote on each charge separately?”

“We can do that. Show of hands for guilty on possession with intent to distribute.”

All six hands went up without pause.

“Okay. Show of hands on the second charge of distributing within a thousand feet of a church.”

Uncertainty prevailed.

“Does he still get locked up if we vote no on that charge?” one of the jurors asked.

“We can get clarification from the judge, but my interpretation of his instructions was that we could vote separately, and the second charge would be added to the first if we agreed.”

“That’s what I got, too,” Mac said. Five sets of eyes turned to him. Mac realized too late that this was only the second sentence he had spoken since the trial started. During the breaks the other jurors had talked casually. He had distanced himself from the conversations. It wasn’t shyness or the social thing. He just knew nothing about Vegas, which seemed to be the topic at hand.

“Okay. I don’t think that charge holds water. They never addressed how the location for the deal was selected. It could have been random or fixed by the detectives. Hell, it was in the parking lot for a bar. Even though it may technically fall within the law, I vote against,” the foreman said.

Nods prevailed now. The charge had been sketchy to Mac from the beginning, and he was glad his fellow jurors agreed.

“We all good with this? Guilty on the first charge, not guilty on the second?” The foreman looked at each juror individually. They each said yes.

“Okay.” He went to the door and asked the deputy to tell the judge they were decided.

A few minutes later, they were back in the courtroom. The verdict was read, the defendant escorted out, and the jurors dismissed. The entire procedure was anticlimactic.

Mac left the courthouse, walked around the back of the building to the parking lot, unlocked and opened the door of his truck, and sat in the seat. He was out of sorts and didn’t know what to do. The best thing was to get out of Key West. Mac started the truck and turned onto Whitehead Street. He passed Ned’s block, knowing he should probably check in on his old friend.

Ned had originally been Wood’s friend, as a lot of Mac’s older friends were. Mac and he had grown close over the years, and the old archaeologist had become sort of a father figure. Dropping in on people was not something Mac normally did. He fought off his instinct to drive away and circled the block instead. Ned’s house was set back from the street and was one of the few with an actual driveway and garage. That meant Mac couldn’t use the excuse of no parking. He pulled into the driveway and shut off the truck.

Mac almost turned away after knocking several times. Ned’s trike was in the driveway, though, and he expected he was home. Finally, the door opened.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hey, Ned.” Mac had stopped calling him “Old Man” when Ned had actually become one. He guessed his friend was close to eighty now. Preferring books and his study to the outdoors, Ned had never been a particularly active man. Now, he just looked frail.

“Come on in. I’ll grab a couple of beers.”

Mac smiled when he brought back a couple of bottles of Yuengling. The beer from the oldest brewery in America had always been popular in the Keys. Ned was anything but hip and probably didn’t know that lately, it had become popular with the younger crowd.

They moved to the living room and sat across from each other.

“What brings you to the rock?”

“Jury duty.”

“You didn’t get picked, did you?”

Mac had a brief urge to say that he hadn’t, belatedly realizing that he could have spent the previous night here at Ned’s place. Hoping that Ned would not be upset, he told the story.

“That boy’s got a knack for trouble.”

“You can say that again. What do you know about confidential informants?”

Ned took another sip. Though his specialty was underwater archaeology, he just knew stuff. “You can make a living doing that if you want. Heard they’re paying sixty grand a year.”

That confirmed Mac’s suspicion that Trufante was doing it for the money, though there was every chance it had started as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

“They burnt him, though, for a piece-of-crap trial.”

“That’s troubling. Maybe their way of cutting him loose. No one’s gonna trust him again, and some might have it out for him.”

That confirmed what Mac had thought. Leaving the subject of Trufante, he asked Ned what he was working on. To some extent, these kinds of visits were like a jail sentence to Mac. He liked Ned but had little interest in Ned’s work. After two beers, he decided that he could get out with time served. They said goodbye and promised to keep in touch.

An hour after he had left the courthouse, Mac was back on the road. He passed through Stock Island and wondered if Maddie had gotten a laugh from the picture he’d sent of Josh trolling the cruise ships for business.

Mac’s thoughts drifted to Trufante. With every island he passed through, and there were a lot, he changed his mind on how he would deal with the Cajun. There was no running away from it. With his boat at Pamela and Trufante’s house, he had no choice anyway.

With his mind still a jumble of thoughts, Mac turned left onto Key Deer Boulevard. He caught himself speeding and slowed to the 30 mph speed limit. From his experience, it wasn’t a question of if there was going to be law enforcement on Big Pine. It was where it was going to be. The straight-as-an-arrow, two-lane road running several miles through the key was as good a place as any for catching speeders. Mac was lucky he had been cautious. There were no sightings of the small, protected key deer, but there was a cruiser parked alongside the baseball field.

Mac checked the speedometer and slowed to just under the speed limit, checking the rearview mirror as he passed. The cruiser remained stationary, and he continued toward Watson Boulevard, where he turned left. For folks used to big subdivisions on the mainland, the neighborhood was small. For the Keys, it was large. Built on a grid, with canals cut between most streets, there were as many boats as cars.

Mac pulled into the driveway and breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw neither Pamela’s car nor Trufante’s bike under the stilt house. He parked the truck off to the side and out of the way. Mac used to leave his truck by the 33rd Street ramp in Marathon but had started keeping it here when Pamela and Trufante moved down.

Grabbing his bag, Mac locked the truck and left the key in the gas cap. He made his way to the boat, thanking whatever gods were looking after him that the couple wasn’t home. Mac dropped down to the deck, retrieved the key from the battery compartment, and started the engine. He glanced back at the house, expecting the door to open any minute, when the voice of a neighbor caught his attention.

“Not like you, leaving your boat for more than a few hours,” the man said.

He was dressed in only a loose-fitting pair of gym shorts. Mac tried to look away.

“Been nice the last few days. Good enough for a Tortugas run. Maybe you been fishing.”

Mac knew the guy was probing for a fishing report and wouldn’t stop until he got one. He didn’t want to lie to the man, but he wasn’t about to tell him where he’d been.

“Heard the yellowtail bites been good from sixty to ninety. Dolphin out deeper.”

“Come on, Mac, every bait guy says that. I want the inside scoop.”

Mac could have been flattered. Instead, he felt harassed. There was unwritten code among the more serious fishermen. Basic info on water clarity and current were okay. What they had used for bait was borderline. Exact details were not asked. Mac was about to answer when he smelled the a familiar fragrant smoke waft toward him. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Pulling away now might appear unfriendly to the neighbor. Mac didn’t care about that.

There was no way he was going to ditch Pamela.

5

First impressions are important. In Pamela’s case, they were only partly accurate. Attractive and graceful, with a tall, lean figure and a killer instinct to match, Pamela had what it took, at least on the surface, to dominate on a sports field or in a boardroom. Many people got stuck on her six-foot figure, which gave the illusion of invincibility. Mac’s thoughts were not gender related. It had been proven time and again that tall, good-looking men and women had an advantage.

Inside, Pamela was a different story. Her carefree attitude, tinged with self-doubt courtesy of a troubled past, and an indisputable talent for prescience, made her unique but not suited for a structured work environment. The army had been the answer out of high school. That went bad shortly after she had passed the selection process to become a special forces operative. A monthly settlement check from the Department of Defense should have been enough to support a modest lifestyle. The problem was that she and Trufante spent money like water. Around the twentieth of each month, they were consistently broke.

The boons from their past adventures with Mac had provided enough to buy the house. The rest was gone.

“Mac Travis. You’re not running out on me, are you?”

“Didn’t see your car or Tru’s bike. Thought you were out.”

“It’s not always what your eyes see that tells the truth.”

The statement was typical Pamela.

Mac wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Trufante’s trial appearance with Pamela. The clear answer for either of his scenarios about how Trufante came to be in court today was a need for money. Whether Trufante himself had dealt drugs and gotten caught and then made a deal, or he was being paid for his services, it only mattered regarding how much danger he was in. In the first case, many criminal types might understand. In the second, none would.

The problem was, who had Trufante burned? There were plenty of stoners selling drugs to tourists to pay for their habits. The defendant hadn’t seemed that type. He didn’t seem particularly dangerous either. If Mac was right, the guy was unemployable, either through the impossibility of passing a drug test or because of some sort of mental illness. There were plenty of both types in the Capital of Weird. Many were just unhinged enough to think they were tough guys and come after somebody like Trufante. Usually, though, they talked a big game but were light on the follow-through.

Mac had to decide whether he should ask Pamela about Trufante’s involvement. Instead of the direct route, which was usually how they spoke, he simply told her that he had been in Key West for jury duty. Her face remained impassive, which he interpreted as ignorance of the proceedings. She didn’t know what Trufante was up to. That was not a surprise. The Cajun changed business plans like a chameleon.

“Where’s Tru at?”

She brushed her hair back. “Not sure. He was gone early.”

Trufante was a fisherman used to getting up before the sun. He would rarely sleep in. Mac wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the story, anyway. If the past predicted the future, at some point, he would hear it anyway, and probably after it was too late to mitigate the disaster that was Trufante. The best way was to get out in front of whatever trouble he was in.

“Ask him to give a call or come out to the island.”

“Sure thing, Mac Travis.” Pamela swept back her hair again.

“Catch you later then,” Mac said as he started the engine and pushed the throttle forward. Pamela waved as he turned the corner that would lead him through the maze of canals to Pine Channel, through which he then followed an unmarked and circuitous route that led to the open Gulf.

Reaching the open water was a relief. On the surface there had been nothing except water between him and the island. That was a deception. Running in a straight line would have grounded him several times. Mac had driven the route so many times that his muscle memory took over. To the uninitiated, it appeared that he was all over the place. What lay below was often only inches of water over the shoals, sandbars, channels, and flats between him and the island. The white lines, scars from numerous propellors, told the story of those who didn’t know the terrain.

The backcountry had once been off limits, or at least intimidating, to tourists and recreational boaters. With advancements in marine electronics, specifically chartplotters, the area had become accessible, though not as safe as many expected.

The tides made a complicated situation worse. Generally, the Florida Keys had diurnal tides, meaning two per day. This close to the equator, there was generally only a foot or two difference between low and high tides. The numbers displayed on both paper and electronic charts showed “MLLW,” meaning “mean low-low water,” the lowest of the two tides. That sounded simple, except for “neap” tides, which ran considerably lower and were often accentuated by wind and other factors.

The pattern of the tides and winds was stored deep in Mac’s subconscious. That was all good when his mind was at ease, and he allowed it to work. Now, his troubled mind shut out those signals, and he almost hit a shallow spot he had avoided hundreds of times.

The near-miss brought Mac to the present. Having to think about the route made his troubles fade into the background. He worked his way into Harbor Channel and followed the windy stretch of deep water to the island. Mac steered around the large boulder that Wood had placed in the center of the dredged side channel as an obstacle to uninvited visitors and eased the boat toward the dock.

The dock was fairly new, replacing the single piling that Wood had originally set, which was now incorporated into the structure. Mac tied off the bow and stern lines and headed for the house.

The island was no longer the sanctuary it had once been. Aside from the increased boat traffic, mainly from recreational boaters taking the safer route to the Content Keys, the addition of satellite internet and expansion of cell service had brought the world to him.

The satellite internet had been for Mel. She was gone, but the connection remained. Predicting the whims of fish had once been the territory of soothsayers and gifted captains. With animated weather maps and satellite imagery, the internet had become a part of Mac’s life.

Once he entered the rabbit hole, it was hard to get out.

Once inside, he couldn’t help himself and opened his browser. Several queries later, he had determined that Ned was right. CIs could make as much as $60,000 a year. The difference, as Mac saw it, was that in a larger area, a CI could work different groups without exposing himself. In a small town like Key West, where everyone knew everyone else, there was no way to work “undercover” once the word was out.

The term “burned” applied to both legitimate and illegitimate covert ops: spies, undercover police officers, and anyone else concealing their true identity or purpose. The danger level depended on the players. Crossing a small-time dealer could often have worse consequences than a government agency.

Out of habit, Mac checked the fishing sites he followed. He’d missed the cherry day serving on the jury. The next few days looked pretty good, though. A glance at the sea surface temperature and chlorophyll images showed a nice temperature break just outside the reef that got Mac’s attention.

Reef fish like mangrove, yellowtail, or mutton snapper were available year-round. You had to know the seasonal migrations and water temperatures, but you could have a good day with any of them. Outside of the snappers, other reef dwellers were trickier. Grouper, for one, was closed almost half the year, with some species closed longer and at different times. Mac had lost his stomach for catching out-of-season fish long ago. He wasn’t interested in wading through a dozen grouper, some of which would not survive the release, for one nice mutton snapper.

That left the offshore species. Dolphinfish, more commonly known as mahi mahi, were present this time of year. The problem was finding them. They didn’t hold to structure like the grouper and snappers. They were pelagic, seeking current and temperature breaks that provided sustenance in the form of smaller fish—often their own.

Satellite maps had been a game changer. Mac could now see where the fish were likely to hold. Though it was mostly science, there was an art in interpreting the data, as the images were inevitably dated. By moving back a few days and watching the trends, Mac confirmed what the latest image showed and had a strong feeling about where the fish would be the next day.

Many Keys’ residents had a different attitude toward fishing. With the ability to go out whenever conditions were good, they fished for their dinner tables, not their freezers. Mac understood the mentality of the visitors, though. If he had only a week a year down here, he would be out every day seeking a limit, too.

That said, with the cost of fuel, he needed to produce. The best way to do that was to bring Trufante. If he wanted information from the Cajun, there was no better way than putting a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other. Mac picked up his phone and checked that he had service. Miles from the closest cell tower, it often depended on which way the wind was blowing whether he had a signal or not. Several bars showed on the display, and he pulled up Trufante’s number and pressed connect.

Mac was shocked when the Cajun answered, expecting him to be in full avoidance mode for at least a few days.

“Shoot, Mac, see the weather?”

Mac smiled. Trufante could forget a bad experience as quickly as a quarterback or goalie pushes the last interception or goal out of his mind. It was a trait Mac wished he had. Instead, he often dwelled on things that were, for the most part, out of his control.

By weather, Trufante meant anything from the old hanging brick forecast to the satellite images, the former being as accurate as the latter. A brick suspended from a string was all that was required. The brick movement, either swinging or not, showed the wind; wet meant rain, and missing meant hurricane—the brick was never wrong.

“Yeah, want to head out for some dolphin tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, Mac. Looks like ten to noon might be on fire.”

For a guy that Mac wasn’t sure had made it out of high school, Trufante had an innate understanding of the relationship between the moon phases, its rising and setting, and atmospheric pressure to determine when the bite would be hot.

“I’ll swing by around eight. Can you grab some bait?”

“Sure thing. I got some pinfish traps soaking in the channel.”

Mac’s brain shifted as soon as the trip was set. People handled their troubles in different ways. Mel had been a hammer. When an obstacle appeared, she would smash it like a nail. Trufante had his selective memory. Mac needed action.

He spent the next few hours checking his rods and reels, stripping off old leaders and tying on new ones, and sorting through his terminal tackle. Offshore fishing requires preparation. Mac would just as soon rig all his baits and have the six or eight rods ready before he hit the water. If any one piece of gear or tackle failed, it could ruin the trip.

There was no question whether he was doing more than usual to shut off his brain.

6

Mac had the boat loaded and ready just after sunrise. There was always something to do on the island, but his mind was on fishing—a good thing after the past few days. Instead of waiting, he headed out, taking his time as he cruised toward Big Pine.

Boat traffic was light this time of day. Except for the commercial boats that were making their way out to check their traps, the Keys were not a crack-of-dawn fishery. Mac waved to the few he knew. Most were newcomers. The old guys, like his friend Bear, had cashed out when the market topped out a few years ago. These guys might not have college degrees, but they knew when the Chinese started buying it was the beginning of the end. Prices had gone up some but were now flat, and many expected them to plunge as relations between the countries continued to deteriorate.

Mac had nothing against the new guys. The older deckhands had been put out to pasture, and the language of the new crews was predominantly Spanish. The old guys were worn out and had given up long ago anyway. Pulling traps took a strong back, and most were no longer capable of much labor. Mac didn’t want to think about what would happen to them now. Working for cash had its benefits—until you retired without any.

There were a few recreational boats heading out to the Gulf. Most, with the expected conditions, would be on the Atlantic side today. That was one problem with the new technologies—everyone had access. The old timers still held an advantage with bottom fish who aggregated to spawn. Those few weeks and locations were closely held secrets. The rest were out there. You just needed to know where to look.

Mac reached the neighborhood on the northern tip of Middle Torch Key and cut the wheel to port, setting a diagonal course across the channel to the entrance to Trufante’s neighborhood. He slowed at the cut and wound his way through the turns leading to the Cajun’s house.

He found the dock empty, the beat-up center console gone.

“Mac Travis,” Pamela called down from the upper deck. “Tru went at first light to catch bait. Coffee?”

Mac wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t seen the Cajun. Just a few years ago bait had been plentiful in the channel. A few Haitians with a reputed hundred or so pinfish traps had changed that. That the bait was rumored to be sold in Fort Myers was a point of contention, though he expected the operation was legal. Trufante had probably gone under the bridge to the southern end of the channel.

Pamela brought a mug down to Mac. He climbed onto the dock, and they sat next to each other in a pair of chairs by the canal.

“How did you actually get picked for a jury, Mac Travis?”

Mac chuckled. He was about to ask if she knew anything about the CI business when he heard the soft purr of an outboard pull up to the dock. From the broad grin showing his grillwork, Mac knew Trufante had scored. Mac got up and helped with the lines.

“Did good?”

“Blackout, man. Maybe we can go after some tuna, too.”

Targeting offshore species was easier said than done. Mahi and tuna were often found together in deeper water. Wahoo and kingfish were usually shallower. Mac had caught dolphin while bottom fishing in forty feet and wahoo in a thousand. There were only guidelines, no hard and fast rules.

Other things were at play, though. Boat speed when pulling lures, the depth the baits were set at, rigging, and the use of live bait to chum all helped attract the desired species—provided you could find them.

“Let’s see what’s out there,” Mac said. He grabbed a five-gallon bucket from the dock and handed it across to Trufante, who scooped the mix of pinfish and pilchards into it. Several buckets later, Mac’s live well was full of baitfish.

“Need anything else?” Trufante asked as he stepped onto the dock.

“Just whatever you want for beer and food.”

Trufante disappeared into a small storage area built underneath the house. He returned a minute later with two 12-packs of beer and a bag of chips. If it were anyone else, Mac would have taken issue with the choice of provisions. Trufante was a different animal. As long as he stayed away from the hard stuff, he was okay drinking beer all day.

Mac took the beer and chips and placed them in the cooler. With any luck, by the end of the day, the beer would be gone, replaced by fish. “Ready?”

“Sure thing.” Trufante went over and said goodbye to Pamela and hopped aboard.

A dozen minutes later they had passed through the neighborhood and entered the small cut leading to the larger channel. Mac eased the throttle forward until the hull planed out. The second the bow started to drop he pulled back just a hair. The boat settled in at 3800 rpm, and they cruised toward the bridge at 25 mph. Mac eased up slightly as he crossed underneath the span. With open water ahead he sped up, moving gradually across the water from right to left to avoid the small islands scattered in the channel.

Past Little Palm Island, the ultra-expensive resort with a shady past, Mac adjusted the throttles to match the conditions, dodging a string of lobster buoys running down the channel.

Before the sea surface temperature, chlorophyll, and currents had become easy to know via an app with a small subscription fee and a few clicks, Mac would have headed out at 220 degrees. The deeper water was due south, but the extra westerly heading would counteract the northeast flow of the Gulf Stream. From what he had surmised from the past few days’ data, the fish were off Cudjoe Key, a good way to the west. Mac didn’t mind the extra miles, knowing the conditions ahead of time. Otherwise, he would be running and gunning, looking for birds, weeds, or debris in a desert. Overall, he would spend less in gas putting in the miles now for a chance at a better reward.

Heading due south would have him past Looe Key, the center of the section of reef off Big Pine, in twenty minutes. Instead, it was almost forty when they crossed the blue water off Cudjoe and approached the spot Mac had seen on the satellite images.

“There’s birds right on it,” Trufante said.

Mac squinted but couldn’t see anything. “Moving?”

“Look to be working something.”

Finding birds meant there was bait, which meant fish. The quantity, species, and behavior of the birds could determine what was underneath the bait. “What do they look like?”

“Tuna birds, for sure.”

Mac could see specs of white diving on the bait pod below. He slowed, gauging the wind and currents before finalizing his approach. “Might oughta get some junk out. We’ll take a run by and see what’s there.”

By junk, he meant artificial lures. Trufante went to the transom and let one line out to a count of thirty and the second to a count of twenty. Pulling the lures and staggering the distance behind the boat would allow Mac to maneuver without tangling the lines.

He approached the school. Silver arcs broke the surface as the tuna schooled the bait into balls. Mac wouldn’t have been surprised to see the bill of a larger predator in the mix. Even though they were ready for a strike, the loud buzz of the line pulling off the reel shot a dose of adrenaline into his system.

There were several times during a fight when mistakes were made. The hookup was one. Mac fought the instinctual urge to slow. Holding course and speed, he continued through the school until something hit the second line. There was no doubt from the quantity of line pouring off the reel that it was the bigger fish.

Mac and Trufante had done this for so long that they didn’t need to talk. Slowing the boat just enough so tension remained on the lines, Mac steered straight. Larger sportfishing boats often backed down on fish. Smaller center consoles usually circled. Mac would do neither until the fish threatened to spool the reel. He kept the course straight, knowing that any sudden movement could give the fish enough slack to spit the hook.

Trufante checked the drag and placed the first rod in one of the overhead rod holders. He grabbed the second, shorter rod, turned off the clicker, and began to play the fish. At this point, patience was required. The angler needed to quell that urgent feeling to get the fish into the boat in order to allow the fish to run, tiring itself with each attempt. Mac turned back and saw the line heading straight down—definitely a sign of a tuna.

Had the line been straight out, it would likely be a dolphin, the brilliant blues and greens evident as it charged and jumped. If that had been the case, Mac would have stayed at the wheel. Unless the fish was firmly hooked in the roof of the mouth, which there was no way to know at this time, a captain couldn’t afford any slack in the line. Most fish were hooked through the corner of the mouth, a soft area that would enlarge through the course of the fight.

With tuna, the fight was straightforward, really just horsing the fish up until the next run. Mac checked the water in front of the boat, left the engine in idle, and watched Trufante pump the rod, pulling the fish toward him on the upstroke and reeling in line on the downstroke. The fish was tiring now, its runs much shorter.

“I got color,” Trufante called out.

Mac reached for the long-handled gaff stored underneath the gunnel and leaned over the side. Twenty feet below the boat, a large silver and black fish appeared. A few seconds later, it saw the white hull and took one last frantic run to escape the predator above. Trufante allowed the line to stop before hauling the exhausted fish to the boat.

The fight had hinged first on the captain, then the angler, and now the mate. In this case, Mac was doing double duty.

“Leader,” Trufante called, stepping back across the boat. Unless the fish made another run, his job was over.

Mac reached over the side and looped the heavy monofilament around his hand, making sure the wraps didn’t cross and moved toward the tips of his fingers. More than one mate had lost fingers when a fish made an unexpected run at this point. He gently brought the fish alongside the boat and reached down with the gaff. Without swinging it, he gently lifted the hook into the tuna’s gullet and hauled it aboard.

“Damned near twenty pounds if you asked me.” Trufante cracked a beer and took a long sip.

Mac gave him a sideways glance, indicating the other line.

“Shoot, Mac, give a man a break.”

Mac shook his head. Their jobs were predetermined. Being Mac’s boat meant he was the captain, which made Trufante the angler. The Cajun downed the beer in one swallow, crumpled the can, tossed it into the engine well, and reached up for the rod.

The fish must have sensed the change and took off at a diagonal angle instead of straight down. Trufante let him go, and a few seconds later, the arc-shaped dolphin shot out of the water. The fish continued to take line.

“Son of a bitch should have been exhausted by now,” Trufante said. He glanced down at the near-empty reel. “Might have to make a move.”

Over the course of fighting the other fish, the dolphin had gradually pulled most of the line from the reel. Now, with the prospect of not only losing the fish, but a hundred dollars of line, Mac returned to the wheel. He cut it hard to port and steered a tangential course to the fish, making a large arc as Trufante brought in the slack line.

The onus was on both captain and angler now. Any mistake by either would cost them the fish. Mac was forced to glance back to ensure the line remained tight—and failed to see an oncoming boat.

There was really no reason he should have worried about it, even if he had seen it. Fishermen had codes and everyone knew to steer clear of a boat fighting a fish. Some captains disregarded the unwritten rule and skirted the fight, trying to draw off any stragglers. Even then, they gave room for the boat to land their catch. This captain didn’t seem to care and came barreling toward the gap between the boat and the fish. Before Mac could react, not that there was anything he could have done, the boat slashed across his wake, its propellers making short work of slicing the line.

Trufante threw down the rod in disgust. Both he and Mac looked up to see who the offender was. As the boat flashed past, Mac saw a stocky man steering from the tower.

“Son of a bitch,” Trufante spat out at the wake.

7

Mac reeled in the cut line. “You know that guy too?”

“Me and Mads had a little wager with him. Son of a bitch cheated, but we got him in the end.”

“Mads?”

“You know, Mike’s kid. Helped her out for a minute.”

Mac wasn’t sure if he was more interested in the details of the bet or with Trufante’s relationship with Maddie. He knew it wasn’t romantic—in any way. Pamela would hold nothing back if the Cajun cheated on her. Maddie also seemed more sensible than to get mixed up with the shit magnet that was Trufante.

“I’ll sometimes stop by and check in when I’m down that way. We got to drinkin’, and that blowhard running on his daddy’s money came into the bar. This came to that and we had a little fishing wager going.”

Mac was fairly impressed that Trufante had spent the time to check in on Maddie. It was a check in the positive column, for sure. Generally, the Cajun could be found running with a different crowd, though he could be bought for a beer or two.

Though after thinking about it for a minute, there was another option that made more sense. Maddie’s sketchy sister might very well be lurking somewhere in his supply chain.

Mac had to deal with the present before he could get any answers about the past. The fish was gone, the birds had vanished, but they had a pretty nice blackfin tuna on the deck.

Fish are generally mishandled when brought aboard. The typical method for the recreational guys was to drop the still-live fish into a cooler or insulated box on top of bagged ice, slam the lid, and celebrate. The commercial guys were held to a higher standard by their customers. They at least covered the fish in crushed ice, usually bleeding the tuna and mackerel beforehand. Bleeding improves the appearance of uncooked tuna flesh, helps initially to reduce the fish's body temperature, and also gets rid of all the bacteria located in the fish's bloodstream that may foul the flesh.

Mac had learned the Japanese technique called iki jimi and practiced it with every fish he caught. The results had been fairly dramatic. Grabbing an ice pick from the knife holder secured to the gunwale, he drove it into the tuna’s brain, killing it instantly. Next, he sliced the gill plate and made an incision across the meat above the tail. With a smaller fish, he would have cut the gill plate and placed it head first in a bucket. In this case, he laid it on the deck in a position that allowed the blood to drain into the scuppers. Before placing it in the fish box, he inserted the plug and sprayed a few gallons of saltwater from the raw-water hose onto the ice, creating a slurry that he eased the fish into. There was a third step that involved running a wire down the spine of the fish. The small benefit of that effort had never seemed to be worth it.

Trufante hosed down the deck, grabbed another beer, and resumed the search for the birds. He’d already forgotten the cut line. Mac hadn’t.

Sure, people got overanxious and made mistakes. A charter captain doing it wasn’t unheard of either. This felt different. He’d had other boats before Reef Runner that were easily recognizable. The center console was anonymous.

That Josh was here was no surprise. One of the detriments of the satellite charts was that everyone had access to them, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where the fish were. If Mac had radar aboard, he would have been able to count a hundred boats within a few miles.

The question was, how would Josh have known to pick Mac’s boat? That would have to wait because right now, there were fish, a condition that generally didn’t last long. And one of the long-standing rules of fishing was to NEVER EVER leave fish.

Mac set a course to follow the track back to where they hooked up. Too often, anglers continued on the same course instead of circling back. Once he had made the turn, Trufante put out the first line and grabbed another rod for the second. With the baits set, he checked the cut line and added a swivel and section of leader material, then joined Mac at the helm.

Trufante had moved on from the incident. Mac hadn’t, being convinced that Josh had cut the line on purpose. He might have been paranoid, but coincidence didn’t sit well with him.

“You got a story to tell?” he finally asked Trufante.

“Got more stories than a porcupine’s got quills. Which one you want?”

Mac knew Trufante was dodging the question. “Why don’t we start with the easy one. Josh?”

“Shoot. Dude thinks he’s the freakin’ king sitting up in that tower and telling his boys what to do. Me and Mads took him on.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“It went down hard. Biggest fish outside the reef, and no sharks or ’cudas. You know I played it straight.”

Mac knew nothing of the sort. “How’s that?”

Their location prevented the easy catches of goliath grouper, sharks, and barracuda found around the bridges. Mac wasn’t sure what species he would have focused on within the rules.

“Deep dropping?” With the right gear and spots, that would be the easiest way to a big fish.

“Would have been okay, but we didn’t have no electrics, and I ain’t hand-cranking past 200 feet.”

Mac sympathized with him. There were some monster fish, including swords out in the deeper water, but reeling in a thousand feet of line by hand without a fish was tiring and time-consuming. With a fish on, it could take hours. In the last few years, electric reels had become commonplace on recreational boats and made short work of fishing the depths. Even then the process was time consuming.

“So what’d y’all do?”

“Got my spots past the reef. Caught some ballyhoo, put out a couple of long lines, and jigged the bottom.” The Cajun sipped his beer.

“AJs?”

“You know it. Hate to haul those bad boys in.”

Within the rules, Amberjack was the best chance at a heavy fish. Schooling off the deeper wrecks and hard bottom past the reef, the fish regularly went fifty pounds. Catching a snapper, grouper, dolphin, or tuna in that range was a trophy. Amberjack, nicknamed reef donkeys, often went to a hundred pounds. “Did you get on anything?”

“We ran uphill to the Vanderbilt. Got on a few, but nothing to write home about.”

Mac knew the Cajun liked to tell a story. He had a reputation for walking into a bar with empty pockets and walking out with a full-on buzz, courtesy of his mouth. Storytelling was a part of fishing, too. With their lures dragging behind the boat and both men scanning the horizon for any signs of life, talk was easy.

Trufante drained the beer and got another. Mac had never bothered to quantify the Cajun’s consumption. He was more concerned about the time between beers than how many he drank. On a modest day, it was one per hour. When he started cracking a fresh one on the half hour, Mac knew he had to worry. The real trouble came when the Cajun hit the bottle, one thing Mac wouldn’t allow aboard.

“We were running out of time and decided to do some deep drifts over Maryland Shoal. Always action there, if you recall. Put out the chum and waited. A half hour later, the bite came. Barely legal yellowtails at first, but they got big fast—not big enough to weigh, but a good sign. Two muttons hit back to back, probably twenty pounds. We were getting worried when one of the bottom rods damned near bent double. Mads is a good girl and all, but I wasn’t risking it. Grabbed that son of a bitch and started fighting.”

Trufante took another sip and smiled as if he were remembering the fight. He set the can down and started acting out the scene. “Ran deep a couple of times.” He pantomimed fighting the fish. “Mac, I ain’t lying when I say it was all my skinny ass could do to keep it out of the rocks.”

He took a long sip and wiped his brow as if he were remembering the fatigue of fighting the fish. “Finally made some progress, then the line goes slack. I was thinking shark, but then it takes off like a freakin’ ’hoo. Fast and hard, back and forth. I figured it was being chased by something when the flat line went off. Mads took that rod and brought in the biggest king I ever saw. Weighed in at sixty-two pounds.”

“What about your fish?” Mac had been drawn into the story.

“Shoot. Forty-pound black grouper. Damned trophy, but she got me with the king.”

“So you won?”

“Things ain’t ever as easy as that.” Trufante drained the beer and opened another.

Mac was starting to worry the beers were going down too quickly, but he was more interested in the story.

“Josh shows up with an AJ that looked to be a little shy of Mad’s king. Fish rang the bell at seventy. I was like, no freakin’ way. Dude gets all defensive. Up in my face and all.” The Cajun took another sip and shook his head. “Then before we went to fisticuffs, he backs off, takes the fish down, and tosses it into the wheelbarrow. Starts to make a beeline for his boat when I see the bulge in the stomach.”

“Weighted it?” Mac had heard of some freshwater tournaments where the winners had shoved lead weights down the gullets of the fish they weighed. Besides or because of the size difference between fresh and saltwater fish, the bass tournaments often used an aggregate weight of five fish. Even then, the winner was often determined by ounces. It was a lot easier to hide a couple of ounces in a fish than a five-pound, deep-drop weight.

