Devil Storm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Driftwood Key

Hank missed his just-after-dawn, early morning walks along the beach. He tried to force himself multiple times to stroll along the calm shore as he mentally prepared for his day. Since the nuclear wars broke out, the inn’s guests were gone. The sun stopped gracing Driftwood Key, or any other place, with its presence. Everything around him seemed—dead.

He stood at the water’s edge, mindlessly staring off into the distance, trying to determine where the gray skies ended and the water began. So many thoughts filled his mind. Mike’s recovery was at the forefront, but now he was concerned about Jimmy as well.

When he’d arrived back at Driftwood Key late last night after securing a ride with an ambulance that was responding to a call in Marathon, his first sign of trouble was that nobody was manning the gate. After what he’d encountered on patrol one night and with Patrick’s rampage fresh on his mind, Hank broke out into a run to get to the house.

Out of breath as he reached the stairs to the front porch of the main house, he immediately noticed shadows traversing the dining room and the main foyer. He rushed inside, where he found Sonny and Phoebe, who were still awake, pacing the floor. The dimly lit rooms were illuminated by candles and kerosene lanterns.

As he entered, their worried faces touched his heart. After what they’d all been through, he tried not to assume the worst. However, the fact Jimmy wasn’t there took his mind to a dark place he didn’t want to be.

They talked it through, and Hank promised to look into where Jimmy was assigned. He’d learned while at the hospital and through additional conversation with the ambulance driver on the way home that the decision had been made to blow up the bridges coming into the Florida Keys. He’d also learned from the ambulance driver, who regularly serviced medical care centers from Key Largo to Key West, that the president had ordered the military to cross into the Keys to restore order, as the driver put it.

Hank was puzzled by the choice of words. Granted, he’d been spending all of his time on Driftwood Key, and his only information regarding what might be happening elsewhere came from Mike, Jessica, and Jimmy. However, none of them had mentioned rioting. Looting, yes. However, nothing that would warrant an incursion by the National Guard to restore order.

He stepped onto the front lawn to think. As he was recalling the evening’s events, the wind picked up at his back. It was more than the winds that normally started to blow as the sun rose over the Atlantic as cooler surface air was greeted by the warmer air above it. This wind was sustained, not gusty. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, it stopped again. Hank had seen it before but was shocked at what it portended, especially under these atmospheric conditions.

He put the thought out of his mind and returned to the house. After a quick bite to eat, he was gonna pack a change of clothing for Jessica and Mike along with toiletries. He wasn’t sure what Jessica’s plans were, but he suspected she’d want to stay with Mike during his recovery.

His other reason to travel back to Key West was to question Mayor Lindsey Free, Sonny’s former sister-in-law. Hank would have to find a way to be diplomatic as he opened the conversation. Somehow, leading with the question what the hell are you thinking? wouldn’t be such a good idea.

Sonny helped him pack the Wellcraft runabout and top off its fuel tanks. He hadn’t driven the boat since Mike had confiscated it the night the fuel thieves mistakenly messed with the wrong family. He didn’t want to take his Hatteras out with all the uncertainty around the Keys. If something were to happen, any would-be pirates could have the runabout.

Hank donned a yellow Nautica jacket and khakis. He promised Sonny he’d find out about Jimmy, but he felt the need to remind his old friend that the gate and the grounds needed to be patrolled. This would not be a good time to let their guard down.

With a promise to hustle back, Hank was off as he followed the same route Jessica had taken previously. During the hour and a half ride, he encountered more unexpected gusts of wind. By the time he arrived at Sunset Marina in Key West, which was located in the vicinity of the hospital, the gusty winds became more frequent.

He craned his neck to find a place to dock the boat. He was not surprised at what he saw as he idled through the No-Wake Zone. Armed men strolled along the floating docks nestled in the protective cove within Stock Island. Despite its proximity to the sheriff’s station, the operators of the marina—and the boat owners, Hank presumed—felt compelled to protect their boats and fuel. He couldn’t blame them.

After seeing a familiar face and making small talk, he found an available slip and was then given a ride over to the hospital in a solar-powered golf cart, one of many on the island. Despite the cloudy skies, the small batteries necessary to run the vehicles were able to be charged although it took an extraordinarily long time.

Hank entered the hospital and was thrilled to find Mike sitting upright and eating solid food. Jessica was standing by his side, stretching after another cramped night of sleep in the chair. Not that it bothered him, but Hank got the distinct impression she was happier to see the duffel bag of clothes and personal hygiene products than she was to see him. A minute after his arrival, she hustled off with the duffel, leaving Hank alone with his brother.

“How’re ya doin’?” Hank asked.

“It only hurts when I breathe,” Mike replied. He winced and swallowed hard before turning back to his Jell-O.

“Well, you’re looking good,” he began. “But hey, Rocky Balboa was handsome in a punch-drunk, beat-all-to-hell sort of way.”

Mike laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Have you looked in the mirror? What’s your excuse?”

Hank hadn’t looked in the mirror although he imagined the lack of sleep and worry about his family had taken its toll. He felt like he’d aged a decade or two.

He sighed before responding, “I’m glad you’re okay. Mike, I’m really sorry. I should’ve never let that guy on the key.”

“Nobody knew,” said Mike. “Jess and I started to notice how squirrely he was. When you spend your days around criminals, you start to pick up on things they all have in common. You can tell they have something to hide. Some, like Patrick, play the game better than others. We compared notes, and it started to make sense.”

Hank hung his head. So much was weighing on him. He grimaced and nodded before making eye contact with his brother. He hesitated before broaching the subject.

“There’s something else…” His voice trailed off, giving Mike time to anticipate what Hank was going to bring up.

“I heard they blew the bridges. A few of the guys came by to check on me when the word got out. I understand it’s a pretty contentious subject between the commissioners and Lindsey.”

“Yeah, I heard, too. I hope to corner Lindsey after I leave the hospital. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

“Did something happen at Driftwood Key? I told Jess to go home and that I was in good hands.”

Hank glanced into the hallway and then explained, “As you know, Jimmy has been assigned to man the checkpoint at Gilbert’s Resort. His shift was supposed to end yesterday morning.” Hank gulped.

“What is it?” asked Mike, wincing as he pushed himself up in bed.

“He’s twenty-four hours past due for coming home. Sonny and Phoebe are freaking out, and frankly, so am I.”

“None of the detectives have said anything about Jimmy although most of them aren’t assigned to the sheriff’s border detail,” he said. He shook his head. “This had to be Lindsey’s idea to blow up the bridges. Now she can be Queen of the Keys.”

“Well, I promised to get some answers. I think I’ll start with the sheriff.”

Mike chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that. The guys tell me he stays holed up in his office. He meets with his undersheriff and his aide. That’s about it. He won’t even sit down with our two majors or the chief. It’s really bizarre.”

“I have to try,” said Hank.

Mike agreed but had a suggestion. “You might have better luck with Lindsey.”

“Why?”

“We have something she wants access to—food production.”

“I’m not giving it up, Mike. And I’m damn sure not offering up the bungalows for people to sleep in. Been there, done that.”

Mike felt compelled to caution his brother, who was in a difficult emotional place. “Tread lightly with Lindsey. She’s on a helluva power trip right now and couldn’t care less about what we’ve been through or where Jimmy is.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thursday, November 7

U.S. Army War College

Carlisle Barracks

Carlisle, Pennsylvania

Despite the fact the five-hundred-acre campus of the U.S. Army War College was nowhere near completion to house all of the major departments required to run the government, President Carter Helton insisted upon his administration making the transition above ground, as he liked to put it. Operating within the confines of the bunker at Mount Weather had been taxing on the president’s emotional state. He was ready for a fresh start and eager to tackle the nationwide recovery effort.

For days, the Army had diverted considerable resources to securing Carlisle Barracks and the entire campus. The roads and highways leading into the small town of twenty thousand had been cordoned off during the preparations.

At first, their activities were shrouded in mystery, especially to those who resided in nearby Harrisburg, Pennsylvania’s state capital. Many presumed, rightfully so, that the native Pennsylvanian would choose Philadelphia as the nation’s capital following the devastating war. Even if on a temporary basis. The activity at Carlisle Barracks surprised everyone.

In the predawn hours that morning, the president had surreptitiously departed Mount Weather and was whisked away by Marine One to the temporary White House. By the time he was given a tour of his new offices and touched base with the members of his cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Chief of Staff Harrison Chandler was alerted by FEMA that a massive hurricane had formed in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Venezuela. He would be briefed on its path within the hour.

