A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  The dive computer beeped. Ryan hit the button to stop the low-pressure alarm indicating there was less than five hundred pounds of air remaining. The air was dwindling rapidly with two divers breathing from the same tank. Ryan kept them down until they had completely drained their air. With thirty seconds left on their safety stop, they kicked for the surface, exhaling on the way up to avoid a lung overexpansion injury.

  Emily spat out her regulator and took in deep breaths of air. They orally inflated their BCDs and looked around. They’d surfaced in waves that were two feet higher than when they’d gone under. On the horizon, dark clouds were building, and a bolt of lightning streaked down to touch the water. Wind was blowing the tops off the three-foot waves. An occasional five-footer lifted them higher.

  Ryan yanked his weights free and let them drop, then did the same with Emily’s.

  “I don’t see the boat, Ryan.” Worry and fright hung on the words.

  “I know, Em.” He rotated and lined his compass up with the heading he’d taken on the Fountain before getting in the water. He wasn’t sure how far the current had pushed them downstream. They were off by a few degrees of their original heading.

  He inflated a safety sausage. The six-foot-tall, bright orange marker would give Chuck something to home in on.

  “Everything will be okay,” he reassured her. “Chuck knows what to do if we don’t come up the anchor line. We went over the plan.”

  “I’m just worried and tired.” She leaned her head back and stretched out. “I’m sorry about down there. I panicked when I ran out of air.”

  “It happens to everyone.” Ryan busied himself with folding the lift bag before clipping it and the reel to his BCD. They’d already dropped their weights, and if they were stranded for an extended period, they would have to dump more gear. Ryan wasn’t looking forward to that. Some of the gear he’d had for years and was sentimentally attached to. Plus, he would have to buy new tanks and weights for the dive shop where he’d rented them. He was already on the hook for the weights.

  Emily asked, “Have you ever run out of air?”

  “I was setting up a sidemount rig, where you have two tanks, one mounted on each side of the body, instead of one on the back. Each tank has its own regulator and you swap back and forth to keep the air in the tanks even. Anyway, I was down about twenty feet and changed from the left reg to the right. Before I went under, I’d inadvertently shut off the right tank, and when I stuck the reg in my mouth, there was no air.

  “I panicked, thinking the tank was empty and I was going to die. When I finally remembered to stick the left reg in my mouth, I was freaking out and stuck it in upside down. I took a big breath of air and water and almost choked. That doubled down on my panic, and at that point I was holding my breath, which is a big no-no, and thinking about shooting to the surface.”

  He checked his watch and counted the minutes since they’d surfaced. He’d told Chuck he should look for them forty minutes after they entered the water. If Chuck failed to find them after thirty minutes of searching, he was to radio the Coast Guard on channel sixteen and declare a lost diver emergency.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “I figured it out and here I am.” The sea swept them up and dropped them back down in a dizzying roller-coaster ride.

  “Really?” She spat out saltwater. “You’re telling me this harrowing tale of danger and you end it like that?”

  “I got the regulator in right, took a couple of deep breaths, and cracked open the right tank. Everything turned out okay. Moral of the story: don’t panic.”

  “Don’t panic,” she muttered indignantly.

  The half-hour search time was almost over when Ryan and Emily heard a boat motor in the distance.

  Emily said, “I hope that’s Chuck.”

  Ryan wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She was shivering, and tears rolled down her cheeks. He kissed her forehead. She buried her face in his shoulder, and her arms went around him.

  The motor grew louder as the boat came into view.

  Ryan felt the first fat drops of rain strike his face. The dark clouds were moving faster than he’d estimated.

  Chuck put the engines in neutral and tossed a line to them. Ryan caught it, and Emily let go of him for the safety of the tag line and boat. Chuck lifted Emily and her dive gear out, then it was Ryan’s turn.

  Chuck wrapped Emily in a blanket and got her some water to drink. The clouds were upon them now, darkening the sky and pummeling them with waves of driving rain. Chuck had taken the time to zip up the clear, plastic window skirts between the windshield and the covered half-tower, so they were mostly dry. Chuck took the helm and pointed the boat toward Marathon to escape the storm. Ryan stripped off his wetsuit and pulled on dry shorts and a sweat shirt. Emily changed into dry clothes, but her teeth still chattered.

  Ryan took the wheel, and Chuck and Emily held onto the grab bar behind the captain’s seat, standing to absorb the pounding of the boat through the heavy seas. It was a brutal ride with the bow crashing down into four-foot waves. Spray surged off the nose, drenching everything in its path.

  “I saw a red bag pop up about fifty yards off the stern,” Chuck yelled. “The anchor was stuck on something when I tried to pull it up. I ended up cutting it away. When I got the boat turned around, the red bag was gone. I motored down current trying to stay in a straight line. Lucky y’all had that orange marker or I’d have never found ya.”

  It wasn’t luck. Ryan carried the safety sausage for that exact purpose. It was the first time he’d used it in an emergency and he never wanted to do it again. Between the roar of the motors, the wind, and the waves, it was hard to hear. Ryan shouted, “I’m glad you did. First round’s on me.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the wind was still lashing rain against the windows. The three boaters were warm and dry, hoisting cocktails at Tarpon Creek Bar & Grill. After her near-death experience, and bobbing around on the ocean waiting for rescue, Emily had desperately wanted a drink. Ryan ordered three shots of tequila for them.