“Either that or it swallowed a window sash weight. Thing was too round to be real.”

“What’d you do?”

Trufante pulled out his knife and opened the blade. “Slice the slob open.”

“And?”

“Two deep-drop weights. Reckon they were five pounds each. The thing is, I have no idea how he got them in there.”

“Doesn’t matter. Cheating’s cheating,” Mac said, his revulsion for Josh digging deeper.

“Wouldn’t admit to it, and his two boys come up on us. Had us outnumbered. Shoot, even odds, I could’ve took at least two of them, but not with the Mads there.”

It was probably a good thing Maddie had been there. If it had been Pamela, the couple would be residing in the county lockup.

“What happened?”

“No choice but to call it off and let him go his way.”

It wasn’t like Trufante to let something like this go. “Does this have something to do with the CI deal?”

Trufante didn’t take a drink but tried to hide behind the beer can. Mac let him have a moment, knowing he’d struck a nerve and would get the truth—or at least Trufante’s version of it. Whatever the outcome, he now understood why Josh had behaved as he did. The cut line was something he could have ignored, a petty barb from a fellow fisherman. Going after Maddie was a different deal altogether.

“So, here’s the thing.” Trufante paused and drank.

“What are you, Pip now?”

“Damned, Mac, you ain’t makin’ this any easier.”

“Okay.”

Trufante looked like he was ready to speak when one of the reels went off. He leaped to his feet and hovered over the rod, knowing to let the boat hook the fish. When it jumped he saw it was a good-sized dolphin, picked up the rod, and started working the fish.

With the large tuna already on ice, Mac was willing to take a chance and slowed to a low idle. When he was certain the fish was hooked well, he took the boat out of gear. Usually, this was a questionable tactic. The forward momentum of the boat contributed to the fish’s fatigue and kept the hook firmly in place.

Mac watched Trufante for a long second. “You’re on your own. I’m gonna try and bring in the school.”

The detriment of using the engine to fight the fish was that any other fish were usually left behind. Mac moved to the live well and tossed several scoops of baitfish into the water behind the boat. At first, nothing happened. A minute later, the water started to boil behind them. From his position on deck, Mac could see the little green monsters circling the baitfish.

He picked up one of the spinning rods, worked a pilchard onto the circle hook, and tossed it into the school. Seconds later, the line came tight. Mac closed the bail and reeled hard, hooking the fish and forgetting, at least for the moment, about Josh.

8

Three good-sized dolphin later, Mac decided to call it quits. The box wasn’t full—in fact, it could have held twice the number of fish. The self-imposed limit was what his conscience allowed.

Fishermen varied in their beliefs and actions when taking fish. If you followed some of the groups on social media, you might think that everyone caught limits. In truth, most didn’t. Catching fish in the Keys is relatively easy, especially when the smaller snapper and dolphin are the targeted species. The challenge is catching quality fish consistently. It takes little skill to find a patch of debris offshore holding dolphin or to chum up a school of yellowtails. Landing a wahoo, mutton snapper, or black grouper was another matter.

Mac was okay with the tourists, who took limits when they could find them—as long as it wasn’t every day. The beds of too many pickups coming down from the mainland had large chest freezers meant to be filled.

There was an argument to be made that the catch was shared with coworkers, family, and friends—and it probably was. Even then, there was waste. Unless the fish was handled properly from landing to processing, and the meat was packaged and frozen correctly, it would be in the trash in a month or two. Mac knew a lot of locals who filled their freezers regularly. That was more greed than need.

Mac used every bit of his catch. What didn’t reach his dinner table was used as bait in his traps. In practice, more fish than anyone would acknowledge went into the back of the Waste Management trucks.

The greed factor was hard to ignore, but it wasn’t the only problem. The state and the feds were to blame as well. With what seemed like random limits and closures, many anglers took what they could get when they could get it.

Besides the greed factor, there was also something deep in the human psyche at work. That primal urge that has been suppressed by readily available food comes to the forefront when a fish is hooked. Mac knew firsthand that fighting it off was tough. He had seen staunch environmentalists who talked smack about anglers keeping fish turn into wide-eyed children begging to keep their own catch. Catch-and-release was easy to practice on bonefish, permit, and tarpon, whose fight was world-class but which were not regarded as good table fare.

Trufante eyed him, an angry look on his face. He was part of another group, a much smaller percentage who sold their catch to pay expenses. Several licenses—at a minimum, a Salt Water Products License and a Commercial Fishing License—were required to legally harvest fish for resale. The licenses were both hard to get and expensive. Over time, it had become even harder, but not impossible, to sell an illegal catch. Trufante still had connections in several restaurants that were willing participants.

“That ain’t a lot for the both of us,” Trufante whined. He knew the deal, though. It was Mac’s boat, so therefore his rules.

“I don’t need much. A tuna loin and some dolphin, and you can have the rest.”

Trufante didn’t need to rely on Mac. He could go out on his own as well, though that was problematic. He was a known commodity with every FWC officer in the Middle and Lower Keys. The chances of being pulled over and boarded increased exponentially if he were seen running his own boat.

Mac could tell the Cajun’s mood had soured. Fortunately, talking above the roar of the engine was difficult. By the time they reached Little Palm Island and entered Newfound Harbor, his smile was back.

When the fish were laid out on the dock, Mac realized how much they had taken. The tuna alone was a half-dozen meals for a small family. He shrugged, knowing their shares would be consumed in different ways, but none would go to waste.

Trufante’s beer drinking resumed in full force when they moved to the fish-cleaning station. Mac partook as well, his first of the day. With a bucket filled with some ice and seawater taken from the blue water offshore, the two men went to work. Mac handled the tuna while Trufante started on the dolphin.

The proper cleaning of a fish was a hotly debated topic. From the dry-age camp who used, or at least claimed to use, every part of the fish as food, to the old K-Mart electric-knife crowd, there were too many schools of thought and technique to count. As with most things fishing, like the endless conversations about which knot is better, Mac stuck with the truism that whatever you were comfortable doing was best.

He and Trufante had cleaned enough fish that they didn’t have to think about it. With the beer flowing and the fillets being dropped into the bucket, the subject of the CI deal returned to Mac’s mind.

“That deal with Josh have anything to do with the CI thing?”

Mac still wasn’t sure what the “thing” was.

Trufante took a long sip, worked the knife over the knuckles running down the backbone of one of the dolphin, and removed a fillet. He slid it off the table and into the bucket, took another sip, and turned to Mac. “Last thing I wanted to get involved in.”

Mac could tell by the way he said it that he meant it. He had also seen Trufante’s reluctance in the courtroom. At first, Mac had thought it was because he was there, but now he suspected it was for a different reason.

“I’m guessin’ your taste for revenge landed you in the county lockup.”

“Nah, that would have been easier. Now I got more enemies than I started with.”

Trufante’s disarming smile and easy-going attitude were usually enough to maintain his status as a likable guy. This was different. Taking an active role by helping the police entrap a small-time dealer was not going to be forgiven. The criminal community of the Keys was small enough to have its own Coconut Telegraph. Mac knew that crowd and suspected the Cajun’s name was being spat out with vehement passion—and not in a good way. There were forty-two bridges connecting the Keys. Trufante had burned every one by helping the police.

Mac wasn’t sure he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. “How did you go from the weighted fish to being a CI?”

“It wasn’t as easy as it sounds.”

Mac laughed, snorting a few drops of beer from his nose. There were certain predicaments that only the Cajun could find himself in.

Trufante took offense and turned to him with a serious look on his face. “We kind of drew a crowd on the docks. This was right after those guys got busted up north for weighting their fish. All over YouTube for a few minutes.”

There was enough money in the larger bass tournaments that death threats had been issued after a team was caught cheating. The video had gone viral. “Did someone film it?”

“Yeah. Josh went after him and grabbed his phone. I’m guessin’ that someone else called the cops before because of how fast they showed. You know me, the law shows and Trufante goes.”

Mac had seen that show before.

They continued to clean the fish. Trufante remained silent, strangely absorbed in the process, which Mac knew was driven by muscle memory.

“You don’t want to tell me, it’s cool.” There was more than one way to skin a cat.

The Cajun put down the knife and left his beer on the cleaning table. “It ain’t that. I stepped over to the Hogfish to get a beer.”

Mac knew it was more to avoid the police than any thirst issue. He stayed quiet.

“Guess I’m getting old, ’cause the cops found me over there. Wasn’t just the uniforms. I could have seen them comin’. A couple of detectives dressed up like fishermen caught me off guard.” Trufante paused and took a long sip. “That should be illegal, you know. Entrapment. Anyway, these guys cozied up and started buying. I know I should’ve turned them down …” The thought drifted off as Trufante relived the decision that had landed him in this predicament.

“Anyway. They was like, you want to get that guy back, we can help.”

“And you said yes.”

“Shoot. It was probably the beer talking, you know.” The Cajun drank. “I thought they was talking about the cheating and all. Couldn’t quite figure it out.”

Mac knew the feeling. His involvement with the authorities, most recently the court case, reinforced what Trufante had gone through. Too many times, the officers had appeared to be sincere only to have a hidden agenda. He almost felt sorry for the Cajun.

“They were after the guy in court?” Mac couldn’t believe it.

“Nah, he was the low-hanging fruit. Figured if they busted him with something solid, he’d turn.”

“Instead, he asked for a jury trial?”

“Go figure. They was going to let him walk if he chirped.”

That told Mac how deep this went if the dealer was willing to forgo several years of his life to protect someone. Using his right to a jury trial was a roll of the dice to try for a not guilty verdict, in which case he would get out unscathed. Mac wondered if, had he known the circumstances, he would have voted differently. At worst, he could have been the lone dissenter and caused a mistrial.

“So, they ended up burning you to teach him a lesson?”

“Seems that way to me.”

Mac was getting angry, not at the Cajun, but at the system. He was too far gone to consider whether this was a one-time thing with Trufante.

“Josh is the guy they wanted?”

“Yeah. Don’t think he’s living large running that boat, do you?”

It hadn’t made sense to Mac. The seven-figure boat, the two mates, the new truck, the attitude of entitlement. He had thought it was his father bankrolling his son. Now, he suspected it was drugs. That realization was like a piece of sand embedded in his flip-flop that wasn’t going away by itself.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“I know that look. You have an idea, don’t you? I’m in.”

Pamela appeared behind them, somehow having heard the conversation from the cloud of self-generated smoke on the deck. Mac had always felt the medicinal marijuana thing was a sham. Sure, some people benefited. Most were normal people who paid a quack doctor for a prescription.

But Mac had seen Pamela without, and it wasn’t pretty. For her, the medicinals weren’t a want. They were a need. Trufante needed his beer—she needed the weed. Mac knew that something in her past had Pamela receiving a monthly check from the government. He suspected some kind of disability from her time serving in the army. Whatever it was, there appeared to be nothing physically wrong with her. Pamela was a legitimate badass.

Once upon a time, Trufante had “found” her wandering around Duval Street, hungover, confused, and dragging a purple suitcase by its three remaining wheels. The pair seemed made for each other, and it was the Cajun’s first relationship that had lasted past a week that Mac knew of.

Mac wasn’t sure where her talent for prescience came from. What was undeniable was that she had it. Asking how she knew something wasn’t worth it.

Mac paused and drank the now-warm beer.

Telling the two now about what was merely an idea rattling around in his brain was not a good idea. He didn’t even know if it could reach the status of a plan—and then if it was even a good one.

What Mac did know was that Josh’s actions had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the warm beer was not fixing it. Mac drank again with the same result and took a leap.

“I’ve got a few ideas.”

Surprisingly, the idea that he was engaged in Trufante’s problem seemed to satisfy them for the moment. Removing the fish from the bucket, they packed them in bags, dipped them in the water up to the ziplock to remove the air, then sealed them. The carcasses went in the freezer as well, to be used as bait in the stone crab and pinfish traps.

Heading back to the island, instead of looking forward to a seared tuna steak for dinner, Mac had Josh Gardner on his mind.

9

There had been instances when Mac was fired up about an idea at night but found it became tepid by the morning. This was not one of those times. If anything, his resolve had grown. Josh Gardner represented everything he disliked in a man. From his treatment of women to cheating at fishing to whatever he had done to put Trufante in danger, the man had to be taught a lesson.

But Mac had to be careful about it.

Before he leaped head first down a rabbit hole, Mac needed information. Drug smuggling had long been the realm of the cartels. That wasn’t somewhere Mac wanted to go. He might be able to do a little damage, but the organizations were like sharks regenerating their dental work.

Another factor was in play as well. There was always the possibility that Josh worked alone. Mac needed to find out if this was a one-man band or an organization. Taking out a single guy might do some good. That wasn’t the case with cartels and organized crime. Vacuums were rarely left empty. In the criminal world they were filled quickly, and often with harder characters than were eliminated. The drug cartels had morphed from businessmen capable of being thugs to thugs trying to be businessmen. To say only the strong survived was wrong. The strong were usually replaced by someone stronger and even more ruthless.

The cartels’ business plans had expanded as well. Originally exporters, they now controlled the entire network of distributors and dealers. Their violent tentacles reached to the lowest-level dealers. Besides an increase in violence, the cartels’ strategy to increase the potency of their products by cutting in fentanyl and other dangerous and addictive substances has become a major factor in the rise in overdoses. Recreational drug use was no longer “safe.”

Mac could face some of these challenges but not all. One of the keys to discovering how high up the food chain Josh sat was the amount of money he threw around. The guy could be paying cash for things like his million-dollar boat and truck, or he could be deep in debt because of the purchases.

To figure it out, Mac needed the VIN number for the truck and the hull ID number from the boat. With that information, a quick internet search would tell him if there were liens against the titles. He had some other contacts that he could probe as well. Pip was one, though Mac was reluctant to involve him. His boisterous friend knew every boat in that price range in the Keys, but he tended to be indiscreet in his inquiries. Mac wasn’t ready to reveal his interest yet. If and when that time came, Pip would be the guy.

Reluctantly, he picked up his phone and found Billy Bones’ contact information. He pressed connect and waited. Where Pip was certain to ruffle some feathers and attract unwanted attention to his inquiries, Billy Bones was more like a snake slithering below the surface of the criminal world in Key West.

Even though Bones could provide the information he needed, Mac hated to call him. The guy was like slime—slippery enough to ease into the cracks where no one else could fit.

“Yo, Mac. A little busy now.”

Mac heard a trop-rock melody coming from one of the crooners on Duval Street. “Go outside. This is important.”

“Everything is important to the almighty Mac Travis. You need to reconsider your position in the grand scheme of things.”

Mac would have smacked the man if he were in front of him. His tone and belligerence told Mac that he had recently made a score and was out celebrating. Mac wasn’t going to get anything out of him until he spent whatever cash he had, which would probably be by morning. Instead of his current attitude, he would return, groveling for scraps.

“Later, Bones. Wasn’t that important.” Mac disconnected the call.

He wanted to hit something but held his temper. Guys like Billy Bones weren’t worth getting upset over. Mac needed some air, so he left the house and climbed down the dozen stairs that led to a small clearing. On the opposite side was the shed where he kept his gear and that housed the infrastructure for the island.

Wood had built the original structure, which had survived several storms until finally being obliterated by Hurricane Irma’s twelve-foot storm surge. Mac had rebuilt using the surviving foundation and the original floor plan.

The house had been built with a passive as well as active solar design. A covered, wraparound porch shielded its large windows from the tropical sun, while bug screens allowed for ventilation. Water ran through a pair of black panels mounted to the metal roof that heated water to within a few degrees of hot. An on-demand propane heater did the rest. On the roof of the shed were the half-dozen solar panels that provided electricity to power the fans and lights.

With plenty of sunlight, a cistern to collect rainwater, and a deep well that Wood had dug, the island’s only non-renewable resource needed was propane, which powered the refrigerator, stove, and hot-water heater. With the water just steps away and the subtropical climate allowing his vegetable garden to produce year-round, food was never an issue. The quantity and consumption of propane and gas dictated the length of time Mac could stay hidden from society.

He performed his daily check of the systems and headed back upstairs.

Stuck in purgatory between tired and wired, Mac cracked open the bottle of scotch, poured a strong two fingers into a tumbler, and took the glass outside. He sat in one of the Adirondack chairs on the deck and glanced at the empty seat—Mel’s chair.

The two women in his life—Pamela and Mel—were near polar opposites. He’d learned from both of them that there were things beyond his control. Mel said it from her always pragmatic viewpoint, Pamela from her ethereal state of being.

The ethereal influence had Mac imagining Mel was sitting next to him. The pragmatic part hoped she actually might offer some guidance.

Mac stared at the chair, shook his head, and drank. This was something he would need to figure out for himself.

A criminal element had been present in the Keys before the island chain was even illustrated realistically on maps. With its proximity to Havana, through which the riches of Spain had flowed back to the Continent for hundreds of years, smugglers and pirates had used the skinny backwaters of the island chain to prey on the heavily laden treasure ships and evade capture by the various navies they offended. It wasn’t until the 1820s that Commodore David Porter’s anti-piracy squad, based in Key West, wiped that scourge from the seas by using small boats to root the pirates out of their hiding places.

Pirates, by definition, preyed on other ships, stealing from, enslaving, or outright murdering the crews of their victims. Porter’s success led to the end of at least outright piracy, which left a void that was filled by smugglers. Leading up to the Civil War, smugglers used the Keys as a way station between Cuba and the mainland to avoid import taxes on cigars and liquor. With the Civil War on the horizon, the trade reached its peak. During wartime, the pirates were legitimized as privateers. The smugglers were called blockade runners.

The status quo returned after the war and lasted a generation until the Spanish-American War, when the Keys again became an important naval base. Another quiet period ensued until the 18th Amendment was ratified in 1919. Liquor was a hot commodity during prohibition. World War II brought the naval presence back, as did the Cuban Missile Crisis. In the late 1960s, drugs became the import of choice.

Regardless of the commodity, smugglers used the same routes, hideaways, and even processes as their predecessors had centuries earlier, first by bringing bales of pot that they transferred from the motherships sitting offshore to smaller vessels that could penetrate the DEA’s defenses and reach the mainland.

Liquor and pot were limited by their shipping size. When coke became the drug of choice, everything changed again.

The smugglers no longer needed ocean-going vessels. With the more compact product, they could fly a seaplane from Columbia and land in the backwaters of the Keys with the same dollar value of product as a freighter.

Mac knew erasing one name from the ledger was not going to change anything. It might make it worse. That didn’t change the fact that, one way or another, he was going after Josh.

It seemed as if Mel were talking to him from her vacant chair. Pamela had told him that homes and rooms and furniture had memories and could communicate with her. She wasn’t the only one, Mac discovered. He felt the spirits of Wood and Mel in the house without any help. Sometimes it was Wood telling him he was naive, but in more colorful language. Other times, it would be Mel saying the same thing in legalese. What Mac did know was that whether Mel was there in some form or other, his subconscious was acting out her part in the discussion—and for that, he was grateful.

She told him to be careful. Told him saving Trufante should not be his life’s work. Told him that he was thinking in one dimension when he needed to be thinking in three. Mac drank and thought about that last part for a while. He could have called her and talked it out, but the glass was empty, and he was past that point.

Mac tried to reason it out for himself. It wasn’t like he was making rash judgments. His plan to investigate Josh’s assets was sound. Mac added discovering where Josh was living to his research list. If he could determine where the money had come from to buy the boat, truck, and house, Mac was sure he could make him pay.

Wood’s voice seemed to waft up from the clearing, telling him to confront the son of a bitch head-on. Mac accepted the advice for what it was. Mel was reason; Wood, emotion. Mac needed to find the right mix to figure this out.

Mac knew all the old talking points, like “begin with the end in mind.” That was easy. He could spend all night and then some imagining Josh’s demise. Before he reached the tenth iteration, his phone rang. Reluctantly, Mac picked up the device, half expecting it to be Mel. Instead the screen had a single word: Bones.

He glanced at his empty glass, rose to refill it, and accepted the call.

“Sorry, man. Had some business to attend to.”

If Billy Bones had a superpower besides clinging to the underbelly of Key West like a remora sticks to a shark, it was his ability to sense the next big thing. Unfortunately, he cut too many corners. His tiki-bar boats had sunk. The data on the GPS spots he’d stolen from other captains was corrupted. Some of the stuff never quite caught on. Mac had no interest in what he was doing now.

“eRickshaws, Travis. Next big thing. You want in?”

Mac froze. “That dog might hunt.” He regretted the words the minute he said them. Instead of a refill, he set the glass in the sink.

“No shit, Travis.”

Alternate forms of transportation were the best way to get around Key West. Bicycles, golf carts, skateboards, scooters, rickshaws, and now e-bikes were everywhere. Driving a car or, god forbid, a truck was hazardous. The bicycle-powered rickshaws were a cool form of transportation, but due to the fatigue factor of the rider, which limited how many fares they could take, they were expensive. Using an e-bike for a power plant would change the dynamic. It seemed to be such a no-brainer that Mac couldn’t come up with an easy way that Billy would blow it.

“Best of luck to you.” He was about to disconnect the call, but Billy’s next words stopped him.

“Heard there’s a price on the Cajun’s head.”

“How much?” Mac jumped over the who, curious what the number was. The “who?” question would answer itself. More important to his planning was whether it was Josh or someone further up the food chain.

“That asswipe Josh Gardener. Ain’t no takers, though, doubts he’d pay up and all.”

“Guy’s all talk, huh?”

“Wanna-be for sure.”

It took one to know one. Before his entrepreneurial ventures, Billy had his sights set on being a gangster. But like most who came and stayed in the Keys, the New Jersey transplant had eventually fell like an ebbing tide to the level of his ability and character.

“Keep your eyes open. I’ll take care of you.”

“Like a bloodhound, Travis.”

10

Mac disconnected the call and was about to turn off the phone entirely, retrieve his glass from the sink, and have a stiff drink when a flash of light followed by a thunderous boom stopped him. Mac set the bottle down and went outside.

Thunder from a nearby lightning strike was the easy answer. But the skies were clear enough to see the Milky Way. Mac moved around the wraparound porch, checking each cardinal point. Finally, looking west, he saw a dull glow. The direction was the Content Keys, a popular sandbar area. With no storms on the horizon, Mac’s next guess was that it had been a naval exercise. Sonic booms from the jets were a common occurrence. The Navy also did live-fire drills, though those were a rarity. The backcountry was riddled with bomb holes, now lobster habitats, from past exercises.

The entire area was well within the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge, which precluded that possibility as well. The glow seemed to originate from the Content Passage, a roughly defined area to the south of the main cluster of islands. The route back to Big Pine and the Torch Keys was one of those places where local knowledge and the right tide were required to navigate. The larger commercial boats drew too much water to even attempt it, which also left out most law enforcement. It might be a recreational boater, but this time of night, Mac expected it was something else. When the orange glow turned into a full-on conflagration, Mac had to do something.

There were exactly two properties that had slipped through the cracks and been developed in the Wildlife Refuge, and Mac lived on one of them. Wood had reached an arrangement with the authorities a little over two dozen years ago and had been granted the island on a twenty-five-year lease. Jesse McDermitt, a retired Marine, was the other. His island was part of the Contents, but toward the southern end of the islands, away from the fire.

There was a very good chance Mac had been the only witness. That left him as not only the first responder but the only one.

Mac ran down the stairs to the dock. He hopped aboard Reef Runner and started the engine. Releasing the lines, he backed away from the structure and headed out the narrow channel. Avoiding the rock, which showed another foot indicating it was low tide, Mac swung the wheel to port and headed to the open water of the Gulf of Mexico.

Conditions here were not indicative of what he would find when he reached the Contents. Though only four miles away as the crow flew, reaching them by boat would take around six. Mac knew every shortcut, but at night, he was conservative. He wasn’t worried about navigation—the chartplotter clearly showed the winding path through the flats and shoals.

It was the crab and lobster trap buoys, nearly invisible in the dark, that worried him. Usually, the propeller severed the line between the buoy and trap, creating a ghost trap. It was up to the tag holder whether it was worth the effort to retrieve them. Some did, many didn’t, and the sea floor was littered with traps in all states of decomposition. A piece of softwood was required on the traps, which would quickly decay, allowing the crustaceans to escape and rendering the trap useless.

And if the line wasn’t cut, the other possibility was that it would wrap around the propeller and cripple the engine. Speeding toward the site of the fire would do no good if he didn’t reach it.

Mac steered through the closest of three serpentine channels that cut through the Harbor Bank, an area of flats behind the island. When the depth finder showed five feet, he pushed the throttle forward and turned west toward the blaze. For the next few miles, he ran a parallel course to the islands. When he reached the easternmost of the Content Keys, he slowed.

This was an area where you couldn’t necessarily get from one island to another without a circuitous route. Mac had noticed the tide was low when he left his place. Generally, that should mean an area this close would be the same. That wasn’t true for this part of the backcountry,

The Lower Keys technically started at the western terminus of the Seven Mile Bridge. The geography through Ohio, Bahia Honda, and Scout Keys just after the bridge was similar to the Middle Keys—thin strips of land connected by bridges. The terrain changed dramatically with Big Pine. Instead of running parallel with the chain of islands in what most people thought of as a north/south orientation but was actually east/west, the landmass ran perpendicular. US 1, or the Overseas Highway, was like the spine of the Upper and Middle Keys and more like a rib in the Lower Keys.

The orientation of the islands in the Lower Keys created long channels connecting the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. These were all different, their only commonality being that they were difficult to navigate. The particular terrain of each area dictated how long it took the tide to change. Mac knew the tides in the Contents were about twenty minutes ahead of his island. That didn’t sound like much, but where boats had to run in one to three feet of water, it could mean the difference between passing safely and grounding.

It wasn’t like he’d never been stuck. There was a saying that either you had run aground or you were a liar, which covered most people who had boated here for any length of time. With the advances in marine electronics, the most common cause of the groundings was ignoring or misreading the state of the tide.

With the tide ebbing, Mac had to be careful. To make matters worse, from his position outside the channel he could see that the fire was on or close by one of the pair of sandbars.

Mac took the boat out of gear to figure out the best way to approach the fire. Early morning on the right tide there were few better places to catch bait, so he knew the layout of the islands. The flames were clearly from a burning boat, not a bonfire. The air was still, the water quiet. No other boats were visible. If a MAYDAY call had gone out, he would still be well ahead of the Coast Guard, who would be coming from Key West.

He was not totally unprepared to help. Mac had all the required safety equipment aboard. He pulled the fire extinguisher from the bracket under the console. It felt light in his hand. The dial showed the charge in the green, but it was not going to make a dent in the large blaze.

Saving the boat was not his priority—the people were. Hopefully, they had abandoned ship and were waiting for help on one of the nearby islands. Mac glanced at his phone and saw the tiny words where the service bars resided. He couldn’t read them but knew they said no service.

Calling the Coast Guard was the logical thing to do. Knowing if they were already en route would change his plan. If they weren’t, he was the first—and maybe the last—responder. They might be here in time to clean up the mess, but he had the critical task of saving anyone who needed saving.

Mac reached for the mic and turned the VHF to Channel 16. He said his boat’s name, Reef Runner, and requested assistance from the Coast Guard. By using the hailing channel, he might reach another boater who was in a position to respond—if they were listening. Before cell phones, almost every boater had their radio on. Now, it was a rare occurrence.

The dispatcher indicated that this was the first call. Help would be on the way, but Mac couldn’t wait the thirty minutes it would take them to arrive. He pushed the throttle forward and slowly entered the channel between the islands. The sandbar dead ahead, a weekend refuge for the locals, was empty. A thin strip of sand was visible in the moonlight. With the tide ebbing, in another hour the entire area would be exposed. Mac turned to the right and saw the burning boat in the center of what appeared to be a channel. Mac knew that was an illusion. A murky flat protected the west end.

The boat was in the center of the channel. Water surrounded it, but Mac knew it was grounded in the sandy bottom just inches below the hull. The fire encompassed the vessel. With a clear view Mac could see there was no saving the boat. That hadn’t been his intention anyway. If there was anything worth salvaging, he would deal with that later.

His attitude was a direct reversal from the wreckers who had made Key West the richest per capita city in the country during the mid-1800s. Back then, on spotting a wreck, a race ensued between the wreckers. Whoever reached it first would become the wreck master. They would, of course, make sure the survivors were taken to safety, but their goal was the 50 percent share of the merchandise they saved.

Mac scanned the shoreline. To the left, the mangroves reached to the water. Another channel, deep by comparison to the rest of the channel, ran alongside. The mucky bottom and water flow, while ideal for catching bait, were less so for anyone trying to escape the burning boat. The logical choice was to the right, where a narrow sliver of sand reached to the receding water. The beach appeared empty. Mac called out, hearing only the echo of his voice carry over the water. He looked around again. A pair of egrets stood out against the white sand—the only visible sign of life.

Mac moved his gaze back to the boat. The flames had died down enough that he could see from the bow rise that it was a Contender. Built for slashing through big seas, the boats were not built for comfort—nor were they cheap. The profile of the owner did not meet the circumstances.

Contender had a loyal, though demographically small, base. These were rarely an owner’s first boat, meaning they had experience. Not someone to take a thirty-footer into skinny water. The fire could have been caused by any number of issues, as could its final resting place. An illicit rendezvous came to mind. A deal gone wrong became the likely culprit.

With the current pulling hard against Reef Runner, Mac had to watch himself. The water around the sliver of sand in the center of the channel had noticeably dropped in the few minutes he’d been here. Mac moved toward a deep pocket of water where he felt safe and scanned the shoreline again. Even the egrets were gone.

The sound of an engine revving broke through the quiet. It was too soon for the Coast Guard and coming from the wrong direction. Mac might have been mistaken, as sound traveling across water is notoriously hard to pin down, but he thought it came from the end of the channel—the closed end.

Mac turned and studied the water. There were no lights, but the silhouette of a boat would have been outlined against the background. The engine revved again. The sound funneling between the two strips of land on each side of the channel told Mac he had been correct.

Suddenly, the noise changed. Mac knew the driver had put the engine in gear. With its propeller churning the water, the noise was even more deafening. Mac reacted quickly and moved closer to the beach. His red and green lights on the bow and white light on the stern were not giving him the measure of safety they were designed for. The thin strip of deeper water, barely wide enough for a single boat, was the only way out at this tide.

He turned back and saw the hull of a boat coming directly toward him.

11

The boat shot out of the channel like Big Daddy Don Garlits off the start line of a drag race. With the bow raised high, the engines dug into the water, looking for purchase. In the deep part of the channel, the driver could afford the depth. Just before the boat hit the shallow water, the bow dropped, and the hull planed out, skimming the water like an insect, flitting back and forth. With so little of the hull in the water, the driver barely had control of the boat. There was almost no wake, but the rooster tail shooting from the propeller soaked him. Running with the throttle wide open, the roar of the engine was deafening. Before the boat passed, he was sure he saw Josh turn and grin.

Before he could recover, the boat was gone, leaving Mac wet and confused.

There were so many explanations for what might have happened that he didn’t know where to start. A good beginning was to disappear before the Coast Guard arrived. Whether he had just witnessed an abduction, a murder, or some other kind of retribution, Mac was sure that talking to the Coast Guard wouldn’t aid his cause.

The Coasties were very good at search and rescue as well as protecting the country's shores. The chain of command was not set up for law enforcement. Unfortunately, that left the FWC, who were even worse at it.

Mac was better off getting the answers on his own. Once he knew what was going on, he would decide whether to involve the authorities.

Whatever he chose to do, he needed to get moving. With the water receding around him, Mac wasted no time. He cut the wheel and slowly made his way out to deeper water. Unlike Josh, he preferred to follow the old boater’s adage that if you were going to hit, hit slow. Using good sense didn’t mean that Mac was a conservative boater. Once he had cleared the channel between the two islands, he pressed the throttle down and sped north, out into the open Gulf.

By the time he was a quarter mile offshore, he could see the white wake of Josh’s boat heading west. Mac had no doubt about his destination.

“Early” in the Keys generally meant sunrise. In Key West, it referred to sunset. When the old-time fishermen and divers were going to bed, the city was waking up. The Contents were about a forty-odd-minute trip away. Already a quarter of the way there, the only hindrance was Mac’s wet clothes. With the wind blowing through him, Mac figured they’d be dry by the time he reached the marina.

Mac ran further offshore to avoid the Coast Guard, who would be coming directly toward him if he stayed close to the islands. He would be visible on their radar but out of sight. Reaching the twenty-foot contour line, he turned to the west. The trio of Coast Guard boats, visible by their lights, sped by on his port side just as he passed the Sawyer Keys. Mac relaxed and headed toward shore. About fifteen minutes later, he could see the glow of Key West in the distance.

Unlike most of the backcountry, the channels leading to Key West were well-marked to the point of being confusing with all the blinking lights. Each one was identifiable if you knew what to look for. Different colors and intervals made it clear which light was which.

