Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Rearview
Dawn broke over the Broward wetlands not with golden light, but with a suffocating, gunmetal haze that trapped the humidity against the earth. Emerging from the marsh three miles north of the hospital, Cody, Brody, and Logan looked like phantoms rising from the primeval swamp. Their clothes were shredded by sawgrass, their arms mapped with scratches, and their skin caked with dried mud.
They couldn't go to their homes; Mercer’s men surely had Cody’s license plates from the truck and the registration papers inside the glove box. Going home meant bringing armed killers to their families' front doors.
Using a rusted payphone outside a dilapidated bait shop on Route 27, Brody made a thirty-second call to his older brother's friend, who ran a rundown boat rental shack at Cypress Creek Marina. Ten minutes later, they were trudging down the rotted wooden docks of the marina, where the smell of two-stroke outboard oil and salt marshes masked their presence.
Locker 42 was located at the far end of an aluminum storage shed tucked beneath a massive weeping willow. Cody pulled the heavy brass key from his soaked pocket and jammed it into the tarnished padlock. With a metallic scrape that made all three of them jump, the lock snapped open.
Inside was not cash, guns, or gold.
Sitting on a rusted shelf was a waterproof sea-bag, and beside it sat a small, frightened girl no older than eight years old, curled inside a sleeping bag with a battery-powered lantern and a framed photograph clutched to her chest.
When the locker door creaked open, the girl gasped, scrambling backward into the dark corner, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a dagger. "Grandpa?" she squeaked, her voice trembling with sheer terror. "Grandpa, is that you?"
Cody lowered himself slowly to one knee, keeping his hands open and visible. His heart cracked at the sight of her swollen, tear-streaked eyes. "Hey... hey, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. My name is Cody. These are my friends Brody and Logan."
"Where is Grandpa Arthur?" she asked, her lip quivering. "He said he was just going to the pharmacy to get my medicine and change the tire. He told me to stay inside the locker and never open it for anyone except him."
Brody had to turn away, wiping a sudden rush of tears from his eyes with the back of a muddy forearm. Logan stood watch at the dock entrance, his eyes scanning every rustle of the willow branches.
"Your grandpa... he got sick, sweetheart," Cody said gently, his voice thick with emotion. "He couldn't come back. But he gave me this key, and he told me to protect you with my life. What’s your name?"
"Maya," she whispered, lowering the shears just an inch. "Arthur Vance is my grandpa. He said bad men from the state capitol were trying to silence him because of what he found in the reservoir plans."
Cody looked over at the sea-bag. Inside was a rugged military satellite laptop and an envelope labeled: FLORIDA DEPARTMENT OF ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION - OPERATION BLACKWATER TIDE.
Before Cody could unzip the file, Logan whistled sharply from the dock.
"We’ve got company!" Logan hissed, panic spiking in his tone. "Black Yukon, tinted windows, cruising down the marina access road. It’s Mercer!"
Through the slats of the aluminum locker, Cody saw the massive SUV creeping along the gravel lane, its engine emitting a menacing, guttural purr. The predator had tracked them to the water.
"Grab the bag! Grab Maya!" Cody commanded.
They sprinted out the rear exit of the storage shed, rushing onto the floating dock where dozens of small flat-bottom jon boats were moored. Brody yanked the pull-cord of an old sixteen-foot Carolina skiff with a forty-horsepower Yamaha engine. The engine sputtered, spat blue smoke, and roared to life.
May you like
Behind them, the side door of the storage shed was kicked off its hinges with an explosive crash. Mercer stepped out onto the sunlit dock, an automatic rifle raised to his shoulder.
"Get down!" Cody yelled, throwing his body over Maya as the wooden planks around them exploded in splinters under a barrage of high-caliber rounds.