President Helton spoke with his military advisors regarding the actions of the Florida Keys officials who’d ordered the destruction of the bridges. There had to be repercussions, but he was advised the only way to remove the government officials responsible for the destruction was to initiate some form of air and sea assault. Even as angry as the president was, he couldn’t imagine bringing the might of the United States military against the insubordinate inhabitants of the Florida Keys.

He settled into a classroom within the complex that had been assigned to FEMA because its walls were completely covered in whiteboards. One of them provided data on the coming storm he’d been told about.

The president furrowed his brow, and he read through it twice. He imagined it was the type of weather forecast no fisherman wanted to hear. An aide to the NOAA representative distributed printed reports detailing the storm. The president studied the satellite imagery.

This monster appeared as a huge swirl stretching from Caracas on the northern coast of Venezuela to just below Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. A second page provided a computer model of the storm’s track and intensity. Under the circumstances, the National Hurricane Center did not have the multiple assets available to them to chart the hurricane’s path. Ordinarily, as many as forty computer models would be at their disposal to advise the president. Today, there was only one.

“Mr. President, all we can say is this hurricane is a scientific anomaly that defies explanation. Its characteristics certainly have all the earmarks of a hurricane, such as the fact that it’s a strengthening low-pressure system with its signature tight cyclonic spin. Like others that form in the Caribbean region, they can gain in strength when fueled by warm surface waters.

“That’s where the anomaly comes in. To create and sustain a hurricane, you need warm water of at least eighty degrees. The second ingredient is moist air. Finally, you need the right combination of converging winds to create the cyclonic activity.

“When the surface water is warm, even this late in the typical hurricane season, the counterclockwise rotation sucks up heat energy from the water very much like the way a straw sucks up liquid out of a glass.

“This heat energy is the fuel of the storm. The warmer the water, the more moisture in the air, which results in a broader and stronger hurricane.”

The president interrupted the scientist’s explanation. “All I’ve been told these last few weeks is that the fallout, or nuclear winter, is blocking the sun’s rays, resulting in rapidly cooling temperatures. Wouldn’t that apply to the ocean’s waters as well?”

The NOAA representative nodded and referred to a stack of graphs stapled together. “Yes, sir, that is true. As you can imagine, data is not available from all of our resources, but I do have sufficient readings from buoys spread throughout the South Atlantic, the Caribbean Sea, and even into the Gulf of Mexico to provide a response.”

He offered to provide the dozen pages or so to the president to review, but he waved his arm, declining. The president was interested in the bottom line and how this would impact the nation.

“That’s okay. What does it reveal?”

“Let me explain it this way. Hurricanes are like machines whose job is to move heat from the warm ocean below to the cooler atmosphere above. Under present conditions, the water temperatures have dropped well below eighty degrees, which is considered ideal to form a hurricane.

“Nuclear winter puts us in uncharted waters, sir. What we’ve learned is that this storm is acting much like a polar low. As the name suggests, this is a low-pressure system that forms over the Arctic ocean in winter where the ocean water temperatures are cold, but the atmosphere above it is much more frigid.

“In the Caribbean Sea right now, and I’ll go ahead and include the Gulf of Mexico in this analysis, we have a situation where the water is, shall I say, lukewarm. However, the air above it is much, much colder, especially for the region. The result has become the tropical equivalent of a polar low. A hurricane like no other. May I give you an example?”

“Please do.” The president leaned back in his chair and motioned for the NOAA representative to continue.

“In mid-January 2016, Hurricane Alex was the first storm to occur in the winter since Alice sixty years prior. Because of the cold wintertime temperatures, it originated as a nontropical low near the Bahamas. At first, its path took it northeast toward the open waters near Bermuda.

“Then a high-pressure system turned it back to the southeast. The storm deepened and strengthened. Now, the path is not the issue. What I’m trying to illustrate is this phenomenon has happened before, at least twice. It’s happening for a third time.”

The president sat forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. “What can you tell me about this storm’s path, strength, and timing?”

“Sir, the eye of the storm will be moving between Cuba and the Dominican Republic hours from now. We expect it to maintain its strength as it travels over open waters before turning slightly on a northwesterly track to the south of The Bahamas.”

“U.S. landfall?” asked the president.

“The storm will pass over the Florida Keys and enter the Gulf of Mexico. Our buoys indicate the surface waters in the Gulf are warmer than the Caribbean Sea, oddly. In any event, the storm may strengthen as it enters Florida Bay and the Gulf. We’re unable to state this with certainty at this time.”

President Helton leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head. He studied the information scribbled across the whiteboards, which included the computer model’s indicated track for the storm.

He set his jaw and allowed a barely perceptible smirk. That’ll teach ya.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Tarpon Springs, Florida

It was only a few weeks ago that fishing boats of all types would be making their way back to the docks, easing their way past Anclote Key before entering the protective inlet at Tarpon Springs. Located thirty miles north of Tampa, Tarpon Springs was known as the Sponge Capital of the World or, in some cases, the Venice of the South because the mouth of the Anclote River ran through the middle of the small coastal town.

Like the fishing villages of the Mediterranean, Tarpon Springs was replete with whitewashed buildings spread out along narrow streets, where Greek food, culture, and traditions were on full display. No more so than along the waterfront, where working commercial fishing and sponging operations were comingled with tourist activities, including diving trips and eco-tours.

Now, the boats were tied off at the docks, devoid of human activity unless their owners lived aboard them. Gone were the throngs of tourists who spent their days wandering the shops, filling their bellies, and emptying their wallets in order to bring a piece of this way of life to their homes.

Andino slept a few hours before returning to the helm to guide the boat into Anclote River, navigating his way past Chesapeake Point toward the historic sponge docks. Boats were everywhere, as fuel was scarce and the need to conduct commercial fishing had ceased.

To be sure, food was an absolute necessity, but the cost of harvesting it from Florida’s fertile coastal waters was excessive. At this point the value of the American currency had become virtually nothing. Barter markets were growing in popularity, and very few merchants were willing to accept greenbacks. Anyone willing to accept the almighty dollar as payment demanded an exorbitant sum for the simplest of items. To say the inflation rate had skyrocketed would not do justice to the diminished value of the dollar.

Those who did trade in currency were speculators. Their belief, or hope, in any case, was that the U.S. government would take corrective measures and the U.S. currency would once again become of value. For now, it was practically worthless, and a box of cereal, for example, was selling for nearly two hundred dollars.

Everyone was huddled around the helm as Andino gave Lacey and Tucker the nickel tour. He directed their attention to points of interest while he and his family gasped as they spotted several familiar landmarks that had been looted or even destroyed by fire. The once-bustling fishing village had become somewhat of a ghost town, and only a few curiosity seekers hustled to the water’s edge to view the new arrival.

After the boat passed the Spongeorama Sponge Factory on the south side of the river, Andino made a wide sweeping left turn to point the boat toward a large building with another fishing boat of a similar size parked inside. The corrugated steel building had survived hurricanes and years of corrosion. The galvanized steel panels that were the oldest were a dark rust color. Those that had been replaced in recent years due to wear and tear or hurricane-force winds were a grayish silver.

“Here we are,” he said as he pulled the throttle back and began to slowly drift toward the dock. Suddenly, three young men came rushing into the building through an opening in the chain-link fence surrounding their sponging operation. Like Andino, the young teens were stocky with jet-black hair. A couple sported a hint of a mustache as they grew into men. Their appearance was the total opposite of the tall, athletic Tucker, who looked more surfer dude than Greek fisherman.

“They’re my cousins,” Katerina said as a smile broke out across her face. Being home from their own perilous journey and seeing familiar faces changed her demeanor substantially. She immediately sprang into action. Katerina, the meek, shy young girl, suddenly became an experienced deckhand.

Without hesitation, she ran along the port side of the fishing vessel and waved to her cousins, who stood patiently along the dock. The oldest of the three teens was prepared to place buoys to buffer the boat against the fixed dock. The other two boys waited with rubber-tipped grappling hooks to reach for the vessel’s railings or cleats to pull it flush with the dock. The group of kids expertly brought the fishing boat into position and secured it in just a few minutes.

Tucker leaned into his mother. “Grandpa would be proud of these guys, but don’t tell him. Okay?”

“Why not?” she asked.

“He’d spend the entire day teaching me the ins and outs of docking boats. I wanna hang with Jimmy and go fishing.”

“Jimmy will teach you the same thing,” said Lacey with a laugh.

“Yeah, true. The thing is, Jimmy won’t tell me a bunch of stories like the time so-and-so tried to dock at Driftwood Key or when such-and-such happened this other time.”