Mac scanned the water as he approached, seeing Josh’s boat enter the Key West Bight. Mac had to be careful. Once he passed the breakwater and entered the harbor, he would be a sitting duck. It had only been a day since he first heard Josh Gardner’s name and already he knew the man to be irrational and volatile. He added dangerous to the list after seeing the burning boat. The Coast Guard docks on his port side didn’t add to his comfort level.

The marina at the Key West Bight was the high-rent district. Within easy walking distance to the restaurants and bars along the historic pier, and with Duval Street less than a quarter mile away, it was the logical choice over the more pedestrian Garrison Bight.

Mac backed off the throttles once he knew where Josh had gone. From what he had learned of the man, he decided caution was in order. Even if Gardner burned boats for a living, he would still have adrenaline coursing through him. Mac was wired just from the incidental contact. The time-honored way to settle down after an action was alcohol, and Key West was the center of that attraction.

Mac started to think as he entered the channel leading to the marina. There was little doubt that Josh being out there meant that he was involved in something illicit. During daylight hours, his ostentatious boat would be a questionable choice for the area. At night, it was more so. The burning boat and his quick exit were clear signs that something had gone wrong.

There were several different ecosystems within a ten-mile radius of any part of the Keys. A boat that was suitable for trolling the thousand-foot-deep waters of the Gulf Stream was worthless sight-casting for bonefish in the skinny waters of the backcountry. The opposite was generally true unless it was flat calm. The systems weren’t strict bubbles, though. Trimmed properly, a boat like Josh’s could access much of the backcountry.

Though there was crossover between the boats, fishermen were easier to pigeonhole. Many were purists, especially the catch-and-release flats guys. They bought boats suitable for the single purpose of finding fish in very shallow water.

A Venn diagram showing the uses for Josh’s boat would have a large overlapping area. What the diagram wouldn’t illustrate was that the design was perfect for smuggling. For a smuggler, it would be ideal to be able to run offshore at speeds the Coast Guard was hard-pressed to reach, or to have a clandestine meet in the foot-deep water of the backcountry.

Mac reached the marina and cruised down a fairway, an aisle between docked boats. Furthest out were the smaller boats, mostly charters. Closer were the larger catamarans and sailboats that offered snorkeling and sunset cruises. The fees were certainly higher, but with the amount of foot traffic, a docked boat was as good as a billboard.

Mac headed toward the fuel dock. This time of night, the pumps were closed and the dock empty. The dinghies of the boats moored in the harbor were relegated to a small dock to the side.

Reef Runner slid against the dock. Mac secured a pair of lines, shut down the engine, and stepped off. He glanced around. With no sign of Josh or any security, he headed toward the street.

Key West had several classes of bars. There were the tourist bars lining Duval Street and the local bars hidden on side streets. The locals might have to put up with a guy like Josh where business was concerned, but they were not going to drink with him. Of the tourist bars, some had live music, and others didn’t. Mac didn’t think Josh would frequent either. There was one type of establishment left—one Mac dreaded.

The bars and restaurants along the pier were busy. Most were open-air or at least had large windows. Mac casually peered into each establishment on the off chance he would see Josh. As he expected, he was nowhere in sight.

Just before he reached Duval Street, a yellow flashing light caught his eye. Mac turned to see a semi-truck hauling a gleaming fiberglass catamaran set sideways in a cradle through the narrow streets. People crowded around the boat, taking selfies and stopping the flow of traffic. Behind it, another smaller boat appeared, and then another. Mac skirted the crowds, remembering that the World Offshore Power Boat races were this week.

The destination pulled him like a magnet. If Josh was on the island, Mac was certain he would be there. Mac reached Duval and turned left, walked two blocks, crossed the street, and found himself at the bottom of a set of stairs, staring at two black T-shirts at eye level.

“Twenty bucks,” one of the men said.

Mac silently reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. The black wall parted when he handed it over, and he started up the stairs. The bad memories floated back to Mac of his last visit here. There were some similarities. The bouncers, the stairs vibrating to the beat of the music, and the strobing lights visible from the open entrance.

Back then, the cover charge had been five bucks and the music rock. Mac wasn’t a big fan of classic rock, but hip-hop offended his soul. He had to admit that if there was a perfect genre of music for a strip club, gangster rap was it.

Another man, not quite as large as the pair downstairs, sat perched on a barstool by the open door. He glanced at Mac and nodded his head. Mac thought about asking him if he knew Gardner and if he was there. Anything that kept him on this side of the portal would be a good thing. The music was too loud for even a yelled conversation, so Mac moved past him.

Mac felt nauseous the minute he stepped into the club. The music stung his body and the strobing lights his mind. He found himself disoriented and didn’t know what to do when a scantily clad server approached. He ordered a scotch for no other reason than he didn’t have to ask what kind of beer they had. Glancing around the bar, he studied the room. The entertainment wasn’t his thing. He could overlook that for the right reasons. The girls weren’t at fault. From what he heard, they were mostly Eastern Europeans doing what they had to for a shot at the American dream. The chances of it actually working out for them were minimal. Still, for most, it was better than where they had come from.

The waitress was back a minute later, exchanging a single finger of scotch for a twenty-dollar bill. Mac tipped her an additional five and moved to a dark corner.

Scanning the crowd for Josh or his buddies, he realized what most offended him about the place. The owners were trying to make a buck, though there were better ways. The workers were in it for the money, the party, or both. For all, it was business. It was the clientele that bothered Mac. The club was filled with men—and some women—staring blatantly at naked women. They bared all, but it was a tease. The club had very clear rules, enforced by the black shirts, against interaction with the women. What Mac couldn’t understand was why people paid for something they couldn’t have.

A flash of light different from the strobing spotlights caught his eye, bringing him back to the present. It came from a door, which had opened and quickly closed. In the brief second when the light escaped, a body, too familiar in size and shape to ignore, entered. Mac got no satisfaction from being right about Josh being here and was even more disturbed that he was involved in the inner workings of the place.

It appeared that Josh was more than a low-level player working on his daddy’s money. Mac had seen enough not to care where the financing came from. With his priorities having changed, Mac needed to find out if Josh was a solo act, part of a cartel, or another organization. Then he could decide what to do.

The Mafia had a long history in Key West. Though the network had been disbanded and crippled by both the feds and the cartels, Mac had no doubt it still existed in some form. Cartels were one-dimensional, focusing almost solely on drugs. Organized crime groups were into everything from gambling, prostitution, human trafficking, as well as smuggling.

It didn’t matter which Josh was a part of. It all fit, and Mac braced himself to dive into a world he wanted no part of.

12

Mac moved through the club, heading toward the corridor leading to the door. Besides drinking, there was another similarity between hanging out in bars and fishing. What looked like a choreographed dance with anglers and mates moving around the cockpit of a boat with a fish on was almost identical to shuffling through a crowded bar. Mac turned sideways, slicing and dicing the crowd as he made his way to the opposite corner.

Even with his focus on the doorway, it was impossible to miss the interactions between the dancers and clientele. The Eastern European accents of the women, flirting and selling their wares, were somehow audible above the music. Mac couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the entertainers. None were American, or so it appeared. That only increased Mac’s trepidation about Josh and the club. Whether the girls were as willing now as they had been when they left their homelands was debatable. What bothered Mac was their status, which was basically as indentured servants. The local woman usually had a choice. Sometimes, they were forced into the work to pay off debts, but they were still essentially free. These women had nowhere to go if they decided to leave.

The Duval Street version of a strip club was similar to most others but had a few key differences. The number of women in the crowd was one. Another was the clientele. Key West had picked up on the moniker that Las Vegas had embraced. What happened in the Capital of Weird stayed in the Capital of Weird. The men and woman were tourists, expecting anonymity. Their hometown clubs of the same nature were frequented by men who knew each other and, in many cases, the women. Some got drunk once in a while and got out of line. Mostly, they behaved. That was not the case here.

Security was prominently on display, especially in the corridor leading to the room that Josh had entered. Mac saw no way past them. A flashback memory of Pip standing on a table in another club, looking very much like Yosemite Sam, shooting his nickel-plated revolver in the air, came back to him. At least there was not going to be a repeat of that incident now. Pip and he had been out of touch since the Virgin Islands, and he had no weapon.

What Mac needed was a distraction. For the first time since he stepped foot in the Key West courthouse three days ago, Mac caught a break. A fight broke out by the stage in the far corner of the bar. The black-shirt gang descended on the area in full force, quickly cordoning off the area and breaking up the fight.

Within a minute the offenders were being shown the door. Mac had only seconds before the man guarding the hallway returned. He moved into the corridor and found a dark corner near a poorly lit emergency exit. Mac thought about testing the push bar to see if it was a viable escape path if he needed one. The sign stating that an alarm would sound stopped him.

Leaning into the corner, Mac watched the door, wondering what was going on inside and how he was going to find out.

As Mac waited, he acclimated to the space and noticed a breeze evaporating the small beads of sweat on his forehead. The air was warmer than the ambient temperature in the club and laced with cigar smoke. Mac looked up and saw a large return air grill in the ceiling.

He froze when the door cracked open. A smaller man exited quickly, leaving no chance for Mac to see inside. What he did notice was the stream of cigar smoke sucked out of the room.

The club was one of the few exceptions to the smoking ban in public places in Florida. As an establishment whose sales were from less than 10 percent food, it was allowed. The huge air conditioning system did its job, keeping the air in the club cool and clean. The room, which he assumed was an office, probably had its own system. In theory, the units would be balanced. With the extraordinary needs of the club, the main unit was surely oversized and overpowered the smaller unit when the door was opened, creating a negative pressure in the room and sucking the air out.

That gave Mac an idea. There was little chance he could determine who was present and what was going on behind the door by standing in the corridor. What he could find out was who was inside. The tactic of smoking out enemies had been practiced for centuries. It usually involved starting a fire and waiting for the occupants to flee. Mac intended to use the same strategy but in a different way. In Florida, there was one sure way to vacate a space—turning off the air conditioning.

The easiest way was by adjusting the thermostat. Mac glanced across the hallway and saw the locked box over the device. Breaking that would attract too much attention and would easily be remedied. He needed to shut down the office system for long enough to make the occupants uncomfortable enough to leave.

Mac had been around construction long enough to know that the main unit was on the roof, directly over his head, where the return air would have a straight shot back through the conduit. Mac glanced at the exit door but turned away. There was no point attracting attention to himself. He waded through the crowd and left through the main door. Outside, he breathed in the humid air and descended the steps. He walked around the building and found an alley leading to another bar—and the back of the club.

His ears were still ringing, and even around the back, the bass beat of the music penetrated his body on some kind of molecular level. Mac glanced around, casing the building. Anywhere else, his behavior might have appeared suspicious. In the Capital of Weird, no one cared.

The building resembled an old house, matching many of the other structures. In order to maintain the “old Keys charm,” new construction and even remodels were heavily regulated. A developer could certainly build a new structure, but it would have to look like either the Victorian houses or show the Spanish influence prior to Florida becoming a part of the States in 1821. For most it was more efficient to remodel and reinforce. With the exception of landmarks like Sloppy Joe’s and Captain Tony’s, the lifespan of a business here was unpredictable and usually short.

Typical of Victorian-style buildings, the club was dotted with balconies. What had probably been a continuous wraparound porch on the second floor was now in two sections, interrupted to separate the front and back of the house. Mac walked through the small clearing and approached the stairs. Several doors were visible, one clearly marked as an emergency exit. He looked up and saw an access ladder from the deck to the roof.

The front and sides of the roof had been rebuilt with a false facade, replicating the style of the period. The back was purely utilitarian. Mac leaned against the dumpster and slouched down, hoping to appear as just another drunk. Peering around the corner, he had a clear line of sight of the back. Two employees were smoking on the deck. Otherwise, it was clear. Mac waited until they entered the back door, waited for a long minute, and took off toward the stairs.

Instead of running, he stumbled and wavered like a drunk. He wouldn’t need a story if anyone noticed. The behavior was commonplace enough to be ignored.

Mac reached the stairs and changed his tactics. Once he reached the deck and started up the ladder to the roof, his cover would be blown. Time was of the essence, and he took the steps two at a time, reaching the deck in seconds. He moved quickly to the access ladder and climbed. Mac rolled onto the roof and took a few long breaths. He was out of sight and could take his time.

The main unit was right where he expected it to be. To the side of the behemoth was a much smaller rectangular piece of equipment, one component of what was called a mini-split system. The other part would be mounted on the wall of the office, with a pair of copper lines and a control wire connecting them. Without the need for ductwork, the systems had become popular for situations like this.

Mac fished in his pocket. With the screwdriver of his small multi-tool, he removed the access panel. He found the electrical connection and carefully unscrewed one of the pair of hot wires. The fan stopped immediately. Mac moved away, leaving the panel open. It was more important to reach a position where he could see the men exit the office than cover his tracks.

He bet on the emergency exit. The seconds and then minutes ticked by. Mac hadn’t expected an immediate reaction. He waited, starting to worry that he had made a mistake and disabled the wrong unit. He finally realized that the unit had been running, and the room was probably cool to begin with. Mac had no idea how long it would take for the stuffiness from the cigar smoke and heat to force the occupants into taking some kind of action. For all he knew, one or several girls could be in there giving a private show. With the heat spreading through their loins and their brains temporally disabled, they might not even be aware the air conditioning was not working.

Finally, the sound of a piercing alarm broke through the night. Mac moved to the edge of the roof, phone in hand, ready to take pictures of anyone exiting. The first were two near-naked girls with one of the black shirts just behind her. He held the exit door open and motioned to whoever waited inside.

Mac started taking pictures. Josh emerged first, heading directly for the stairs. Behind him was another man, one not familiar to Mac. He wasn’t big like Josh, who only worked his chest and arms at the gym. He wasn’t spectacular at all, but he had the body language of a tiger. The black shirt placed a hand on the guy’s back and escorted him down the stairs. An SUV pulled into the alley and met the men. Mac continued to take pictures as Josh and the man, who he suspected was Josh’s boss, entered the vehicle. A second later, it was gone.

Mac realized he had been holding his breath. Taking in huge gulps of air, he leaned back against the parapet wall. A few minutes later, his heart rate was normal and his breathing under control. He needed to make his escape. Enough time had passed since the office had been vacated for a repair crew to be summoned. Mac moved to the ladder and dropped down quickly, crossed the deck, and nodded to a pair of employees out smoking a joint. The don’t ask, don’t tell situation allowed Mac to descend to ground level and disappear from sight.

He could only hope he had gotten what he wanted, but this was not the place to check his phone. With the Duval Street craziness crawling up his spine like a snake, he needed to get out. Forcing himself to take his time, Mac retraced his route back to the marina. He had a brief scare when he didn’t see his boat, but after a few more steps, he saw the engine and then the boat.

Well aware that the Coast Guard might be returning from the Content Keys, Mac was vigilant. He checked and rechecked his navigation lights, stayed at or under the NO WAKE zone, and to the right of the channel as he moved back toward the Gulf. A few minutes later, he cleared the last marker and glanced to starboard. With no sign of the Coast Guard or any other boat, he slowed to a stop and pulled out his phone.

In his rush, he had taken close to fifty pictures. With digital photography, that wasn’t a bad thing. Mac scrolled through them, careful not to delete any. There were several shots identifying Josh, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Finally, the face of the other man turning back to the club as he entered the SUV glared at him from the screen.

13

Mac had an admittedly unique—and narrow—view of things. In his opinion, the world was broken. Television, for example. He’d grown up at the end of the “three networks and PBS” era. Cable, at first, had seemed like the best thing ever—until it wasn’t. “Too many channels and nothing to watch” was the typical complaint and with the regular price increases, cable pirates had been born. Then, with high-speed internet had come streaming services, which complicated matters further. Even if you could find something to watch, you didn’t know where to watch it.

The world had moved from analog to digital. Everything had become computerized. From tubes to circuit boards and carburetors to fuel injection, it was no longer possible for a layman to work on anything. At one time in the not-too-distant past, you didn’t have to look past the neighborhood shade tree to find a competent mechanic. Now, you needed a factory certification and a computer monitor.

Mac was skeptical whenever something was billed as life-changing. That had been the claim with the internet. Once the speed issues were solved, there was a period of time when it was actually helpful. When the general population reached the point where they couldn’t live without it, it went to hell. Money, as always, was the cause. The free search engines became paid platforms, and ads made articles unreadable. Something as simple as a recipe took minutes of wading through ads and closing pop-up boxes before the content became accessible.

Directed by advertising dollars, a simple search had turned into a screening process to determine which sites were legit. Email, once spam filters had been developed, had been the saving grace for a while. Now, most responses were through AI.

From supply chains to the no-one-gives-a-crap customer service, either from phone trees or a guy named Clayton in India, nothing was easy, and canceling one of the subscription services was daunting.

None of that applied to criminal enterprises. Hackers had become their own genre of crooks, exploiting the cracks in the shell of the web. The ease of reaching an ever-growing population made the numbers work for even a marginal scam. From drugs and paying for sex, be it pornography or the real thing, to blackmail and malware, the criminal element had branched out to fill every void.

Josh and the guy looking up at him from the SUV had none of the frustrations the average guy had.

Mac studied the picture, wondering how he could find out who the man was. It took him a long moment to realize the answer was in the palm of his hand. His frustration with technology aside, there had been some worthwhile developments—enough that given the choice, even he probably would have passed on returning to the Stone Age. Most platforms now have several powerful and helpful elements: maps, translation, and photo searches. Mac clicked the lens icon for image recognition on the search screen, selected the clearest picture of the man, and waited.

A micro-second later, a web page appeared with an article about a South Florida kingpin. Scaglione was the man’s name, and after scanning his resume, Mac realized he had hooked a big fish. One that he might not be able to reel in.

Scaglione, first name Jose, was the perfect mix of the Italian Mafia and the Hispanic cartels. His position in South Florida was like a birthright, a sort of destiny. The article seemed like a PR job, showing pictures of the man with his family, horses, and a racing boat. The latter grabbed his attention, and he saw that the magazine was Power Racer, a publication dedicated to speedboat races.

All that was needed was two boats to make a race. From the dugout canoes of the Indigenous peoples to the carbon-fiber catamarans that could reach a hundred miles per hour, boat racing was as old as man. There were all manner of paddle, sail, and speedboat races. Many were accessible to anyone with a canoe, kayak, or small sailboat. The stakes became greater with ocean crossing and circumnavigation sail races. The speedboats were another world altogether.

The sport had been born in Miami during the seventies and eighties as a way for drug dealers to launder or at least spend their excess cash. Speed was a drug that these kinds of men thrived on. Racing each other was an added bonus to the addiction, where they could spend millions on a boat that could shatter on any given wave. Indeed, most boats needed some sort of repair after every race.

For the power-addicted, offshore boat racing was less about design and more about horsepower. The more horsepower, the more money.

Set up like a corporation so losses could be written off—and there was no mistake, every expense was a loss—the races were the perfect tool to launder money as well as satisfy the egos and competitive natures of the participants.

Mac put two and two together and remembered the boats being hauled earlier through the narrow streets. The Offshore World Championships were scheduled to start the following day. With his profile, Scaglione would be an owner. Josh might be a driver, navigator, crew, or just a hanger-on. Between the parties, events, and the actual races, he was sure to let his guard down.

The better part of an hour later, Mac secured the boat and headed to the house. Once upstairs, he felt lost. Outside of dodging the minefield of lobster and crab buoys, the ride back had been a relief and taken his mind off the past day’s events. Now, with nothing to do, he looked at the dirty glass in the sink and at the half-empty bottle on the counter. He ignored them, filled a glass of water, and took three steps sideways into the living room. He wanted the drink but knew alcohol consumption was time-sensitive. Anything after six would affect Mac’s sleep, and he needed as much help as he could get in that area. There was a strong contingent contending that five o’clock somewhere should be pushed to two or three o’clock. Day drinking had its health benefits.

There weren’t a lot of times that Mac wanted someone to talk to. He could and did exist out here for weeks at a time without a word to another soul. That went back to the broken world theory. Traffic, bad drivers, tepid customer service, and many of the other problems he might encounter remained nonexistent out on the island. It wasn’t a perfect world, though. All the new and innovative appliances, engines, and electronics, once designed for years of use, somehow ended their useful lives five minutes after the warranty expired. Everything was crap, designed to be replaced, not repaired.

He glanced at his watch and decided to call Mel. Washington, DC, kept different hours than the backwaters of the Florida Keys. What was late for him was early for her. That didn’t make it easier to connect.

They’d known each other since Mac had come to the Keys in the early nineties. Mel had been in high school then, the eight years between them a generation. They were close, though with more of a brother/sister relationship. A dozen years after Mel graduated high school, after doing her undergrad and law school at the University of Virginia, and then a half-dozen years with the ACLU, she had returned.

What she had intended as a short trip to help extricate Mac and her father from an unwinnable situation had stretched for a decade living with Mac. But between her need for a cause to champion and the tug of DC, when the right offer presented itself, she couldn’t refuse.

That had been two years ago. Mac and Mel had never really broken up, but the distance had caused the end of their relationship—as it were. There were no hard feelings. Mac had known it was a hardship for her to shelve her career and live on an island in the middle of nowhere. She’d had her causes, though, especially Big Sugar, but in the end, when DC called she had answered.

Mac was ready to disconnect without leaving a message when she answered. “Mac? A little late for you. Is everything okay?”

“Yes and no. I could use your help on something.” Mac realized too late that a little small talk might have greased the wheels. He started to ask how she was. Not one for small talk either, she cut him off.

“What’s up? Trufante again?” Mel had never been a fan of the lanky Cajun. They’d reached a sort of non-proliferation agreement over the years, but things were usually tense between them. There were not many people who intimidated Trufante. Mel was one.

“You know it.” Mac felt foolish for involving her.

“Spill it, Mac. You wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t serious. What’s happy boy done now?”

Mac explained about his jury duty and Trufante appearing as a CI. He told her what he knew about Josh and, finally, his discovery that Scaglione appeared to be behind the operation.

Her interest seemed to perk.

“You’re in the deep end of the pool this time. You think Trufante is really in danger?”

Mac stayed silent. He wanted her opinion.

“Never mind. Those guys aren’t known for letting things go. Without the threat of revenge and retribution, they would appear powerless.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Does Pamela know?” Mel and Pamela, after a rocky start, had become close. They weren’t the type to go shopping or get mani-pedis together, but there was mutual respect between them.

“Some. Maybe enough.”

“What’s your idea?”

Mac hesitated. His first thought had been to do something to warn Josh off. That had all changed when he found out Scaglione was involved.

“I want the vermin out of my backyard.”

“You know you’re jousting at windmills. Those guys are like rats. They’ll burn something to the ground before they pull out.” She paused. “What’s he doing there anyway? I’d bet there’re warrants out somewhere for him. Key West is a little exposed for a guy like that.”

“The Offshore Power Boat Races are this week. I’m pretty sure he owns one of the boats.”

“I’ve got a meeting in the morning. I’ll grab a flight after.”

Mac was shocked. Mel wasn’t a race fan. In fact, she despised the go-fast boats. He was about to ask what had triggered her to make the trip, then realized he was happy. He decided to leave it alone. “Let me know, and I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll fly into Miami and rent a car. We can meet by the 33rd Street ramp.”

Mel wasn’t just coming to the Keys. She was coming here. Mac said goodnight and disconnected the call, then looked around and started cleaning.

14

Mac drank his coffee black, but his mind was laced with trepidation. Mel had messaged that she would be in Miami early afternoon and reach the Keys by dinner. Mac felt like a high school kid preparing for a first date. He finished cleaning the house and started to straighten out the clearing and trim back the path to the docks.

By about ten, the work was done, though from the pile of brush, it would be clear he had just completed it. Mel’s benevolence had allowed Mac to live out here. She was the sole owner but had told him the island belonged to him as well. He had put in enough sweat equity to justify some moral claim, but legally it was hers. With her gone, the situation made him uncomfortable. Bringing Ronnie out had felt almost traumatic.

Mac and Ronnie had been together for a few short months before he took off for St. Thomas to help out Pip. They had talked since he returned, but the relationship had never found its footing. Ronnie’s decision to stay with the FWC and Mac’s fling with another woman while he was in the Virgin Islands had been too much to overcome.

Mac should have gained some confidence from those relationships. Both had been good and ended on their own, mostly because of outside circumstances. Instead, the butterflies in his stomach when he thought about Mel’s visit were worse than if he had continued his monk-like behavior. Mac had never been a ladies’ man.

He’d had other relationships, but his and Mel’s was the only one that had lasted—until it hadn’t.

Another matter contributed to his uneasiness.

Over the years the Keys, particularly the backcountry, had been annexed, piece by piece, into several protected areas. The ocean side was the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. The back side was an overlapping checkerboard of the Great Heron National Wildlife Refuge and the Key West National Wildlife Refuge, which had been set aside in 1908 by Teddy Roosevelt. The National Key Deer Refuge, established in 1957, protected much of the land in the Lower Keys.

Most of the residents and tourists had no idea which refuge they were in at any given time or where the boundaries were. Mac recalled an old-timer standing on the Old Wooden Bridge between Big Pine and No Name Keys, describing the boundary between the Great Heron and the Florida Keys Wilderness area as “over there, where the sun sets.”

The refuges and boundaries didn’t matter much in everyday life. Their impact was more in the long term with restrictions on development. The island belonging to Mel, where Mac lived, was known as Wood’s Island to the locals and denoted as Upper Harbor Key on maps and charts, fell into two refuges. The island itself was in the Key Deer Refuge, the surrounding water the Great Heron Refuge.

When Wood started dredging the canal and building the infrastructure on the island, it had fallen in neither . It was hard enough to imagine the late nineties as a quarter of a century ago, let alone picture what the Keys had been like at the time compared to what they had become.

Mac had learned that memory was short and selective. What the Keys were now and what they had been were different for anyone you asked. The old timers, like his friend Bear and the Conchs who had been born here, had different memories than a snowbird couple from up north who started coming in the early 2000s. They might all be residents now, but their picture of the Keys was like a postcard, a snapshot taken at a specific point in time. Anything beforehand didn’t exist, and anything later ruinous to the ideal picture they held in their head.

When the authorities started talking about the Rate of Growth Ordinance or adding more acreage to the preserves, each person’s view of what that should be was dictated by that image in their mind’s eye. Much of it was contradictory. Newcomers wanted to cease issuing building permits for new developments, but they wanted to be able to live in a non-complying home, which meant below the current FEMA flood zone. Old timers wanted stuff actually erased.

The Rate of Growth Ordinance, locally known as ROGO, and FEMA’s ever-increasing rules on building in flood zones—of which the Keys was one giant one—made development difficult, which suited everyone except for the developers.

In the late ’90s and early 2000s, the Keys still had that Wild West feel. The Conchs were hard and prickly, and the expats from the mainland, fishermen and divers. A sandbar was a shallow area exposed at low tide, not a place people went to party. Jet skis and Wave Runners didn’t need to be banned because they didn’t exist.

Wood had been the last of a dying breed. There were few like him left and those that were had run out of gas. Back when he started working on the island, it was possible to homestead some of the outer Keys. It wasn’t legal and there was no title, but as long as you stayed to yourself, no one bothered you. That had been Wood’s ideal.

Then the government knocked on his door notifying him to vacate the island, as his inhabiting it had become illegal when it had been incorporated into the refuges. Even overnight camping was now outlawed.

Wood, of course, had taken the notice badly. His reaction mirrored the five stages of grief, or at least three of them. Denial, anger, and bargaining were as far as he got. Depression and acceptance were never on the table. By the time Wood had reached the third stage, he had a plan—a bargain of sorts.

Mac clearly remembered the happy dance Wood had done on the day he was granted permission to stay. The convoluted process had resulted in a twenty-five-year lease at a dollar a year. At the time, Wood had been in his 60s and had been rode hard and put up wet. He fully expected to be dead before the term expired. Mel was in DC for the first time then and appeared to want to remain there. Wood was not concerned with what happened after he was gone.

At the time, twenty-five years had seemed an eternity. Now, as the lease was about to expire, it felt like yesterday. It also meant Mac was no longer a young man. There was a fact of life that you had to accept about growing old in the Keys—it was hard. Retirees often expected they would pass their years here, but a lack of medical care, the harsh climate, and the requisite flights of stairs from ground level to the main floor in most homes killed that dream. When they reached the point where they could no longer fish and dive, they usually moved to wherever their kids and grandkids were.

Mac never had the feeling that the island belonged to him. He’d fight for it if that was what Mel chose. The more he thought about it, the more he expected that Trufante’s troubles were just an excuse for her to resolve things with Mac and the island.

Mac knew the deadline was looming; in fact, just a year off. He chose to ignore it like he did most other things, hoping that it would resolve itself. In this case, the resolution had already boarded a flight. Mel did nothing without a purpose.

Though Mac might run away from his own troubles, he wasn’t going to abandon Trufante. Josh had rubbed him the wrong way, and the discovery that Scaglione was involved only hardened his resolve.

With nothing else to be done on the island, he loaded the trash, empty propane cylinders, and gas tanks aboard Reef Runner and headed toward Marathon.

The route to Big Pine required many adjustments and constant vigilance. Heading toward Marathon was considerably easier. Mac turned left out of the channel instead of right, headed for the open Gulf, and made a sweeping turn to the northeast. Open water, void of the sandbars, shoals, and islands the Lower Keys held, lay ahead. Rebecca Shoal was the one obstacle in his path. Mac set a course to steer clear of the shallow area. He was in no hurry.

In fact, with the propane tanks rattling around, he planned to go slowly. The conditions dictated otherwise, as he found himself heading into a wind-blown chop. In one of the many counterintuitive things about boating, he increased speed to ease the ride.

Instead of plowing through them, the hull skipped over the crests of the small waves. Mac clung to the wheel and watched as the mainland grew larger. He steered toward the decorative lighthouse at the Faro Blanco resort, slid through the red and green markers to the side, and entered the small basin. The first thing Mac noticed when he pulled up to the dock was a sign saying that launching and retrieving boats now required payment.

Another sign that the world was broken.

The ramp had been free for as long as he could remember. Until a few years ago, when Trufante and Pamela had moved to Big Pine, he had left his truck by the Sombrero Yacht Club next door. That was before the proliferation of vacation rentals and day trippers from Miami. Possibly more than any other place, Marathon no longer resembled what it had been. Resorts dotted both sides of the Overseas Highway. Clusters of vacation rentals had been built. Many of the part-time residents, wanting to recoup some of their expenses, had sued their homeowners associations and won, allowing short-term vacation rentals to infiltrate the older neighborhoods.

As with anything, when something looked too good to be true, it was. The influx of money drove real estate prices up. Once a property was allowed weekly rentals, its value automatically increased. That, and the commotion from having new neighbors every week, had driven some of the old timers out, which only added fuel to the fire. Sooner or later, the boom would turn to bust. They always did. Too many rentals would drive down the prices. With less income, investment plans would go awry. The next step was foreclosure. The cycle was familiar.

Mac had few ideas about where he would go or what he would do if he had to move. He put those worries aside when an FWC truck pulled into the turnaround area. Mac wasn’t sure what to do. The hesitation cost him. Before he could move, the tinted window rolled down. Ronnie stuck her head out and called to him.

“Can’t stay there. Pull your trailer in first.” She signaled to the docks on each side of the ramp.

The boat was on the far side of the small basin, being pushed away from the ramp by the wind and tide. To her, it would appear he was waiting for someone to bring in a trailer. Too many boaters didn’t understand that the trailers dictated the traffic at the ramp, not the boats. The easiest way to create a mess was to wait close to the ramp.

Mac thought he had dodged a bullet and spun the wheel to port. He was about to accelerate when she called out again.

“Mac!”

Mac cursed under his breath, not because it was her, but for behaving like a two-year-old. He quickly cut the wheel hard to starboard and eased the boat against the pier. Ronnie was there when the boat settled against the bumpers.

“Hey, Mac.”

Her tone sounded innocent enough, almost like she was glad to see him. “Hey.” Mac busied himself with the lines.

“License and registration, please.”

Mac froze, then realized she was kidding. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Just making some stops on my way to Key West for the boat races.”

“Officially?”

“Yeah, someone’s got to keep the random boater off the course.”

“That should be hazard pay.”

“Good seeing you, Mac. Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime.” She turned toward the truck, then stopped and looked back.

Mac froze, thinking he had gotten off the hook with just an empty promise of coffee.

“Don’t forget to pay.”

15

Mac stared at the payment machine, out of curiosity rather than necessity. His plan was to wait, not pull the boat. There was a camera pointed at the ramp though, so he had decided to check out the machine. The first input was a license plate that disqualified him from the process. With the limited parking available, the ramp was used mainly as a put-in and take-out for people who had homes on the water. For residents, that meant for service or other maintenance issues. It was the weekly inflow and exodus of the vacation rentals that had caused the problems.

Marathon wasn’t the first city to start charging. The Upper Keys had added fees a while ago. Their reason was to keep out the Miami people, who, instead of waiting in long lines and paying ramp fees up there, used the time to drive to the Keys, where they could put in for free. The problem had gotten so bad in Key Largo and Islamorada that the ramps were shut down to non-residents on holidays.

