Free Cut and Run by Matt Hilton

approaching Key Largo, I directed Bryce to take the Card Sound Bridge on to the island.
    ‘There’s a toll booth there. They might have been given your description,’ Bryce said.
    ‘Doubt it,’ I said. But we had to be careful.
    The toll road was barrier-controlled. A single booth gave access into Monroe County, but we’d arrived at a time of day when there was a queue of traffic edging forwards and they were being nudged through the barrier perfunctorily. We crept along, flanked by signs warning us to beware of crossing crocodiles. Bryce opened his window, handed over the correct change, and then we were through without even raising an eyebrow of the elderly man working the controls.
    We crossed the bridge, the water scintillating below us, and on to the island. Mangroves clung to the shoreline and the heady aroma of rotting vegetation invaded the sedan. The island was a prehistoric coral reef, exposed millennia ago and eroded by subsequent ice ages. At its highest point it stood little more than fifteen feet above sea level, but you wouldn’t know it because we were surrounded by trees all the way down to the town of North Key Largo.
    ‘Don’t stop until we find signs for Pelican Key,’ I said. Without comment Bryce followed the lazy flow of traffic south. He found the spur of land jutting out into the sea, but I nodded him on. ‘OK, there should be a place a little ahead of us. Rock Harbor.’
    ‘Got it,’ he said, nodding at overhead signs.
    I pointed out a road on our right and we pulled into it, approaching an exclusive resort. There was a hotel surrounded by palm trees, and a wharf that jutted out over the beach and into the sea. Boats were moored alongside the wharf, and vehicles were parked near to them on a concrete lot.
    ‘You can pull in here, Bryce.’
    Bryce parked adjacent to a Porsche Boxster that was so black it glistened in the sun and reflected the boats lined up across the way. I looked across at the driver of the Porsche and smiled in greeting at my best friend, Rink.
    We got out of our cars, Bryce stretching after the long journey. I shook hands with Rink, appraising his appearance.
    ‘Is this what you mean by discreet?’
    He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, bright blue with reds and yellows all over it, parrots and palm trees if you looked closely; but I tried not to. He had on wraparound shades that reflected my gaze and concealed his hooded eyes, and his normally straight black hair had been slicked back. His ensemble was completed by cargo pants with big pockets on the thighs, and walking boots. Not for the first time, Rink reminded me of a character out of Magnum PI . He was tall like Tom Selleck, but he was twice as solid with muscle.
    Rink flashed a grin at me, his teeth very white against his tawny skin, a match for the pale scar on his jaw. His grin told me that he was nervous, something about the way it fixed as he looked over my shoulder at Bryce.
    ‘That the spook?’
    ‘Bryce Lang,’ I said, ‘meet Jared Rington.’
    ‘Call me Rink.’
    I was glad that Rink offered his nickname: it meant that we were all going to get along. The two shook hands, and Rink flipped his shades back on his head. His size and his Arkansas drawl often surprise people when they notice his eyes; he has the epicanthic fold common to eastern races that comes courtesy of his Japanese mother. Bryce didn’t do a double start – partly because I’d told him that Rink was Asian-American, partly because he was already familiar with Rink’s file – but I saw Rink reading the man’s reaction and judging him by it. Rink seemed happy and his grin became less fixed.
    ‘Great to meet you, Rink. We never had the opportunity to work together before, but I’ve heard good things about you.’ Bryce gave me a quick glance, and I guessed that he was wishing Rink had been in Bogota that fateful day. Maybe he thought Rink would have pulled the trigger where I hadn’t. He didn’t know Rink the way I