The idea for the escape came to him when he was looking for a boat to steal. Originally he thought of taking a bigger yacht in the event he got stuck in a prolonged standoff. What attracted him to the Donzi was the piece of equipment that had just saved his life.
The SBS 730 was an underwater propulsion device used by very rich scuba divers, the military and drug smugglers. Shaped like a cross between a torpedo and a jet ski, it could go up to eight miles an hour underwater and had over a twenty-mile range. What made the SBS 730 unique was that it had its own sonar system, making it possible to navigate in the limited visibility of the waterway and Intracoastal. The unit cost half as much as the boat Mitch had stolen to get it.
Before Mitch tied the johnboat to the shore by the bridge, he found the exact middle and dropped the SBS 730 overboard tied to a weighted-down duffle bag filled with dive gear.
When he had no other option except to jump, he made sure to land on top of his underwater stash. He hit the water after a few milliseconds of panicked freefall when he wasn’t sure if the extension cord was going to break like it was supposed to.
Once he hit the water, he swam straight down ten feet to the muck-covered floor below. It took him a frantic minute before his hands found the propulsion unit and his duffle bag with the compressed air tank.
He hadn’t gone scuba diving in years, but his instincts kicked in and he remembered how to clear the mask and strap the tank on underwater. He ignored the sound of bodies hitting the surface overhead and focused on getting away as fast as he could.
Somewhere in the two miles between the South Bay bridge and the powerboat he lost his underwear in the turbulence as the propulsion unit carried him through the water. Adding just one more indignity to his plan.
To get back to the boat while underwater, he relied on the sonar and compass as he looked for the mooring lines of boats he remembered passing on the way in. Finally he reached the Monkey’s Paw and surfaced near the dive platform. Before he struggled to pull the SBS 730 on board, he ran to a dive locker and found a diving suit to wear.
Looking down at the skintight suit, he wished he could have worn that instead of his underwear when he tried to surrender on national television.
Although he had narrowly escaped that time, Mitchell was sure they’d cast a tighter net the next time around. He had to make sure that when he surrendered it was to the right people. He started up the boat and had to decide which way to take it.
He had three options. Going farther up the Intracoastal and away from South Florida meant traveling through less-populated areas. The advantage was that it was away from where he’d been. The disadvantage was that there were fewer side canals and avenues to escape.
He could take an exit that led straight out to sea and follow the shoreline north or south. But that would put him well within the Coast Guard’s crosshairs and only give him the beach as an escape.
His other option was to head back south. There were numerous canals and natural harbors where he could blend in and make it ashore if he decided to abandon the boat.
It felt like backtracking.
But backtracking from what?
He’d never had a final destination. Heading to a more populated area might give him more options for surrendering. He felt safer knowing that millions of people would be watching from news helicopters.
He also had to deal with a limited amount of fuel. If he ran out, he’d rather take his chances stealing another boat than getting stranded nowhere near another escape route. There was also the idea that they wouldn’t expect him to go south since his travels had all been to the north.
Mitchell pulled up anchor and pointed the boat toward the south. He sat back in the cockpit chair and tried to look like just another boater out for an afternoon trip.
Fifteen miles away, Mr. Lewis was planning his own afternoon trip. He’d received new instructions from Baylor. It took him a half-hour to arrange it. Fortunately, he had a number of associates in the South Florida area who could help facilitate what he needed.
When he pulled into the hangar near the small private airport near the Everglades, his associate Mr. Travis was finishing marking up the tail letters of the helicopter. He pointed out a long case to Mr. Lewis.
He walked over to a table covered in tools and opened the case. Inside was a sniper’s rifle with a high magnification scope.
“
It’s going to be a bitch to shoot that from the air if he’s on the water,” said Mr. Travis.
“
The current plan is to have you drop me near an overpass so I can shoot from the ground as he passes by. If that doesn’t work, we have other options.”
Mr. Travis stepped back to look at the new lettering on the tail. “If they run it, they’ll know it’s bogus.”
“
I’m not worried about that right now. Every bird in South Florida is going to be out looking for him. I just want plausible denial about where the chopper came from,” replied Mr. Lewis.
“
Good thing. I like my job here.”
“
Never get too attached,” said Mr. Lewis as he looked through the rifle scope and aimed it at fuel truck across the tarmac and dry fired.
Mr. Lewis was already suspicious that Mitchell had been using the waterways to get around. When Mitchell vanished after the dive off the bridge, he informed Baylor of that. Baylor was about to tell the FBI that was where they should be directing their search efforts when he realized he had an opportunity.
When it was clear that Mitchell’s body wasn’t going to be found, Baylor had called Mr. Lewis with the new plan. If Mitchell was shot out of sight, it would point to an accomplice who wanted to keep him silent.
Baylor didn’t care if Mitchell talked. He didn’t have anything to say. The real advantage to his death was that it would appear that he knew something worth getting killed for. If one of Baylor’s associates could get access to Mitchell’s body before any of the other agencies, he could misdirect them as need be.
48
Mitchell passed the inlet that led toward the part of downtown where he’d made his escape. Police and news helicopters flew around looking for a naked Mitchell hiding out somewhere around town.
The underwater propulsion device had made his escape a practical impossibility to anyone watching. A strong scuba diver would be able to swim one mile an hour at most in no current. He’d covered the distance in 20 minutes, giving him an hour head start from the most optimistic position of where he could be. That was, of course, assuming people were thinking logically. Mitchell had little reason to think that was the case.