All he wanted was to leave the boat and run his errands. With his truck in Big Pine, he would call a taxi to run him to the gas station and grocery store. That would take an hour, though, and he didn’t want to return to find the boat ticketed or impounded.

Mac walked over to the Yacht Club. He had paid a small monthly fee for years to keep his truck in the grassy lot at the side of the building. Mac hoped they would allow him to use one of the empty slips. The earth was at least spinning properly inside the club. Not much had changed since Mac had last been there, including the bartender. After a minute of small talk, he got permission to keep the boat there for the afternoon.

Mac ran his errands and was back at the bar an hour or so later. He had some time to kill until Mel arrived, so he ordered a beer.

Mac had just about finished when Trufante walked in. His own presence aside, Mac wondered if the club had relaxed its standards. It certainly hadn’t cut its annual fee, which kept most of the riffraff out. A glance at the bartender told him the Cajun was expected.

“Damned, Mac, didn’t expect to see you here.”

The bartender looked nervous. The presence of him or Trufante separately could easily be explained. Together they might be a problem if the wrong person saw them. The guy was doing Mac a favor, even though between the beer and tip, he would have spent more than the parking fee. He dropped a twenty on the bar and finished the bottle.

“Thanks, man. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

The bartender slid the twenty off the bar top and into his pocket with practiced ease. He dropped the bottle in the trash and thanked Mac.

“I’ll be outside when you’re done doing whatever you’re doing here,” Mac told Trufante.

Trufante ignored him and leaned in close to the bartender. Mac glanced back to see a baggie exchanged for cash. A minute later, the Cajun was sitting beside him on the low block wall near the entrance.

“What’re you doing up here?” Trufante asked.

“I could ask the same about you.”

Trufante grinned but stayed quiet.

“Mel’s coming down. Going to meet her here.”

“I better vamoose, then. Don’t want to start her visit on a bad note.” His smile was gone. “This don’t have something to do with me, does it?”

Mac’s inclination was to lie. He still needed information, though. The truth was that he wasn’t really sure why she was coming. It might be to evict him. “Nah. Just catching up.”

“You getting back together? Never thought that FWC chick was right for you.”

Today wasn’t the day Mac would start accepting relationship advice from the Cajun. Tru’s unease at having Ronnie around was purely due to her employer. It hadn’t sat well with Mac at first, either.

“Ever hear of this guy Jose Scaglione?”

“Better watch your back there. Dude runs the Lower Keys.”

Mac didn’t know the Keys had been divided into territories along the Chamber of Commerce lines. “What’s he into, and how is Gardner involved?”

“You sure you want to go down this road?”

“You’re the one that ought to be worried.”

“Pamela’s got the arsenal set up at the house. Wired it ten ways to hell with surveillance and trip wires. Ain’t no one getting past that.”

Mac had no doubt that Pamela could protect their home. The problem was Trufante wasn’t a homebody. Wood used to say that he got tired just watching the Cajun.

Mac raised his eyebrows.

Trufante knew the look. “Hell, I can’t be sitting home waiting. Got people to see, things to do.”

“Still dancing as fast as you can.”

Trufante had dabbled in recreational drugs since Mac had known him. His one play at the big time was when he became involved with some guys who had found a square grouper, which had resulted in the loss of one of his fingers. As far as Mac knew, Trufante kept it small time, more or less to pay for what he and Pamela consumed.

“You never told me how you got involved in the trial.”

“A couple of cops saw what went down on the dock with Josh cheating and all. I kind of got recruited.” Trufante paused and put his head down. “You know they pay people to do that kind of shit?”

Mac nodded. Given the same desire for vengeance and with empty pockets, he might have done the same thing.

“It was supposed to be Josh. I even had him on the phone saying he was going to be there. Then this other guy shows up—the one from the trial.”

That explained the amount of resources the police had used to entrap a small-time dealer. They were hoping to leverage Josh into leading them to Scaglione. “Why’d they burn you? Aside from the thousand feet from a church charge, the case was open and closed.”

“Got no idea, Mac, but I signed this paper saying if I took the money, I had to do what they wanted, including court. Otherwise, it would be my bayou ass they’d be locking up.”

Mac understood how emotions could dictate bad decisions in the face of adversity. Trufante was all over the spectrum, often depending on his state of sobriety. Mac had long ago given up trying to anticipate how or why he did what he did. The only thing he could count on was the Cajun making bad decisions. This time, he had some sympathy.

“What’s done is done. You have eyes or ears on these guys?”

“Billy Bones called after you spoke to him, wanting to know what was up.”

Rattling Billy Bones’ cage put a smile on Mac’s face. He had forgotten he’d talked to him until Trufante brought it up. As he expected, Bones had probably woken up broke this morning. The unintended consequence of his call to Billy was that his ear would be to the ground.

“He say anything?”

“Nah. He don’t want to tangle with these cats. That ought to tell you something. Maybe we lay low for a bit, and this’ll all blow over.”

Mac might have thought that about Josh. The guy was your classic bully, easy to pigeonhole. If he didn’t get a reaction from his intended victim, he would move on to someone that he could. That kind of guy needed to be fed like an infant.

On the other hand, a guy like Scaglione lived on his reputation. Part of that was having a long memory. He was not a guy who would forget. Mac decided to let Trufante think he could hide. At least that way, he couldn’t get into any more trouble.

Mac had to wonder if Trufante was okay with the state of things. Why shouldn’t he be, too? Josh wasn’t the first guy to cut his line or cause him to lose a big fish. “Protector and defender” weren’t labels usually applied to Mac. Maddie’s case was different, bringing out a parenting instinct he didn’t know he had. It wasn’t about what Josh had done to him; it was about what he had done to her—that and his curiosity.

Mac glanced up the street. “Mel ought to be pulling up anytime. You sure you want to be here for that?”

Trufante stood and followed Mac’s gaze. “I’ll be layin’ low if you need me.”

The Cajun was gone in an instant, almost as if he vanished into thin air. A few seconds later, Mac heard the roar of his motorcycle starting, and the Cajun rolled by with his wide grin and a low wave. Mac remained seated, watching the street for the telltale headlights. In this direction, 33rd Street was a long block ending at the water. The boat ramp and small parking area were at the end, with the Yacht Club and a gravel parking area taking the west side. A school sat across the street. School was out, the Yacht Club quiet, and the boat ramp empty.

Several cars pulled in, causing Mac’s heart to jump. One kept the rate up for a minute as it passed by and stopped at the water. The others turned around at the school. With each false start, it took Mac longer to return to normal. He’d known Mel for twenty-five years. She was family. There was no reason he should feel this kind of anxiety. Knowing it did nothing to help.

Mac was what Pamela would have called a hot mess.

Another pair of headlights turned right and entered the street. The small SUV had the distinctive look, though Mac wasn’t sure why, of a rental car. Mac rose and walked out to the street. The window rolled down, and there was Mel, smiling like the last time he saw her was yesterday.

“Hey, Mac!” She pulled over.

Mac leaned in, wondering if he should kiss her. Mel flung the door open and embraced him, taking the decision out of his hands. She stepped back and glanced at him. Mac knew that look.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Rough couple of days.”

“You want to grab a bite before we head out?”

One part of him wanted to get to the island and find out why she was really here. The other wanted to delay it. “Sure.”

“Keys Fisheries still any good?”

“About the same.” Mac was not the guy to ask for restaurant recommendations.

“Burdines better?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.” Burdines, which sat above one of the fuel docks in Boot Key Harbor, was a little more local than Keys Fisheries. Mac went around the car and dropped into the passenger seat.

“It’s good to see you, Mac.”

Mac smiled for the first time. Mel might be an ace in a courtroom where her words held more than one meaning, but with relationships, she was a straight shooter. She seemed genuinely happy to see him, making Mac wonder what all his anxiety had been for.

“You too, Mel.” Mac almost said he had missed her, a truth that he actually hadn’t accepted until this moment, almost slipping out.

16

“Anxious” and “anxiety” are different words that have come to mean the same thing. A person can be anxious without having anxiety, though it is often a precursor. Being anxious is a “butterfly in the stomach” feeling. Feeling anxious is a brief bout of fear; having anxiety can become a long-term disorder. For Mac, it meant the stress that came with social interactions.

Mac steered the boat toward the island, the anxious feeling he had turning into anxiety as the moments passed. They were only inches apart as Mel sat on the leaning post, and Mac stood in front of it. Both were so lost in thought it could have been a mile. Mac knew it meant little. As a couple, Mac and Mel had never been the clingy, holding-hands type. He glanced occasionally at Mel, watching her taking in the scenery, and wondered if she was recalling past memories.

Their hug had eased his mind to a degree. As they closed on the island, he had no idea how this was going to go. He expected that if it was all bad—that if Mel didn’t want to see him and was going to evict him—she would have done it over the phone or, at worst, stayed in a hotel.

Mac decided to allow her whatever space she needed, not that he had a choice in the matter. He had told himself he didn’t care, but that hug had changed everything. Holding her again had made him realize that he had missed her. Mel, too, held her feelings in, which made it even harder for him to read her. She had never been emotional, and the courtroom had hardened her even more.

Mac slowed the boat, having to concentrate on the barely covered rock in the center of the channel Wood had dug. He turned past it and remembered that time, just after Mel had left for college when Wood had spent every spare minute out here.

Mac had felt a similar anxiety then. He had missed Mel, though in a different way. Their age difference had made any kind of romantic relationship impossible. Neither had considered it. They had been close though, with Mel having the unique ability to play the role of buffer between her father and the world.

Mac had also worried about Wood. It wasn’t a long shot to imagine him giving up the contracting business and becoming a hermit, which he eventually did. Mac had come dangerously close to following in his footsteps. Without the interference of Trufante’s train wreck of a life, he might have succeeded.

Mac entered the narrow channel and coasted to a stop at the dock. He busied himself securing the boat and unloading the provisions, allowing Mel some space.

“You need help?” she asked.

“I got it. Take a look around if you want.”

Mel smiled and stepped onto the dock, then disappeared down the recently trimmed path to the clearing and the house. Mac took his time putting everything away, that anxious feeling deepening. Whether he called it giving Mel space or avoiding his own fears, he was left with only the groceries to put away. There was no postponing the trip up the stairs.

At first, he didn’t see her sitting in the Adirondack chair on the porch. Then Mac noticed a glass in her hand and another sitting on the armrest of the empty chair. An unspoken invitation.

Mac felt a burning need to find out what she was thinking. He set the groceries on the kitchen counter and stepped outside. Mel had moved to the corner of the porch, staring at the moon rising over the flats. Mac studied her face, not knowing if he should disturb her.

Before he decided, she turned to face him.

The scene was picturesque but one that had come to be commonplace. Mac moved beside her and placed both hands only inches from hers on the wooden railing. They weren’t touching, but he felt her beside him.

“So many memories.”

Mac stayed quiet, letting her sort things out for herself. Those memories weren’t all good. Her father had almost died here and they had both survived a fire bombing by a rogue CIA agent. There were the good ones as well, though. Ambivalence was not one of Melanie Woodson’s attributes. She had always been set in her ways and firm in her decisions. Mac sensed that wasn’t the case now and knew she had decided how to handle things.

He knew her and himself well enough that it wasn’t a decision that he could or should try to influence. Instead, he went back to the chairs and brought their drinks over.

Mel took a long sip and smiled. Mac moved closer, careful for the slightest signal that she would refuse. He reached out and placed his hand on the center of her back, ready for her to pull away. Instead, she leaned in.

They stood in each other’s arms for a long minute until feelings overcame them, and they came together.

Later, lying on the bed with the fan cooling their sweat-soaked bodies, they looked at each other. Unspoken questions lie between them: Is that why you’re here? Is that what you wanted? Is that what you planned? The answers remained deep inside them as they embraced again.

They relished the time together, not speaking until the sun broke the horizon. Both being morning people, they didn’t linger in bed. This morning, in place of the drinks on the armrests of the chairs, they had their coffee mugs.

“You know the lease is about to expire.” Mel jumped right into it.

“Yeah, I was half wondering if you had come down to evict me. Get it over with.”

“You’ll never know, will you?” Mel winked at him.

Mac’s anxious feeling was gone, replaced by a satisfaction and happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. Deep inside, he thanked Ronnie and Sandi for helping break his solitude. He knew now, as he had always known, that Mel was the woman for him.

“Never known you to go down without a fight.”

“I don’t know if this is winnable.”

Mac heard a tremble in her voice and glanced over to see a tear fall from her eye. He placed his hand on hers. “I’m in for whatever you’ve got in mind.”

“How do you know I have something in mind?”

“Because you’re Melanie Woodson. You can’t tell me that you’ve waited until now to think about this.”

“I guess it takes one to know one.”

“Over-Thinkers Anonymous, Florida Keys Chapter.”

She laughed. “You know what they say. You can’t hurt an over-thinker. They’ve already seen it coming.”

“Yeah, in living color.”

“Me too. And I’m not liking what I see.” Mel sipped from her mug. “There’s no cracking the wildlife sanctuary rules. We were essentially grandfathered in when the feds created the refuges. They fought it, but we had a strong case. Now that the lease is up, they can exercise their power.”

“So we’re out?” Mac wasn’t sure if “we” was the correct word. Their reunion had been one of the options he saw if the least expected. Before that first touch, a part of him wanted the whole thing to be over. That part had been exorcised in their passion last night.

“I’ve still got enough gold to bribe someone.” Mac had hidden a case of the gold they had recovered from Batista, the deposed Cuban dictator’s plane that had crashed in the Bahamas.

“Those days are gone. If, and that’s a big if, we can find the right person who has enough influence to extend the lease, spending the money is almost impossible.” Mel sipped her coffee and stared out at the water. “There might be another way.”

Mac had been here before and waited for her to arrange her thoughts.

“We need to talk to Trufante.”

Mac was surprised. Mel usually avoided the Cajun at every turn. “What do you have in mind?”

Before she could answer, the whine of an outboard broke the quiet morning. The section of Harbor Channel that ran past the island was the only way to pass safely through the area. Mac listened until he was sure the sound was coming from the mainland and moved to the corner of the deck.

Mel was beside him a moment later. “How does he do that?”

The combination of a particular outboard engine on a particular hull was like a fingerprint. To someone like Mac, who listened to boats day in and day out, he knew the sound of Trufante’s center console. The question remained unanswered as they walked down the stairs and made their way to the dock.

With an unnecessary flourish, Trufante cut the wheel hard and shot a large rooster tail as he passed the sentinel rock. The Cajun held the throttle down until it appeared he was going to crash, then backed off with practiced ease, cut the wheel, and pulled the lever back to reverse. The boat settled beside the dock, the huge grin highlighting thousands of dollars in dental work clearly visible on Trufante’s face. Pamela sat beside him at the helm, her face ratcheted in concern.

“Mel.”

“Tru.”

The lanky Cajun tossed Mac a line, stepped onto the deck, and reached for Mel. Mac was surprised when she didn’t brush off the embrace. She didn’t hold it very long, though, either. Pamela was next in line, their hug lasting a bit longer.

Trufante glanced back and forth between Mac and Mel. “What’s up, love birds?”

“Really?” Mel asked. “What brings you out here?”

Mac suspected the answer was that their ears were burning. They might brush it off as some kind of prescience, but he knew better.

“Heard my name mentioned,” Trufante said.

“That’s not always a good thing.” Mac couldn’t resist.

“Whatever the reason, I have questions. You want to come up for a cup of coffee?” Mel started for the path to the house.

“Be nice to know if these are beer questions or coffee questions.”

Mac had no doubt the Cajun knew he was going to be interrogated. That was probably why they had made the trip, to get his version of events out first.

“Could go either way,” Mel said as she continued toward the house. She walked up the stairs and disappeared inside.

“Mac Travis.” Pamela moved closer to Mac. “I’m feeling trouble brewing like a low coming out of the Yucatan Gap.”

“Mel will lay it out.”

“What’s Boy Wonder got to do with it?”

“Wish I knew.”

17

For a plan to be effective, it must be simple, easy to understand, and everyone involved needs to know what is expected of them. Even then, the best-laid plan will rarely survive first contact. The devil isn’t in the details. It is in the variables—many of which are out of the control of those executing the plan.

The plan Mel laid out was as simple as it got. The execution was the problem. Trufante and Pamela were rather large variables. Scaglione was the lock, Josh the key. They just needed to find the force to open the lock.

Mac sat back and watched as Mel interrogated the Cajun. He suspected she was enjoying pushing his buttons and making him squirm. The truth, at least as he knew it, came out, but there was nothing new or surprising. He had taken the gig as a CI to get back at Josh. There were no other motives, and he didn’t know of Garner’s relationship with Scaglione or anyone else.

“Maddie’s known Josh since grade school. Maybe it’d be worth talking to her,” Mac said when Mel finished. “There’re also the power boat races this week. I think that’s why the big guy’s here.” Mac realized he knew more about the situation and players than Trufante.

“Let’s leave Josh alone for now.” Mel looked at Trufante. “When we need to rattle his cage, we know how to do it.” She turned to Mac. “Is the internet still on?”

Mac had installed satellite internet several years ago to allow Mel to work from the island. “Yeah.”

“Give me a little time. I’m going to get into Scaglione. Then we’ll figure out how to go about this.”

The message was clear. Mac, Trufante, and Pamela turned to leave.

“Can you stay, Pamela?” Mel asked.

She shrugged, hiding her surprise.

Mac pushed Trufante through the door and downstairs. “We’ll get lunch.”

“What was that about?”

Mac shook his head. “She’s smarter than the both of us put together. Let her do her thing.”

“This is more than Josh Gardner, isn’t it?”

Getting lunch on the island was a little more complicated than running into Publix, but not overly so. Mac led the Cajun across the clearing, down the trail, and to a small hidden area by a skinny beach next to the dock. Behind a mangrove-laced fence that shielded it from view lay twenty years of marine surplus. Everything from Wood’s old skiff, still on the trailer, which sat on the concrete runners leading to the water, to a couple of paddle boards and kayaks. A pile of boat parts and traps lay in the corner.

“I want to check out my traps,” Mac said, grabbing the molded handles on the bow of the kayaks and dragging them to the gate. “Grab those paddles.” Trufante followed Mac as he opened the gate and hauled the boats to the beach.

Trufante gave him a sideways look. “Ain’t much of a paddler.”

“You’ll be a dead man if we don’t give Mel some time.”

“I’m thinkin’ she’s takin’ a liking to me.”

“You have no idea.” The Cajun had some kind of gravitational pull that tugged on Mel’s equilibrium and upset her inner gyroscope. If he was anywhere nearby, she would feel it.

“Come on.”

Mac pulled his kayak into the water and climbed into the seat. He turned to watch Trufante as he slid into his. The outgoing tide grabbed the boats and pulled them into the deeper channel.

“This is gonna suck coming back.”

“Tide’s coming in. There’ll be enough water to cut through the flat.” Mac took off. He had paddled competitively for a few years and learned the value of an efficient stroke. Instead of pushing and pulling the paddle through the water with his arms, he used them as levers, which allowed the larger muscles of his torso to do the work. The kayaks were beaters: heavy, wide, and inefficient. They were stable, though, and easy to fish and dive off.

After a hundred yards, Mac cut across the flat on the north side of the island. The current eased once he was out of the channel. He paddled a little further and stopped to wait for the Cajun.

Trufante was having a tough morning. First the interrogation and now this. His Cadillac grill was showing, but more from the effort than any kind of pleasure. With his long hair blown back by the wind and his arms all over the place, he pulled beside Mac.

“This ain’t natural.”

Mac allowed Trufante to catch his breath, then started off toward a secret point on the horizon. With his head down, he searched the water for the large, red sponge that marked the beginning of his submerged trap line.

Recreational anglers were restricted to diving during the day or bully netting at night for the spiny lobster. Many placed structures, called casitas, that were closely guarded secrets and also illegal. They weren’t synonymous with the guys who kept shorts and constantly took more than the legal limit of six per person per day, but one usually led to the other. Mac knew he was skirting the law but saw it differently.

Lobster pots were restricted to commercial fishermen. Each trap was registered and tagged. That was only the first in a series of steps necessary for them to sell their catch. Mac had traded the last of his tags to get Pamela back from an old nemesis.

Mac’s views of the fishery were both ethical and geared toward conservation. He practiced what he believed in, not what the FWC dictated, though he stayed clear of their wrath. He needed four lobsters for lunch. No more, no less. The only variable was how long it would take him to catch them. To Mac, it didn’t matter how he got them. The rationalization was in the number, not the method.

Between the recreational boaters inadvertently cutting trap lines with their propellers and the commercial fishermen placing the pots in channels and other areas with heavy boat traffic, there were thousands of ghost traps in different states of decay on the ocean floor. To protect the lobster, each trap was required to have a degradable panel that would allow the crustaceans to escape if the trap were abandoned. Over time, the only thing left of the traps was their concrete bottoms.

Mac slowed when he saw the sponge and stopped just off to the left, where the first trap rested on the bottom. “You want to swim?”

The Cajun shook his head. Mac had already known the answer. The feline nature embedded inside Tru hated the water, something that was surprisingly common with commercial fishermen. Mac reached into the small compartment in the kayak’s bow, grabbed his mask and gloves, and dropped into the water. He glanced back to make sure Trufante had a hold of the kayak, took a deep breath, and submerged.

With the trap directly below him in six feet of water, he was on it in seconds. Several lobster scooted backward to the corner of the trap to avoid him as he opened the lid. There were three lobsters. One clearly was a keeper. He reached in and grabbed the carapace, pulling it free from the trap. He closed the lid and surfaced. Dropping it into the hold of his kayak, he returned to the trap. Checking to make sure the lid was secure, he moved on to the next trap about twenty feet to the north, leaving a pair of lobster in it.

Lobster were social and one of the few examples of using the desired species as bait. Others would soon join the party. Mac would come back in a few days and recheck the trap, making sure to release these two, and leave another. His goal was four lobster, enough for lunch.

The next trap held one and the last, two.

“You know we could’ve taken Reef Runner.”

Mac hadn’t thought about it. The traps were less than a half mile from the island. He’d foregone a formal exercise regimen when he’d moved out here. Now, it was all about movement. Paddling, swimming, and even the maintenance required to keep the island running provided plenty of exercise. Avoiding sitting for long periods of time went a long way to keeping him in shape. Human propulsion was one of the keys.

“Come on. We’ll cook these up for lunch.”

“You got a beer or two to go along with them, and it might be worth all this.” The Cajun was breathing through his mouth, gasping for air as he paddled himself along the flats.

Heading back, Mac stayed on the flat, where the current was weaker, for as long as possible. When they ran out of water, he cut back into the channel. Mac marshaled his energy, understanding that staying consistent was more important than speed. He fell into what he called his all-day stroke and reached the beach before Trufante had rounded the rock. Mac pulled the kayak into the small clearing and placed the lobsters in a five-gallon bucket. He was back on the beach when Trufante pulled up.

“See, this here’s what they make motors for.”

“Right. The beer’s in the downstairs refrigerator.” Trufante was out of the boat and down the trail without a second thought. Mac put away the kayaks, closed the gate, grabbed the bucket, and headed to the house.

He stopped at the shed and cleaned the lobster. Using a knife, he scooped around the soft tissue where the tail met the carapace. With the tails free, he dropped the heads into a bucket in the chest freezer to be used for bait, cleaned out the anal cavity in the tails with one of the antennae, and headed upstairs.

Trufante was waiting for him on the porch with a beer in one hand and the remainder of the six-pack in the other. “Thirsty work.” He drank.

“The girls still in there?”

“You go first. Bad enough being interrogated, then having to paddle when a perfectly good boat could have done the job. I go in there first, and she’ll tear my head off like you did to those lobster.”

Mac set the bucket on the deck and started the grill. He knocked and entered the house to find Mel and Pamela around the computer. “Got lunch. You hungry?”

“Heck, yeah, Mac Travis,” Pamela said.

Mel didn’t respond. Mac knew her look and watched as her eyes darted back and forth across the screen. “Be about fifteen minutes.” Mac grabbed four ears of corn from a basket on the counter and a stick of butter from the fridge, then headed back outside.

Trufante was on his second beer, cruising toward number three. Mac ignored him and moved to the grill. He shucked the corn, leaving the husks attached to the stem, and coated them with butter. After replacing the husk, he set them on the grate. Next, he used a spoon to pull the lobster meat from the shell, leaving it partially attached, before dropping a tablespoon of butter in the shell. He replaced the meat and set them, shell facing up, on the fire. A few minutes later, the smell of the butter roasting the meat brought Mel and Pamela out.

“Smells good, Mac. You just get those?” Mel asked.

“Made me paddle damned near a dozen miles for them,” Trufante said.

Mel ignored him and sidled up to Mac. “I missed this,” she said and whispered, “among other things.”

Mac looked up as Pamela winked at him. With the depth of the conspiracy revealed, he checked the food, turning the corn over. “Any luck with Scaglione?”

“Maybe. You ever hear of the Submarine Pens?”

Mac knew of the abandoned canals on the west side of Boca Chica Key. The half-dozen deep-water canals were rumored to have been excavated to supply and service submarines during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The property had been abandoned long ago.

“Dangerous place.”

“It’s on Navy land. You can’t get in there,” Mel said.

“By boat, you can. All kinds of redneck shit going on in there,” Trufante said.

Mac knew the area. At first glance, it looked like many of the neighborhoods in the Keys. There was only one developer Mac knew of that would excavate the canals to more than twice the width and depth as needed, and that was the government. It didn’t appear to be built for residential development, leading to all kinds of speculation about why it was there. Though it seemed large enough for a submarine base, the logistics were all wrong. The subs wouldn’t have been kept that close to Cuba, within easy range of Soviet-provided bombers, and would certainly have had, at the least, roofs over them to conceal and protect them.

“What can he do on government land?” Mac said.

“That’s where the plot thickens. Some papers were filed a few weeks ago—on the federal level—so the locals haven’t picked up on it.”

“And the lease here is with the feds, too. Think this could be the lever?”

“Maybe. But it’s not going to be easy. I need some time to get into the legal angle.”

Mac knew her look. It was time to disappear again.

18

There were no secret spots along the hundred-mile-long chain of islands anymore. Between Google Earth, every other person blogging or bragging on social media about their time here, and retiring captains selling their spots, all the once-unknown places were now well known. The Submarine Pens, like the Jumping Bridge on Sugarloaf and the Horseshoe on Big Pine, were what websites now called “Hidden Gems,” cool if not as busy as some of the more iconic spots. The irony was that once they were on the internet, they were no longer hidden. The popular mapping apps on everyone’s phones made finding even the remote ones easy.

The Submarine Pens were different. The northern end of Boca Chica Key, from US 1 to the Gulf, was uninhabited. A locked gate blocked access to the single road that ran through the area and the radar installation just beyond it. A single sign read: US Government Property — No Trespassing.

The warning was enough to turn all but the bravest away. There was still a way in, though. The area was accessible from the water through an unmarked and unfinished deep-water channel leading to a large turning basin and a half-dozen finger canals. The deep water and structures were bait magnets and where there was bait, predators were close.

Mac turned to Trufante, sure that he knew the area. “You been there?”

“Damned near a sure thing. Ballyhoo, pilchards, pinfish. You name it.”

Mac immediately thought of Commander, a name that had sent chills down his spine. The self-proclaimed bait king had been even more detestable on a personal level than Josh and even worse to do business with. His greed had gotten him in the end when a scheme to sell bonnethead sharks to aquarium enthusiasts as hammerheads landed him in a shallow, wet grave.

Commander had left a void, which someone had surely filled.

“Is Gardner running the bait guys?”

“Nah, and besides, it’s been blowing for months now. Ain’t nobody going out, nobody buying. Even them Haitians fishing pinfish out of the channel ain’t been around.”

Like everything else, bait had its pecking order. In the Lower Keys, that meant ballyhoo and pilchards. Crabs were in demand when the tarpon ran. Pinfish were the bottom rung of the ladder.

“Feel like taking a run down there. I want to check it out.” While Mel explored the legal angle, Mac wanted to get eyes on the development. “We can use my boat.”

“I’m in, Mac Travis. Be good to get a sense of the vibe,” Pamela said.

Mac wasn’t sure if he cared about her ethereal opinions, though he’d learned not to ignore them. What he did want was her tactical perspective. Pamela was good to have in a fight.

“Sure thing.” Mac turned to Mel. “You good?”

She nodded her head but didn’t look up from the computer screen, which Mac took as an affirmative. He turned to leave.

“I’ll grab provisions,” Trufante said, heading out the door with Pamela right behind him. Mac almost called after him to bring some water, but he’d take care of that himself. If he knew the Cajun, he would have his hands full of beer.

Mac moved toward Mel and kissed the top of her hair. She reached out for his head and dragged it around to her lips—all without looking up from the screen. “See ya later.”

Mac headed downstairs. From the chest freezer, he grabbed two frozen gallon jugs of water. He filled a pair of empties and replaced the ones he had taken. With their meager photovoltaic power and water supply, ice was a luxury on the island. Not only would the jugs stay frozen longer, but once they were frozen, the chest freezer would run more efficiently. Mac took a third jug for himself and headed to the dock.

Pamela and Trufante were already aboard, beers in hand. Mac handed the jugs over and climbed aboard. The Cajun placed all three jugs in the cooler and went forward. Mac started the engine and told Pamela and Trufante to release the lines.

Mac waited to see which way the current and wind moved the boat before touching the throttle or wheel. Where a novice boater would try to use the engine to overcome the conditions, an experienced captain first evaluated them.

Once he was clear of the dock, Mac cut the wheel hard and backed toward the beach. The bow swung around. When it was facing open water, Mac nudged the throttle forward and steered toward the sentinel rock.

Tides could be confusing in the backcountry. Rather than moving toward and away from land, they moved generally west to east. The influence of the Loop Current often has as much to do with the tidal flow as the moon, making them difficult to predict. Mac stayed down-current of the rock, allowing the tide to push him away, and cut the wheel again to enter the main channel.

The tides weren’t the only thing counterintuitive in the backcountry. Direction of travel was another. In many cases, it was faster to head away from land toward the open Gulf until reaching one of the deep-water channels. There were a half-dozen ways to reach Boca Chica Key from the island. Each option was worse than the last. Even the slightest change in course required local knowledge.

Mac glanced over at the mangrove shore of one of the islands, seeing little of the extensive root system. The visual indicator told him there was enough water to take the inland route, which would allow him to cut through the narrow channels and skim over the flats in a reasonably straight line. Mac had been through pieces and parts of the route over the years. The route was challenging but considerably shorter and faster.

Besides the generally shallow water, the Snipe Keys blocked the inland route. The only way through were three passes called the Inner, Middle, and Upper Narrows.

Once clear of the flats surrounding the island, Mac cut cross country. He ran the twelve-foot contour line until he reached the Content Keys. There, he cut the wheel to port and headed into the Content Passage.

The Contents were a popular hangout, especially with the locals, who knew how to run the tricky passage. Mac had become immune to much of the natural beauty around him. The Contents were a special kind of place, though. Gin-clear water and white sandbars accessible at most tides were surrounded by a scattering of pristine islands. The Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge lived up to its name here.

Glancing into the side channel, he saw the burned-out hull of the Contender.

“Son of a bitch. See that?” Trufante pointed toward the wreck.

The Cajun would be back at the earliest opportunity to scrap out the hull.

Mac skirted the sandbar running down the middle of the pass and turned back to the task at hand, heading through a maze of skinny water and unnamed keys. This was an area where it was essential to run fast and stay on plane. Though it violated one of the main rules of boating—that if you were going to hit, hit slow—allowing the bow to rise meant the stern would drop, embedding the propeller in muck and marl. All around him were scars made by propellers cutting it too close. Every so often, he could see where one abruptly stopped, meaning a boat had grounded there.

The tides were life and death for boaters, and Mac knew exactly where he stood. Between the tide chart and the visual clues, the water would continue to rise for another hour before falling. That gave him a four-hour window to get there and back.

Where a novice boater’s eyes would be glued to the depth finder, Mac studied the water ahead, his face set in a scowl, searching for any deviation in the color, the best indicator of a change in water depth. What newbies failed to understand was that the transducer that fed the depth finder information was mounted on the stern. Even though only seconds separated the reading, the device readings were more historical than real-time.

The water color in the Keys might provide material for poets and novelists, but Mac was more pragmatic about it. White or one of the many shades of turquoise meant he was generally safe. Any shade of brown meant he was heading for trouble. Many boaters got some kind of thrill from running wide open in shallow water. Mac was tense, his butt puckered. The storms and tides used the ocean floor like an artist’s palette, cutting, carving, and filling at whim. When you were dealing with inches, an area that might have been passable a week ago could have shifted enough to ground him now.