Lacey took the taller Tucker in a playful headlock before mussing his hair further. “Your grandpa is gonna be thrilled that you’re back. Please indulge him for a while. Besides, he’s got a lot to teach someone, especially under these circumstances.”

Andino checked the teens’ work and then returned to the McDowells. “Our homes are a short walk from here. We have three in a row, across from the docks, that have been in the family since, well, the day the first of my ancestors arrived here.”

“We don’t want to be a bother,” began Lacey. “I would appreciate it if we could fill up our water jugs.” The boat had stored water in its hold, but it had a funky taste, as Lacey put it. There were also eight five-gallon stackable water containers in the galley. The group had consumed ten gallons of fresh water en route from Bay St. Louis.

“I’ll see what my sister has in mind for dinner. While we eat and relax, we’ll talk about what is next.”

Lacey and Tucker exchanged glances. A home-cooked meal, regardless of what it consisted of, sounded like heaven at the moment.

“Lead the way,” said Lacey as she pointed toward the cube-shaped water containers. Tucker snatched them up, and they were off to the Andino family compound.

Like most of the simple, wood-framed homes interspersed with sponge packinghouses around the docks, their one-story homes were lined up in a row and were almost identical to one another. A white picket fence surrounded the three lots with a single gated entry in front of the middle home. All were white with a galvanized metal roof. The only remarkable feature that separated the three was the color of the front doors—blue, white, and blue-white striped, all intended to honor the colors of the national flag of Greece.

The center home with the blue-and-white-striped paint job belonged to Andino and his family. Katerina broke away from the group and raced up the sidewalk. She rushed onto the covered porch and opened the unlocked front door in a flash before disappearing inside.

“Do you think she’s glad to be home?” Andino asked his wife.

“The difference between me and our daughter is I’m trying to show restraint in the presence of our guests. I wanna run and jump into our bed!”

Andino wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her tight. He planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Music to my ears, erastis.”

She giggled, slapped him on the chest, and began to walk across the overgrown yard to the home next door.

“I’ll deal with you later, lover,” she said with emphasis. “Let me speak to Sophia and tell her about our new friends. It may not be much, but the family should come together for dinner.”

Seconds later, every member of the Andino family came pouring out of the adjacent houses to greet their loved ones’ return from New Orleans. Everyone was talking loudly and over one another. Some spoke Greek and others spoke English even in the same conversation. For Lacey and Tucker, it was a heartwarming reunion to watch although confusing because of the language barrier.

After the joyful reunion, the group turned to welcome Lacey and Tucker. As before, questions were flying around, and the McDowells could barely keep up with their responses. Finally, it was Andino who reminded everyone that they’d been on a long, treacherous journey and that there would be plenty of time to talk later.

It was his brother, Sandros, who made a comment that included a word that sent chills through Lacey. During the hectic conversations between the Andino families and the McDowells, he learned they planned to continue their journey to the Keys first thing in the morning. That was when he revealed a rumor he’d heard.

Hurricane.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

“Roll it up, Albright! You’re being released.”

Peter jerked himself awake after he’d succumbed to the weeks of mental and physical exhaustion. The jail cell might have taken away his freedom, but it certainly provided him a place to recharge his batteries, albeit an uncomfortable one. He sat there for a brief moment to gather his wits and to stretch his upper body. The concrete slab of a bed was unforgiving on his sore body.

The loud clank of the cell door being unlocked lifted his spirits. He jumped up and forgot about what he’d been through for the last couple of days. Now he could focus his efforts on finding Jimmy.

“Let’s go, pal. Everybody’s bugging out.”

“Whadya mean?”

“I mean we’re evacuating this outpost, and that means you’ve gotta go. Now!”

Peter glanced at the toilet but was afraid to relieve himself for fear of remaining locked up. Besides, he turned his attention to Jimmy.

“Um, what about the guy I was brought in with. Jimmy? I think?” This guard was different from the others he’d dealt with, so he felt comfortable in directly broaching the subject. He added, “He kinda saved my life, and I wanted to thank him.”

The guard stood back a couple of paces and motioned toward the door. He rested his hand on his sidearm as he studied Peter’s demeanor and movements.

“I think he’s in the infirmary,” he replied. “He suffered some injuries that needed to be attended to.”

Peter screamed the words in his head. Injuries? What injuries? He was fine when we got here.

“Wow. Okay. I’d still like to look in on him. Would you point me in the right direction?”

“Look, Albright,” the guard began in response. “You don’t get it. This is not social hour. We’re movin’ out, and most likely anyone in the infirmary will be medevacked out.”

Geez. What did you do to him?

The guard escorted Peter out of the police substation and into the tunnel underneath the grandstand seating that faced the Start/Finish line at the track. The first thing that struck him was a cold, howling wind that entered through the open portals leading up into the grandstands. A familiar whistling sound was made by the steady winds that were reminiscent of tropical storm activity he’d endured while growing up at Driftwood Key.

“Which way?” Peter asked.

The guard pointed ahead of them. “Up ahead about a hundred yards will be an open area leading to the parking lot.”

“And where’s the infirmary?” he asked, knowing he risked being rebuked by the guard.

The guard pointed toward a long corridor that ran perpendicular to the tunnel. “Out there. It’s the Infield Care Center near the entrance to pit road. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s probably gone already.”

Peter nodded and began walking toward the exit of the speedway. He glanced over his shoulder after he passed the corridor leading to the heart of the racetrack to see if the guard was still watching him. When he saw the door to the substation closing behind the guard as he returned to his post, Peter darted back toward the corridor and ran toward a chain-link gate. Seconds later, he was standing at the gate overlooking the racetrack. He shook his head in disbelief as a gust of wind smacked him in the face.

Despite the late time of year and the unusually cool conditions for South Florida, a tropical depression must’ve formed somewhere in either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys and the southern tip of the state were visited frequently by hurricanes. Some formed in the Atlantic, like Hurricane Irma in 2017 that resulted in eighty-four deaths, while others grazed the island chain from the west, like Hurricane Donna in 1960 that nearly destroyed Marathon and Driftwood Key.

In Peter’s memory, the worst storm to hit the Keys was Hurricane Wilma in October of 2005. That had been considered a late-season storm. It was early November, although Peter had no idea what today’s date was. Somehow, dates and times didn’t matter much when you were constantly fighting for your life.

He pushed open the gate and fought the wind that struck him in the chest. The open speedway, filled with concrete and infield grass, allowed the gusts to blow unimpeded. Peter slowly walked down the slight, three-degree banking near the Start/Finish line. Darkness was settling in that allowed him only limited visibility. Once he hit the infield, he ran across the grass toward the entrance to pit road, where the guard said the Infield Care Center was located. He caught a glimpse of light emanating from the gray trailer adjacent to a building that resembled a small fire hall. There were several tan-colored Humvees parked haphazardly between the two.

Using blue and yellow stacks of painted tires as cover, he ran at a low crouch until he was only forty feet away from the entrance to a building identified as Motorsports Complex EMS. He also had a direct view of the Infield Care Center, which was nothing more than a gray office trailer. Peter had watched enough racing to know that after a wreck of any kind on the track, the drivers had to report to medical to get checked out.

He knew he couldn’t waltz into either building, introduce himself, and ask to see Jimmy. His friend might not even be there if the substation guard was correct. Peter sighed as he considered his options. As his eyes darted back and forth between the two buildings in search of activity, wind-blown raindrops began to pelt his face.

If Jimmy was there, the coming storm might provide just the distraction he needed to free his friend.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

In those first few moments, Peter got antsy. Then he settled in to wait despite the worsening conditions. He was cold and wet but determined to help Jimmy. If his friend had already been medevacked out of Homestead, then there was nothing he could do. If he hadn’t, Peter would take every risk to free him of this wrongful imprisonment.

After forty-five minutes, two uniformed National Guardsmen left the gray trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of two separate Humvees. They quickly turned around and began driving directly for the gate where he was positioned. He scrambled into the corner of the stacked tires that acted as barriers to protect race cars from further damage in case they ran off the track. As the Humvees sped out of the Infield Care Center, they didn’t notice him hiding away. Peter rose slightly to remain unseen. He wanted to follow the Humvees to determine where the exit to the speedway was located. Then he turned his attention back to the buildings.

The remaining two Humvees were sitting off to the side near the roll-up doors to the EMS building. Peter imagined the garage portion of the structure contained the fire trucks used during accidents. A hedgerow of sweet viburnum shrubs lined the administration building around the corner from the roll-up doors. If he could get to them undetected, he’d only be a few feet away from the Humvees, with sufficient cover under the darkened conditions to avoid recapture.

