Avenged in the Keys

her body around, dropped to one knee, and took aim.
The big guy had the barrel of his suppressed Ruger .22 staring right back at her. She flexed her finger and pulled the trigger a fraction of a second before he could react. The .38 round boomed out of the barrel and struck him in the left leg. He yelled as the powerful blast caused him to tumble forward, slamming to the ground in a blink.
Infuriated, the injured man turned rabid from the pain and rolled straight into Harper, pinning her against the refrigerator and causing her to let go of her weapon. The stranger bellowed, punched her in the gut, then wrapped his meaty fingers around her neck as blood oozed out from his shattered leg.
She gagged, struggling for air as he yelled and squeezed tighter and tighter. Remembering a last-ditch save-your-life move that a friend had taught her, she jammed her thumbs hard into the guy’s eyeballs just as her consciousness began to fade. The man screamed as she oozed her thumbs in deep. He relinquished his viselike grip around her neck and jerked back as she tore herself away.
Crawling to her left, she reached and grabbed hold of her uncle’s fallen revolver. Blinded by her attack, but not giving up, the man lunged toward her sounds. Harper spun, buried the barrel of the weapon into his chest, and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck, the violent crack painfully loud, and the round blew a substantial hole out of the guy’s back. Blood dripped from the wound, and he collapsed right on top of her. He was heavy, and the sudden drop of weight forced the air out of Harper’s lungs.
In the haze of the moment, she caught a blurry glimpse of a second guy as he sprinted out from the hall and bolted into the living room. She shoved the dead guy off her and heard the front door slam as she staggered to her feet. She was in no state to chase him down, but she had to at least see what the coward was driving.
Struggling across the living room, she pushed apart the plastic blinds and focused through the smudged window. The figure sprang into the driver’s side of an old brown sedan, cranked the engine, then floored it out of there.
Harper dropped her hands to her knees and caught her breath. Stumbling back into the kitchen, she snatched her phone off the floor and dialed 911. She leaned against the counter for support. Tears continued to trail down her cheeks as she listened to the intermittent hum of the connecting call, her solemn gaze focused on her uncle’s bloody corpse.
THREE
East of Key Largo
The Following Day
I gripped the helm with one hand and eased the throttles forward with the other, rocketing our twenty-two-foot Robalo center-console over the turquoise waters of our tropical paradise. Wind whipped my dark hair back, and I peered through my sunglasses and relished the feel of the ocean air and sun against my shirtless upper body.
I love everything about being on a boat, especially in the Keys. The feel of the fiberglass beneath my bare feet. The fresh air. The freedom. The views. The seclusion and the quiet, and yet the camaraderie. There’s something primal about being out on the water that feels a lot like going home. It epitomizes romance and beauty, mystery and adventure.
My wife, Angelina, placed a hand on the small of my back, then kissed the side of my arm. I glanced over and smiled at her. She looked great with her blond hair tied back and sunglasses over her vibrant blue eyes. She wore a white tank top and navy-blue bikini bottoms. Her long, tanned legs glistened in the early-morning sun.
“How much farther, Dad?” our fifteen-year-old daughter, Scarlett, asked from up on the bow.
I glanced down at the navigation panel, then held up three fingers. The adventurous teenager liked to hang out up forward and loved it when the water sprayed up over the boat. Her brunette hair flew wildly in the strong breeze, and she extended one of her arms while clasping tight with the other.
We soon motored up to our destination on the seaward side of the Key Largo Dry Rocks in John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park. I eased back on the throttle and brought us up to a mooring buoy, smiling as I peered over the side at the perfectly clear water. Moments after our arrival, a school of amberjack swam right up to the boat, hoping for us to toss over some food. It was a popular dive site, and the wild fish were used to chowing down on scraps discarded overboard.
I called out to Scarlett.
“Scar, you mind tying—”
She was already on it, securing us to the mooring buoy with a carabiner attached to the forward mooring line. Once it was secured, she gave me a thumbs-up and I killed the 200-Hp engine. The silence of the open water and the gentle lapping of waves against the hull were a peaceful contrast to the humming engine.
I stepped up beside Scarlett, then stretched my six-two frame and took a look around. There was only one other boat nearby, and it was roughly three hundred yards off the starboard bow. We had the place to ourselves for the most part, at least for the time being. June is the start of the slow season in the islands, the time of the year when the heat and intermittent rains take over, causing snowbirds to head back north.
I grabbed a small buoy that had a red flag with a white slash down the middle attached. After tying it off, I tossed it overboard. The dive flag is an important signal to let other boaters know that there are divers in the water.
“All right,” I said, peering through the gin-clear