Mitchell kept the boat going south on the Intracoastal and focused on what he need to do next. He set the scanner on the dashboard and turned the volume all the way up so he could hear it over the engine noise.
As a precaution, he laid out his dive gear in the rear seats so he could get to it quickly if he needed to and checked the charge on the underwater propulsion device. It still had a half charge left. That was more than enough to take him to shore or pretty far down a side canal.
Knowing he had some kind of backup escape cleared his head and made it easier to think. The problem he had earlier was that nobody took him seriously. He hoped the unfortunate incident at the bridge was enough of a wakeup call.
To find out what the reaction was, Mitchell turned on the boat’s stereo and tuned it to a news channel. He still kept one ear on the scanner, periodically tuning in to make sure he wasn’t about to be surrounded.
Mitchell hadn’t realized the unintended consequence stripping down to his underwear had on people’s perceptions. The bite marks and scratches hurt like hell when he thought about them, but he’d been too focused on moving forward to stop and get a look at himself.
When the public saw them, they became more sympathetic. It gave them an image of Mitchell as a wounded man trying to avoid getting hurt. When the FBI negotiator attacked him, even people defending how law enforcement agencies were handling the case found it hard to defend what took place.
A popular discussion on several of the news stations was what should Mitchell do next. According to the reports, his @MadMitchFM Twitter handle was flooded with people decrying what happened and offering advice. One suggestion repeated by a reporter made a lot of sense: “
@MadMitchFM Get a fucking lawyer on these assholes
.”
He needed a third party to negotiate for his surrender, someone who could verify that the authorities were living up to their word. He needed the advice of someone who could help him, not just find out what was wrong with him but make sure he didn’t spend the rest of his life in prison.
Mitchell realized that if he had surrendered that morning and hadn’t been attacked and the magical armored truck didn’t put him in a riot in the middle of downtown, he probably would have walked right into their hands without any legal protection. While he bargained for his life, they would have conned him into agreeing to spend the rest of it in prison.
For sure, he’d done some very criminal things but nothing he should go to jail for, at least in his mind. As far as he was concerned, guilty feelings or not, he was only trying to survive. Mitchell began to get angry at the thought that he might actually have to go to prison for what happened. His hand pushed the throttle forward as he fumed.
When he realized he was making a wake big enough to get stopped by the Marine Patrol, he slowed down. The last thing he needed was to start a boat chase over a no-wake-zone ticket.
When he got the chance to make a phone call, he’d try to contact a lawyer. The bigger the loudmouth the better. He wanted some kind of OJ Simpson-level dream team.
If he got surrounded or stopped before then, that would be his one request. He wanted someone else to deal with the unctuous negotiators. He began to form a legal strategy in his mind. Of course he was sure the lawyers would have better ideas. It just made him feel better to have a plan.
If Mitchell were killed before he got to a lawyer, there was going to be no brilliant defense, no pardon and no cure.
49
A half-hour later, Mitchell was lost in thought thinking of his legal defense when the police scanner inexplicably flew off the console. At first he thought it was from the wave he just drove through. When he leaned over to pick it up he saw the bullet hole. An instant later he felt something graze his right shoulder.
“
Fuck!” he screamed as he ducked down behind the console. He put his hand on his shoulder and felt where the bullet had almost gone through his arm. It burned like hell but there was no blood.
The second bullet sounded like it was coming from one of the islands to his left up ahead. He’d reached a part of the Intracoastal where it was mostly mangroves on either side. A perfect place for an ambush.
He desperately wanted to pop his head up and look, but he knew that’s what the sniper was waiting for.
Mitch reached a hand up and slowed down the boat so he wouldn’t overtake the sniper’s position and leave himself vulnerable in the open cockpit. He had to go past that point sooner or later. Otherwise the shooter could just work his way through the brush to a better position.
Why was he being shot at?
Didn’t the FBI warn you before they did that kind of stuff? It didn’t make any sense to him.
Mitch looked around the boat for anything he could use to protect himself. He could hide in the cabin, but that would mean leaving the boat adrift. Sooner or later he would hit the shoreline and the shooter could hop aboard and finish him.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a helicopter. He had the urge to wave them down but knew that outcome probably wasn’t going to be a good one, either. He looked at the console above his head. He could try to navigate the boat without looking. If he looked at the tree line in back of him, he could gauge where the middle of the waterway was. That would still leave him open when he passed by the sniper’s position.
Mitch decided to hell with it. He’d aim the boat down the middle as best as he could, throw the throttle forward and go duck down into the cabin. It was a cowardly way to confront the crisis. But he didn’t have any other options.
Mitchell opened up the cabin door and got an inspiration when he saw the mirror over the small sink. He climbed inside and ripped it off the wall. He climbed onto the bed that was directly under the bow hatch and carefully lifted it open using the edge of the mirror. He looked at the trees where he thought the shot came from. He saw something move and then the mirror shattered, followed by the sound of a loud bang. The hatch slammed shut as broken pieces of mirrored plastic fell on him.
“
Asshole!” shouted Mitch.
The boat was still drifting forward. He needed to do something fast. Mitch searched the cabin for anything. He found an emergency transponder in a drawer and threw it aside. He opened another drawer and dumped it out onto the bed. There were two flare guns like the ones he’d boosted from the Super Center the night before.