They flew through the Middle Passage with the hull skimming the water. Mac turned into the Waltz Key Basin, made a wide turn between Hawk Bill and Duck Key, and then slowed as he approached the narrow land barrier protecting the development. Mac knew its basic layout. Like residential subdivisions, it was symmetrical but with canals or fingers, depending on whether you were referring to the water or land, instead of streets and cul de sacs.

The thin barrier peninsula, probably built from soils from the excavation of the basin, did a good job of protecting the development from prying eyes as well as the open water. Had Mac not known what lay beyond, he would have passed by thinking he was looking at yet another mangrove-covered key. The only clue that it was manmade was its elevation, the mangroves a few feet above sea level.

Mac passed the radar dome, leased by the Navy to one of the TV networks, and skirted the land barrier. He could see a line of deep water running toward the bridge ahead, but it petered out halfway. Reaching the end of the barrier, Mac turned to port and entered the basin. The water was deep blue, indicating its depth. He switched the screen on the chartplotter to show the contours and saw the bottom rolling past, twenty-odd feet and flat.

One of the half-dozen canals lay directly ahead. Mac wanted to do a systematic recon of the area and moved past it, heading toward the end. The size of the canals was immediately evident. Mac had been in and even worked on a fair amount of residential areas built around similar canals. He saw immediately that the scale here was much larger. Besides the water depth, the canals themselves were nearly twice as wide as he would have expected. What looked large on paper was even larger in person.

Developers knew how to milk every buildable lot from a parcel of land. Roads and canals ate away at the acreage and were kept as narrow as possible. Everything here was oversized. Not only would there be less land, but the cost to excavate deep-water canals on this scale would have been cost-prohibitive, money that could never be recovered. Mac supposed they could have been built as a luxury development able to dock sportfishers and sailboats, but the problem was the bridge was too low for a large boat to reach the Atlantic.

A submarine would have no trouble, though.

19

Ultimately, the discussion of what the development had been built for didn’t matter.

Mac studied the area with a contractor’s eye; Pamela with a tactical one. Trufante admired the redneck infrastructure—floating docks, rope swings, and fire pits were scattered throughout the canals. The area was quiet now, with just a fishing boat near the entrance to the turning basin. Mac expected that the weekends were another story. That brought up the question of why the Navy allowed these clear signs of trespass.

There was no sign of utilities, one of the first things that would have been installed after the grading. The land had been cleared and leveled, but there was no electrical, water, or sewer infrastructure visible. The elevation of the grading was low as well, indicating it had been done years ago.

Storm surge had to be considered in every building decision. Wind could and had been mitigated by increased building standards. Most structures built after Hurricane Andrew had wreaked havoc in South Dade in 1992 were engineered to handle the 140 mph winds of a major hurricane.

Water was another matter.

You could hide from the wind, but you needed to run from the water. With no barriers against the floodwaters pushed in by the storms, the Keys were prone to flooding. Buildings and infrastructure height could be dated by the FEMA codes, which seemed to raise the minimum elevation of the finished floor with every storm. The rough grade for a development built to the current standards would be two or three feet above what Mac was looking at.

The loud buzz of an engine caught Mac’s attention. He had seen enough and would prefer to get out without anyone taking notice. The whine continued until he could distinguish the sound of a jet ski or Wave Runner. Usually, the presence of the personal watercraft boiled his blood. In this case, he tried to ignore them, not expecting the Navy or any other interested party to use the craft. There had been a proliferation of personal watercraft tours in the last few years, another indication that things had changed.

The craft, now speeding across the turning basin with a string of friends behind it, was a reminder that it was time to go. Mac thought about launching Reef Runner out of the canal and surprising the drivers. He reconsidered, knowing that they would enjoy the wake he put up.

“Slide on up there, Mac. I think I know that cat.”

Mac glanced at Trufante and then out at the half-dozen jet skis that were spinning in circles, jumping each other’s wakes. “You hanging out with those types now?”

Mac knew better than to generalize, but Trufante befriending the personal watercraft crowd didn’t sound right, which brought to mind how these once-sleepy islands now hosted sandbar parties and how personal watercraft had moved from being hated to tolerated and even accepted. It was a small example of how social norms can change. Mac shook his head. He didn’t care for the sociological analysis. He just wanted quiet.

Setting aside his theoretical musings, Mac swung the wheel to intercept the lead jet ski. The driver, unaware that Mac wanted to talk to him, cut behind Reef Runner and started jumping the boat’s wake. Mac suddenly stopped. The driver took too long to react and almost slammed into the outboard. Mac chuckled to himself at the shocked expression on the man’s face.

“Yo, bro,” Trufante called out.

The man’s face was covered by a colorful buff, his eyes the only part of his face visible. Even though he could only see his eyes, Mac knew the look. The guy had been caught out, a grown man running about like a testosterone-fueled teenager.

The guy turned and saw the smiling Cajun. His first reaction might have been to run, but Trufante tossed a line before he could escape.

“Mac, this here’s Tyler.”

The man’s face went bright red, and not from the sun. Mac didn’t need any further introduction. He recognized the man immediately as one of Josh’s mates. “No work today?”

“This here’s Mac,” Trufante finished the introduction. Tyler glanced around, looking for a way out. Trufante held his gaze. Pamela had taken an interest and moved forward next to the Cajun. He put his arm loosely around her shoulder.

Mac recognized the gesture for the chest pounding it was. He knew from experience that the only way to get through to this kind of guy was to act like what he expected. It wasn’t lost on Mac that dogs did the same thing. Hopefully the issue would be resolved before they had to sniff each other’s privates.

“So what’s with the ski?” Trufante asked.

“Running some tours. Gotta make a buck.”

“For your boss?” Mac asked.

“Gotta pay the rent.”

Mac recognized the defensiveness in the man’s voice. He needed to find a way to exploit it. “Got a beer if you want one.”

“Don’t drink, but if she’s got some of that reefer to share⁠—”

Pamela was downwind of Mac, and he hadn’t noticed the smell. “That’s between you and her.”

“Happy to share. Come on aboard.”

Mac could see indecision on the man’s face. He glanced across the water to see the other jet skis cruising in large circles, far enough away to not become involved. In the end, the offer was too good to refuse. Trufante pulled the line, bringing the jet ski next to Reef Runner. Tyler lifted a leg over the seat and stepped aboard the center console.

Pamela stayed put, making Tyler commit. Trufante cracked a pair of beers and handed one to him, ignoring the comment that he didn’t drink, as he moved to the starboard gunwale. Pamela took a long pull on the joint and offered it.

Tyler glanced around as if he was doing something wrong. That lasted all of three and a half seconds before he took the joint and put it to his lips. The end glowed cherry red as he inhaled.

“Easy, big boy. This ain’t your grandma’s weed.”

Tyler fought to hold the smoke in his lungs but finally coughed. “You ain’t kidding.”

“So, what exactly are you doing out here? You want to jump wakes, I can tell you a half-dozen better spots,” Pamela said.

Between the weed and her manner, she had disarmed the man. Whether it was the effect of the pot, which Mac knew was much stronger than anything out of his own past, or her being her and seeming to not have a stake in things, Tyler had dropped his defenses.

“Just makin’ a buck is all. Rather be out fishing, though. Ain’t much money in cruising around on this crotch rocket. Boss says go, and I go.”

Mac sensed that Tyler was not happy with his present circumstances. He had a number of questions on the tip of his tongue, but Pamela seemed to have the measure of the man. He decided to let her continue.

“Why the Redneck Riviera?”

“I just go where the boss tells me to.”

Mac suspected there was more than one reason Gardner had the tours run through here. That would have to wait, though.

“You know your boss is a dick.”

Mac was ready for an explosion. It never came.

“Some say so.”

“Shoot, that dude cheated me and Mads. Serious,” Trufante said.

Tyler glanced around, averting his gaze when he came to Mac. Mac wasn’t sure what he could add. Pamela and Trufante were doing a fair job of taking apart the guy. Mac stayed quiet, knowing that had its own effect.

“I was ready to bail after that.”

Mac kept watching the shoreline. He badly wanted to see Tyler’s face, which was now exposed as he took another hit on the joint. He knew better, though. “Maybe we could do you one better,” he finally said.

“What do you have in mind? I ain’t making shit being the third wheel in that operation. Getting tired of getting yelled at by Captain Ahab up in the tower and splitting tips three ways. And this crowd don’t tip for shit.”

“Dude takes a cut of the tips?” Trufante asked.

Mac was shocked. Mate’s pay was next to nothing. What they made was from tips.

“Shit, he takes them and doles out what he thinks’ll keep us happy. Been drinking with some of the people afterward who let it slip how much they had tipped. Still better than this crowd, though once in a while, you get a couple of ladies by themselves.”

Mac tried to take the opening. Pamela cut him off before he could say anything. Mac let her run with it.

“Maybe you ought to work for us?”

Instead of asking what she had in mind or what it would pay, he just nodded his head like an awestruck schoolboy. Between Pamela and the weed, he was clearly not making reasoned decisions, not that he might have been able to under other circumstances.

If Mel had been there, she would have died. Every day, before Wood said goodbye to her, her dad had left her with one bit of advice: make good decisions. It was ingrained in both her and Mac.

Trufante and now Tyler were a representative sample of the majority of people who did not make good decisions. It wasn’t easy. Emotions needed to be set aside. Plans had to be considered on more than one level, and the ever-present unintended consequences evaluated. Never make any kind of life-changing decision on the spot or when inebriated was a good rule.

Tyler had violated more than one of the rules. Mac watched him carefully, wondering if he realized he had just made one of those decisions. He might have been genuinely disaffected working for Josh or it could have been Pamela’s blue eyes and rock-hard body. Either way, Mac saw no sign that he regretted his choice.

Pamela glanced over at Mac and winked, his signal to take over.

The question became what to do with him.

When he had been working construction with Wood rebuilding the bridges connecting the Keys, Mac could have found some work for Tyler easily. When the work turned more to salvage, it might have been a little harder, but he could have accommodated him. Even the bit of commercial fishing he had done with Trufante offered opportunities. Mac was essentially retired now. He wasn’t sure he had anything to offer.

“Bait’s been running hard. Good demand, too,” Trufante said, bailing him out.

“Seen that through here. Cigar minnows everywhere,” Tyler said. “Got no way to sell anything, though.”

Mac could see the man was engaged. “I can help with that,” he said before really considering it. “You have a boat? I can hook you up with the license.” Mac knew one guy who might help. Asking Bear was a stretch, though. He had suffered through some health issues, and Mac wasn’t sure he had kept the licenses active. It didn’t really matter. The man had potential, not in himself, but in what he could offer. Even if Mac had to pay out of pocket and release the bait, it might be worthwhile.

“I got something. Maybe I’ll get with you.”

Mac knew right then that Gardner had him under his thumb. Tyler appeared to be at least fairly competent and somewhat responsible, though the bar for either wasn’t high here. For Gardner to control him meant he might have more power than Mac had suspected. Something else he would have to figure out.

20

“Jet ski tours?” Mel asked.

“Yeah, it’s a thing now. Made me think it might not be a bad idea to have Pip around.”

Mac was braced for a rant, which would inevitably either begin or end with what a bad decision that was. Instead, she calmed herself and reconsidered. Mac waited, giving her time to process his idea. He knew she was concerned about Trufante and Pamela being involved. Adding Pip to the mix was like adding an accelerant to a fire. They might be able to control Pamela and Trufante. That would be like playing man-on-man defense. Adding Pip changed the dynamic and would force them to play zone, which meant one of the trio was always unaccounted for.

Had the stakes not been the island, she might have vetoed the idea. However, she was considering it. “You know how to find him?”

Pip was a moving target, generally moving away from the wrath of his wife. Mac hadn’t talked to him since a Virgin Islands adventure and had no idea what he was up to.

“Last I heard, he was fishing wahoo in the Bahamas,” Trufante said.

The run of the speedy fish was famous. Wahoo were a pelagic species, meaning they were migratory. Mac wasn’t sure where they went in the summer, but they weren’t in the Bahamas. Pip was essentially retired or at least could have been if he didn’t have a boat problem. The lure of extra horsepower or faster hull was irresistible. That gave Mac an idea.

“Did he disable the AIS on his boat?”

“Shoot, Pip ain’t that savvy. Probably doesn’t know where it is,” Trufante said.

The Automatic Identification System, or AIS, is a real-time, GPS-based tracking system that allows governments, owners, lenders, and insurance companies to see where the ships they hold an interest in are at any given time. Most high-dollar boats have them installed by the factory. Independent of the other electronics, their owners or captains are often unaware that anyone with the tracking software can see their location.

“He still calling all his boats Miss Pip?” Mel asked, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

“You could just try calling him,” Trufante said.

“What would be the fun of that?” Mel studied the screen. She lifted her head a minute later. “This shows the boat in St. Augustine.”

“Tourney there this week. Must be him,” Trufante said.

“When did Pip start fishing high-stakes tournaments?” Mac asked. His boat problem aside, Pip was a known tightwad. The entry fees and operating costs to fish some of the offshore tournaments were as high as the offshore speed boat races.

“Got lucky in the Key West Marlin Tournament.”

“He’s not good enough to bring in a marlin.” Mac knew that it took a team of at least three skilled hands to land one of the elusive billfish. Pip was notorious for not playing well with others. Maybe the seven-figure purse enticed him. The tournament didn’t require any travel or a large entry fee. The fishing grounds were close enough for small boats to compete with the larger sportfishers, making it perfect for local anglers wanting to give it a go.

“You’re right about that,” Trufante said. “Got a big bull dolphin, though. Went forty-two pounds.”

That size fish would place in most tournaments. It wasn’t the big-money species, but probably had netted him five-figures. “Caught the bug?”

“That’s what I hear. Ain’t won nothing since.”

If Pip had been playing ball in the big leagues, he was probably broke and needed a change. Like any gambler, he wouldn’t break the cycle by himself. Mac thought a good prod would do the trick. He picked up his phone.

“This, that, and the other thing. I was just thinking about you. How’re they hangin’?” Pip chuckled.

Mac shrugged off the greeting. “You tired of chasing fish?”

“So here’s the thing, Travis. You never get tired chasin’ them. Just going broke trying to catch ’em.” Mac’s timing had been right on. He would still need something to break the spell of the elusive purse.

“I got a development we’re looking at. You interested?” Besides fishing, Pip loved real estate.

“A little short on gas money at the moment.”

Mac knew he had him. “I’ll cover that. When can you get here?”

“This, that, and the other thing. I ain’t takin’ this beauty through the backwaters of the Keys. She’s a deep-water girl.”

Mac was quiet for a minute while he calculated how long it would take Pip to reach Key West. With the fuel bill covered, Pip would run wide open. The weather would be a factor. The winds, predicted in the high teens over the next few days, would force Pip to use the Intracoastal Waterway, a much slower trip.

“I’ll fly you to Key West.”

“Urgent action, eh, Travis? When you need the king⁠—”

Mac cut him off. “Your credit card still good? I’ll cover you when you get here.”

“So here’s the thing, Travis. It’ll have to be Silver Airways, and that scares me.”

Mac knew better than to judge an airline based on customer service. The airline, which serviced the smaller airports in Florida and the Caribbean, may have had well-maintained planes and crews, but otherwise, they were a hot mess. If you based your opinion of the airline on their customer service, he was amazed their planes got in the air.

“You’ve done way stupider stuff than that. Let me know when you get in.”

“True, that, Travis. What about the boat?”

“Put it in a slip. We’ll figure it out later.”

“Don’t even think about sending that Cajun to bring it down. Boy’s trouble.”

Trufante reached for the phone. Mac turned away and disconnected.

“Now that we’re the Island of Misfit Toys, what are we going to do?” Mel asked.

Mac had considered the question. He just didn’t have an answer. If he had been asked what he wanted for dinner, he might have gotten away with “I don’t know.” Mel was not going to buy that now.

“We need to get something on that Scaglione guy,” Pamela said. “I might be able to handle that.”

Mac knew exactly what she meant.

Before he could kill the idea, Mel went for it. “If you’re willing, we’ll have your back.”

Mel’s quick acceptance of Pamela’s offer showed her desperation to hold onto the island. Mac wanted the same outcome but also wanted justice. “Josh might be an easier target.”

“He’s not the decision maker. We need to go for the top,” Mel said.

Mac still wasn’t sure he liked the idea. Pamela was willing and able, but her life wasn’t worth a vendetta against Josh or a place to live. “There’s got to be a better way.”

“A wager.” They all turned to Trufante.

“Those speedboat guys’ll bet on anything. Betcha me and Pip could take them.”

“You have one small problem. No boat,” Mac said.

“Wait. He might be onto something,” Mel said. She moved her focus back to the computer. “There are parties every night of the week. All we need to do is take out a crew.”

“Just take out a crew. Are you meaning permanently?” Mac asked.

“Nah. A little too much party is all. I can take care of that,” Trufante said.

That Mel and Trufante had connected on an idea was scary. “Then what?” Mac was sure there’d be a communications breakdown between the two.

“We beat Scaglione, then challenge him to a private race,” Trufante said. “For all the marbles.”

Mel was caught up in the excitement. Mac was forced to take on the unfamiliar role as the adult in the room. “And exactly what are ‘all the marbles’?”

“The island. If Scaglione’s got his sights set on the Submarine Pens, he’s got to have someone on the inside.”

Trufante turned to Mac. “We can’t forget about Gardner. Billy Bones called and told me the SOB put a price on my head. Good thing everybody down there knows he won’t pay.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Somewhere in all of this, he’s going down.”

“Roger that. What do we need to do?”

“You and Pamela get a place in Key West for a couple of days. Pick up Pip tomorrow and get on the circuit. Find the pre-parties and the after-parties. That’s where the action’ll be. Let Pamela get close to Scaglione. You and Pip find a crew that you can ‘disappear.’ We’ll let it run until Friday night. Saturday, we’ll make our move.”

“The Friday night party is at Teasers,” Mel said. “That would be as good a place as any.”

Mac thought about the plan. Pamela, Pip, and Trufante knew their way around a party. He didn’t expect it to get too dangerous until Friday.

“Sounds good. What are y’all going to do in the meantime?” Trufante asked.

“We’re going to find whoever’s arm Scaglione is twisting and turn it the other way.”

“We better get some rest then. It takes a good night’s sleep to keep up with Pip,” Trufante said.

Mac shook his head knowing he spoke the truth.

Trufante and Pamela headed downstairs. Mac followed them to the dock and saw them off. Mel was sitting on the deck with a wineglass in one hand and another sitting on the arm of the chair when he returned. Mac took the offered glass and raised it to her. They sat together and drank for a while, comfortable in their silence and letting their thoughts roam.

“We better be prepared for the worst,” Mel said.

Mac was not about to start a hypothetical philosophical conversation. “We’ll give it our best shot and see how the chips fall.”

“You know I missed you, right?”

“Yeah, you too.” Mac hadn’t realized how badly until she had returned. It was hard to imagine life without her now.

They held hands and enjoyed the calm of the night. Broken only by the wind rustling the palm fronds, it was probably the last peaceful moment they would have until this was resolved. Mac had spent many evenings enjoying the solitude. It was a testament to their relationship that neither encroached on the other’s space. They sat and drank, then made love. Mac was almost asleep when Mel’s phone chirped.

“Shit.”

“That’s the longest I can remember that your phone hasn’t rung,” Mac said.

“I silenced everything except this number.”

Mel picked up the phone from the nightstand and answered.

Mac gleaned enough from her half of the conversation that she was talking to another lawyer. Whoever was on the other end was doing most of the talking, leaving Mac in the dark. After a few minutes of okays, got its, and thank yous, Mel disconnected.

Mac waited until she was ready to talk.

She leaned up on an elbow. “We might have a shot at this. Scaglione has some hot-shot lawyers. He’s pushing hard.”

Mac wondered if the information changed anything. From his experience, the legal way was usually a crooked road with more detours than he had patience for. This was Mel’s arena. Mac would be ready with Plan B—if and when it was needed.

21

Morning was one of those times that could go either way—for no apparent reason. Some days, Mac woke with purpose; others, he was slow and sluggish with no cause or causation. To make things more confusing, his condition often reversed shortly after getting up. The only way to deal with it was to move forward.

Mac cracked an eye, wondering how today would be. Seeing Mel next to him, still sleeping, gave him some hope that it would be a good day. He held onto that feeling for a long minute before slipping out of bed.

“I’m awake.”

“Sorry. You sleep much?”

“I’ve been awake for a while. Thinking about how to crack this nut.”

“Yeah, me too. I don’t think leaving those guys without adult supervision is a good idea.”

Mel leaned on an elbow and nodded. “You keep an eye on them today. I want to spend some time at the courthouse and see what I can dig up.”

In 1828, seven years after Florida had been acquired from Spain, Congress had established Territorial and Federal Courts in Key West to enforce the laws of the United States and the Territory of Florida. The court was also given admiralty and maritime jurisdiction due to the area's frequent shipwrecks. At that time Key West was the most populous city in the state. As the population had shifted, the court had expanded over the years and was now based in Miami. With other branches in Ft Lauderdale, West Palm Beach, and Ft. Pierce, the Key West court was now a small part of the Southern District of Florida.

For a time during the mid-1800s, Key West was the richest city per capita in the country. Much of that was due to the economy stoked by wreckers patrolling the dangerous reef. Some thought them scavengers and bottom feeders, while others understood that they saved lives and cargo. With the Federal Court having jurisdiction over admiralty claims, Key West had been a center of power during that time.

With the construction of the lighthouses and improved navigation, the wreckers were put out of business and the court lost some of its importance. With the population and money shifting to Miami, by the early 2000s, the court didn’t even have regular hours. The court had lost some of its power but not its relevance to the Keys. Any papers filed by Scaglione would be there.

Mac rolled over and glanced out the window, focusing on one particular palm tree that served as his weather station. Mac used wind and weather apps mainly for future planning. There was no better gauge for the here and now than the tree outside his window and the clouds above.

Today, its fronds were brushed back toward the northwest, meaning a southeast breeze. Much like the extension of a windsock informed pilots of the direction and strength of the wind, the palms did the same for Mac. The bend and sway told him the wind was holding steady around 20 mph, and the puffy clouds above indicated that it wasn’t going to change soon.

“Be a little bumpy out there. We should head back to Marathon and pick up your car.” Mac regretted not rendezvousing at Trufante’s and wondered if it was worth the hour to do it now. Heading to Marathon would mean running into the teeth of the wind through open water, a wet ride for sure.

Luckily, there was another option.

Mac reached for his phone and texted Trufante, asking to borrow his motorcycle. The Cajun’s plan was to check out the dunk tests on Stock Island before picking Pip up. The tests simulated a boat flipping, not an isolated issue in offshore racing. Any crew was required to complete the exercise before they were qualified to race.

Mac had his rules for boating: Keep the people in the boat, keep the water out of the boat, and if you were going to hit—hit slow. Looking good was also in the rules. He expected that for offshore racing the rules might be slightly different, the first being to stay alive. The tests might be the only sane thing about the races. Mac guessed they would be entertaining, and he hoped to pinpoint a weakness among one of the crews.

Trufante answered back with a wide smile emoji that had a shocking resemblance to his Cadillac grin.

Mac asked about the bike. Another emoji answered his question.

Borrowing anything from the Cajun had its risks, except his boat and bike. Anything with a motor was second nature to him. With the decision made, they took their mugs of coffee and headed to the dock.

The first part of the trip to Big Pine was exposed. Mac stayed to the channel, barely running on plane. He watched the whitecaps to the east disappear, blocked by the flat adjacent to the channel. Once they reached the Water Keys, the landmass to the east shielded them from the wind and waves. Mac accelerated and followed the channel until a gap formed between a pair of islands to the right. With the extra foot of water from the tide, he turned onto the flat and steered directly for a spot on Big Torch Key.

The glare from the morning sun made it difficult to see the bottom, which was probably a good thing. Running in about two feet, it would have appeared alarmingly shallow. Scars from the propellers of boaters who missed the mark were invisible. Once he’d passed between the islands, Mac steered a course toward the largest of three antennae on the Big Pine side.

With the sandbars and shoals behind them, Mac faced a different challenge. The water ahead was specked with trap buoys set haphazardly in his path. The commercial guys set their traps in straight lines or at least followed the contour of an unseen feature on the bottom. Mac didn’t need to see the large “R” on the buoys, which marked them as recreational traps, to know what these were. He swerved back and forth, running through the minefield.

The entire trip had been like running a gauntlet, first of underwater hazards and then the buoys. Mac had done it hundreds of times, but still felt the tension slip away as he entered the inlet to the neighborhood. He reached Trufante’s house a few minutes later and secured the boat.

They left the boat and walked under the house to where the bike sat. Unlike his boats, which were utilitarian, the bike had no scars, dings, stains, or even a spec of dirt. Mac wiped the thin and unavoidable layer of salt off with a towel he found nearby and started the bike. It was no surprise it sounded as good as it looked.

Mac thought the worst was behind him as they pulled out of the driveway. He stayed within the 30 mph speed limit through Big Pine and was ready to open it up when he turned right on US 1, but what he expected to be a speed-limit ride was thwarted by construction and school zones.

They reached Stock Island an agonizing hour later. During one of the frequent traffic stops they had decided to check out the dunk tests on the way to the courthouse. Mac turned right on College Drive, and another long school zone later entered the parking lot of the College of the Florida Keys. Being a weekday morning, the lot was nearly full, but the cluster of high-end, lifted pickups drew him toward the test area. They left the bike by Pamela’s car and headed toward the pool.

Whatever Mac had expected from a safety check, the raucous crowd was not it. The crews were gathered in groups, along with their hangers-on, waiting their turn in the simulator. Mac found Trufante and Pamela sitting in the bleachers off to the side and joined them.

“Good show. Should have brought some beer,” Trufante said.

Mac and Mel sat beside the couple and watched as the crews went through the testing evolution. A large screen off to the side showed the crewmen as they were submerged. Comments and catcalls came from the crews as they watched the module be inverted in the water and then the crewman’s escape. For a time, Mac lost his focus, enjoying the entertainment more than watching the crews. He noticed the Cajun giving a running commentary, much like a play-by-play announcer.

“What’re you seeing?”

“A lot of money.”

That much was evident. The event was like an early morning frat party sans beer. “You seeing anything we should take an interest in?”

“Difference is between the real sponsored teams and the yahoos who are putting their own money up.”

Mac watched the crews. Each team was branded, wearing matching shirts and hats. Some he recognized; others he didn’t. His focus moved from the test to the people, and he began to see the chasm between the professionals and the hobbyists.

Mac was watching the dynamic of the last team. He pointed them out to Trufante. “Might be a chance there.” The two crewmen were clearly hungover, one of the pitfalls of a race that was based in Key West, and appeared to be dreading the test. “You might offer your services.”

Three men and a woman were clustered together. Two were clearly the crew. The older man and woman had the look of owners. While the other crews were relaxed and having fun, this group was tense. When Mac saw the owner jab a finger in a crewman’s chest, he got up and grabbed Trufante. “Let’s go.”

There were several crews ahead of the group. As each one moved easily through the testing protocol, the mood of the last group became worse. Mac was close enough to hear the accusations about the crew being drunk. He sensed that given just the right amount of reassurance that there might be an alternative—the owners would fire them.

Mac pushed Trufante forward.

“Y’all need help?”

The woman gave the Cajun the once over. “Can you drive a boat, honey? These idiots got lost on their barstools.”

Trufante gave her his signature smile. “Sure thing. My middle name is⁠—”

“If you can pass the test, you and your buddy here are hired.” She turned to the man, who Mac expected was her husband. “Fire these idiots and give these guys hats. I like the look of them.”

The man quickly complied, and a minute later, Mac and Trufante, wearing their matching hats with the logo of a personal injury attorney on them, watched the crew ahead. They were no longer interested in the theatrics, but in how to actually escape from the simulator.

Before they could confer on technique, Mac was pushed forward. He nodded to the men administering the test, handed his hat to Trufante, and strapped on the offered helmet. Mac was placed into the simulator and buckled in. He ignored everything but the lever on his right, which would release him from the restraints. To the side, strapped into a small recess, was a small scuba tank and a regulator.

Before Mac could make a plan, the machine whirred to life and then suddenly flipped. Instinctively, he swallowed, which cleared his ears, reached for the lever, and pulled. He expected to be jettisoned, but the unexpected pressure of the water held him in place. Mac fought the urge to breathe. A long second later, his free-diving experience kicked in, and he relaxed. He could have stayed in that position for several minutes, his typical static breath-hold. Because of the unusual situation, he began to feel panic. Mac had been in tough spots underwater before. The inverted position was disorienting and affecting his breath-hold. He had a brief thought of what he must look like on the big screen, then remembered the regulator.

His hand moved to the recess and found the straps just as his diaphragm, desperate for air, convulsed. Releasing the pent-up air in his lungs, he yanked the regulator from the clip and stuffed it into his mouth. He pulled, expecting the bottled air to flow freely, but met only resistance. Mac had pushed his limits before and knew what it felt like to run out of air. He realized the valve was closed and reached for it, cracking it slightly.

Before he could take a breath, he convulsed, again expelling the air before he could inhale. The feeling deep within his chest started to form again. This time he knew it was coming and took a deep pull from the regulator. The air reached his lungs. He took two more breaths before casually removing the bottle from its holder and sliding out of the seat.

Mac surfaced to applause. He ignored the crowd, thinking they were mocking him for what he perceived as, at best, an awkward attempt, and handed the helmet to Trufante.

“Your turn.”

22

Mac could see the fear in the Cajun’s eyes as he was strapped into the simulator. The gleam of his teeth through a forced smile convinced the crowd otherwise. They cheered for him as he gave the thumbs-up signal.

Trufante was often referred to as catlike. Usually it was because of his ability to land on his feet or his nine lives which he had probably exceeded long ago. In this case, his aversion to water had him out of the pod before he even got wet. Before anyone knew what had happened, he was on the surface, having completely ignored the scuba gear.

“That was amazing!” The owner slapped the soaking-wet Cajun on the back. “If you can run a boat like that, we’re gonna kick some ass.”

Mac and Trufante walked back into the locker room, toweled off, and changed into the clothes the owner gave them. Mac felt like the guy on the Lucky Charms cereal box in his glowing green outfit. At least his fit. The lanky Cajun stretched the seams of his.

A crowd quickly formed around them when they exited the changing area. The attention was on Trufante, who had apparently just set the world’s record for escaping the simulator. The Cajun soaked up the spotlight for a long minute before the owner pulled him away.

He introduced himself as Richie, adding a well-worn line about that was what he made people, and his wife was Charlene. Mac secretly had already named them Overbite and Underbite. “Welcome to Team Richie Rich.”

Mac wondered if they had been accepted too quickly. He himself would have been suspicious if he had hired someone who didn’t ask about wages and conditions.

Mel stepped in to fill the void. “Y’all have some kind of contract?” She’d lived in the south long enough that her accent didn’t sound forced.

Charlene shot her a look that was clearly a challenge. Mac figured she had eyes for the Cajun. An image of the woman and Pamela fighting over Trufante flashed through his mind, and he hid a smile.

“We’ll cover expenses. Put you up somewhere and give a stipend for meals and such. Otherwise, it’s a share of the winnings.”

Mac was about to ask how much when he suddenly realized that he was not the number one guy in this situation. Used to being in charge, he backed off, grabbing Mel’s hand and squeezing. Uncomfortable in the position, he watched Charlene preen over the Cajun. Mac glanced at Pamela, who seemed amused—for now. Richie introduced them to the mechanics and support crew, who were more interested in talking to Mac.

The Cajun taking the lead meant that he would be the driver, making Mac the navigator. The crew understood his position was every bit as important to the success of the operation. The burst of resentment Mac had felt drained away as he blended in with the crew.

Boats and engines, whether a dinghy with a six-horse kicker or an offshore racing boat, shared more commonalities than differences. Mac knew and understood the language. The talk turned to engines. Trufante might be able to repair one blindfolded, but Mac knew the market.

“You familiar with the Mercury 300 3.2 litre V6?”

He almost blurted out that he was a Yamaha guy but held his tongue. “Super-stock class?” Mac recalled the spec from the race schedule Mel had pulled up the night before. “How long a hull?”

“We’ll max out the class at thirty-two feet.”

“Should fly. You run them in sport mode?” The industry had invested millions of dollars and years of engineering into making their engines quieter. Now, with the press of one button, they sounded like a Harley.

The men glanced at each other, clearly wondering if they should divulge the team secrets. “We did some mods.” They started talking about removing the exhaust baffles and other changes they had made with the conspiratorial look of ten-year-olds in a candy store. The talk moved to hull shape and displacement, leaving Mac glassy-eyed. Mac was usually willing to leave a lot of speed on the table in exchange for a comfortable ride. The offshore boats were exactly the opposite.

The last crew had finished qualifying, and the crowd started to disperse. Mac and Trufante were invited to a late breakfast that seemed more mandatory than optional. When they started talking about lunch and dinner, Mac got a queasy feeling in his stomach and braced himself, understanding that there was as much a social element to the event as actual racing.