He took a deep breath and raced past the MUSCO controls that managed the lighting system around the racetrack. As he crossed the open pavement, he caught a glimpse of a light going off in the trailer. Peter skidded to a stop and dropped to a knee to look around. Another light turned off in the trailer. They were closing down. He didn’t have time to make it to the row of shrubs, so he scrambled to hide behind a large ice machine like the kind you’d find outside any convenience store. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. He’d only have one shot at this, and he had to be stealthy about it.

The white door to the trailer flung open and crashed hard against the exterior wall of the building. The wind had picked up to a steady gale. That was when he caught his first glimpse of Jimmy. His arms were pulled behind him, and he appeared to be handcuffed. A soldier stood behind him and half shoved him onto the platform sitting outside the elevated trailer.

Jimmy leaned against the steel railing while the guard struggled to close the door. Suddenly, the wind had become Peter’s ally. Without thinking of the consequences, he rushed from behind the ice box, bounded up the three steps leading to the platform, and crashed hard into the guardsman by driving the crown of his head into the man’s ribs.

The force of Peter’s tackling maneuver slammed the guard’s head into the doorjamb, knocking him out instantly. Peter fell to his knees, slightly dazed from the impact. Jimmy knelt down next to him.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered, looking around the parking lot to determine if they’d been seen.

“Sort of,” replied Peter with a chuckle. “What did they do to you?”

“It wasn’t waterboarding, but it was close. The CIA sucks, man.”

Jimmy didn’t have to say another word. Peter had covered the State Department and the Department of Defense. He’d heard more than rumors. He’d seen firsthand what agency operatives were capable of doing to extract information.

“You didn’t give ’em anything, did you?” asked Peter.

With his face partially covered in bandages, Peter couldn’t see Jimmy wince in pain as he smiled. “Hell nah.”

Peter slapped his friend on the shoulder, drawing another wince, not that Jimmy complained. Both men looked down to the unconscious soldier.

Peter took charge. “Let me drag him inside, and then I’ll get you out of those cuffs.”

Once they were inside, Peter located some surgical scissors and cut through the flex-cuffs binding Jimmy’s wrists. He immediately massaged his arms to alleviate some pain. Then he found a switch to the undercounter lighting at a row of cabinets. This provided sufficient lighting to see without drawing attention from anyone outside.

Jimmy walked to a wall mirror and began to remove his bandages.

Peter abruptly stopped him. “Wait. Not yet.”

“Why? I wanna see what they did to me.”

“I have an idea,” replied Peter. He pointed down to the unconscious soldier. “I’m about the same size as this guy. Let me put on his uniform. I’ll use his identification to get us out of here.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll be in the back seat, pretending to be in cuffs. If they ask, I’ll tell them you’re being evacuated.”

Jimmy looked from Peter to the soldier sprawled out on the vinyl tile floor and back to the mirror. “I think it’ll work. Let’s do it.”

It took several minutes to transform Peter from mild-mannered reporter to National Guardsman with an infirm prisoner. After the man was stripped to his skivvies, they dragged his body to a back office and cuffed him to a bed. It was a disrespectful move, but it provided Jimmy some semblance of revenge for the beating he’d endured.

The guys were ready. Peter took the guard’s sidearm, and Jimmy grabbed a rucksack that he filled with medical supplies to treat his wounds as well as injuries at Driftwood Key. Everything was a valuable resource now.

After they rushed through the blowing rain and got settled in the Humvee, Peter started the motor. The roar of the six-point-two-liter V8 could barely be heard over the howl of the wind. He turned slightly in his seat and looked Jimmy in the face.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Green. Green. Green. As they say.”

Peter became serious. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Jimmy, I’ve had to shoot people. Kill them, too.”

Jimmy stared at his friend, who’d never shown a violent streak in all the years they’d known one another. He sat up in his seat and pulled his arms behind his back to feign being handcuffed. Then he offered words of support.

“Things have changed, and there don’t appear to be rules anymore. It’s dog eat dog, you know? Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Peter nodded and slowly unclasped the weapon in his newly acquired utility belt. He understood where Jimmy was coming from and appreciated the words of support. He’d made the statement for another reason, however. He wanted to provide Jimmy advance warning.

They might have to shoot their way out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thursday, November 7

Key West

After Hank visited with Mike, he had a conversation with Jessica in the hallway. He explained to her the concerns he had about Jimmy. He laid out his plans for the afternoon, and she gave him the names of a couple of deputies who would know the most about the newly deputized private citizens brought on board for checkpoint duty. She’d heard a rumor that the new people were going to be released from their commitment to the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, but then, later in the night, she had been told that the mayor was building a militia of some sort.

Also, it was Jessica who acknowledged that she needed to get back to Driftwood Key to help protect their home. Mike was well taken care of, and if she knew her husband, he’d begin to insist that he be released. In fact, she said, it wouldn’t surprise her if he simply dressed and moseyed out the door without so much as a wave goodbye.

Hank agreed to touch base with her before he left Key West, but at the same time, he couldn’t make any promises as to when that might be. He’d been warned by Mike that the sheriff was elusive, and Hank believed Lindsey was in way over her head in her effort to take on the federal government.

His first stop after leaving the hospital was to return the golf cart to Sunset Marina. He asked if he could continue to dock the Wellcraft there and if someone would assist him in bringing Jessica’s WET team boat over as well. Afterwards, he walked across the street to the MCSO.

Sheriff Jock Daly, who was named in part after his father’s favorite television character, Jock Ewing of the old television show Dallas, had also been a star athlete in high school. He went on to play football at Florida State before graduating with a criminal justice degree. He had been trained at the FBI National Academy and considered a position as a special agent but chose to return home. His résumé included stints with the fire department and as a detective investigating drug cases alongside the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.

He was not known to be overly friendly, and most described him as serious. As a public servant, he was required to run for office. He wasn’t a campaigner and preferred to allow his record as a law enforcement officer to speak for itself. For the most part, the community was pleased with the job he’d done over the years, as he’d won reelection twice.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t amiable, he’d never been known as a shy or introverted person. Nor had he ever been accused of hiding from controversial subjects. Hank had met the man on several occasions over the years and generally had a decent rapport with him. He’d never had a reason to have a sit-down, face-to-face conversation with Sheriff Jock, as most residents of the Keys called him. Until now.

Hank’s reason for meeting with the sheriff was mostly personal and partly to satisfy his curiosity. He felt responsible for what, if anything, might have happened to Jimmy. The mayor had forced his hand, which had resulted in Jimmy being deputized by Sheriff Jock or his subordinates. Jimmy had no business wearing an MCSO uniform even though it consisted of nothing more than a pair of khaki pants and the signature green tee shirt with MCSO emblazoned across the back in gold lettering.

Hank was mad at himself for not standing up to Lindsey, and he intended to let her know how he felt as soon as he learned of Jimmy’s whereabouts. Then, in the course of conversation, he wanted to know why they thought it was a good idea to blow up the bridges entering the Keys. Hank also thought he should let Lindsey know how the decision might impact Peter’s and Lacey’s ability to return home.

Unfortunately, Sheriff Jock refused to see Hank. He waited and waited, periodically getting up from the chairs outside the sheriff’s office suite to look for some of the personnel on Jessica’s list. He learned more about the bridges being taken down and the aftermath. He was told how the National Guard had staged in Homestead and were en route to the Keys. It was presumed, based upon the president’s statements, that the Guard intended to replace the sheriff and the mayor with U.S. military officers pursuant to the martial law declaration.

While he waited, Hank also obtained a copy of the president’s martial law declaration and read it several times while he waited for the sheriff to emerge from his office. Finally, as the day grew long, he became concerned Lindsey might leave her office. Having given up on an audience with the sheriff, he hitched a five-minute ride to a location near the Monroe County Administration building.

He briskly walked the final two blocks to the center of Monroe County’s government, half-expecting the place to be empty already. He was wrong.

He’d never seen it bustling with so much activity. The parking lot was full of vehicles bearing the county’s yellow license plates. The portico entrance to the two-story, white building was packed with county personnel talking. Their conversations were animated and excited. Something big was happening, and Hank wanted to know what it was.

He didn’t waste any time and marched directly up the stairs to Lindsey’s office. Unlike Sheriff Jock’s office suite that was on lockdown thanks to his ornery secretary and an armed deputy, the double doors entering the administration suite were wide open. Within the suite that included the office of the mayor, formerly known as the county administrator, and her staff, there was also space for the county business manager, a legislative affairs director, and the assistant county administrator.

