Kettleman had been hit, hard. He was under water, feeling like he’d taken a punch from Holyfield, right in the chest. When he surfaced, he was face to face with shaggy. Shaggy was sputtering, clasping his neck, blood spurting through his fingers.

Bracing for the pain, Kettleman heaved himself over the hull of the little boat. The sudden motion caused shaky fingers to drop a box of ammo, scattering bullets everywhere. Skinny gave chase as Kettleman lay there, trying to overcome the agony. Skinny’s desperate fingers dropped three rounds, but did manage to get one in.

Too little, too late. When he looked up, the bat was already on the way. It caught him on the temple, splitting the side of his head.

Kettleman dropped the bat and plunked down on a bench, eying skinny warily. The man was breathing, but out cold. He would have been dead, had Kettleman been able to use two hands for that swing.

Kettleman tossed the gun overboard, just to be sure.

The only sound was that of the idling engine. Shaggy was floating in the water, face down. Blood tinted water was spreading out. Wouldn’t be long before the gators caught the taste.

Kettleman was bleeding from the bullet to the chest, but not fast. He was light headed, but his breathing was fine. He was not dying.

How could he make this go away? The gators would get shaggy. And skinny too, were he to get pushed into the drink. But how long would that take? A day or two? This spot was secluded—tucked away on a small branch off the Ortega—but it was not unknown. There was a good chance…

Kettleman remembered his boat. Looking over, he could see the nose protruding out of the water, aft hidden beneath the water.

No way that was going away easy.

Kettleman leaned forward, wincing as he flipped open the cooler. Pinching a bottle of water between his knees, he unscrewed the cap with his right hand. He downed it in one long pull, eyeing skinny.

This time more cautiously, Kettleman leaned forward again and went through the man’s pockets, producing a wallet and a cell phone. In the wallet was a driver’s license with skinny’s picture on it. Terrence Casey.

The cell was a flip phone. A burner. Surprisingly smart for a couple of morons.

Kettleman tossed the wallet overboard, but set the phone aside. Kneeling down, he grasped the man’s belt and heaved the man up and over. Agony from the effort was so intense that Kettleman almost went over himself.

When it passed, Kettleman moved to the tiller. Using his knee to balance the phone, he dialed a call. Phone between shoulder and ear, Kettleman eased the throttle forward.

“Martin it’s me, Joe,” Kettleman told the voicemail. “Need you to run a name for me.”