For all the similarities between boat and car racing, there was one big difference. Both were expensive endeavors, but only one offered the chance of any kind of payback. With their sponsorships, TV contracts, and filled stadiums, car racing was on a different level. There was a saying about boats that they were a hole in the water that you poured money into. That applied to racing them as well. There were sponsorships, but they were minuscule in relation to the expenses. The big money was in TV and attendance, of which they had none.

Setting aside the passion, the only reason anyone got into offshore racing was either to launder money, to climb a social ladder, or for their egos. Mac expected that his new team, owned by a personal injury attorney, reflected the middle option. The events were one big party. The only barrier to entry was the money needed to field a boat and crew.

Mac sensed that the racing would be the least of his worries.

Mel and Pamela had fallen to the wayside, mainly because Charlene wanted the Cajun to herself and didn’t seem to care about Mac. Richy seemed to bask in his trophy wife’s happiness. As the team moved toward their vehicles, Mac was able to talk to Mel and Pamela.

“Better keep an eye on Boy Wonder,” Mel said. “That woman looks like she’s used to getting what she wants.

“I’ll defang the bitch when we’re done,” Pamela said.

They all knew the plan had changed slightly. “We’re still in the same spot. You guys do your thing. Me and Tru will deal with this.”

“Don’t let him get too comfortable with that woman,” Pamela said.

They all knew that at some point, Trufante would crash and burn. “You’ll have to deal with Pip.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Pamela said.

Mac wondered if it wouldn’t be better to see if there was a place for him on the crew. “I think he’ll fit in fine with this crowd. Give a yell when you pick him up.”

Pip would be in his element in this environment, allowing Mac a much-needed social buffer. Though Charlene wore a short skirt that showed too much flesh for Mac’s taste, she clearly wore the pants in the family. A word from Trufante, who had her in his spell, would be all that was needed to secure Pip a position.

When their tables were ready, Charlene pushed Richie to the side and had the Cajun sit next to her. The two were in each other’s faces, ignoring the rest of the group. Mac reached for his phone and sent a text, telling Tru to get Pip on the team. The Cajun took his time checking the message. When he finally did, he whispered something to Charlene and nodded at Mac, who was at the employees’ table.

In a strange way, this was like a break for them, and each stared into their phone. Mac took the opportunity to update Mel and Pamela, asking them to bring Pip by the Truman Waterfront Park after they picked him up. They acknowledged, and Mac sent Pip a long-for-him message telling him of his future employment.

Mac usually had confidence in his own actions. It was Trufante and Pip who he worried about. In this case, the opposite applied. An image appeared in his mind of Trufante driving the boat, the mile-wide grin on his face as he smashed the million dollars of fiberglass through the waves at speeds it wasn’t intended for. Pip would fit in equally well with the crew.

Mac was worried about himself. All the driver needed was a firm hand on the wheel and a load of confidence. Trufante had both. As the navigator, Mac had the lion’s share of the decision-making. There were no navigational challenges as such. Mac had seen these races before and knew the courses were straightforward and well-marked. His job would be to watch for the other boats as well as monitor the condition of their own.

While they waited for breakfast, Mac talked to his teammates. Each was vested in the race. It was their paycheck, their passion, and their bragging rights. The race schedule ensured that they knew the other boats and crews. There were sure to be side bets between them, and as every race day was followed by a happy hour or reception with free-flowing alcohol, friction was sure to be a result.

The guys had spoken about “mods.” Mac took the opportunity to probe deeper. He had been accepted into the fold and they were happy to answer questions. Several commented that they were glad they finally had a navigator who would listen and take an interest in the mechanics of the boat. Apparently, the man Mac replaced had been somewhat of a pompous ass. Mac had a tinge of worry about Pip, the same moniker having been applied to him before.

The crew ate quickly, eager to get to the waterfront and their boat. Mac went with them but first got the Cajun’s attention and gave him a long look. The two men’s preferred method of communication when they worked together was a unique dialogue of grunts and body language. Trufante was sure to have received the warning. He just chose to ignore it.

And then it got worse.

Charlene called over the server, ordered two bottles of champagne, and called the crew over. The bottles and a tray of mismatched glasses were brought out. When the champagne was poured and the glasses distributed, Charlene rose.

“To our new driver.”

The crew knew what was expected of them. Mac glanced at his watch, seeing it was well before noon. He knew the slippery slope the Cajun would be on once the alcohol touched his lips.

What he hoped was that it didn’t bring disaster.

23

The waterfront offered a perfect venue for the races. The long seawall that ran past the cruise ship port to Mallory Square allowed ample room for spectators, and the large, protected area in front of Truman Waterfront Park offered a staging area for the boats. A line of high-end trucks pulling the higher-dollar boats waited in line for a crane to unload them.

The procedure drew a crowd of its own. The stock and super-stock boats were monohulls and narrow enough to fit on a standard trailer. The crowds gathered at the larger twin-hulls, which, because of their wide beam, sat on edge on their trailers. Mac followed the crew to one of the more modest boats, decorated with a wrap showing Richie and Charlene’s faces as part of an ad for the law firm.

With a hundred thousand dollars as the total purse, none of the entries was going to recoup or even mitigate expenses. The first-place payout would barely pay the bar bill for the week. That left the door open for the legitimate owners to write the endeavor off as an advertising expense and the not-so-legitimate owners to pour in the cash from their ill-gotten gains.

The stock-class boats were modest in comparison to the Super Stock and Extreme classes. Mac wasn’t sure if they were modeled after the go-fast boats used to run drugs or if the drug runners had copied the design. With the dubious lineage of the entrants, it was probably the former.

Mac traced his fingers over the smooth fiberglass. His feeling about boats was that it was better to get that first ding out of the way. This polished hull was an invitation waiting for that to happen. He joined the rest of the crew hovering around the twin Mercury 300s. The cowlings were off, showing the inner workings—which Mac didn’t understand. A slew of wires running from ports on the engine to monitors reminded him of an intensive care ward. Mac could change the oil and perform routine service, but everything else had become electronic, controlled by computer modules, and as such, over his pay grade. Several of the men were making last-minute adjustments. Mac stayed around the perimeter, soaking in the conversation for anything that might help him in the race.

The line was slowly moving forward as the crane lifted each boat from its trailer to the water. The crew chief, a man named Sten, had taken Mac under his wing, knowing he was the best line of defense against disaster. The dunk tests weren’t all stagecraft. Every few races at least one boat flipped. With the breeze that Mac felt on his face and the weather forecast, he expected there would be more than usual.

Key West, as an island, was exposed to everything a small dot between two large bodies of water could throw at it. The south side faced the Atlantic. That wasn’t a concern as the races would be held on the north side. Mac glanced out at the water past the enclosed basin and watched the small whitecaps march past. They weren’t large enough to worry about, but he knew the currents in the channel running past the pier could be extreme. In a wind-against-tide situation, the water would be unstable.

Mac kept a weather eye on the parking lot, looking for Trufante and Pip. He took the opportunity to familiarize himself with the controls for the left-hand seat when he heard a commotion from the parking lot.

Pip marched toward the boat with Pamela on his arm. The disparity in height between her—at six feet—and the much shorter Pip, which left the top of his shaved dome almost a head lower, was more than slightly comical.

“Yo, Travis, wait up.”

Mac cursed under his breath. Pip was an acquired taste. The optimal situation would have been to introduce him gradually. Instead, he made an entrance that stopped not only Richie’s crew but the others as well.

“Y’all make some room.” Pip dropped Pamela’s arm, marched past the crew, and took a lap around the boat. “Nice. Probably could use a little extra, if you know what I mean.”

Stock boats were intended to be equal. There was an allowable range in length, but the engines were the same. Mac had noticed a post-race technical inspection listed on the schedule. He knew that each crew had their secret sauce. The real challenge was to disguise the modifications. It is said that there is honor among thieves. With this crowd, the penalty would be worse than disqualification—much worse than Josh getting caught for stuffing weights down the gullets of his fish.

Pip was the center of attention, talking smack that only he understood. Mac knew that when he laced the conversation with his catchphrases of “this, that, and the other thing” or simply, “here’s the thing,” Pip was making it up as he went. Surprisingly, the crew seemed to be falling for it, probably because no one would be the first to admit that they didn’t know what in the world he was talking about. Pamela hovering nearby helped distract them from the details.

The party broke up when the crane operator called out from his cab that they were next. Mac exchanged a look with the man, shaking his head when he recognized him. The operator smiled and nodded back. Mac stayed to the side as the crew worked to ready the boat. Once it was in the air, Pip moved next to him.

“About time you found something for my skillset.”

“Trufante’s driving.”

“So, here’s the thing, Travis. That Cajun is trouble. Don’t know what Pamela’s doing with the boy.” He turned to her. “Come on, babe, rub the cranium for good luck.”

Mac searched frantically for Trufante, but there was no sign of him. His anxiety eased when one of the crew started to climb into the driver’s seat. Mac stepped across the boat and dropped into the left-hand seat. His focus was on the harness, making the necessary adjustments, and the controls. When he looked up, Pip was next to him. A cigar had miraculously appeared in his mouth and a big smile was on his face.

“Let’s see what this bad boy can do.” Pip pressed the start button. The twin engines growled to life, and without waiting, he pulled away from the dock.

Communicating over the sound of the engines was impossible. Mac saw a helmet with a built-in headset beside the seat and put it on, motioning for Pip to do the same.

“Can you hear me now?”

“What are you, the Verizon dude?”

Mac wasn’t sure if the crew had access to their communication. He assumed they did. “I think we’re supposed to dock over there.” Mac pointed to the row of boats against the seawall.

“So, here’s the thing. I think we need to do a safety check.”

Pip slammed down the throttles, not waiting for an answer. The boat shot forward. Mac grabbed the handles and studied the controls, hoping there were redundant systems that would allow him at least some control of the boat. A single screen encompassed the entire dashboard, containing all the information about the boat and course.

Pip steered toward the narrow entrance to the basin. The boat was planed out and running well. Mac glanced at the gauges, checking for any sign of trouble aside from the obvious possibility that they were probably fired. Thankfully, the communications channel was clear. His final plea to Pip fell on deaf ears as the boat shot through the gap.

The water changed dramatically, tipping the hull from side to side as the cross chop came beam-on. The next obstacle was the wash from a cruise ship docked to the north. What appeared to be a river shot out from the side of the boat. It took another nudge on the throttles to break free of it.

Pip turned to starboard, heading for the first turn buoy. The best Mac could do at this point was to make sure they got back in one piece. He checked the interface, moving through the pages, relieved to see that everything appeared to be in the normal range.

“One lap and back. You’re going to get us fired before we start.”

“Why didn’t you say so, Travis? Details on this operation have been sketchy at best.”

Mac didn’t react. Even if there had been a full briefing, he doubted Pip would have listened. Mac was hanging on as Pip changed course. Slamming into the waves head-on, Mac reached for the grab bar. Finally, Pip slowed and headed for the cut leading to the basin. To his relief, when he finally looked around, he saw several other boats running the course.

Pip pulled up to the seawall, barely nudging the bumpers. He removed the helmet, set it on the seat, and climbed out. “She runs pretty good, but I have a few ideas.”

The crew seemed receptive as they gathered around Pip. Mac unbuckled the harness, removed his helmet, and stepped onto the dock. He cornered Pip. “That was stupid. You could have got us fired.”

Pip seemed unfazed. “So, here’s the thing, Travis. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” The crew acted like Pip was some kind of hero. Pip caught Mac’s eye and smiled before turning to his audience.

The crew moved to the engines. The cowlings were off, and Pip continued to carry on. He had someone start the port engine. When it kicked over and idled quietly, Pip fiddled with something behind the engine. Suddenly the sound changed from the quiet purr that Mac expected to a throaty roar. Pip stepped back and stood next to Mac. They watched the crew as they examined the engine, using a computer they had plugged in to monitor the results. Heads shook, heads nodded.

“Sport mode, Travis. Sometimes, you gotta know stuff. They’ll figure out it ain’t gonna run faster, but they’ll know we’re coming. I better explain before they take the damned thing apart.”

Mac wasn’t sure if Pip had helped or hurt the cause. In the short term, he had endeared himself to the crew. The jury was still out on how much damage he would do in the long run.

The activity and noise had attracted a crowd of onlookers. Kept away by police barricades, they watched and speculated on what the crew was doing. As if on cue, an aisle opened, and like Moses parting the Red Sea, Trufante appeared. With Charlene on his arm, they walked through the crowd.

Mac wasn’t a fan of pomp and circumstance, but he had to admit this was effective. With Richie and Charlene’s faces along with the name of the law firm—and an obligatory 800 number—splashed across the boat and truck, they were hardly the most glamorous or exciting entry. Pip and Trufante had changed that. Charlene and the crew were eating it up. Richie was so happy about the trial run that he seemed oblivious to the attention his wife was lavishing on the Cajun. Pip was strutting around like a rooster.

Mac couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly go wrong.

24

He had tried to avoid it, but the excitement surrounding the races had started to suck Mac in. He continued to resist, though, knowing that winning the race was only the first step in their fight for the island. Mel would still have to come up with some courthouse magic. Mac had faith in her. If there was something to be found, she would find it.

His concern was for Trufante and Pip. They were riding high, but Mac knew that situation was temporary. Both were subject to spectacular flameouts.

Mac felt Pamela come beside him.

“Quite the show, Mac Travis.”

Mac turned toward her and did a double take. If asked, he would have described Pamela as good-looking in a natural way. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her wear makeup, and her attire was usually shorts and a t-shirt. Her footwear of choice was generally deck shoes, a nod to her military training. No one ever won a fight wearing flip-flops and a hoody.

“What?” Pamela asked. She sounded insecure.

“You look …” Mac searched for the word.

“Just doing my job.”

Mac took a short step back and took her in. She was transformed from top to bottom. Starting with her hair, which had been straightened and blown out—a drastic change from the beach hair she usually sported. Her face was made up, and her short dress clung to her muscular figure. She wore sandals, more sensible than stilettos, for two reasons. Wearing heels would have made her over six feet tall, an intimidating height to many men. And if it came down to a fight, she could kick the sandals off and go barefoot.

“You look great.”

“For a stripper.”

“You’ll get his attention.” Mac studied her more from a tactical perspective, wondering where on her person she might have secreted a weapon. He found nowhere obvious but knew she would be prepared.

“Alright, I’m going to get this over with. Where’s my backup?”

She followed Mac’s glance to the boat and crew, where Pip was still the center of attention. “He’d be a crappy pimp anyway. I’m probably better off alone.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No choice, Mac Travis. You’d do it for me.” She turned and headed for the street.

Mac couldn’t help but watch her. There were few people he trusted in this world, and she was one. It was her decision to go out on her own, but Mac needed to provide some kind of backup. He racked his brain and came up with two poor choices. Billy Bones was one. In his case, throwing the baby out with the bath water wasn’t a bad thing. Tyler, Josh’s mate, was the other name that came to mind. Mac pulled out his phone and found the contact information he had gotten from him during their brief meeting at the Submarine Pens.

When the call went to a generic voicemail, Mac realized he should have texted first. He pecked out a message and waited, then thought twice, wondering if he could really trust the guy. The answer was probably not. Tyler was an unknown. Just because he had seemed disaffected with Josh didn’t mean there was no loyalty. Mac decided that for all his problems, Billy Bones was a known quantity. He ignored Tyler’s call back and reached out to Billy Bones instead.

“I can’t go in there,” Bones said. “Banned for life.”

Mac couldn’t imagine what level of infraction would result in getting banned from a strip club. Before Billy had said it, Mac didn’t think it was possible.

He was running out of ideas when he decided to call Mel at the courthouse.

“Any luck there?”

“Nothing. I feel like I’m getting stonewalled. Maybe he paid off a clerk to hide the filing.”

Mac’s first thought was that the paperwork might not exist. Scaglione was not the kind of guy who filed lawsuits. He took what he wanted through any means possible and worried about consequences later. Affording a lawyer was one thing—time was another. Gangsters were generally not patient. Their idea of working the legal system was through blackmail and coercion,

“If you’re not getting anywhere there, I could use your help.” Mac explained that Pamela had gone in on her own.

“What happened to Pip?”

Mac glanced over at the dock to see the same scene as before. Pip was probably deep into his repertoire by now, but they were still eating it up. “Never mind him. She needs backup. I’d go, but we have the first heat in thirty minutes.”

“Not sure how effective I can be in a strip club.”

Mac remembered seeing many couples interspersed in the club the other night. If anything, Mel would be welcomed.

“I can’t go looking like this.”

An image of her in her sundress told him otherwise. “You’ll be fine.”

“Shit, Mac.”

He could hear the reluctance in her voice. Instead of trying to convince her, he stayed quiet. She knew what was at stake and would be running every possible scenario through her mind. Mac would be all in favor if she came up with a better idea. He hadn’t liked the idea of sending Pamela in, anyway.

“Alright.”

Mac felt mixed emotions—apprehensive about putting the two women at risk but secure in the fact that they would have each other. Having women customers somehow legitimized the operation—or rationalized it. The black shirts would also be there for them. Their differences created a powerful team. Even with putting Mel at risk, it was better than depending on Pip for backup.

Mac looked up and saw the crew waving at him. He checked his watch and walked quickly toward the boat. An idea occurred to him along the way, and he wondered how strict the officials were about the dunk test. With the various classes racing on different days, the tests were held daily. Pip had missed today’s test. Mac didn’t expect any interference from the crew, and if he was called out, Pip could take the test in the morning.

“Pip’s going to take my spot.”

A cheer came up from the crew. Mac suffered the strange feeling of being upset when you get what you want. He pulled Pip aside. As boisterous as he was, Pip had hidden fears and not all were rational. “You have to take the dunk test tomorrow.”

Pip ignored the part about the test. “This, that, and the other thing, Travis. Good call letting me take your spot. Me and the Cajun’ll kill it.”

That was more or less what Mac was afraid of. “Don’t kill it until the finals. Today is just to get there.” Mac was suspect of the racing craft for good reason. It wasn’t unusual to have something mechanical fail aboard every boat in a race. With rough seas, the chances increased.

“Right, Travis. We got this.” Pip pulled Trufante away from Charlene.

Mac almost said, “Famous last words,” but held his tongue. Giving Pip an axe to grind was not going to help the situation. Mac headed away from the seawall in the direction of Duval Street. He paused and turned back when he heard Scaglione’s Jersey accent. The Mafia boss was with his crew, giving what appeared to be last-minute instructions. Mac changed course and walked back toward the gangster’s boat.

The mood was serious, with the crew huddled around Scaglione. Mac couldn’t catch what he was saying, but he could sense urgency in his tone. Something like, “Win this, or you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.” The start of the twin engines obliterated his last words.

When the crew cleared away, Mac saw Josh climb into the driver’s seat.

Mac’s hope that Trufante wouldn’t notice the driver dissolved as the two boats pulled up beside each other. Scaglione’s boat was almost identical to the Richie Rich team’s in build and power. The vibrant pictures of mostly naked women adorning the hull made it impossible to miss. “Teasers” was written in gilded script across the sides. Mac watched as Trufante’s head turned. He couldn’t see the Cajun’s face from where he stood, but his body language showed he had recognized his opponent.

Both drivers revved their engines and stared across at the other while they waited for the rest of the boats in the heat to take their places. There were no assigned positions, just a warning siren and then, a minute later, the blare of the start horn.

The sound of the half-dozen boats as they shot out of the start echoed across the water, then evened out as the boats came up on plane. That initial surge of power was one area the driver and crew had control over. The tweaks each crew had made became apparent in the opening salvo. Like the booster stage of a rocket, it was a one-and-done.

Once the boats planed out, the race became more of a test of nerves and construction rather than skill and engineering. Richie Rich and Teasers took an early lead, the two captains running their own race and ignoring the field.

The purpose of a qualifier was to move on. Of the six boats in the heat, four would make it to the next round. In this circumstance, coming in fourth was the same as first and often more advantageous, as it would put less stress on the boat and crew. But neither Trufante nor Josh had received that message, and now the adrenaline coursing through them would block any sensible decision to slow down and save their boat.

The venue was perfect, with most of the course visible from either the park or Mallory Square. Mac was at the finish line, watching the pack as they sped by after the first lap. At this point, the qualifier was more or less over. Mac had been in enough races of different kinds to understand that once the racers settled in, there was only so much ground that could be made up. The goal at that point was both to qualify and spare the boat.

After two of the five laps, barring a mechanical failure, the boats that would advance to the next round had been decided. In most preliminary heats, the interest of the crowd would have shifted to the tent market set up along the waterfront. The spectators had no idea who was behind the controls of the boats battling for the lead, but they instinctively sensed the drama. A pair of helicopters circling and diving around them only increased their attention.

Trufante was ahead by half a boat length after the third lap. By the end of the fourth circuit, Josh had taken the lead. Mac cursed himself for allowing Pip to take his seat. He might have been able to control the Cajun. Pip would be pushing him for every speck of power.

The two boats were well ahead of the field as they reached the open water at the far end of the course. Blocked by the buildings and landmass, Mac barely felt a breeze on land. But as the boats moved away from the protected area, waves were kicking up to a whitecapped froth.

Mac felt the jolt of every wave as if he were there. At maximum speed, the pounding would be intense and some damage to the boats inevitable. Every time the boat slammed into a wave, any screw or nut that wasn’t torqued correctly, and some that were, would vibrate. Over the course of a race, that could mean disaster.

Until they rounded the last turn, Mac had been rooting for the Cajun to back down, take second place, and move on to the next heat. As the boats approached something switched in his head, and he was all in. Blood pounded in his ears as if he was out there himself. He felt the muscles in his hand tense as if he were pressing an imaginary throttle forward, finding just that quarter inch at the end of the range that would propel the boat into first place.

Like every fan who thinks they can influence the outcome of an event, Mac felt an indescribable joy as Trufante nosed ahead near the end.

Seconds later, the boats screamed across the finish.

25

The crowd held a collective breath. After having been drawn into the race between Trufante and Josh, they moaned in disappointment that the end wasn’t the end. A finish line, by definition, is supposed to provide closure. In this case, the winner wasn’t apparent, at least to the naked eye. As the rest of the boats crossed the line, in more or less the same order they had found themselves after the first lap, the winner was still undetermined.

Mac wasn’t a fan of technology in sports. Instant replay and coaches’ challenges sucked the air out of a stadium and swung the outcome of an event to incomprehensible measurements. A credit-card distance between a toe and the sideline or the micro-second gap between first and second place seemed to take the outcome of an event out of the participants’ hands. There was something wrong with needing a photograph to determine a gap invisible to the naked eye. Mac had always thought that if they were to rely on instant replay to determine outcomes the least they could do was to judge the play in question at the speed of the game and not in slow motion.

All his inner protests and misgivings fell away when Trufante was awarded first place. The Cajun entered the protected area and took a victory lap around the turning basin before heading to the dock. Mac stayed back, more interested in the dynamics around the second-place boat than the celebration with the first.

Mac skirted the edge of the crowd until he reached the Teasers area. A small crowd had gathered around the boat. Mac slid past several people, wondering what the excitement over a second-place finish was. When he heard Scaglione’s voice above the idling engine, he knew why.

The man was screaming at Josh and the crew as if they had lost the final. Mac listened as Scaglione blasted them, the gist of the message being that he wouldn’t accept a loss in any form. He finally exhausted himself and stormed off. He brushed off his bodyguards and walked through the park. Mac watched him until he was certain Duval Street was his destination.

Mac followed from a distance, already knowing where Scaglione was headed. He pulled out his phone and called Mel. The call went to voicemail, and he left a message. The race had given him an idea. Now, he needed to stop Pamela before she befriended the gangster.

Key West was the perfect location for events. Whether it was Fantasy Fest or the World Offshore Races, the streets would be packed. The difference between the events was the type of crowds. They all spent copious sums of money, but they spent it differently. While places like Sloppy Joe’s and Captain Tony’s would be busy regardless, an establishment like Teasers would benefit from the testosterone of the races.

Even the street in front of the bar was packed. Mac waded through the crowd and reached the first pair of black-shirted security. Keeping his head down, he handed over a twenty and headed upstairs.

Time has a different meaning on Duval Street. When Jimmy Buffet coined the phrase “It’s five o'clock somewhere,” he could very well have been referring to Key West. The capital of day drinking was showing its colors with the Pole Party going on inside the club.

Mac waded through the crowd, trying to find a vantage point where he would be able to see Mel and Pamela. The lighting was intended to focus the crowd’s attention on the stage. With no windows, strobing spotlights provided the only light. There were more women in the crowd than on his previous visit, and the atmosphere was more of a party than a show, which forced the dancers to work harder, contributing to the primordial feel of the place.

When the light show allowed, Mac could see the crews clustered together. Aside from the dancers, scantily clad servers were working the crowd.

Mac moved several times, but there was no sign of Pamela or Mel. They wouldn’t be able to hear their phones over the loud music or even distinguish the vibration from the pulsing subwoofers. Mac began to feel disoriented as wave after wave of nausea spread through him. He’d been in big seas and bad weather with no ill effects. The conditions inside the club took a toll on him that was worse than any storm he’d been through.

Mac’s choices for relief were the street or the bathroom. He chose the former and headed for the door. The expected relief was short-lived. His body recovered quickly, but he hadn’t found Mel or Pamela. Heading back in was not an option, so Mac found a spot in the alley where he could see the front and back stairs of the club. He watched and waited.

Like two armies heading for battle, Pip, Trufante, and the Richie Rich crew entered from the front. Scaglione, Josh, and their crew came in through the back. Mac tensed, knowing he had to go back in. He’d had the foresight to have his hand stamped on the way out and went quickly up the stairs. He braced himself for the assault on his senses and entered the club.

Mac gravitated to the Richie Rich crew, where he was able to pull Trufante aside and tell him to watch for the women. Charlene was dominating the Cajun’s attention, though, doing her best to distract him from the naked dancers. That left Pip, who was in the middle of the crew, ordering shots and lap dances, always generous on someone else’s credit card. It wasn’t lost on Mac that the last time Pip had been in this type of club, gunshots had been fired.

Mac ordered a beer and clung to the bottle like it was a safety blanket.

After another round of shots, keeping Pip out of trouble became Mac’s top priority. He slid through the crew and reached out to grab Pip when a hand swatted his arm away. Mac was about to react when he saw it was Josh.

“Your buddy here almost got me fired,” he yelled, pushing toward Pip.

Mac expected a fracas, but Josh settled down enough to evade the black shirts’ ever-present glare. Pip, never one to back down from anything, wasn’t as careful and shoved back against the bigger man. Mac stepped between them.

“Let’s take this outside,” Josh yelled, his voice barely audible even though his face was inches from Mac’s.

Mac took pride in his ability to get out of fights rather than actually fighting. That didn’t make him a coward, just smart. When he did fight, it was as a last resort and he usually came out on top. He knew better than to take the bait and bit down hard on his desire to smash Josh in the face.

Fish know better than to eat a piece of plastic, too, but sometimes they just can’t help themselves.

A few minutes later, chests puffed out, they were standing on Duval Street. The crew members followed. A circle formed around the men. Blood pounded in Mac’s ears. He was past the point of no return. Slowly he calmed himself, knowing the fight was inevitable.

Josh stepped forward into Mac’s space. The move was to intimidate Mac. He understood it for what it was and, at the same time, gauged what kind of fighter Josh would be. A smile crossed his face as Mac raised his hands as if to disarm him.

Josh’s body language had “bully” written all over him. He used his size and demeanor to intimidate opponents. Mac expected him to come straight toward him hoping to end the fight before Mac could respond. The attack appeared so straightforward that Mac began to worry. A blast of anger echoed through him that Josh didn’t think Mac would hold his ground. Mac knew the thought for what it was and used it as fuel rather than a blow to his ego.

Mac’s apparent response, crafted to appear like a victim backing down, was what Josh had expected. The big man smiled and charged. The subterfuge had worked. Josh had seen what he wanted to and had failed to notice Mac’s left foot was forward and his body turned. From the defensive position, Mac only had to make a small adjustment to his hands to turn the posture into an offensive one.

There were a dozen types of kicks that could have gotten the job done. An inexperienced fighter might have chosen a front-snap kick, or worse, a roundhouse kick. Both were flashy but slow to execute and easy to block. A skilled opponent might even catch the kick and, with a twist of the opponent’s extended leg, end the fight. High kicks looked good in the movies but offered the same advantage to the defender. Mac pivoted on his left foot. Turning his back to Josh, he slammed the edge of his right foot into Josh’s knee.

Josh never saw the kick coming. He crumpled to the sidewalk, screaming in pain. His entourage had fallen for Mac’s ruse as well and hovered around their leader.

“Cheating son of a bitch!” Josh yelled through gritted teeth.

Mac stepped back. The last thing he needed was a melee that would land everyone in jail. He glanced around to see if the fight had attracted any attention. Gravity is a common and expected force on the streets of Key West. It takes down the unsuspecting on a regular basis. Rather than being attracted to the fracas, the crowd merely flowed around them, thinking just another drunk had submitted to the earth’s pull.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Mac had noticed on previous occasions that there was virtually no police presence on Duval Street. There wasn’t much that wasn’t legal here, so there was little need for policing. Law enforcement relied on the bouncers to handle any problems.

The black shirts not only policed the club but also the area around it. Keeping the sidewalk and entrance clear was part of their job. Mac glanced toward the club and saw four of the men heading toward him.

Mac’s decision to stand up to Josh had been simple. That had been an easy win. Now, with close to a thousand pounds of muscle approaching, he needed to disappear. He turned, seeking a way out, but with both crews surrounding him, he was stuck. There was also no sign of Pip or Trufante, not entirely unexpected. Both had the survival instincts of a cockroach.

Mac braced himself, certain that the next time he opened his eyes would be from a hospital bed. The sidewalk didn’t exactly shake with the men’s approach, but their presence was felt. The crews began to melt away, leaving only Mac and Josh.

Two of the black shirts went to Josh’s aid. The other pair came at Mac. He held his hands up in the same disarming position that had fooled Josh, but this time, he meant it. His fight or flight response was already engaged. Fight had been the answer then. Now, it was flight. There were no words on his tongue that might extricate himself from the situation. He stumbled backward, ready to turn and run, when he found Mel and Pamela by his side. They each took an arm and stared defiantly at the black shirts.

Many men might take the assistance of the two women as a blow to their egos. Mac was grateful for it, knowing also that they could give the black shirts a fight if they wanted it. The black shirts stopped, unsure how to handle the situation.

Mel stepped forward. “They’re done. Pick up the trash and we’ll leave.”

“That would be a simple solution.”

Mac searched for the voice, which came from behind the black shirts. A second later, Scaglione stepped out from their cover, a small pistol in his hand.

Mac felt Pamela tense and wondered if she had managed to conceal a weapon. He had looked out of curiosity earlier and determined, with her tight dress, that it would be impossible. That wasn’t a good word to use around Pamela, though.

Her gun seemed to come out of nowhere.

26

There is an innate understanding shared by people with experience with firearms. Anyone can pull a trigger, but not everyone has the control to remove their finger from one. Both Pamela and Scaglione understood that a shootout on Duval Street would be bad for all of them. The guns disappeared as suddenly as they had been drawn.

They were now firmly in Mel’s territory. “The company you’re keeping leaves something to be desired.” She said it directly to Scaglione.

Mac watched the man carefully, feeling Pamela tense beside him after the insult.

The gangster nodded his head in recognition. “Counselor. Didn’t expect you to be running with this type of a crowd either.”

Mel had always kept her cards close. Mac knew she had dealt with some unsavory characters over her twenty-year career in DC. Still, he was taken aback that she hadn’t revealed knowing Scaglione earlier. An explanation, if one was forthcoming, would come later. For now, he had to trust her.

Pamela’s raised eyebrows suggested she had not known either. In her world, information was crucial to making decisions. Mel might rationalize that no one was in real danger. The guns suggested otherwise.

“It’s not enough to pull me in front of your boss’s committee? You have to follow me here?”

Mac felt his anger build. He knew the emotional rollercoaster would cost him later. There was no placating the feeling in his stomach that Mel had deceived him. Mel and Scaglione were both experienced players. While they evaluated their options, Mac had time to wonder if she had come to save the island or for a different purpose, a surge of emotion not allowing him to see that it could be both.

The standoff continued for a long minute before Scaglione backed away, leaving Mac staring at Josh.

“We’re not done, Travis.”

“So, here’s the thing. We finish this on the course,” Pip said.

“Works for me.” The words were out of Mac’s mouth before he realized he’d spoken them.

The black shirts had followed Scaglione, leaving Josh unprotected. “The finals, then.”

Mac saw Josh was limping as he turned to follow Scaglione. The satisfaction it should have given him was negated by Mel’s duplicity. Mac turned to her, carefully choosing his words.