Hank stopped for a moment to take it all in. This wasn’t the way this place had looked before the nuclear war started. There was something up. He walked deeper into the office suite toward Lindsey’s office. The director of Disaster Recovery, a casual acquaintance of Hank’s from years ago, pushed through the crowd until the two men bumped shoulders.

Hank made eye contact with the frenzied man, who waved his arm as a form of apology. Although the two men knew one another, in his frantic state of mind, Ken Waller almost didn’t recognized Hank.

“Ken!” Hank raised his voice to be heard over the noisy county personnel. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” He expected to hear that the National Guard was about to invade the shores of the Florida Keys with tanks and armored personnel carriers.

“Oh. Sorry, um, Hank. Gotta go.” He immediately spun around and headed toward the hallway.

“Ken, what is it?” Hank hollered after him.

“Storm’s comin’,” replied Waller as he waved his arm over his head.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thursday, November 7

Monroe County Administration Offices

Key West

Hank had to know what was going on. Was the man referring to a storm in the literal or figurative sense? It wasn’t too late in the season for a hurricane, but the incredibly cool temperatures due to the onset of nuclear winter would prevent one from forming. Hank had to assume the military planned on retaliating against the Keys for their harebrained idea to blow up two bridges.

In the chaotic outer office, people rushed back and forth. Voices were raised in order to be heard. Arguments ensued over who was responsible for performing a certain task. There was no leadership or direction.

He marched past the mayor’s secretary and pushed his way around an armed deputy who was preventing a distraught woman from entering Lindsey’s office. Two uniformed members of the county’s emergency management team were standing near her desk, reviewing a map book.

Hank wasted no time in addressing the mayor. “Lindsey, what’s going on?”

She was hunched over her desk, studying a larger map of the Middle Keys. She scowled at the interruption. “Hank, what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you about—” Hank replied sheepishly before getting cut off.

Lindsey raised her hand like a New York City traffic cop might do to demand an oncoming car to stop. “Now’s not the time, Hank. As you can see, we’re a little busy.”

She turned back to the maps and pulled out a black Sharpie. She began circling certain roads and marking other areas with Xs and Os. Hank leaned forward to make sense of it all. She looked like a general planning a battle who didn’t have a clue as to how to fight the enemy.

“Lindsey, I came down here to find out what happened to Jimmy.”

She dropped her head and allowed the marker to roll out of her hands. She locked eyes with Hank. “Who?”

“Jimmy. Remember? Your nephew? You made me send him into your new deputy program, and now he’s gone missing.”

“Oh, right. Ask the sheriff.” She rubbed her temples and returned her attention to the map. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the Sharpie again to start drawing lines and circles on the map.

Hank was insistent. “I tried, and he wouldn’t meet with me.”

Without looking up, she said sarcastically, “It’s like I said, we’re all a little busy right now.”

Hank was tired of being ignored and Jimmy’s well-being marginalized. He slammed the palm of his right hand on the desk, smacking the top with a loud thud that caused the occupants of the room to stop talking.

“Dammit, Lindsey! Your nephew has disappeared after your foolish idea to blow up the bridges. Now, obviously, you’re in a load of shit with the government, but that’s not my problem. That young man’s life may be at risk, and you should bear some responsibility for that.” Hank had thrown down the gauntlet to get her attention.

With the room deathly quiet, Lindsey calmly stood upright and capped the Sharpie. She feigned laughter and shook her head from side to side as she looked toward the ceiling. Then she pointed the Sharpie at Hank.

“The damn military’s not the problem, Hank. And the decision to blow those bridges was a good one for the protection of everyone in the Keys.”

“Then what’s all of this?” asked Hank as he waved his right arm around the room.

“There’s a hella-big hurricane bearing down on us, and if you don’t hustle your ass out of my office, you might not make it back to your precious inn before it hits.”

Hank was perplexed. There had been late season storms before, but they usually came during a year of unusually warm weather. The effects of nuclear winter were anything but warm, although certainly unusual.

“I didn’t know…” he said, his voice trailing off. He was sorry for the interruption, but he still wanted to know about Jimmy’s whereabouts. “Who can help me with Jimmy?”

“Help yourselves, Hank. Aren’t you people all about self-reliance? The whole we-got-ours while the rest of us fend for ourselves mindset?”

Hank could feel all the eyes in the office staring at his back. “It’s not like that.”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Lindsey snarled. “And that will be addressed when this is all over. For now, I’ve got the business of the Keys to attend to, so it’s time for you to go.”

“But—” Hank began to argue before the mayor shouted over him.

“Deputy! Mr. Albright needs an escort out of the building!”

Hank swung around to a dozen faces glaring at him. Hateful eyes. Full of contempt. Strangers who made assumptions about him based upon his brief interaction with Lindsey, their fearless leader. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable. Outnumbered. Despised.

A storm was indeed coming. Perhaps more than one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Thursday, November 7

Tarpon Springs

Despite the dire circumstances brought on them by nuclear winter, the Andino family pulled out all the stops that evening to welcome the travelers. Delicacies like spinach pie, grilled calamari, beef-filled gyros, and of course, for dessert, a tray of baklava, the Greek pastry made of layers of chopped nuts, flaky crust, and honey.

The Greeks who inhabited Tarpon Springs, especially those who’d remained true to their heritage, had a knack for preparing for catastrophic events. The shoreline from Anclote Key around the Big Bend just south of Tallahassee all the way to Apalachicola was frequently visited by hurricanes every season. As a result, regardless of the time of year, they prepared and stored food in anticipation of a long-term power outage.

The Andinos were willing to share their food and drink, their homes, and their knowledge of sailing under dangerous conditions. After dinner they shared a toast with their guests by filling shot glasses with ouzo, a licorice-tasting spirit enjoyed by Greeks around the world. Andino explained to his guests the importance of ouzo to Greek culture as being akin to wine to the French, vodka to Russians, and tequila to Mexicans.

Even Tucker tried a sip. As it burned going down his throat, he swore he’d never touch a drop of alcohol for the rest of his life. Lacey smiled and thanked her hosts for discouraging her teenage son from partaking in the future.

After the table was cleared, the shot glasses were filled with another round, and each of the men lit up a Marlboro, an American cigarette that was wildly popular in Greece. Because the families had such strong ties to the country of their ancestors, they were hugely influenced by Greek pop culture right down to their smoke and drink of choice.

Lacey had politely waited until after dinner so as not to offend her host. However, she was anxious to learn more about a possible hurricane to their south. Was it just a rumor, or did somebody have firsthand knowledge? Were they broadcasting the weather over the emergency stations? If a storm was brewing, should she and Tucker wait it out in Tarpon Springs?

“Do you mind telling us what you’ve heard about a storm?” Lacey asked, looking at the men, who were settled into their chairs around the large dining table.

Andino’s oldest sibling, his brother Sandros, explained, “We’ve had an agreement with our fellow sponge fishermen to share the burden of bringing food in for our families. Mostly, we focus off nearby Anclote Key, where snook and mullet are abundant. We try to conserve fuel on our fishing runs, so we bait up-current of the drop-offs near Clearwater. Rooker Island has been a great location for mackerel and snapper.

“Anyway, you have to understand that it’s hard to keep our old sea captains on dry land. They don’t care about nuclear wars or economic collapse or fuel shortages. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve got a job to do, and they’ll always find a way.

“They do, however, worry about storms. Many trust the weather reporting from NOAA and the news networks. Others trust their own instincts and years of experience to sense changes in barometric pressure, winds, and even the color of the water.”

Andino laughed. “To most of these guys, our way of relying upon meteorological reports about wind intensity, pressure, and predictive storm tracks is for the weak.”

Sandros slapped his brother on the shoulder. “They’d rather get swamped than listen to some fool on the Weather Channel, right?”

Andino winked and sipped his ouzo.

Sandros leaned back in his chair and addressed Lacey. “You grew up on the water, right?”

“Technically, an island. Driftwood Key is small, one of hundreds in Monroe County. It’s still an island.”

He continued. “You’ve probably heard some of these old sayings like red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Followed by red sky at night, sailors’ delight.”

Andino jumped in with another well-known reference about a ring around the moon. “To the old-timers, a ring around the moon was an indication that a storm could be coming. We know, of course, that a lunar corona could be caused by many factors and isn’t necessarily a harbinger of a storm.”