  Chapter Twelve

  The storm raged most of the afternoon. Emily called her boss and arranged for someone to move the boat back to Key West, then the trio rented a car and drove to their hotel.

  Chuck left to meet the woman he’d spent the previous night with, and Ryan stepped into the shower. His cell phone rang as he was rinsing off.

  He stepped out of the water and grabbed the device. “Hello?”

  Emily asked, “Are you taking me to dinner again tonight?”

  “Yeah, I can.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was red from the sun. He ran a hand over his short brown hair and grinned to check his teeth. Crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “Come open the door, I’m outside.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Ryan wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the door. He swung it open and Emily, wearing white canvas shoes, tan shorts, and a red T-shirt, was leaning against the wall.

  She looked him up and down with a wry smile. “Interesting dinner attire.”

  He laughed and shook his head, then turned away from the door. After collecting cargo shorts and a gray camp shirt, he went into the bathroom and pulled on his clothes. When he opened the door, Emily was sitting on the bed with his wallet in her hand. She was looking through his business cards, credit cards, and pictures.

  Incensed, Ryan stepped toward her to snatch the black, leather billfold from her, but she tossed it back on the TV stand before he could.

  Trying to keep his voice even, he asked, “Find anything interesting?”

  “I learn a lot about men by what they keep in their wallets. You, for instance, are well-organized and don’t like clutter. You like the basics, just like how you’re dressed, and you love your family.”

  “Mind if I go through your purse?”

  She held out a small leather clutch. “If you want to?”
/>   He waved it off and stuffed his pockets with his wallet, keys, a folding knife, and loose change.

  Outside the lobby, they climbed into the rental car and headed for one of Ryan’s favorite restaurants, Hogfish Bar & Grill on Stock Island. They got a table on the water and ordered beers and hogfish sandwiches.

  The couple laughed and talked while they waited for their meals. Emily laid a hand on Ryan’s when he made a witty comment. He liked the feel of her touch.

  When the food came, they both dug in ravenously and enjoyed the delicious hogfish. They ordered another round of beers after dinner. Ryan slipped off to the restroom, and when he came back, he sat beside Emily. They watched the two-man band play island songs and Jimmy Buffett covers. He put his arm around her and rested it on the back of her chair. When she turned to look at him, he kissed her.

  Thirty minutes later, they were in her hotel room bed. He was glad he’d waited until he wasn’t drunk to make love to her as he held her close and kissed her neck. Her skin felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t touch her enough to satisfy his desire.

  Afterwards, lying in the dark, he felt Emily’s warm body press against him, her leg cocked up on his thigh, warm skin cooling and drying. He could smell her hair as she rested her head on his chest.

  “Thanks for saving me today,” she whispered.

  “There was no other choice.”

  Emily’s finger trailed across his chest and down his abdomen. She reignited his physical response as she slid on top of him.

  Ryan dashed from one room to another searching for a ringing phone. It was impossible to find and gradually, the room he was in faded as he awoke. He pressed a hand to his head to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through a crack in the heavy curtains, and he had to blink several times to clear the spots from his vision.

  The phone on the nightstand rang again. Ryan picked it up and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Wake up, boss,” Chuck said. “We’ve got an early flight time. I left your bag leaning against Emily’s door.”

  “Thanks.” Ryan sat up on the edge of the bed. “You’re the freakin’ pilot, push the time back.”

  “I can’t. I need to be back in Texas this afternoon.”

  Ryan set the receiver down in its cradle and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Emily, wrapped in the crisp, white sheet, smiling up at him. He leaned down to kiss her. The plane would have to wait.

  “What now?” Emily asked as they flew across the glistening blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “I need to do more research to figure out who these gunrunners are.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ryan said. “There have to be more insurance companies who’ve dealt with the same theft issues as you have. I’ll talk to them and see what I can come up with.”

  “What about the journal you found?”

  “I’ll read it on the way back to Texas City.”

  “Will you let me know what happens?”

  “I will.”

  The flight felt like it only took ten minutes as he chatted with Emily. He wanted to see her again. His last relationship had been with a woman in Virginia Beach, two years ago. Since his exit from the Navy, he’d put off dating, even though his mother often asked him when he would settle down and have a family like his brother and sister. After watching too many friends get married and then divorced because their wives couldn’t handle the long deployments, or the dangerous nature of their husbands’ demolition jobs, he was in no hurry to get tied down. More than one sailor had left his wife on the pier as he sailed away, only to find out she’d been trolling for a new man in the club that same night. Ryan had no use for that kind of drama. He was again in a job where he would become intimate with danger, and he had yet to meet a woman strong enough to carry that kind of baggage.

  Chuck refueled the Beechcraft while Ryan accompanied Emily to her car. He smoked a cigarette as he walked back to the plane. He sat up front with Chuck on the way to Texas City and they talked about flying and their prior service. Chuck had joined the Air Force, like his father who had flown Cobra gunships in Vietnam and then for Air America, the CIA’s clandestine operation in Laos.