Some trades or professions were easier to turn off than others. Mac wasn’t sure if all attorneys lived and died in lawyer mode. Mel certainly did. That part of her brain never rested. Part of that was situation-dependent, another uncontrollable. Mac’s philosophy was calm acceptance, at least of things out of his control. Mel’s was seek and destroy. There were no winnable arguments when Melanie Woodson was your opponent.

Unfortunately, that kind of commitment more often than not led to success. There were professions where Mac expected dedication, where the results of their efforts were lifesaving. The legal profession straddled a line. If Mac were on trial for his life, he would want a defense that never rested. For the more mundane things, he knew that lawyers buggered up the works more than they helped.

Ironically, the only way out of some messes was with the help of a lawyer. Whatever her intentions, Mel was still the best he knew.

“We need to talk.”

“Yes, but not here, not now.”

Mac understood. She might not be able to shut off her lawyer brain, but she had situational awareness. She would win, but she didn’t need to win now. Mac glanced at Trufante and Pip, who had appeared as soon as the fight ended. The excitement of the race and confrontation with Scaglione had faded. Mac sensed that they needed to hear her as well.

“Let’s get something to eat. Somewhere quiet,” Mac said, the oxymoron not lost on him in the Capital of Weird. Mac started walking.

For every block removed from Duval Street, the crowds thinned. The dynamic of the group changed again as they walked. Mel seemed edgy, her brain probably working overtime. Pip and Trufante glanced back at Duval Street as if they were coming down from a high and wanting more. Pamela seemed to be of a similar mind.

Mac had a destination in mind. When they entered the bakery, the groans from Pip and Trufante were clear. Enough had transpired that Mac wanted everyone sober. They ordered coffees and took a table near the back.

“I owe everyone an explanation,” Mel started.

Besides her lawyer brain, Mac knew her lawyer voice. She started as if she was presenting an opening statement to a jury. Mac knew much of her behavior was subconscious, one of those things you had to accept upfront if you were going to be in a relationship with her.

“The senator I work for is head of a committee on organized crime, specifically land deals. We’ve been after Scaglione for some time.”

After seeing the man free on the streets of Key West, Mac suspected it wasn’t going her way. He wanted to ask what that had to do with the island but stayed silent, a tactic she had taught him. The best way to get answers was to let her continue.

“The island is a different deal, but everything is connected.” She stopped and took a sip of coffee, scanning the faces around her. “We’re trying to bring Scaglione up on racketeering charges for bribing public officials to approve land deals.”

Mac knew that public land was often sold off. Leases sounded good on paper but turned into a convoluted mess when the government subsidized the leasing company. Timber was a good example. The government might have gotten some income in the short term but lost in the long term by leasing and then letting the public land be denuded. In a political world of three-dimensional chess, he didn’t know how this applied to the island but was beginning to understand where she was headed. He nodded to her to continue.

“It’s a land grab. The island is on the outer fringe of the refuge and already has an exception in place with the lease. Scaglione found out the lease is expiring and offered a deal to barter for the property on Boca Chica.”

“That’s Navy land,” Pip said.

“It is … but it’s not protected—” she started to explain.

“So, here’s the thing.” Pip jumped in. “Bastards are all in it together.”

Heads nodded, the distrust of the government running through the group like it was their lifeblood. Mac began to see things from her point of view. There were questions left to be answered, but for now, he knew the bigger picture was what mattered.

“They are, and I’m not sure how it’s all intertwined. All I know is we need to stop him.”

Her call to action seemed to solidify them. As Mac saw it, she had played them perfectly by minimizing her transgression of the truth. Even though he had seen through her ploy, he had bought in as well. “Saving the world” being more important than being truthful was a problem for another time.

“Forget all this legal this, that, and the other thing. There’s an easy play here.”

Mel appeared skeptical. Her plans were finely honed. Pip usually shot from the hip. The pregnant pause before anyone asked him about his idea left him red in the face.

He didn’t wait for an invitation. “So, here’s the thing. We beat his boy today. We beat him in the finals. All or nothing. I can goddamned guarantee he’ll take the bet.”

“A boat race?” Mel asked.

“I’m in,” Trufante said.

“I’ll make sure he’s distracted,” Pamela said.

“Nah, babe. I got this. We don’t need insurance.”

“The insurance is not optional. I’ll do my part, you do yours.”

“See that, Travis. That’s how it’s done,” Pip said.

Mac wanted to launch into a speech telling them that this was dangerous business and not a game. It took him a long minute to remember that this was not all about Mel and the island. Trufante had an even bigger stake in the outcome after his cooperation with the police. Mac backed off. He wasn’t sure if the Three Musketeers had been caught up in the moment, but at least on Trufante and Pamela’s parts, the CI incident affected their judgment.

Pip was the wild card, but he was always the wild card. Trufante had a reputation for being a troublemaker. His problems were generally because of his circumstances. A lot of that was due to bad decisions, but he wasn’t a loose cannon. Pip, on the other hand, was the original gunslinger.

“We know where he is. Let’s take care of business,” Pip said.

He was out the door with Trufante and Pamela behind him before Mac could say anything. Mel sat dumbfounded, which was somewhat rewarding.

“We better be the adults in the room.”

“Mac, I feel bad about this.”

Mac wanted to know her motivations. Had to know, but the time wasn’t right. “Like I said, we better keep an eye on them.”

The dynamic between Mac and Mel felt different as they retraced their steps to the club. Both when they were together and when they were geographically apart, there had always been a connection. At first, it had been because of Wood. They’d had a lot of shared looks and eye rolls when Wood went off on his rants. Wood was a single, stubborn father with a strong-minded daughter. Mac had played referee on many occasions.

Mel had that determined look on her face that he both loved and feared. Blessed with a combination of her father’s grit and her own toughness, he was worried about anyone in her way.

They caught up to the trio right before they entered the club. The black shirts gave them the once over, but with Pip and Trufante wearing the team’s shirts and Pamela’s short dress and disarming smile, they let them in.

“I’m going around back and keep an eye on things. There’s no way they’ll let me in after the fight.”

“As much as I’d love to see this show, I don’t think it’s a good idea if I’m there, either,” Mel said.

Once the trio had disappeared in the dark entrance, Mac and Mel walked down the alley. They found a couple of upturned milk crates, cigarette butts scattered around them and sat. Mac was immediately uncomfortable. While Mel was used to spending days in courtrooms and hearings, he was used to action. Within a few minutes, he started moving the dirt at his feet and fidgeting like a schoolboy.

“Mac, I couldn’t tell you. All this stuff is classified. I wanted to⁠—”

Before she could finish, the exit door at the top of the stairs opened. “That’s the door by the office,” Mac said.

They watched in silence as two black shirts poked their heads out. Mac didn’t know if they’d noticed him and Mel. If so, they must have assumed they were two employees on break. The trees above them cast their faces in shadow.

One of the men hustled down the stairs. He hopped into a black SUV and pulled it to the bottom of the stairs. The back door flew open. Mac looked up and saw Scaglione exit the building with one black shirt by his side. Two others followed them down the steps.

Mel was up and moving before Mac could do anything. She sprinted across the parking area and caught Scaglione before he entered the SUV. The guards closed on their charge but backed off when they saw she was a woman and unarmed, sensing there was no immediate threat.

Mac shook his head and followed. The black shirts handled him differently, grabbing him roughly by his arms. They glanced at their boss.

“They’re harmless.” He swatted the air in front of Mel’s face like she was a mosquito.

That only enraged her further. The men had released Mac, but their bulk separated him from Scaglione and Mel.

“You have something to say, spit it out.”

Mel had acted out of emotion and wasn’t prepared. “We’ll race you. All or nothing. For the island and the property on Boca Chica.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me and Mac.”

“What about the other clowns?”

“It has to be you in the boat or no deal.”

“And Gardner,” Mac said. If this was going to be all or nothing, he might as well handle both problems at once.

27

The ups and downs of the past few hours had taken a toll on Mac. But now he felt better. The opportunity to beat Josh satisfied something inside him.

As for the rest, he wasn’t sure, because he didn’t actually know what he wanted. His feelings toward Mel hadn’t really changed. She was his family. The nagging feeling he had that she was using him needed to be dealt with, though. The race might have been set and the stakes accepted, but if he wasn’t all in, it could end in disaster.

Whether it was an adrenaline dump or his lingering questions, what he lacked was a competitive edge—that elusive and even nebulous factor that places one opponent, who might appear equal on paper, over another. Instilling it in their players was an attribute great coaches were credited with. Mac knew it was the players themselves who either had it or didn’t. Speeches and motivational talks worked in the short term. For real results, you had to preach to the choir.

Offshore racing was not for the faint of heart. The combination of technical ability, stamina, fearlessness, and calm were rarely found in someone willing to smash a lightweight fiberglass boat into waves at speeds in excess of 50 mph. Each lap of the race took a little out of the boat and its crew.

Mac had learned that after the honeymoon phase of a relationship comes the hard work. Those who survive learn to accept their mates for who they are. They discover the ability to look past the faults that they were blind to earlier. Mac’s recent attempts at love had reminded him of the sequence of how relationships fail. That sinking and bitter feeling that everything the other person does grates on your nerves. The phenomenon leads to the “It’s not you, it’s me” breakup.

Mac had known Mel for twenty-five years and lived with her for ten. They had skirted but never reached that relationship tipping point. Right now, Mac was looking over the edge of the cliff.

The basis of the “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup is an admission that nothing has changed in the other party. All the faults that were now on the surface had been there the whole time. Many see it as a cowardly rationalization, others as the only peaceful way out.

Mac was in the rationalization phase right now—a purgatory where he couldn’t afford to remain. Part of the decision was his. The dreaded “What are you going to do with your life?” question. When Mel had returned to the Keys she had asked Mac what his plan was. The answer was that he was fishing tomorrow. His long-term planning hadn’t improved and since “retiring” he often felt he had lost his way. Mac didn’t have to pay bills or rent, or take care of a family. In the end, he had his passions and the knowledge that it takes a lack of imagination to be bored in retirement.

What was missing was the sense of urgency. Whether the boundary that Mel had crossed had always been there and not been recognized or if it was new didn’t matter. Mac needed his head in the game. Before that could happen, he needed to resolve things with Mel.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“What about the guys? They can only get into trouble in there.”

Again, Mac wasn’t sure if she was dodging the conversation or if she was genuinely worried about Pamela, Pip, and Trufante. In the past he would have written the response off to her sense of purpose and drive, attributes that he respected. It was another hammer strike to the half-bent nail of their relationship.

“They’ll be fine. Better if they’re hungover anyway. Pip and Tru aren’t going to like being replaced.” Mac still had to deal with Richie and Charlene. That would have to wait. If he didn’t work this out with Mel, there wasn’t going to be a race. Mac headed toward the waterfront. He fought the urge to look back and see if she was following.

She did, though, and fell into step with him. “If I told you that I don’t know what I want, would that help?”

Mac stopped. Mel had known, or at least thought she’d known, what she’d wanted ever since he had met her. That sentence, nor even any semblance of it, had never crossed her lips.

There was a problem with people who had done what they wanted to and accomplished their goals. Once it was over, there was nothing else. The driving force behind waking up each day disappeared. Without any driving force, Mac and Mel had found themselves at the end of the runway of life at an early age. Her answer had been to take the job in DC. Mac hadn’t found his yet.

Whether Mel had lied or misled him earlier didn’t occur to Mac. He knew her admission was from the heart.

“Me, too.” A spark of the intimacy they had always enjoyed returned.

“There’s something to be said for the Buddhist thing of having no possessions,” Mel said.

“You mean, why are we going through all this for a five-acre island?”

“That. But then there’s the winning thing.”

Mac found a bench and sat. Mel had struck a chord. Wood, for someone who would spit at anyone calling him a philosopher, had a pragmatic understanding of the human mind. He had said that being a contractor was more psychological than physical. Dealing with owners, vendors, subcontractors, bureaucrats, and employees had given him a rare insight into diverse groups of people. One of his memorable axioms was that what people did was about them, not you. Humans acted out of self-interest. How people interpreted their actions had no effect on their behavior. Mac hadn’t believed him at first but had learned the truth in his words.

There was no denying that Mel needed to win. The island, their relationship, and everything else was collateral damage. As far as the race went, Mac only had to imagine Josh’s cocky face to feel the same way.

They sat together, watching the last few boats that had been practicing head back to the docks. After missing the earlier run, Mac would have liked a turn in the boat he would race. With the sun dropping toward the horizon, that would have to wait until the morning.

Her single sentence had placated him, making him realize that there were shades of gray. Now that he and Mel were more or less on the same page, he felt better.

That was, until Key West invaded.

The sunset celebration was a daily ritual that pulled the crowds from bars on Duval Street to Mallory Square, where they were entertained by street performers until the main event. Even when the sun refused to cooperate, the crowds were still there. The smart money left the Square to the tourists and amateurs and headed toward the park. Mac and Mel soon found themselves among a growing crowd.

“Maybe a good time to check on them,” Mac said.

“I don’t think there is a good time in this place, but we might as well try.”

Vegas had long ago recognized the importance of time—or the lack of it—by creating an illusion that time never changed. Bars and clubs everywhere had copied that business plan. No clocks, no windows, and a consistent and unchanging source of light were the main ingredients. Once you walked through the doors it was never too early or late. Mac expected that if the clubs could jam cell phone signals, they would have done that as well.

Teasers copied the plan perfectly. Many of the bars and restaurants they passed, especially those with open-air seating areas, had emptied out. It wasn’t surprising that the strip club appeared the same as it had earlier.

Mac hesitated. “They’re not going to let me in.”

“Not to worry. I’ve got this.” Mel took off for the entrance.

Before Mac could stop her, she was past the first line of black shirts and heading up the stairs. Mac felt helpless waiting, but to his relief, Mel appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later. Mac watched for Pamela, Trufante, and Pip, but she was alone.

She met him at the edge of the property. “They’re not in there. I might have missed one, but not all three.”

Mac started down the street. He didn’t have a destination in mind but wanted to distance himself from the club. “We might as well do a lap.” Mac knew it was a long shot, with forty-three bars on Duval and at least the same number on the side streets. The chances of spotting the trio were slim to none.

“Wait.” Mel pulled out her phone. A minute later, she looked up. “The party tonight is at Irish Kevin’s.”

There was a constant discussion, mostly in online circles, of the distinction between a hobby and a sport. With a social schedule as demanding as the actual event, offshore racing was a lifestyle.

Mac glanced across the street at the line outside Irish Kevin’s. Some might wonder why the busier bars hosted events like this. It would seem logical that the newer and quieter ones would fight over the publicity. Duval Street was different in that respect. Though the retail and tourist shops changed hands regularly, the bar scene was pretty well fixed. There was no next great thing. Instead of marketing the iconic places as fun, cool, or hip, some genius had labeled them as historic.

Mel started across the street before Mac could stop her. The list of places that Mac never wanted to set foot in again started with Teasers. There was really no end to the list because it was ongoing, but the second place was Irish Kevin’s. Nothing good happened there. The “historic” places used the moniker not only for marketing but also to establish an expected degree of decorum. Irish Kevin’s defied that plan and called itself what it was: a drunken brawl.

Mel marched up to the first bouncer, who, despite her pleas, directed her to the back of the line. The guy had heard it all before, but today, Mac was wearing an advantage. He grabbed Mel’s hand and led her back to the entrance. The bouncer gave him the once over, noticed the team shirt, and nodded.

Popular bars have several common characteristics. There has to be a theme, be it naked women or drunken debauchery. The entire setting, including the audio, lighting, decor, and furnishings, needs to match the theme. There must also be a focus. In a strip club that was obvious. The lighting was designed to enhance the entertainment and, at the same time, allow the customers a degree of anonymity. A lot of places tried to accomplish this with decor. Others used gimmicks like flashy bartenders. In Irish Kevin’s, the customers were the focus—and it worked. There was no difference between the lighting of the band and the crowd. The package gelled together into a hot mess.

“We’ll never find them in here,” Mel yelled over the music.

Mac shrugged, remembering a quote from Churchill: “If you're going through hell, keep going.” He slithered through the crowd, focusing his attention above the heads of the crowd. Pamela was tall for a woman, but Trufante towered over the average man. Even with the couple’s height advantage, Mac wasn’t surprised that the much shorter Pip was the first one he saw.

27

“Yo, Travis. What are you drinking?” Pip yelled.

Mac had other things to fight about besides whether he was drinking or not. He glanced at Mel, who nodded and got the bartender’s attention. With the crowd engaging in a sing-a-long, he had to pantomime his order. He glanced around while he waited for the drinks. Besides the racers, the place was like a middle-aged frat party.

“No shots, Travis? Come on. We gotta celebrate.”

Trufante looked like a bobblehead in time with the music. You didn’t have to ask the Cajun twice if he wanted to drink. Pamela seemed the most sober in the group and gravitated over to Mac.

“We should get those two out of here,” Mac said.

“Us and what army?”

The duo appeared dug in. Besides the bar’s usual crowd, the crews and a surprising number of fan girls, two of who were hanging all over Pip and Trufante, had the club at capacity. There was barely room to move, let alone drag the men out.

“You want to drink, we should go somewhere we can hear each other,” Mac hollered.

They nodded, the invitation inferring Mac would pay. Mac was counting on the energy in the bar fueling their behavior rather than the alcohol. They ordered one more round. Mac offered the bartender his credit card, but he waved it off and pointed to Rich and Charlene, who were partying with the crew. Mac kept his distance, not wanting to upset anything. He did wonder why Charlene and Trufante were now estranged, then noticed a younger, buffer version of the Cajun hanging onto her every word.

Trufante and Pip touched glasses and slammed the shots, leaving the glasses upside down on the bar. Mac moved behind them and pushed them toward the exit. Several people stopped them, looking to buy Trufante and Pip drinks. The duo were clearly enjoying their ten minutes of fame after winning the heat earlier. With the crowd propping them up, Mac was unable to decide how drunk they were. To what extent gravity would come into play once they were free of the crowd was yet to be determined. Mac continued to usher them toward the door until they were finally on the sidewalk.

“Where to, Travis? You get to pick if you’re buying,” Pip said.

Mac caught a look from Mel. He needed to find someplace that was more about the food and less about the alcohol. Besides the bars and clubs, Duval Street had a lot of restaurants. He never understood why so many tourists would brave the street’s madness for a gourmet meal, but many restaurants were full.

“Damn,” Trufante said.

Mac turned to see the Cajun staring at his phone. “What’s up?”

“I been, I mean, we’ve been shit-canned.”

Mac wasn’t sure if this solved their problem or made it worse. With his luck, he figured the latter. He would have had to fight it out with Pip for the left seat regardless, but he could have probably talked the Cajun out of the race. Now, the matrix had shifted.

“Who told you? Him or her?”

Trufante glanced down at his phone again. He was like Mac and didn’t take the time to enter a contact’s name until he was sure they were someone who was going to stick around. That his phone often knew anyway who he was in communication with irked him.

“Looks like it was him.”

“Find out where they are, we have to deal with this now.” The need for food took a back burner. Mac waited while Trufante pecked out a text message. They waited for a few long minutes, but there was no response.

“Better go use that charm of yours and fix this, Tru,” Pamela said, breaking the silence.

“Shoot. I think I blew it cozying up with that other chicklet.”

“In more ways than one.” She shot him a look.

Trufante turned and entered the bar.

“You think he can fix this?” Mel asked.

Mac wasn’t sure, but the Cajun had come through in more than one situation where no one expected it. What Mac knew of his life story was one incident after another where Trufante had to dig himself out of trouble, mostly of his own making.

“We better move. If he pulls this off, her or Richie seeing us together isn’t going to be a good thing,” Mac said.

“Speak for yourself, Travis,” Pip spoke up. “It’s always a good thing when I’m around.”

Mac let the comment go. “We can see the entrance from that place across the street.” Mac didn’t wait for a response before crossing Duval. Under most circumstances, he would have preferred to be seated out of the way, preferably with his back to a wall. When he approached the host stand, he reluctantly pointed to a table by the street. The only saving grace was the plates of food that they passed looked pretty good.

Twenty minutes later, he and Mel were nursing glasses of water and waiting for their burgers. Pamela had a soda. He explained the bet with Josh and Scaglione to Pip and told him that he was out of the boat. There was no stopping him from drinking bourbon after that. Mac cursed under his breath. The train was already teetering on the rails. Mac feared it was about to crash and burn.

There was still no sign of Trufante when the food arrived. Mac had propped his phone in front of him in case he called or texted, but the screen remained blank. He ate rapidly, knowing the Cajun could appear and ruin the meal at any time.

It turned out he had made the right call. Just as he popped the last fry in his mouth, the lanky Cajun appeared in front of Irish Kevin’s. At first, Mac thought he had failed, but a few seconds later, Charlene emerged and took his arm. Mac didn’t need to see anymore—the Cajun’s grin was confirmation that he had succeeded.

“How does he do that?” Mel asked.

Back in the day, Wood had “found” the Cajun grounded on a sandbar in the backcountry outside Big Pine after fleeing another mess of his own creation in New Orleans. Mel hadn’t gotten him then and didn’t get him now.

Mel and Pamela were out of their seats when Mac stopped them. “Let’s see what happens now. Trufante’s gonna do what Trufante’s gonna do.”

“And you endorse this behavior?” Mel asked.

“No. But there’s no stopping him. I want to see if anyone follows. We haven’t seen or heard from Josh or Scaglione. That’s who we need to worry about.”

“So here’s the thing, Travis. I’d re-up the life insurance if I was you.” Pip chuckled.

Mac stared him down, wondering if he was serious or not, unsure of whether he meant for running the race or for betting Scaglione. There was also the possibility that Pip thought that without his being in the cockpit, they didn’t stand a chance.

Pamela continued to watch the street. Of all people, she knew that anything could happen in Key West because it had already happened to her. A half-dozen years ago, after a two-day binge fueled by alcohol and drugs, Pamela had gotten into a fight with her boyfriend—or at least the guy she was with. That part had never been made clear. She had no idea where her car was and had broken a wheel on her suitcase and lost her shoes looking for it. Trufante had found her, and they’d been together ever since.

Mac studied Pamela, knowing he could not have remained as poised and calm watching Mel walk away with another man. He wasn’t fooling himself. She had been in DC for a couple of years and had probably dated.

Pamela was up and going a second later. She grabbed Pip and headed for the street in the direction that Trufante and Charlene had taken. They were walking past on the other side of the railing separating the restaurant from the street when Pamela looked at Mac and winked.

Whether it was a conspiratorial gesture or she had read his mind, he would never know. Before he could analyze his thoughts, Richie and the crew appeared on the sidewalk. Mac wasn’t surprised to see a girl hanging onto his arm.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yeah. No idea how these people look at themselves in the mirror.”

Mac sat back and watched Richie and the girl, wondering how he could use that to his advantage. Again, before he could make sense of it, Josh and Scaglione appeared, and the mob boss walked directly up to the PI attorney. Mac expected fireworks and wasn’t disappointed. He saw this as his chance, dropped a hundred on the table, and hopped the railing.

Mac had no plan but saw this as an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. There was a good chance that either Scaglione or Josh would reveal the bet, if for no other reason than to confirm that Richie was aware that Mac and Mel intended to pirate his boat.

To his surprise, Mac watched as Richie clapped Scaglione on the back as if they were old friends. He slowed, wanting to see how the interaction played out. There were rules for everything, and Mac suspected there was definitely a no-contact rule when gangsters were involved. Scaglione could have easily pulled the gun Mac knew he had hidden under his jacket and shot the man. Instead, they embraced like old friends.

With the situation devolving into what appeared to be a good old boys’ club, Mac backed down and waited for Mel. He watched the men, grasping that personal injury attorneys and gangsters weren’t that far apart, especially when extortion was involved. They were also members of a unique and exclusive club. It not only took a boatload of money to join the offshore racing circuit but also the knowledge that those millions would never be recouped. Owners in any sports league are part of an elite club with a barrier to entry. Instead of buying assets that would likely appreciate in value, these guys invested in boats. Nothing depreciated faster than a boat—especially an offshore racer.

Scaglione’s ego was surely vested in the races, but his involvement was mainly to launder money. Mac had never pinned Richie’s motives down. Personality-wise, he’d nailed the attorney and his wife the first time he met them. His first assumptions were probably correct but now, seeing the two men together, he got the feeling that ego wasn’t the only thing on Richie’s mind.

And then it hit him. Attorneys didn’t launder their own money. Every settlement and billing were on record. What they did was help launder other people’s money. Accountants were involved as well, but more on the technical end. They generally lacked the imagination to cook up the schemes, something a PI attorney had in spades.

Mel moved forward, but Mac stopped her. “I think this is going to work in our favor.”

Mel nodded, her demeanor changing like a chameleon from confrontational to curious. She walked up to Richie and Scaglione as if she had just bumped into them. Thankfully, she didn’t open with the usual line—that it was funny running into them here.

Richie had never met Mel. He saw Mac and extended a hand. “Looks like we’re going to have the first women racer ever on the circuit.”

Mac introduced Mel, watching Scaglione at the same time. The gangster simply smiled and offered her his hand as if he’d never met him. Their eyes met for a brief second, and Mac gave a quick nod, thanking him for doing his work for him.

28

Maddie came through again with accommodations, saving Mac and Mel from Key West. Pip said he’d get a room. Pamela and Trufante’s status was unknown. Staying aboard Maddie’s Luhrs, Mac felt and heard every nuance in the conditions outside the fiberglass bulkhead. Around midnight, the grinding sound of fiberglass against something harder woke him with a start. Disoriented for a brief moment, he realized where he was and immediately felt the pull on the dock lines. The wind had increased and shifted. Mac had climbed on deck before turning in and had added a forward spring line to keep the west wind from pushing the boat against the piling it was now rubbing against.

Marina construction required the creation of a safe harbor as well as a path of egress. In this case, which was correct 90-plus percent of the time, the marina had been constructed to protect the boats from winds from the north, south, and east. West winds were a rarity here, and there was even a fishing adage that “if the wind blew from the west, rest.” The logical choice had been to build the channel in that direction.

With dark skies and a biting wind, there would be no pictures of the day’s races on the Key West Chamber of Commerce website. It would not be one of the 260 sunny days a year they advertised.

Mac tried to go back to sleep. Mel snored lightly beside him, blissfully unaware of the change in the weather. A large part of that was because Mac was here to worry for her. Mac had done enough watches to know that if someone you trust is keeping an eye out, sleep will come much easier. Within the protection of the marina, they hadn’t assigned watches, but Mac’s inner alarm had gone off.

Mac didn’t need any instruments to feel the increase in heat and humidity that accompanied the wind. The observed signs were enough for him to check several apps on his phone. They only confirmed what he already knew.

He lay awake for hours, or at least he felt like it. At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the first thing he saw in the barely there morning light was Mel hovering over him.

“You check the weather?”

Mac had no idea how she expected him to have checked while asleep, and he didn’t think he had woken her during the night. She trusted he’d know anyway. “Front coming off the Gulf. Going to be nasty.”

“The races?”

“I don’t know. Probably too much money on the line not to run them.” Mac expected it would take a legitimate gale and the accompanying small craft warning to shut down the event. If the wind had been from any other direction, it would have to be blowing 30 mph or more to affect the races, but like the marina, Key West had been built with everything except a west wind in mind.

Mac got up. “We should check the boat.”

One good thing about bad weather in the Florida Keys was that it was still generally warm. The cold days came behind the fronts, not in front of them. There was no need to brace himself as Mac climbed on deck, but he shivered in the stiff breeze and checked the lines again. When Mel was ready, he locked the cabin, and they walked across the street to where he had parked Trufante’s bike.

Traffic was light. With only the cleaners and prep cooks up, it was a quick ride across the island. The parking lot at the waterfront was empty, allowing Mac to pull the bike up to where the Richie Rich was docked.

A chorus of shattering fiberglass greeted him, like a broken wind chime, as he shut down the bike. He glanced around to see that he and Mel were the only ones around. The change in the weather hadn’t penetrated the concrete block walls of the hotel rooms where the rest of the crews were lodged. Many were probably mired in the deep sleep of the dead anyway. If he and Mel hadn’t stayed aboard Maddie’s Luhrs, he might have been as well.

Mel knew the drill. Whether she had slept through the sea change or knew Mac had handled it, years of living on an exposed island had taught her how to react.

Mac’s quick search of the few holds aboard yielded nothing useful, only the standard safety gear required aboard all boats. The racers had that and more. What was missing were the extra dock lines and fenders they needed.

“We can use the life jackets,” Mel said.

Though she hadn’t participated in the search, her brain was always working. “Good idea. We’ll have to rig the lines to hold them.”

Generally, fenders had their own lines, allowing them to be positioned where needed. The racing boat had two seats, meaning only two life jackets. Mac found the throwable cushion that was also required, giving him three makeshift fenders. He adjusted the lines, utilizing the stern line to create an aft spring, and tied bowlines on a bight, creating a loop so he could attach the PFDs where the protection was needed.

Mac checked the boat for damage, relieved to find nothing more than some scratches on the gel coat. The cacophony they’d first heard continued, though. A part of him said to leave it alone—the other boats were not his responsibility. Another part whispered that they had gotten to the Richie Rich early enough to prevent any real damage. A couple more hours of the fiberglass rubbing against the concrete would have been a different matter. Mac’s normally dormant competitive nature emerged, telling him that if no one else could race, they would win by default.

Mel must have noticed Mac’s quandary and stepped in. “We can’t win if their boat is wrecked and can’t race.”

“Right.” Changing the lines on someone else’s boat was a tricky issue. You could either be thanked or sued, depending on the result. Mac weighed the pros and cons and decided Mel was right.

They moved down the seawall adjusting lines and adding protection. The power cats, the larger of the classes, were taking the most damage. Mac focused on those first, then moved on to the stock class.

Scaglione’s boat was the last in line. He dropped to the deck and tossed the life jackets and throwable PFD up to Mel, who started tying knots where they needed to be placed. Before she was able to attach the first PFD, a pair of headlights broke through the dark dawn.

Mac’s first take was that someone had called the police. As the vehicle approached, its configuration seemed wrong for that. Mac wasn’t sure what made even an unmarked police car recognizable, but this car wasn’t one. His next thought was one of the boat owners had sensed the change in weather through their hangover and the exterior walls, insulation, drywall, and air conditioning noise of their hotel. When the vehicle turned out to be a truck—a lifted truck—and sped toward them, Mac knew it was Josh.

The truck skidded to a stop, and the driver’s door swung open. Josh stepped onto the pavement and stormed toward the boat. “What the hell are you doing?”

Diffusing tense situations was lawyer’s work. Mel took the lead. “Protecting your boat.”

Josh stomped around the dock, checking on what Mac and Mel had done to the other boats as well as his. “Better be all you’re doing.”

“You can check the cowlings for fingerprints if you want,” Mac said.

The words weren’t meant to incite him, but Josh took it like a bull dolphin strikes a flying fish. Before Mac could react, the guy was in his face. Mel stepped forcefully between them.

“Easy, boys. Save the testosterone for the race.”

It might have been only by an inch, but Josh backed down. “We’ll see. If this doesn’t run perfectly, I’ll tell Scaglione. There’s a cost to cheating on him,” Josh sneered at Mac.

Mac almost said that if it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t have a boat to race. That wasn’t true, though. He had to give Josh some credit for coming down at this time of the morning to check on his boat.

Mac stepped back. “We’ll see you on the water.” He grabbed Mel’s hand and led her back to their boat.

“He’s gonna cry foul play if he loses,” she said.

“Nothing we can do about that. Let’s just make sure he doesn’t try anything on our boat.”

Josh stayed longer than they expected. He finally left when the sun began to rise. The red sky was another harbinger of bad weather.

“You want some breakfast? I think we’re done with the drama for the moment, and I don’t want anyone else thinking we were messing with their boats,” Mel said.

“Makes sense. We can hit the dunk tank and find the guys afterward.”

“Oh, fun,” Mel said. Risking a disqualification for failure to qualify was not an option.

Just as they reached the bike, trucks started to pull into the parking lot. “A little late, but whatever,” Mac said as he kicked the starter. They sped out, passing even more trucks heading in.

The roar of the pipes made conversation impossible. Mac took a right on Whitehead. His destination was the Moondog Café where he parked in their small lot. Key West was just stirring, and the restaurant was nearly empty. They ordered and ate, then headed to Stock Island for the dunk test.

There was none of the excitement of the previous day, when most of the crews had qualified. Mel was the only person taking it and almost woke the attendant running the test. Mac didn’t need to watch the timer to know she was in and out faster than he had been.

“You know where the guys stayed?” Mel asked after.

For all he knew, they were still out partying. He pulled out his phone and sent an awkward text to all three. The only response was from Pip.

Mac knew Pip, who was now retired, from the old construction days with Wood. Mac and Wood had handled all the structural work in and out of the water and subcontracted the rest. Pip had run a guardrail crew.