Lacey had become impressed with the Andino brothers as she listened to them. They were experienced and learned. Sponge fishing was their job, and their most valued asset was their boat. They’d schooled themselves in order to prevent a catastrophe while at sea.

Sandros added, “Before satellite imagery and hurricane hunter airplanes came around in the last sixty years or so, boat captains relied upon radio reports from other vessels at sea. Before that, they used barometers. The problem back in the day was that the best you could do was have a few hours’ warning that a storm was imminent. Also, you had no idea how intense it might be, which gave you little time to take action.”

Tucker, who’d been listening intently to the conversation, chimed in, “Unless something is different farther south, we can’t see signs like red skies in the morning or rings around the moon. It’s one continuous sky of gray.”

“You’re correct, which is why our friends have placed such a heavy emphasis on their barometers,” said Sandros. “I’m not talking about the electronic kind, either. Some use a single barometer that ranges from a low of twenty-eight to a high of thirty-one.”

“Twenty-eight? Millibars?” asked Lacey.

Andino explained, “There are two ways to look at atmospheric pressure. One is by measuring inches of mercury, of Hg. The lower the Hg reading, the stormier the conditions. For example, a reading between twenty-eight and twenty-nine equates to roughly nine hundred fifty to nine eighty millibars.”

“Right,” interjected Sandros. “When you see on the news that the weather guy reports the pressure is dropping to those levels, the storm is intensifying.”

“So with a barometer, you don’t really need a weather report,” Tucker opined.

“No, not necessarily,” said Andino as he shook his head. “Your barometric pressure readings are only for your particular location. You could be in the middle of a high-pressure area full of sun, you know, before all of this. Suddenly, a strong low-pressure system could build and bring a drastic change in the weather.”

Lacey pushed away from the table and walked to the front windows of the home. The house was lit up with candles. That, coupled with the heat emanating from the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, had caused her to sweat somewhat. Or perhaps it was perspiration generated as she considered the prospects of sailing into a storm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Thursday, November 7

National Guard Encampment

Homestead-Miami Speedway

Homestead, Florida

Peter wanted to take a lap around the speedway. He really, really wanted to. With the storm approaching, he doubted anyone would’ve noticed. But if they had, the two of them would be back in the substation, answering questions and facing assault charges. Instead, he followed the access through the underground tunnel at the start of Turn Three and emerged on the other side.

He slowly approached the tangerine-colored guard shack that ordinarily stopped recreational vehicles and racecar transports before allowing them into the infield. Instead of uniformed track personnel manning the exit, armed guardsmen stood in the road, dressed in rain gear, with their automatic weapons raised to low ready as Peter approached.

“Jimmy, I don’t know if I can fake this.”

Jimmy offered some words of encouragement, and then he sent a shock wave through Peter’s body. “You’ll be fine. But, um, what’s your name?”

Peter subconsciously gripped the steering wheel with both hands and let off the gas. “What?”

“Your name. The name of the soldier.”

“Shit!” Peter slowed to a stop short of the gate. It was pitch dark outside except for temporary lighting illuminating the entrance and exit on both sides of the guard shack. He pulled the fatigues away from his chest and dropped his chin to get a better angle to read it. “I don’t know! I don’t freakin’ know!”

Jimmy leaned forward in the back seat. “Peter, you gotta wing it. They’re getting antsy.”

Peter noticed the guards were looking at one another and slowly approaching the vehicle. A third guard had exited the guard shack and was resting his right hand on his holstered weapon.

Panicked, Peter began to roll forward toward the approaching guards a little faster than he, and they, expected. This set into a motion a series of events that almost resulted in them getting killed.

The guardsmen raised their rifles and pointed them directly at Peter’s side of the windshield. “Stop! Do not move forward another inch!”

Peter obliged and quickly rolled down the window. “Sorry, fellas, I had to finish up a phone call.”

He’d said the words before he realized how absurd they were.

“What?” yelled the guard approaching the driver’s side window.

“Um, I mean, sorry, I was on the, um, walkie-talkie.” Peter was failing miserably at impersonating a National Guardsman. None of the guards bought it, either.

“Out of the truck. Now!” shouted the man who’d emerged from the guard shack. He’d pulled his weapon and was walking briskly toward the driver’s side.

“Dammit! Get down!” Peter shouted to Jimmy.

He mashed the gas pedal down to the floorboard, causing the heavy Humvee to lurch forward. His tires spun slightly on the wet pavement, which startled the soldiers. It was that split second of confusion that allowed Peter to roar through the lowered gate arm, tearing it from its post.

The guardsmen opened fire, stitching the back of the enclosed Humvee while one shot obliterated the rear window. Peter never slowed down as he roared past the NASCAR credential’s trailer and whipped the steering wheel to the left to avoid crashing into a chain-link fence. He fishtailed as his two right tires found the soggy turf and then grabbed the pavement again.

“Which way?” Jimmy shouted his question as he leaned up in the back seat to rest his arms on the passenger’s seat.

Peter’s mind raced as he tried to recall anything he could about the speedway. He hadn’t tried to look through the small air vent of the animal control truck when they had been brought in the day before. However, he did know they were at the back side of the track.

“Right,” he responded as he whipped the steering wheel to the right, causing the back of the truck to swerve again. He floored the gas and took off down Palm Drive, which was bordered by the speedway on the right and parking lots on the left.

Peter blew through a stop sign, driving on the wrong side of the road to avoid a triangular medium. He finally exhaled after holding his breath for half a mile. Then he glanced in his rearview mirror. Two sets of headlights pulled out of the speedway exit behind him.

“We’re gonna have company.”

“Yeah, from the right, too,” added Jimmy.

Peter glanced over his right shoulder to see another set of headlights with grille-mounted red and blue lights flashing on and off. He shook his head in disbelief.

This was how it ends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Thursday, November 7

Homestead, Florida

Peter’s eyes spent as much time looking forward as they did in the rearview mirror. The headlights of the trio of military police vehicles chasing them seemed to grow larger with each quarter mile they traveled south down the Overseas Highway.

Jimmy climbed across the console between the bucket-style seats to join Peter in the front. He immediately began to remove the gauze bandages that were wrapped around his face. He’d been scratching at his face since he’d woken up from the last beating he’d sustained during an over-the-top interrogation session conducted by a mad-at-the-world CIA agent.

He’d refused to tell the agent anything. He’d been threatened with waterboarding. At first, he’d been slapped across the face. Then he’d made the mistake of grinning at the demented agent. That had been when slaps turned to punches. The result was open cuts across his cheeks and jawline. A swollen lower lip and a bloodied nose were the least painful of the injuries.

As he gingerly removed the bandages, he asked, “Do you have a plan?”

“We gotta get to the Keys somehow. What’s your face like? Could you swim up Jewfish Creek to Largo Point?”

Jimmy laughed. “And then what? Stroll through the swamps at Crocodile Lake? I’d rather take my chances with those guys.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the pursuing guardsmen.

“How about the other direction? There’s a boat ramp near Snake Point. I doubt they stretched wire that far.”

“Probably right, but here’s the thing,” began Jimmy in response. “We’ll never make it to where the bridge was blown. Even in this crap weather, you can see there are people still walking back and forth on the side of the road. There’ll be more of them the closer we get.”

Peter glanced in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time. “I was thinking we could blend in with them to hide from those guys.”

Jimmy turned sideways in his seat and noticed they’d gained ground since he’d moved to the front. He had a thought.

“The Southern Glades Trail is up ahead. You could kill your lights and take the off-ramp. Instead of going under the bridge along the creek, hang a right and double back. We can hide until they give up.”

Peter grimaced and shook his head. “I thought about that, but with this rain coming down, that sandy road will become a real problem. We could get stuck. If we’re gonna bail off the highway, there’s another option we could try.”

“What?”

“The Manatee Bay Club.”

The Manatee Bay Club was a private community that offered dock and boat slip rentals. Along with the SeaHunter Marina, the small key at Manatee Bay had nearly two hundred boats docked there. In addition to the marina, there were nine slivers of fingerlike land protruding into the bay that had as many as twenty boat slips. There were also half a dozen private residences with their own docks.

“Steal a boat?”

“Yeah, or even just find a place to hide. Think about it. Their orders are to bug out of Homestead. I’m sure these guys will look for a while, but they’re not gonna go slip to slip or boat to boat.”

Jimmy laughed and then winced. Certain facial movements hurt worse than others. “Yeah, if we can hide from my old man on Driftwood Key, we can hide from a bunch of soldiers who are just gonna give it a half effort.”

“Okay,” said Peter, satisfied they had a plan, at least for now. “This is gonna be tricky, but it might throw them off and buy us some time.”