  “He never talked about it until I joined the Air Force. He started telling me about some of his operations. Not all the gritty stuff but enough to let me know he’d seen some nasty combat. I found out more when the government declassified a lot of the Air America records.”

  “Those guys did some crazy shit,” Ryan said. “I read a few books about it.”

  Chuck nodded and stared out the window at the ground rushing by. Ryan pulled out the journal and began reading it from the beginning.

  The pilot glanced over at him and said, “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greg Olsen was on the back deck of his Tiki Island house, parked under the patio table umbrella. He was staring at the screen of his laptop but not getting much accomplished.

  Ryan stretched out in a deck chair and lit a cigarette while looking across the West Bay estuary. They had a clear view of North and South Deer Islands and further on, Galveston. Cumulus clouds stacked up on the horizon.

  “An apt name,” Ryan commented. “Since cumulus in Latin means ‘pile.’”

  Greg closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair. “This sucks. I hate looking at numbers.” He motioned for Ryan to give him a smoke, and Ryan slid the pack and lighter to him. Greg lit one and tossed the lighter on the table. “I’ve been working for my dad for as long as I can remember. He taught me how to dive and had me working underwater when most kids were playing tee ball. I learned more in those years working for him than I ever did at Texas A&M.”

  He paused and stuck the cigarette in his mouth. Ryan let him stew on whatever he was thinking about.

  Greg crushed out the butt a minute later. “Damn things make my legs feel weird. Makes them tense.” He poured a shot of Cazadores tequila and offered one to Ryan, who shook his head.

  Ryan watched him tilt it back, pour another shot and slam it down.

  “I was supposed to come home and run this damn crew,” Greg said. “Instead, you get to have all the fun. DWR’s been running government operations since World War Two. It was supposed to be my turn, Ryan. Now, I’m just a cripple in a wheelchair.” He punched himself in the leg. “Can’t feel a damn thing.”

  “You’re the man running this operation. I’m still your flunky, just like when we were in the Navy.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m no operator now,” Greg complained. “I’m just another useless fobbit.”

  Ryan took a puff from his cigarette. “The world needs fobbits too, Greg. Paper pushers, logistics trains, we need them all. Now you’re the admiral, and admirals don’t go traipsing around in the field with the troops.”

  “They have a flagship and go to battle with the fleet.”

  “Your flagship is the DWR office. Your fleet is every boat DWR owns and you get a cushy bed and a hot meal every night. Those of us mucking around at the bottom of the ladder get the MREs and the dirt naps.”

  Greg shook his head and lit another cigarette.

  Ryan grabbed a beer from a cooler and sat back down.

  “Where are you with this pirate thing?” Greg asked.

  “I’ve been going through records from several other insurance companies. Nothing ties them together other than there are pirates in the Gulf.” He cocked his head and watched a center console boat race by, the chrome rocket launchers⸻fishing pole holders⸻on the T-top reflecting in the sunlight. “I’ve been reading the journal we found on one of the wrecks. This guy Philip Nagel had a nice trip going until they headed north past the Yucatán Peninsula. I Googled him and found out they kidnapped him and his wife off his boat. He paid the two-million-dollar ransom. He’s fighting with the insurance company for pay off on his kidnap and ransom policy. The insurance company claims he didn’t follo
w procedure and notify the authorities, or them, until he was home. They think it’s a hoax.”

  “What do you think?” Greg asked.

  “I think they got kidnapped, and he paid the ransom. The guys who run the kidnap racket rarely let their victims contact anybody but the bank. Once they get their money, they let the victims go or just shoot them.”

  Greg propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles, the smoldering cigarette captured between the index and middle finger of his right hand. They watched two fishermen work their boat along the docks and piers projecting out from Tiki Island. They cast lures into the shade and cover of the structures.

  “Is the kidnapping related to the piracy?”

  “I’d like to talk to Nagel and find out,” Ryan replied.

  “Go for it.”

  “Can I have Chuck fly me up to Peoria?”

  “If he doesn’t have anything else going on.”

  “I’m going to call Emily and have her meet me up there.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows and let out a stream of smoke. “I’m not paying for you to fly up there for a date.”

  “I want her to get me in the door. Nagel might not talk to me about his boat, but he’ll probably talk to the hot-looking insurance agent who held the boat’s policy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arturo Guerrero sat in a leather chair behind his office desk. Three of his trusted lieutenants, Alejandro Vargas, José Luis Orozco, and Ernesto Daniels sat across from him. Professor Ruben Morales listened in on speaker phone.

  Guerrero swept his hand over his jet-black hair and turned to look at Orozco. The man would not meet the stare of his jefe’s black eyes. Guerrero continued to stare at the man. Orozco squirmed in his chair.

  Finally, Orozco looked up and said, “If you insist on this war, they will close down the border and send in the Army to patrol it. We’ll never get our product through. They’ll figure out who’s bombing their cities and they’ll bring the war to us. Mexico City will never fight for us and the Americans will destroy us.”