We continued through the maze of cannabis plants to a clearing filled with high grass. The old landing strip was still there and in decent shape. It might not have been as heavily trafficked as the good old days, but somebody had clearly been using it.
It was a lot harder to fly in a plane-load of drugs to the Keys these days. With radar, the joint task force, and other high-tech interdiction methods, it was a tough haul. Bringing cocaine in on a Go-Fast boat or semisubmersible was a safer path. Sometimes the cartels used actual submarines, built in the jungle out of fiberglass and PVC.
Some estimates had interdiction as high as 10%, but that was a stretch. It was probably closer to 3 to 5%. There was no way to stop the influx of drugs. Despite the sophisticated countermeasures, all it took was someone on the inside to tip off the drug runners. Money always talks.
Mickey surveyed the area.
"Where do you think you would have buried it?"
The grass in the meadow swayed with the breeze.
His mouth tightened, and he shook his head. "I’ve been to this island several times. I’ve looked all over. I've never found anything.”
"Look for landmarks, anything that might spark a memory," I suggested.
We walked around the clearing, then walked the landing strip. There were fresh tracks in the dirt. Someone had set down within the last several days.
"I got nothing," Mickey said. “I would probably have buried it in the underbrush in some type of container—a 50-gallon drum, waterproof cases, ammo crates. Something.”
“That might prove difficult with all the roots and stumps in the area,” I said.
Jack fired up the metal detector and started to do a grid search of the field. Depending on what Mickey stored the money in, the metal detector might be useless.
Jack swept the device through the high grass, bending it down as he walked, moving the high-tech sensor across the ground.
There were probably all kinds of snakes and varmints in the grass, and the mosquitoes were in attack mode.
The metal detector sounded every few feet. Jack had to adjust the sensitivity. It was alerting on everything—bottle caps, coins, spent shell casings, you name it. There was a lot of junk on the island. We could spend a week out here and not thoroughly investigate everything. It seemed futile.
In the span of a few minutes, we found car keys, a pocket knife, and a silver dollar.
We hovered around Jack as he continued to search.
The metal detector alerted again.
Jack knelt down and fumbled through the grass. There was nothing on the surface.
Flynn dug in with a shovel and scooped out dirt until he hit something metallic. He shoveled the dirt away to find a small metallic box with a sequential combination. He pulled the box from the ground and shook it.
Something rattled inside.
This certainly wasn’t the loot. But it had piqued our curiosity.
Jack's face wrinkled with confusion. "What the hell do you think’s inside?”
Flynn shrugged. "One way to find out.”
Flynn flipped the dials until they all read 0000. It was a common default code on those types of lockboxes.
We all huddled around as he lifted the lid.
Inside was nothing but a bunch of loose change. $0.85.
Not really enough to warrant a lockbox. There was a handwritten note on a piece of lined notebook paper that came from a memo pad. The ink had faded over the years and was barely legible. A ledger of sorts. Maybe the box had contained money at some point in time.
It was a distraction that kept us from seeing the danger.
I glanced around to find us surrounded by four guys with assault rifles. They didn't look pleased to see us.