“What’re ya thinkin’?”

“Help me navigate. I’m about to kill the lights.”

Jimmy reached for the grab handle on the door and leaned forward to brace himself against the dashboard. Just as Peter arrived at the exit ramp to the Southern Glades Trail, he turned off the headlights.

They were suddenly surrounded by darkness, and as if to exacerbate their task, Mother Nature threw a feeder band across the highway as they eased over the creek. Instinctively, Peter slowed down to be more careful. He also focused a little too much on the rearview mirror to determine if his ploy worked.

“Peter! Look out!”

Peter jammed on the brakes as they reached the entrance to the sailboat and kayak rental business at South Dade Marina. A group of people had gathered at the gated entry, waiting for others who were trying to break in. They were seeking any kind of refuge from the storm. Several were milling about in the road and didn’t see Peter’s approach, nor did he see them.

The Humvee skidded to a stop on the wet pavement, and Peter inadvertently slammed on the horn to warn those in the road to move. The refugees immediately began to curse him and started toward the truck. His stealth maneuver had failed, so he turned his headlights back on and started south again, this time on the wrong side of the road.

“They’re almost up our ass,” complained Peter as he slapped the steering wheel. “Can’t this tank go any faster?” He moved up and back, rocking in his seat as if to urge the Humvee along. His foot had pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but the heavy vehicle needed time to get back up to speed.

“Less than a mile, Peter. Listen, I know this place. As soon as you pull in, take a hard right and crash into the gate. Then stop right away. Let’s lead them in the wrong direction to buy some time.”

“Are you sure?”

Jimmy set his jaw, and a look of intensity washed over his battered face. “Yeah, I’ve got this. Trust me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

Peter turned off the lights again as he approached the entrance to the small marina and boating community. Without trying, his adrenaline-fueled mind caused him to overshoot the entrance slightly. He was forced to whip the steering wheel to the left to avoid crashing into the guardrail. The Humvee was in a hopping slide on the wet pavement when it struck the white, steel entry gate to the first of the fingers of sand holding boat slips.

The impact with the gate threw Jimmy hard against the passenger door, but he managed to hold his neck firm to prevent his head from smacking the glass. After the abrupt stop, he didn’t hesitate to exit the vehicle and provide Peter instructions.

“Follow me through these trees. Stay low.”

Peter pulled the keys out of the ignition and flung them into a stand of palmetto trees after he jumped out of the truck.

Jimmy had always been quicker than Peter when running on uneven surfaces or through wooded areas. He was gone in an instant, his body disappearing among the mangrove trees that separated the main entrance from the water.

The wind was howling at this point, and the trees were blowing unpredictably as Peter rushed to keep up. They’d made their way a hundred yards from where they’d abandoned the Humvee when the sounds of sirens and skidding tires indicated the three pursuing trucks had arrived.

Jimmy didn’t hesitate as he led the way. There was a section of clearing that he ran across without looking back toward the entrance to the marina. They had to keep going to put some distance between them and the soldiers.

Peter used the opening to catch up to his friend before they lowered their heads to enter another stretch of mangroves. He was gasping for air as he tried to speak to Jimmy.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m trying to get us to the end of the street where the houses are,” said Jimmy, who showed no signs of slowing despite his injuries.

“Why don’t we try to find a boat?”

“You can’t see it from here, but they’re all out in the open. If those guys have flashlights or lights mounted on their trucks, they’ll find us. Plus, that was your first thought. It’s probably theirs, too.”

Peter was impressed with Jimmy’s logic. He wasn’t a worldly guy, having spent his entire life on Driftwood Key. In fact, Peter wasn’t sure if Jimmy had ever been farther north than Miami. Regardless, he had common-sense street smarts, and thus far, his plan was working.

The two men were heaving for air as they rounded the bend and came to the first of several homes built on pilings at the end of the road. Homes in the Keys as well in most of Florida’s coastal communities were built on steel-reinforced concrete pilings to lift them above sea level. Along the water’s edge, it wasn’t unusual for structures to be sixteen feet off the ground to allow storm surge during hurricanes to flow underneath.

Residents used the space under their homes to park cars and boats, as well as other things, much like anyone would use a garage space. Access to the homes might be via an elevator that opened into the ground floor or by steps leading onto decks.

They backed off their frenetic pace to a brisk walk as they entered Hazel Street, where the houses were located. Peter was by Jimmy’s side now.

“Did you notice the squatters hanging around?” Peter asked in a loud whisper so he could be heard over the storm.

“Yeah. Apparently we’re not the only ones looking for a place to hide away. Different reasons, of course.”

Peter pointed to their left. “Those facing the bay are easily two million plus.”

“Yeah, and that’s where they’ll look for us. We need something busted up. Um, like this one.”

Immediately across the street from a gorgeous three-story home overlooking Manatee Bay was an unremarkable, rectangular home built on stilts. It resembled a Jim Walter modular home placed on pilings. Its aluminum windows and lack of landscaping made it unattractive to the refugees, who were looking for a luxurious place to ride out the storm in comparison to the simple homes on the other side of the street.

Suddenly, the headlights of an approaching Humvee caught their attention. The guys darted down the crushed-shell driveway toward an entry door leading to the carport under the house. There was a single car parked underneath, something they couldn’t see from the road.

“They’re going house to house,” said Peter, who glanced over his shoulder to follow the slow-moving Humvee.

“Hurry,” said Jimmy loudly as he raced ahead toward the entry door. His face was beginning to ooze blood as a result of his overexertion and being slapped with palmetto tree fronds as they’d run away from the entrance to the community.

Peter pushed past him and arrived at the door first. He grabbed the doorknob.

“It’s locked.”

He looked around, as did Jimmy. The Humvee had stopped in the center of the road several houses down. Shouts could be heard as they barked orders to anyone they encountered.

The guys moved underneath the building in the direction of the water and the home’s dock. A Jeep Wrangler sat underneath the house, with a cab cover stretched over it. They made their way around the back of the house to the deck stairs leading up to the main level. Soaked with salty rainwater, the guys slowly made their way up the slippery stairs.

Peter reached the wraparound deck first, where it was the hand of God that saved his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thursday, November 7

Manatee Bay Club

Overseas Highway

Key Largo

BOOM!

The shotgun blast flew over Peter’s head. Had he not lost his balance on the rain-soaked steps and fallen to his knees, he would’ve been decapitated by the pellets.

Peter had been through this before. He didn’t bother pleading with the shooter. He rolled over and slid down the steps on his backside until Jimmy grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up.

BOOM!

Peter felt the air displaced by the pellets as they soared over their heads and ripped through the fronds of a solitary date palm tree that had grown to the height of the house. The orange-colored, edible fruit mixed with the blowing rain peppered the guys’ heads below it.

Headlights suddenly appeared, washing over the driveway and then finding the side of the house. Jimmy slapped Peter’s chest and began running toward the water. They gathered steam as they made their way down a slight incline to the floating dock at the side of the home.

Without regard to his injuries, Jimmy flung his body into the water. With his arms outstretched over his head, the splash was barely heard over the howling winds. Peter mimicked his friend, although he wasn’t quite as graceful. The slight belly flop almost knocked the wind out of him and made a noticeable splash compared to Jimmy’s effort.

Nonetheless, within seconds, they were halfway across the canals that separated the properties and their boats, without being noticed by their pursuers. Jimmy, a much faster swimmer, arrived at the dock on the other side of the water first. He located a wooden ladder that stretched into the water and climbed up a couple of rungs to get Peter’s attention.

Once Peter arrived, Jimmy tried to listen to the conversations at the house where they had almost been shot. The soldiers were questioning the homeowner, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. The three uniformed guardsmen walked to the water’s edge behind the house and began looking along the dock. They illuminated the flashlights on their rifles and began to slowly sweep the grounds, the docks, and the water that surrounded three sides of the small house.

“We’re gonna be trapped if we don’t find a place to hide,” said Peter.

“Maybe. Come on.” Jimmy quickly climbed out of the water and helped Peter. They used the docked boats as cover as they slowly walked across a vacant lot toward a large house at the end of the street.

It was a home straight out of an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The entry was protected with an ornate iron gate that included two tall posts holding security cameras. The red flashing lights indicated the driveway was monitored and that the property still had power.

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

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.

Using a fishing gaff, Jimmy pulled the Yamaha WaveRunner over toward the platform. He slowly slid his body off the wooden dock until both of his feet were securely in place on the WaveRunner.

“We’re in business!” he shouted a little too loudly.

