Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

They dashed under several areca palms and crouched behind a white pickup truck parked half on and half off the driveway.

“Jimmy, we gotta do something, but I’m not interested in getting shot at again.”

Jimmy crouched and moved to the back of the pickup so his movements wouldn’t be picked up on camera. The Humvee was joined by a second one. The third must’ve left or continued searching elsewhere.

“I got it,” Jimmy said finally. He turned to look back toward the house. There were no other lights on and no indication that security cameras were filming from the house itself. He patted Peter on the shoulder and began running toward the water where the security fence and a row of palm trees ran toward a seawall built to prevent the rolling waves from eroding the shoreline.

Peter dutifully followed until they reached the wrought-iron fence. Holding onto the pickets, the guys slipped into the water until they were waist deep and then swung their bodies around the end of the fence. Once on the property, they got a lay of the land.

The guys ran up the walkway toward the house. A large waterfall flanked both sides of the entryway, which included a set of two-story-tall storm shutters that utilized mechanical arms to cover the glass. An iron swing gate marked the entry point into a large courtyard that extended under the house. It was locked, so they moved quickly to the left toward the bay. The home was built like a fortress and appeared to be impenetrable.

Every part of the property was utilized with some form of hardscapes. A large, kidney-shaped pool was at the rear of the house although the heavy rains and storm surge had flooded it. Around the rear of the house was an undersized croquet court that was full of puddling water. Another iron gate sealed the entrance to the sweeping concrete stairs leading up to the main floor of the home.

The guys continued to walk around the perimeter of the house until they reached a grouping of coquina rocks that formed a tropical garden. Jimmy was the first to climb to the top and surveyed their options.

“You wanna break in?” asked Peter. “We’re at the end of the road.”

“I can’t guarantee we won’t get shot at,” Jimmy replied with a sigh.

“What else have we got?” As soon as he’d finished his question, Peter’s head snapped around and looked through the home’s pilings toward the front entry.

Two Humvees were slowly approaching the home’s gated entry. They’d spread apart so that the entire front entrance was lit up with the trucks’ headlights.

“They’ve got a pretty big boathouse. Let’s try there first.”

The guys ran around the side of the house farthest away from the entrance. They raced along the yard where the overgrown St. Augustine grass met the riprap that prevented the built-up lot from washing away with every storm. A boathouse structure that resembled a miniature version of the main house appeared in front of them. Its stucco walls and round, rotunda-style roof with a wraparound deck on top would be suitable to live in by most anyone in the Keys.

Peter tried the door and was relieved when it flung open with the aid of the wind. Inside was a thirty-eight-foot speedboat. The long nose and sleek shape were familiar to Peter. He’d seen cigarette boats around the Florida Keys his entire life. They’d stopped making them years ago, but the used ones were highly sought after by connoisseurs.

“Let’s check it out,” said Jimmy, who once again ran inside without waiting for Peter.

They made their way into the dark building, which smelled of salt water and dead fish. Peter quickly closed the door behind them. He located an iron latch on the inside of the door and secured it. At the very least, he thought, it might act as a deterrent to the soldiers who were pursuing them.

“I’ll check the boat for the keys,” said Peter, who used his familiarity with go-fast boats to conduct his search. While he did, Jimmy peered through the porthole-style windows to determine if the guardsmen were coming inside the compound.

While frequently monitoring the activity outside, Jimmy checked all the cabinets and toolboxes, hoping the owners kept the keys in the boathouse for convenience’s sake. He paused at the windows to check the soldiers’ movements. Thus far, they were content waiting by the gate.

Peter emerged from the sleeping compartment in the hull of the powerboat. “I tore that thing apart. There’s nothing.”

“Crap!” said Jimmy. He cupped his face and pressed it to one of the glass portholes. “The third truck is here. They must know they have us trapped.”

“Are they making a move on the gate?” asked Peter as he jumped out of the boat and made his way to a window near the boathouse door.

“Not so far.”

Peter focused his attention on the house. “I don’t see any lights coming on inside. If these cameras are being monitored, you’d think the damn Army at your gate would bring them out of the house.”

Jimmy interrupted. “Wait! They’re coming.”

“Around the fence?”

“No,” Jimmy answered, his voice somewhat high pitched due to anxiety. “They’ve pushed it open with the third truck. And, um, they’ve got help.”

Peter and Jimmy studied the soldiers’ movements. After the gate was forced open, two armed guardsmen came up the driveway first. They were flanked by a third soldier, who was being led by an overly excited dog.

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

The Belgian Malinois, also known as a Belgian sheepdog, had become the dog of choice for police and military work. They were smaller and more agile than German shepherds and generally had fewer health issues. Trainers and handlers loved the breed due to their intense drive and focus. They rarely became distracted when tracking a suspect.

The dog began barking excitedly and pulled his handler toward the house. As he did, Peter looked away and turned to Jimmy.

“That is the same kind of dog the Secret Service uses. I’ve seen them in action. He’ll track our every step and lead them right to this door.” He waved at the boathouse door behind him.

Jimmy paced the inside platform surrounding the cigarette boat. He continuously glanced into the rafters at the two personal watercraft suspended above the speedboat. They were held in place by two steel cables that were attached to a harness wrapped underneath the PWCs.

“I think I can hot-wire one of those,” he said, pointing up to the rafters. The WaveRunners swayed gently back and forth as the wind periodically swirled and found its way to the leeward side of the property.

“We’re gonna have to move this thing out of the way,” said Peter, pointing at the cigarette boat.

The sound of the Belgian sheepdog barking at the rear of the house near the pool indicated the guards were halfway through their search. It gave the guys an increased sense of urgency.

“Untie these dock lines,” ordered Jimmy. “I’ll get the other side. We can push it out into the canal without them seeing it. That’ll give us time to lower the WaveRunners.”

Working together, the guys pushed the heavy boat halfway out of the boathouse. Then the wind began to fight against them and tried to force it back inside. They struggled for nearly half a minute until the bow nudged its way out. With one final shove, they forced it out far enough to let the waves and wind finish the job. Soon, the expensive boat was aimlessly adrift, rocking on the waves toward the boats tied off on the other side of the canal.

Neither of them bothered to watch the speedboat’s demise. Instead, they frantically turned the handles on the wall-mounted cranks. The WaveRunners were lowered together, with Jimmy’s landing in the water first.