One of the attributes of successful contractors was getting to work early. Many could be on the golf course or out fishing by noon as long as they set their day up properly. Pip had been one of the best at that. By nine most mornings, he was out on the course, on the water, or holding court in the gym. He was so good that many had thought he was retired years before he actually was. The old habit was still alive.

“Yo, Travis, so here’s the thing. There’s trouble in paradise. This, that, and the other thing. I’m starving.”

Pip sounded like a runaway train, one Mac had to board and stop. An early riser himself, second breakfast often appealed to him. This wasn’t one of those days, but he had no choice. They arranged to meet at Blue Moon and a few minutes later opened the place. As they waited for coffee, the iconic restaurant quickly filled. Mac expected that by the time they left, there would be an hour wait for a table.

Mel drank coffee. Mac ate again.

Mac could see the effects of the alcohol and lack of sleep on Pip’s face. “What happened?” Mac finally asked as Pip settled into his third cup of coffee. Like alcohol, there was a sweet spot with caffeine.

“So, this, that, and the other thing. The Cajun pissed off the girl.”

Mac didn’t need to ask which one. He had wondered about Pamela’s patience with Trufante and Charlene. She knew it was for the team, but he guessed Trufante had taken it too far. He was not worried. The Cajun always landed on his feet. “Where is she?”

“I got her back in the room, asleep. And don’t give me that look, Travis.”

Mac raised his hands. For all his bluster, Pip was a standup guy.

“And Tru’s with Charlene?”

“Could be in jail for all I care. Some kind of partner he turned out to be.”

Mac was sure that wasn’t the case.

29

Mac laid out what happened earlier at the docks, hoping Pip would be able to mitigate any suspicion of foul play.

“So, here’s the thing, Travis. You need to take those SOBs down. Your woman’s got nerves of steel. Not sure about you. Might be shot out for too many years of this, that, and the other thing.”

Mac ignored the speech. Pip had been there every step of the way for most of the past excitement and even when he wasn’t, Mac knew he ran hard. “I’ll manage.”

Pip scrunched his brow like he was worried. Mac could see the calculations going on beneath his shaved dome. Trying to convince him of anything would only get what little hair he had left up. Mac stayed quiet, letting Pip make his own decision.

“What are we going to do about the Boy Wonder?” Pip asked. As he often did, he answered his own question. “Might oughta check the jails and hospitals.” He paused and signaled for more coffee. Mac made a slashing motion, not caring if he noticed. “Better yet. Start with the morgue.” Pip chuckled.

“He’ll turn up, and I’ll deal with him then. What are you thinking about the weather and how the course is going to run?” When it came to running boats hard, Pip knew what he was talking about. He didn’t have any race experience, at least which Mac knew about, but he might get a golden nugget from him.

“So, here’s the thing, Travis. Glad you asked. The Cajun did some tweaking to the engines. Boat-wise, I think you got them. With this wind, it’s all going to come down to tactics.”

Pip rolled through several scenarios, some that Mac had thought about, others that he hadn’t. In the end, there was one that stood out. It would be risky, but that was what offshore racing was about.

“You watch that boy, Josh. He’ll be driving. Get Scaglione worried and he’ll try and take control. Game over.”

“How do you know what he’s going to do?”

Pip tapped his head.

Mac took the advice for what it was worth, but it did give him an idea. Offshore racing was a team sport. Most of the glory went to the driver, but like a quarterback taking all the props, you couldn’t do it alone. Those in the know might argue that the navigator had more control over the result.

Mac knew his enemy, but not as well as he would have liked. Scaglione was a wild card. Mac had no idea of his experience or boating skills. He could either be an asset or a liability.

In this case, Mac suspected Josh would be driving. He was on the water most days and knew not only the local conditions but how to run a boat. Mac would just need to get them to disagree on one point, and dissension would set in. He would have to make a bold move to get them there, but he saw no other way.

Mel had sat through the conversation but remained quiet. Mac glanced over at her, wondering what was going through her mind. She didn’t appear to be worried. Though she would not call herself a boater, it was in her blood. She had a kind of intuitive feel for the water that even she didn’t understand.

“We ought to head down to the waterfront. Maybe Trufante’s shown up.”

“Someone might want to keep an eye on things,” Pip said. “I’ll take care of the shore end.”

Mac was grateful and paid the bill. Pip headed down the street on foot while Mac and Mel took the bike. Motorized transportation had little advantage in Key West, and they arrived only a few minutes before Pip. A billow of smoke drifted behind him on the wind, and a new cigar was clamped in his jaw. He might have actually beaten them if he hadn’t stopped to light up.

The crews inspected their vessels, belatedly checking for damage and speculating about who the angel was that had saved their boats. Richie was with his crew, but there was no sign of Trufante or Charlene. Mac strode over to the boat.

“Word is that you saved the fleet.” Richie extended his hand.

Mac saw the appreciative looks from other crews, noting a few security cameras mounted on the craft that he hadn’t seen in the dark.

“No worries. Wind woke me up,”

“Me too. Slept like shit, mostly because of your philandering buddy.”

Mac wasn’t surprised that Richie blamed the Cajun and not his wife.

Richie glanced at Mel. “And you too.” He moved toward Mel. “Thank you for your help.”

While Mel spoke to Richie, he realized how badly this could have gone. He’d rigged and secured the other boats out of a sense of sportsmanship and goodwill. If he’d seen the cameras before he started, he wondered if he would have done the same thing, knowing he would be liable if the jury-rigged PFDs failed.

What mattered was that Richie had taken a shine to Mel, who for once was accepting his flirtatious remarks instead of hitting him with a flurry of discourse and storming off.

And then, disaster struck.

With Pamela leading him by the ear, Trufante walked onto the scene. Mac glanced around, but Charlene was nowhere in sight. Mac walked directly up to the Cajun and steered him to the side.

The word hangover might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. “Mel and I are racing the boat. You’re out.”

“That’s a relief. Not feeling it right now.”

Under other circumstances, Mac might have been upset that the Cajun had let them down. This time, it had worked in his favor. “Face the music or disappear. I’d choose the latter if I were you. Richie wants a piece of you.”

“Wise words. Might need to give Pamela some time to calm down.”

Trufante was gone in a flash.

With Trufante on the outs and Pip being Pip, the crew settled down and began to check the boat. Mac wasn’t sure he was happy about how things had gone down, but he didn’t need to be reminded about the end game.

A flurry of activity around the docks ended when the sound of a dozen or so outboards firing simultaneously marked the start of the first race. They were done with heats. The pole position had been established. The excitement was palpable.

The first race was just about to get underway. Mac grabbed Mel and led her to the railing to watch the sequence of events. He knew from his days racing paddleboards that race starts were problematic, especially on the water. Start lines were difficult to monitor, and communication was troublesome. They had also missed the captains’ meeting while dealing with Pip.

The boats were buffeted by the wind and waves the second they left the protection of the harbor. Mac noted how the lightweight boats dealt with the chop and watched as they did a practice lap, then assembled in a rough line at the starting position. On land, a starting or finishing line was easy to monitor. An electronic eye, as well as a physical line, demarcates the beginning and end. On the water, there was neither. A pair of jet skis were responsible for forming the ever-shifting and aligning boats, and a series of horns marked the starting sequence.

Mac watched and listened as the jet skis moved away after the first blast of a horn signaled one minute until the start. He intended on a fast start and wondered how hard it would be to hear the horns over the sound of the engines revving. He wasn’t surprised when the boats took off without hearing the second horn.

“We’ll have to time it ourselves,” Mel said.

Mac nodded, watching the tactics as the boats jockeyed for position. The inside track, hence, the value of the pole position, is the shortest distance around a race track. Mathematically, it was the same on water. The difference was the wave action that could make an oblique but longer heading faster than a direct one in some conditions.

Mac continued to soak everything in, but by the second lap, the race was essentially over. Two boats had mechanical problems. The lead boat was about to lap the one that had chosen to continue. The other dropped out.

As Mac had suspected, the technical ability of the driver was overstated. There was no drafting or passing. Once the boats had established their positions and the leader had some space, there would be no catching him short of a mechanical failure. The drivers and owners might be high-stakes gamblers, but they weren’t going to risk their boats or lives for second place.

Just as the lead boat passed the finish and started the last lap, Pip grabbed Mac. “Gotta go, Travis. Game time.” The cigar was still clamped to his lips and would remain that way until the race was over.

Before they knew it, Mac and Mel were strapped into their seats with the engines purring behind them. Pip leaned over and gave Mac some last-minute instructions, having somehow elevated himself to pit boss. Mac didn’t catch a word.

“Time to rock, Travis,” Pip said and stepped back.

The lines were cast off, and the boat floated freely.

“Mac, are you with me?”

Mac looked around and realized he could hear her in his helmet. He nodded and pushed the throttles forward, nudging the boat clear of the seawall. Heading toward the breakwater, he glanced over and saw Scaglione drop into the driver’s seat of his boat.

“You see that? Scaglione’s going to drive,” he said into the mic.

Mac cursed himself for not realizing that this was how they were going to play it. Scaglione wouldn’t have gotten into the sport if he had no interest. He’d probably driven the boats originally. Having Josh beside him was also the best option, as he knew the water. There was one other factor that he had to respect the gangster for. If he was going to lose, the loss would be on him.

Mac understood from his last insight that the race would be an all-out battle—to the end. There would be no holding back once the leader had space, to save man and machine.

They managed to avoid each other through the practice lap. Mac moved to the pole, the position won by Trufante and Pip in the qualifier, and allowed the boat to idle. A few seconds later, Scaglione pulled up alongside him. Driving from the right-hand seat, Mac was face-to-face with Josh.

He avoided eye contact until the horn that signaled one minute until the start blasted, then gave him a cold look and turned to Mel.

She had her phone on her lap, a timer counting down from sixty-two seconds. The buffer was planned to avoid a false start, which would lead to a disqualification.

The seconds ticked down slowly. Before the timer had hit five, he heard the roar of the engines as the other boats took off. Mac never heard the horn but knew within a heartbeat that he had been slow off the line.

30

Mac concentrated on what lay directly in front of him. This wasn’t big-picture time. Though the future of the island would be determined by the outcome, he needed to put that out of his mind. That meant concentration. The slightest stray thought—as Pip would say, this, that, or the other thing—could cost him everything.

Mel fell into her role perfectly, giving a running commentary on the state of the boat as well as the competition. Mac focused on the water ahead. In doing so he could see Scaglione had pushed the lead to two boat lengths. He could only hope the bad start wasn’t indicative of the rest of the race.

Mac accelerated, judging the effect of the added power on their speed. Power and speed are often directly connected. With offshore racing, the water is an intermediary that can’t be ignored. They were plowing into a head sea, the worst aspect for the combination. Mac saw this as a two-boat race, not only because the only other boat that mattered was driven by the gangster but because he couldn’t see the other boats. He had to rely on Mel for that.

“No deviation on his course?” Mac asked. An electronic chart with the turn buoys marked by waypoints took most of the screen. A dotted line trailed the small icon representing their boat. With Mac following directly behind the lead boat, any deviation would show in the track.

“Maintaining.”

“We have to take a chance.” Mac didn’t wait for her answer. The move could cost them the race, but there was no choice. The purpose of stock racing was to take the vehicle or vessel out of the equation. There were always mechanical issues, but with the same horsepower and hull design, the race fell on the crew. Mac nudged the throttle forward a hair and then another, trying to gauge how close to wide-open throttle he was. He tweaked the trim tabs and engine tilt, the other factors in the equation.

Mac knew exactly where he stood with the boat. He was nibbling away at the lead, but he suspected Scaglione could match his speed. Mac didn’t want to push him, but he needed to do something. If the race were longer, drafting the lead boat, meaning staying close and directly behind where an invisible force allowed the chase boat an easier and more fuel-efficient ride, might be a good tactic. This race was too short to worry about either.

At some point, and soon, Mac needed to take the lead. Pip had sworn Trufante made some “adjustments” to the engines. He called it the secret sauce. Mac knew better. Every crew did the same thing.

“We’re going to track them until the third turn,” Mac said. Nearing the second turn, they would face a side chop. There were advantages to be had in that sea state, but the leg was too short. He would have to wait until the last leg of the polygonal course to make his move.

The gap remained the same through the second turn and into the third. Once they rounded the buoy they would be running “downhill”—with the waves. This was a perfect scenario for Mac. With his surfing and downwind experience on paddleboards, he might have an advantage. He made the turn and slowed, settling into the glassy water between the waves. The move, which seemed counterintuitive, used the water to his advantage. With a human-powered craft, he could use the waves to accelerate. With 600 horsepower, it would be the opposite. Running too fast would plow the bow into the wave in front, pearling the hull and slowing it. Even with the monster engines, it would take a few long seconds to recover the speed. Do that multiple times, and it could cost a lead. This was one of those cases where the tortoise would beat the hare.

Mac forgot about Scaglione and the other boats as he studied the water. Running downwind was a flow experience where he could become one with the boat and water. Every wave needed to be timed to stay on the flat, glassy water behind it—the sweet spot—until the time was right to jump the next wave. Had the conditions been more benign, Mac could have plowed through the waves without a care. Stacked four feet tall by the tide running against the wind, they needed to be accounted for.

Mac worked the throttles, picking his spots to accelerate. With each wave, there was a decision of whether to ride it or accelerate through it. Patience was the key, something Mac hoped Scaglione didn’t have. After a quarter mile, he was in a rhythm and glanced over the top of the waves to gauge his position. White water spewed as Scaglione took a wave on the bow. Water sheeted over the hull, slowing the boat. With every wave, Mac inched closer until the lead was less than a boat length. Every muscle in his body wanted to put the throttle forward and take him. Mac had to consciously quiet his mind and remain in the groove.

“Nice. We’ve got him.”

Not all waves ran straight. Mac had taken advantage of a few running to the west, toward the open water, and moved beside Scaglione. Mac risked a glance over and watched as the hull of the gangster’s boat slammed head-on into every third or fourth wave, burying the bow and sending water streaming over the hull. The effect was noticeable as the boat slowed.

Mac allowed a slight smile to cross his face. With two more laps, any lead the gangster might take on the rest of the course would be negated by the more technical downwind leg. Mac’s relief was short-lived as they approached the finish line, the first buoy less than a quarter mile away. Mac finished the leg with a small lead, which he kept through the turn. The boats stayed even, neither driver wanting to make a move in the side chop. When they rounded the second buoy and turned into the wind, Scaglione made his move.

The race was between two opposites. The gangster pushed the boat into the waves. Using every bit of horsepower the engines could give him, he pulled even and passed Mac.

Scaglione’s next move surprised Mac. The gangster must have come to the same conclusion as Mac had about the downwind leg. All Mac needed to do was to stay close until the last leg. With the knowledge that he would lose unless the Richie Rich suffered a mechanical breakdown, and lacking the skill to compete against a more experienced captain, the gangster resorted to drastic action.

Mac had settled in for the last leg and wasn’t ready when Scaglione suddenly slowed. “What’s he doing!”

Mel didn’t answer. She had raised up in her seat for a better view. Mac had expected some kind of antics along the way, but not this soon. He fought the wheel to port, moving to the inside, and pushed the throttle to the stop. Running wide-open throttle, he was able to avoid the boat and actually closed the lead. He realized too late his reaction was exactly what Scaglione expected. Mac had the advantage reading the water, but the gangster knew how to take an opponent out.

Scaglione steered directly toward the Richie Rich. Mac saw it coming, but there was nothing he could do. His choices were to either continue ahead and let the fiberglass decide which boat would win, or deal with the cross chop by turning away. Neither was an acceptable solution. Scaglione was positioning himself to use his engines like a ram. Steel against fiberglass was not a win for Mac. He cut the wheel harder and held on while the boat rolled with the wave.

A boat can sink in any conditions. A side chop, where the beam is to the seas, is the most likely cause. Crashes were part of the sport. Scaglione’s answer to winning the race and eliminating his legal problems was to kill them. If he was even questioned, the gangster would claim he had lost control of the boat for a few seconds—easy to do—and case closed.

“Hold on!” Mac white-knuckled the wheel, pulling the bow back into the waves. The stern kicked like a bucking bronc. They crested the wave in front and dropped into the trough. Sideways with the wave, walls of water surrounded them. Mac lost his sense of space and time for a brief second before the boat started to rise. He made a hard turn, heading straight into the next wave, and braced himself. They would get wet, but they would survive.

There was a long few seconds between when the bow slammed into the wave and when Mac could finally see what lay ahead. When he saw the black cowlings of Scaglione’s engines directly ahead, there was nothing he could do. The gangster was risking it all.

“Brace!” He yelled in the headset, even though he was sure Mel understood what was about to happen. He pulled the wheel hard, dropped power, and ducked as the bow crashed into the port engine. With the seas swirling around them and the exhaust from Scaglione’s engines in his face, Mac didn’t feel the impact.

Mac had no idea of the damage but needed to dislodge his bow from Scaglione’s engine. He pulled back on the throttle, dropping speed and hoping the inertia from the gangster’s boat would separate them. His fallback plan was to reverse, but that would involve several seconds where they could be dragged under.

He felt the tug of the lead boat as it tried to pull away. To his surprise, they remained intertwined. The lead boat’s engines revved higher as the gangster tried again but to no effect.

Scaglione’s inability to separate the boats meant the Richie Rich was holed. That left Mac in a predicament. He glanced up and saw the helicopters, an ever-present feature of offshore races, hovering overhead. If they went in the water, rescue would be quick. They might lose the race, but they would have their lives.

Scaglione was in a panic. He understood that if the boats remained together, they would both sink. His craft was likely not damaged. If he could dislodge his boat from the Richie Rich, he might not win the race, but he would win the bet.

Finally, Mac felt something tear loose. His hand was on the throttles, ready to make a move and run back to the protected water, when Scaglione’s port engine, now pulled out of the wreckage, stalled.

The propellers of twin-engine boats run opposite of each other. With the throttle wide open and one engine stalled, the boat swerved. Before Scaglione could drop power and try and correct course a large wave coming from the side flowed over his hull.

The boat was swamped beyond the help of the bilge pumps. Scaglione still had the power to save it, though. By heading steadily into the seas, there would be enough pull to drain the water through the scuppers. It wasn’t a difficult or unique maneuver, but impossible while dragging the Richy Rich behind him.

Mac flinched when he heard the single engine rev. In the split second before the propeller displaced enough water to move it, the boat rocked back and started to sink. Mac slammed the throttles back, trying to escape, but the two boats remained entangled.

They went down together.

31

Mac’s right hand went for the release. The harness disengaged and he was free. The pressure of the water pinned him to the cockpit, and he found himself in the same position as during the dunk test. He glanced at Mel, who was already making for the surface. Mac didn’t bother with the regulator this time and followed.

The surface was a maelstrom. The whirlpool created by the boats sinking and the residual wakes still coming from all angles churned the surface. Mac took a deep breath and kicked in a circle, trying to locate Mel. He found her a few seconds later and swam toward her.

From a scientific perspective, waves are regular and predictable in a given sea state. In reality that works about the same as the tide charts relate to actual conditions. Without any outside interference they are fairly regular. Wind, pressure, tidal flow, boat wakes, and a long list of other factors effect them in practice. Sea states are given as the significant wave height, the average height of the highest third of the waves. In addition to that, about 15 percent will be higher several random or “rogue” waves, considerably higher than that. Surfers and small boaters understand the sequence of waves, called sets, and use them to their advantage.

There was nothing regular or predictable about what was going on around Mac. In addition to the waves, the helicopters were hovering overhead to facilitate the rescue and churned the water even more.

“You okay?” Mac yelled to Mel. He was two feet from her but the noise from the helicopters made it impossible to talk.

“Yeah.” She looked around. “The other guys?”

Mac circled again, kicking like a ballet dancer doing a pirouette. Neither Scaglione nor Josh was visible. Before Mac could decide what to do next, a line was dropped from one of the helicopters with a PFD shaped like a horseshoe on the end. Mel motioned to Mel to take it. She flat-out refused, and to make matters worse, dove under the water.

Mac knew she was trying to locate the other men. She was the right person in the best position to help. Like her boating skills, Mel would never label herself a freediver, but she was one of the best Mac had seen, often doubling his own breath-holds. Mac surveyed the scene again, took a deep breath, and dropped under the water.

The channel was about twenty feet deep. Typically the water was clear, and on the right tide the bottom was visible from the surface. With the wind and tide churning the water, Mac was halfway to the bottom before he could see it. He caught sight of Mel a second later and swam toward her.

She was at the gangster’s boat, trying to free one of the men. Mac had barely reached her when his diaphragm convulsed. The physiological response meant he was about halfway through his breath-hold. Freedivers take their time on the surface, breathing up, before they descend. The process of inhaling a deep breath, pausing, and exhaling slowly but forcefully slows the heart rate and purges the lungs of CO2. While oxygen is essential for life, the buildup of CO2 is the driving force in our need to breathe.

Normally, the midpoint of a dive would allow him plenty of time. Between the race and the crash, Mac’s hyper-excited state had allowed less than twenty seconds to reach that point. He needed to surface now. Mac glanced at Mel, but she was concentrated on freeing the man.

Surfacing would save himself but do nothing to help her or the man. He assumed she had triaged the crew and made the decision that her best chance to rescue was Scaglione.

Mac knew if he ascended, he would be almost worthless. Without a proper surface interval, usually three times the duration of the dive, his breath-hold would decrease with each effort. Already at less than a minute, he would be no use to the rescue effort and possibly become a liability himself.

That left one option. Again, he was thankful for the dunk test. It had probably already saved his life in the seconds after the crash. Now it offered him a lifeline. Mac kicked toward the boat, slowly releasing the air in his lungs. The tactic was a one-trick pony but would give him a few vital seconds more time before he was forced to surface.

Reaching the cockpit, Mac moved to the opposite side as Mel. Before he reached it, he noticed a stream of green flowing from the man in the navigator’s seat. The lifeless form of Josh Gardner, a huge gash across his head, stared back at him.

Mac ignored the body and reached beside it. His hand found the regulator, and he tore it and the small scuba tank from their restraints. Mac stuffed the regulator in his mouth and, remembering his mistake from the dunk test, cracked the valve on the tank before taking a breath.

The air revived him, and within seconds he was able to evaluate the scene. His initial assessment of Josh held. He was clearly gone. Mac moved to Mel, took a breath, and offered her the regulator. Absorbed in the task of freeing Scaglione, she swatted it away. Mac persisted until she finally understood what he was doing and grabbed the mouthpiece. She took a deep breath and handed it back to Mac.

Mac breathed in. With his body shifting out of survival mode, he surveyed the situation. Josh was gone. He could call it karma, but that would wait. Scaglione was still alive and struggling.

Mel had been working to free him, but Mac held his life in his hands. There was no conscious thought or god-like decision. He simply took another breath and stuffed the regulator into the gangster’s mouth. A burst of air shot through the exhaust ports as Scaglione gagged, the first stage of drowning. Instead of sucking in a lungful of seawater, air from the regulator flowed into his mouth. Instinctively, he took several short breaths before he came back to life.

Mac felt a convulsion and reached for the regulator, but in another ingrained response, Scaglione resisted. The gangster had recovered but was still weak, allowing Mac to pull it free. He took a breath, handed it to Mel, then back to Scaglione. With his help, Mel had him freed, and the three floated to the surface.

When he surfaced, the rescue operation was in place. He couldn’t fault their efficiency but knew it would have been too late to save Scaglione. Hands from a nearby boat reached out for him. A few seconds later, he was hauled aboard. To his surprise, Ronnie sat in front of him.

“You okay, Mac?” she asked.

He nodded and accepted the bottle of water and blanket handed to him. “Yeah. What about Mel?”

“The other boat pulled two survivors aboard.”

“Gardner didn’t make it.”

“Just relax. We’ll handle things.”

In any other circumstance, Mac would have resisted. Knowing Mel was safe, he let it go. A paramedic hovered over him for a few minutes, taking his vital signs and pronouncing him fit. The boat pulled into the harbor area and docked.

Mac was on his feet and on dry land a few seconds later. He hurried over to the other boat and grasped Mel. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You saved him, though. Good thinking on the scuba gear.”

Mac would tell her later it was his near failure in the simulator that had given him the idea. They embraced and stayed together as they watched Scaglione loaded onto a gurney. Mac felt her warmth and relaxed. He would experience whatever after-effects of the crash later. For now, he knew they had escaped a brush with death.

His moment didn’t last long as Pamela, Pip, and Trufante approached. Behind them was Ronnie. The Cajun must have sensed her presence and veered off in the direction of Duval Street. Pamela was right behind him.

“Nice work, Travis. Son of a bitch almost took you down.”

Mac nodded and caught Ronnie’s eye.

“You good, Mac? That was close.”

“Yeah, thanks.” It dawned on him that he was still holding Mel. “This is Mel, Melanie Woodson.” He said the last name, hoping Ronnie would understand who she was. Her expression held firm, and she introduced herself to Mel, then moved off with an excuse of official business.

Mac breathed out in relief.

“You know her?” Mel asked.

“That’ll wait. Are we done here?”

“Police might want a report, but they can find us when they find us.”

“So, here’s the thing, Travis,” Pip butted in. “That FWC girl knows where to find you.”

Mac froze, but Mel didn’t appear to pick up on the innuendo. He stared down Pip. “I could use a drink. Where’d Pamela and Tru go?”

“Saw the uniform and went Splitsville. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. You buyin’, I’m drinkin’.”

Mac turned to Mel. “Good?”

“Yeah, I could use something.”

They turned to head toward Duval Street, but before they stepped off the sidewalk, Richie approached.

“That was shit, bastard tried to kill you! I saw the whole thing, got video from the chopper. We can sue the bastard for everything he’s got.”

Richie was like a dog going for a bone. Mac held up a hand, trying to calm him down. “Accident. Let it go, and sorry about your boat.”

“Never mind. Insurance’ll cover it. Glad you guys are okay. Maybe time for another hobby. The wife is getting bored with this one.” He shook his head and walked away.

“Lawyers,” Mel muttered under her breath.

Mac smiled but didn’t acknowledge hearing her. He knew there were good and bad of everything. At least she was a good one.

Mac was almost glad to reach the anonymity of Duval Street. They found Pamela and Trufante in a small bar off the corner of Simonton. They sat together at a table near the back and ordered. No one spoke for a long minute.

“Nice work, you two,” Pamela said.

Now that the after-action was underway, Pip jumped in.

“So, here’s the thing, Travis. Why’d you save the SOB? He would have turned a cold shoulder on either of you. I saw the whole thing. The lawyer’s right. Sue the bastard.”

Pip liked nothing more than a fight. Mac knew from experience that if he didn’t have an axe to grind, he would find one.

His and Mel’s actions came out of human instinct. There had been no thought about who was trapped in the boat. Now that it was over, Mac sat back and reflected on saving his enemy.

Before he came up with an answer, Mel took over. “We still need him.”

“You gotta know there ain’t going to be any goodwill for saving him.”

“Karma’s a vengeful bitch,” Pamela said.

Their drinks arrived, thankfully disrupting the conversation. Mac sat back and sipped his beer. The adrenaline faded as he drank, leaving him drained. A glance at Mel told him that she felt the same. He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, getting the same pressure in return.

“What happens now, Mac Travis?” Pamela asked.

Mac almost laughed. The self-help gurus counseled people that the path to happiness was to live in the present. Mac doubted that and believed that being prepared for the future was equally as important. As an over-thinker, he didn’t have a choice.

The bet was void, and Scaglione’s condition was unknown. The only certainty was that Josh Gardner wouldn’t bother them anymore. Mac wasn’t sure how he felt about his death, but like dealing with Ronnie, that would wait.

“What do you think?” He asked Mel. The action was over and they were clearly in her domain now.

“We finish this.”

32

Saying it was easier than doing it. The last they had seen of Scaglione, he had been loaded in an ambulance. With most people, saving their life would be worth something. Mac wasn’t sure how that worked with the criminal element. The other side of the equation was well known: an eye for an eye. Mac doubted that saving Scaglione’s life meant that he owed Mac and Mel anything.

“We can go visit him and see what happens,” Mac said.

“Sounds like a plan, Travis. Pay a visit to the guy that tried to kill you. You want to pick up some flowers, too?” Pip asked.

“It’s as good a time and place as any. He’s probably sedated and not likely to cause a scene in the hospital,” Mel said.

Its address was Key West, but the Lower Keys Medical Center was located on Stock Island, not far from the college where they had done the dunk tests. Pamela, Trufante, and Pip stayed behind while Mac and Mel rode the Cajun’s bike through Key West to the hospital. They parked and headed in through the main entrance, where they stopped at the admissions desk. The woman directed them to the ER, where Scaglione was being treated.

A middle-aged woman sat behind a glassed partition. Exotic appearances were pretty commonplace in Key West. This woman had doubled down on that, wearing what Mac guessed to be a Haitian hairstyle, jewelry, and dress.

“You no family.” The nurse stopped them in their tracks.

Mac glanced around, looking for another way in.

Mel pulled him aside. “Don’t look, but those guys look like they work at the club.”

Easing away from the Haitian woman, Mac was able to glimpse the men. The XXL black shirts told him that Mel was right. “Yeah.”

Before they could figure out if there was a way forward, the doors burst open, and a news team entered. The black shirts moved as one and blocked the entrance.

“Hey, aren’t you the guys from the race? The ones who saved him?” Figuring she wasn’t going to get past Scaglione’s bodyguards, the anchor, a too-tall, too-made-up woman wearing a too-tight dress led the crew toward Mac and Mel.

“We have nothing to say,” Mel said.

Mac noticed the camera was rolling. He pulled Mel aside. “It’s not Congress. We don’t want to be the bad guys here. Maybe there’s a way to use this to our advantage.”

Mel considered what he said and turned to the anchor. “We’ll give you a few minutes outside.”

The woman glanced at the No Admittance sign behind the now-smiling Haitian woman. The black shirts formed a wall in front of her. There was no story happening, so she led the crew back to the entrance.

“We’ll be right there,” Mel said, grabbing Mac and pulling him into the corner.

The anchorwoman eyed her suspiciously but continued outside.

“We don’t say anything about his motives. Just keep it simple, you know, dangerous sport, accidents happen, that kind of thing.”

“You think he’ll play ball if we play nice?” Mac asked.

“Better chance than if we call him out as a killer. You know what’s going to happen then. I think if we can have a conversation, we can get him to cooperate. He knows we saved him, and Richie gave me an idea.”

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.” Mac headed toward the door.

True journalists were a dying breed, and the Miami-based anchor was their replacement. She was just checking the boxes with the interview, knowing the footage of the crash and rescue taken from the helicopters would be the lead. Mel told the story and had just reached the part where the boats went under when the doors to the ER opened behind them.

The black shirts emerged. From their formation, Mac could barely see Scaglione being pushed in a wheelchair. The anchorwoman cut Mel off mid-sentence and led the crew over.

“Come on. This might be our chance.”

Mac had no idea what she was up to. He followed her across the parking lot to where the black shirts had stopped in front of an SUV. A well-trained team would have known what to do with a man in a wheelchair. The delay while they figured out how to load Scaglione into the vehicle cost them.

They hadn’t done anything wrong, but it had taken too long, giving the short-skirted anchor an opening. Journalistic merit aside, her attributes worked. Scaglione saw her, smiled, and waved his protection detail away. He was too focused on the package to see Mac and Mel’s approach.

The anchor knew the opportunity was a gift from the gods. Mac and Mel might have made the Miami news—if there was nothing else to report on. Scaglione was national news.

“Mr. Scaglione, how are you?”

“Never better, sweetheart.”

“The doctors expect a full recovery?”

“This was precautionary.”

“He’s not on painkillers,” Mel whispered.

“So?” Mac asked.

“I get him to say what we want on TV, and it’s done. No excuses.” She stepped forward, pushed past the anchorwoman, leaned over, and whispered something into the gangster’s ear. Rather than acting slighted, the anchor ordered the cameraman to get a closeup.

Mac couldn’t hear or even imagine Mel she was saying. Scaglione didn’t appear upset, though. Finally, he shook her hand.

The anchor didn’t know what to make of the transaction. She didn’t have to. The video feed was enough.

“What’d you tell him?” Mac asked as they walked back to Trufante’s bike.

“Just to play nice. And I reminded him that we have a bigger enemy than each other.”

Mac didn’t need to ask who that was. He wasn’t satisfied until he saw the look on her face that said this was not over. For now, the gangster would get his development, Mel would keep the island, and no one would know he had tried to kill them. In a lot of ways, it wasn’t fair, but in the end, someone would have figured out how to develop the property.

Mel climbed on the bike. Mac hesitated, not really knowing what to do. They had left Pamela, Pip, and Trufante in Key West, but that didn’t matter. What did matter to him was Mel, and she was only inches away.

Mac leaned over and kissed her. He’d meant it to be a peck, but she took his face in her hands.

“Let’s go home,” Mel whispered.

Mac smiled and kissed her again.

“You bet.”

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First Bite contains the first book in several of Steven Becker's series:

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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!