Whether it was his excited tone of voice or the fact that the military dog felt he was closing on his prey, the dog began barking rapidly. “I’ve got the remote transmitter.”

Some PWC models didn’t use keys in the traditional sense. A few had alternative security measures like a push-button keypad, while others, like these particular WaveRunners, utilized an electronic key fob similar to the kind used for cars. Jimmy found the key fob attached to a floating keyring that was slung over the grip of the handlebars.

The sound of the dog barking was closer, panicking Peter. He whipped the crank around and around until his WaveRunner fell into the water with a loud splash. The wake it created caused Jimmy to rock back and forth. The momentum of the other WaveRunner carried across the water until their bumpers were crashing into each other.

Jimmy held the second watercraft in place until Peter lowered himself into the water and boarded it from the rear. He raised his hand and exchanged high fives with his best friend. The two riding WaveRunners together was reminiscent of their days growing up after school. It had been their preferred method of transportation when traveling around the Keys.

WOOF! WOOF, WOOF!

The dog was at the door, and the soldiers were yelling to one another.

“Cover the back!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You! Inside. Open up and come out with your hands raised high. This will not end well if you don’t!”

Jimmy and Peter exchanged glances. There was no doubt what they intended to do. With the flip of a switch and the press of a button, the Yamahas fired up. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He gave his machine its full throttle, and he jumped forward through the end of the boathouse.

Peter was close behind, following in Jimmy’s wake. Jimmy made a wide, sweeping left turn just as bullets splashed in the water all around them. The lack of light and the adverse conditions made it impossible for the National Guardsmen to take an accurate shot. They fired hoping to get lucky, and the dog roared his disapproval at the fleeing prey.

In less than a minute, Peter and Jimmy were crashing through the waves created by the hurricane that was pummeling the Florida Keys. And, at the time, they were in the relatively safe waters of the hurricane hole located at Manatee Bay. By the time they entered Barnes Sound, their visibility was reduced to near zero, and the blowing rain stung so hard that Jimmy’s somewhat healed wounds began to bleed.

Using their knowledge of the shorelines from one end of the Keys to the other, the guys located the entrance to Jewfish Creek. They slowed as they approached where the bridge had once carried tens of thousands of cars and trucks daily. Now it had disappeared beneath the water’s surface, leaving a mangled opening that Jimmy was all too familiar with.

Several bodies floated in the middle of the creek while others were seen tangled in the razor wire at the shoreline. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the brackish water forced both men to cover their mouths and noses with their shirtsleeves.

At Gilbert’s Resort on the right, refugees yelled at Peter and Jimmy as they slowly drove past. Several National Guard vehicles could be seen parked at the hotel and restaurant. At that point, the guardsmen were unaware that the guys were fugitives escaping their comrades’ pursuit.

Once they cleared Gilbert’s Resort, they accelerated slightly into Blackwater Sound, where the eye wall of the hurricane would soon greet them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Thursday, November 7

Key West

Hank had no allies to call upon for a ride back to the hospital. The streets were packed with locals commiserating about the coming hurricane while frantically boarding up windows, as they’d done so many times in the past. Only, the storm was upon them, and the winds weren’t cooperating.

To clear his head and process what he’d learned, Hank chose to jog the four miles back to the Lower Keys Medical Center. After a mile, he became winded and blamed his lack of energy on the fact he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Of course, being out of shape had nothing to do with it. After that first mile or so, he alternated between a brisk walk and a jog. During the forty-minute jaunt through the increasingly rain-covered streets of Key West, his thoughts alternated between the conversation he’d had with Lindsey and the one he dreaded having with Jimmy’s parents.

He needed help to organize a search party for Jimmy. It would have to wait until after the storm passed. He passed a group of people huddled in the portico entry of a closed hotel. They were holding one another to keep warm as the wind-driven rain pelted them.

Hank tried to put their plight out of his mind and returned to his thoughts. Something had struck Hank as odd from his encounter with Lindsey. He hadn’t seen any computer-generated satellite imagery in the documents she had been studying. In fact, unless something had changed, he didn’t believe Monroe County’s government had internet access due to the collapse of the power grid.

They had been studying maps and fishing charts. The government personnel were resorting to handwritten notes. How could they even know what the track or the intensity of the storm was? Unless, of course, they’d learned about it like they did in the old days via word-of-mouth. Hank began to understand how people in the Midwest felt about tornadoes. The vicious, deadly wind events often came without warning. Meteorological advances provided the ability to issue warnings, but tornadoes were the most unpredictable weather threat man faced.

Hurricanes were different. NOAA and the National Hurricane Center had an abundance of resources at their disposal. For days if not weeks, people knew when they were in the path of a deadly storm. Whether they chose to get out of the way was up to them.

What was apparently happening now was more akin to a tornado. In the middle of the night, without warning, a hurricane had drawn a bead on the Florida Keys, and people would be caught unaware. Hank had no way of notifying Sonny and Phoebe other than to race back to Driftwood Key before it hit.

He picked up the pace and began to run toward the hospital. He’d have to convince Jessica to leave Mike’s bedside and return to Driftwood Key. If the frantic scene at the county administration building was any indication, they might not have much time.

He slowed his pace and caught his breath as he entered the emergency room waiting area. Without checking in, he walked briskly down the hall to the room where Mike had been kept as he recovered. Mike was gone, and another patient now occupied the room.

Hank swirled around and approached the nurses’ station. “Where’s Mike Albright? He was there when I left earlier.” Hank gestured toward the trauma wing.

“And you are?” the nurse asked, looking over her reading glasses.

“Hank, his brother.”

She thumbed through a large three-ring binder. Apparently, the hospital was minimizing the amount of electricity used as their generators worked overtime, and chose not to bother with computers.

“Through those doors is the north wing, or trauma recovery. Rooms are to your right, and the nurses’ station will be on your left.”

Hank thanked her for her help and hustled down the corridor in search of the nurses’ station. He was almost upon it when Jessica emerged from one of the recovery rooms.

“Hank, in here. Quickly.”

His heart rate soared. He was immediately concerned that his brother had taken a turn for the worse. He ran down toward Jessica, who held the door open until he was inside. Much to his relief, Mike was sitting upright in the bed and was apparently fine.

“Did you have any luck?” Mike asked without a hint of the respiratory issues that had beset him as a result of the knife wound.

“No. Stonewalled at every turn. The sheriff’s a coward, and Lindsey’s a… well, no help.”

Jessica offered Hank a bottle of water. After the four-mile trek from downtown Key West, he was both winded and sweaty. He took a deep breath and then several long gulps of the spring water. As he did, Jessica reported what she’d learned.

“I went to the sheriff’s department to look for you, but I guess you’d already left. Hank, they tell me a hurricane’s coming. A big one, actually. They wanted me to stay to help, but I danced around the issue.”

“Actually, tell Hank how you lied,” said Mike.

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Okay, I lied. I told them I was gonna check on Mike, and then I’d report for the graveyard shift. Hank, I’m not going in.”

“Won’t you get fired?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Mike and I talked about it. It’s time for us to take care of our family and Driftwood Key.”

Hank looked toward Mike, who continued to stare at him, presumably to gauge his reaction to the news. Hank turned to Jessica and asked, “Did you hear anything about the storm’s timing? I learned about it while in Lindsey’s office, but she didn’t exactly offer any details.”

“Within the next couple of hours,” she replied. “We need to hurry.”

“What about Mike?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mike answered in a tone of voice that brought the issue to a close. “You guys hit the road, or the water. Jess, it’ll be your call. You know how to access the vehicle pool, right?”

She laughed as she replied, “It would be grand theft auto at this point.”

“No, not necessarily. You’re still a county employee until terminated. Same for me.”

Jessica leaned over his bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I love you. Follow your doctor’s orders for a change, okay?”

“Aye-aye, cap’n,” he said with a weak attempt at a snappy salute. Mike was still sore all over.

He and Hank exchanged a half-hug as they said their goodbyes. Mike promised he’d join them at Driftwood Key soon and not to worry about picking him up. Jessica tried to argue, but he insisted before shooing them both out of his room.

Once they made their way outside the front of the hospital, they began briskly walking toward Sunset Marina. The winds had picked up and were now sustained in the forty-to-fifty-mile-per-hour range. They were much stronger than just an hour ago when he’d left the mayor’s office.

Hank sensed a hurricane was barreling down on the Keys, and he hesitated to take the boat back home. However, Jessica successfully argued that the roads were still clogged, and it would take some time for her to secure a vehicle. They were out of time and had no choice.

She was right.