MATTHEW RIEF AVENGED IN THE KEYS A LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURE FLORIDA KEYS ADVENTURE SERIES VOLUME 11 Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Rief All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. CONTENTS CONTENTS ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE THIRTY-FOUR THIRTY-FIVE THIRTY-SIX THIRTY-SEVEN THIRTY-EIGHT THIRTY-NINE FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FORTY-THREE FORTY-FOUR FORTY-FIVE FORTY-SIX FORTY-SEVEN FORTY-EIGHT FORTY-NINE THE END About the Author LOGAN DODGE ADVENTURES Gold in the Keys Hunted in the Keys Revenge in the Keys Betrayed in the Keys Redemption in the Keys Corruption in the Keys Predator in the Keys Legend in the Keys Abducted in the Keys Showdown in the Keys Avenged in the Keys JASON WAKE NOVELS Caribbean Wake Join the Adventure! Sign up for my newsletter to receive updates on upcoming books on my website: matthewrief.com Acknowledgements: My incredible editor, Eliza Dee (clioediting.com). This series would never have made it to eleven books were it not for her guidance, knowledge, and impeccable eye for detail. My manuscripts are returned coated in red every time, and would be a pain to read were it not for Eliza. My two talented, insightful, and perceptive proofreaders: Donna Rich ([email protected]), and Nancy Brown (redlineproofreading.com). ONE Jones Lagoon Upper Florida Keys John Ridley dipped the end of his paddle into the clear water and pulled, propelling his kayak through the calm lagoon. Attached to the right side of his twelve-foot orange sit-atop was a high-powered metal detector. It was secured in place by an intricate combination of bungee cords and a nylon belt, allowing John to scan over the shallows as he paddled. John was in his early seventies and had a lean build and tanned skin from decades spent under the tropical sun. He wore a pair of white swim trunks and a blue shirt with all the buttons undone, allowing it to blow freely in the soothing breeze. Around his waist he had a leather fanny pack that was cracked from age. He used it to store his finds. He wore a pair of vintage aviator sunglasses. They were the same style he’d worn while serving as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. A remnant of a way-back-when chapter of his life. A time and place long gone. He kept a steady eye on the detector’s LCD screen as he paddled slowly through the lagoon. He’d been metal detecting up and down the Florida Keys for the past twenty years. It was his daily ritual, a form of meditation, but also a source of primal excitement at the same time. You never know what you might find. What lost objects lie waiting and whispering just beneath your toes. It didn’t matter that the vast majority of what he’d found over the years was bottle caps, rusted old fishing hooks, or soda cans. It was the lure, the infinite possibility that made his heart stir every time he dug up a pile of sand. He lost himself in the gentle rhythmic paddling, observing the dinner-plate-sized coil at the end of the device’s stem. He listened carefully, and his mind anticipated the glorious high-pitched beeping sound. Though it was only eight in the morning, the air was already seventy degrees. The shallow water surrounding him was calm, the sky clear and big. He had the lagoon completely to himself. Closed in by tall, thick mangroves on all sides, he could’ve had the entire world to himself and it would’ve looked and felt the same. He relished the quiet, the peacefulness and serenity of it all. John watched as an anhinga wading near the shore snatched a fish, then gobbled it up. As he observed the bird partake in its morning meal, a beep resounded through the detector’s speaker. John blinked, then smiled. He stopped himself using the paddle’s blades, then grabbed a pole with a metal scoop attached to the end of it. He adjusted the detector to relocate the hit, then slid off the kayak into the waist-deep water and dug the scoop through the bottom. Lifting the scoop, he sifted out the sand and silt by shaking it back and forth. As the sand washed away, he spotted something resting in the bottom of the scoop. It was an oval-shaped object roughly the size of a can of sardines. But it was thinner and coated in a layer of green-and-black grime. John pulled the object out and examined it carefully. Judging by its appearance, he estimated that it had spent well over ten years beneath the waves. Rubbing a thumb over one of the object’s flat surfaces, he felt distinct ridges. There were engraved symbols. Letters. John was barely able to distinguish them despite the heavy level of corrosion. CS John’s heart thumped in his chest. As in, the Confederate States of America. His broad grin turned into a laugh and he gave a quick dance right there in the lagoon, like a prospector who’d just pulled a nugget from a river. He knew exactly what it was; he’d seen one just like it at a museum in Charleston years earlier. It was a Confederate soldier’s belt buckle. You never know what you might find. What lost objects lie waiting and whispering just beneath your toes.
