A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  “Greg, I’m shutting down here. I’m going to Corpus Christi to talk to some folks about their sailboat.”

  “Screw that. We need to find these guys.”

  “Hey, that’s not our job, Greg. You know that. Listen, let’s take Dark Water down. You, me, Shelly, Emily, and Chuck.”

  “Emily? Is she here with you?”

  “Yes.” Ryan grinned at the woman pulling on her clothes.

  “When do you want to leave?” Greg asked.

  “Friday morning. We can meet these people for lunch on Saturday.”

  “Okay,” Greg said, resignation in his voice.

  “Transfer me to Shelly,” Ryan said.

  “What, I can’t make plans?”

  “I know how you are.”

  Greg punched a button for Ryan to listen to hold music.

  A minute later, Shelly picked up and Ryan told her their plans while pulling on underwear and pants.

  Emily came over to the desk when he set the phone down. “Are all the files you received from the other insurance companies on a computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to send them to a friend of mine at Ward and Young. Karen’s really good at spotting patterns and uses computer programs to analyze and predict patterns.”

  “Have you had her look at your files?”

  “I don’t think anyone has asked her to look at the stolen sailboats. If we give her your files and mine, then she’ll have more data to examine.”

  “Sounds good,” Ryan agreed.

  Emily used the computer to send the files to Karen while Ryan called Mango Hulsey to arrange a meeting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dark Water was a gleaming blue-and-white Hatteras GT63 floating beside the other work vessels owned by DWR. After Greg’s injury, Allen Olsen had incorporated two custom wheelchair lifts, one to the sportfisher’s flying bridge and the other down to the cabin area. They had also modified the V-berth’s attached head to accommodate Greg’s needs.

  With the boat loaded and the diesels quietly idling, Ryan and Shelly pulled the big hull tight against the dock and tied its lines fast. Greg rolled close to the boat and transferred onto the waist-high gunwale. Ryan hoisted the wheelchair over to the boat deck and Shelly stabilized Greg as he swung his legs over the gunwale and transferred back into his chair.

  Greg used the lift to the bridge while the others tossed the lines off. Shelly then guided them from the dock slip into Galveston Bay.

  Ryan folded up the lift platform and secured it with a built-in clamp before he climbed the ladder to the bridge. Greg sat to the left of Shelly. Chuck Newland spread out on the settee on the right-side of the bridge. The cute, little brunette with big doe-brown eyes, sitting beside him, wore cut off denim shorts and an orange bikini top. Chuck introduced her as Marlene Thorn. Emily sat down beside her, and the two women chatted. Ryan stood to Shelly’s right, watching the radar and sonar screens while scanning the high volume of sportfishing boats, pleasure crafts, and massive freighters entering and exiting Galveston Bay via Bolivar Roads, the stretch of water between Galveston and Goat Islands.

  Shelly brought the big boat up on plane and set the throttles low, keeping the speed down as they navigated into the open ocean. When the boat was through the heavy traffic, Shelly turned the wheel over to Ryan. He changed headings to the southwest, running offshore toward deep water.

  He felt at home on the powerful boat and loved being on the open ocean. His bare feet gripped the deck and his knees flexed with the roll of the hull. He enjoyed having the power of the twin 1,900-horsepower diesels at hand, but he missed the snap of canvas overhead and the quiet rush of water along the hull of his sailboat.

  “You guys want to run baits on the way down?” Ryan asked.

  Chuck got up to tend to the outriggers. “That’s what we came for, right?”

  “There won’t be any parting gifts like the last trip.” Ryan grinned.

  “One can only hope,” Chuck replied. His eyebrows danced behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He slapped Ryan on the back.

  Ryan shook his head in amusement. “You’re hopeless, Chuck. Greg, you want the helm?”

  “Sure,” he answered and transferred from his wheelchair into the captain’s seat.

  Chuck and Ryan spread the outriggers and rigged fishing poles with baits to catch mahi-mahi while Greg slowed the boat to trolling speed. Within ten minutes of putting bait in the water, they were hooked up and spent the next few hours catching fish. All six crew members took turns landing the hard-fighting dorados.

  It was twilight when they turned into Aransas Pass. A few minutes later, they rounded Cline Point and entered Port Aransas Harbor.

  “Where are we going, Ryan?” Greg asked.

  “I made reservations at the pier off Virginia’s On the Bay.” He pointed at the dock extending over the water behind a restaurant on their port side. Greg steered for the dock while Shelly called the restaurant on the VHF radio. They answered immediately, giving Greg a slip number and sending a man to catch their lines.

  Greg guided the big boat toward the pier and spun it around by manipulating the engines, the wheel, and the bow thrusters. He then backed up to the dock where a man used hand signals to help guide him in. Greg revved the engines into forward and slowed the boat, so the bumpers Ryan and Emily had hung off the transom just kissed the dock.

  The dockhand gave Greg two thumbs-up before catching the line Emily tossed, while Ryan hopped out of the boat and snugged his bow line to a cleat.

  Ryan handed the guy a palmed ten-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. My name’s Carl if you need any help.”

  “I think we’re good, Carl,” he replied, turning back onto the Hatteras.

  Carl walked back up the dock toward the restaurant.

  Greg shut down the engines and put the hard covers over the instrument screens. Chuck unfolded the lift and ran it up to the bridge. Greg rode down and went into the salon. Ryan hooked the boat up to the electric and water then helped make a dinner of steaks and mixed vegetables.

  With dinner and dishes done, Ryan used a hose to rinse the salt off the front deck, windshields, and flying bridge. He’d learned early in his days as a sailor that a good fresh water rinse went a long way toward corrosion prevention.

  As night fell, the men gathered on the back deck. Ryan sat in the fighting chair, Chuck on the settee, and Greg locked his brakes near the starboard gunwale. Chuck produced a cigar case and offered Alec Bradley cigars. They passed a lighter and puffed on their stogies, drank beer, and told war stories.

  The women sat in the salon and talked rather than listen to the men tell tall tales.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At 11:30 the next morning, the group walked up to the restaurant. Ryan and Chuck helped the waitress move several tables together on the outdoor patio. After they took their seats, they ordered drinks and waited for their guests to arrive.

  The waitress delivered their drinks and at the same time ushered a man and a woman to the table. The man was five feet ten and weighed close to two hundred pounds. It was easy to see he spent time in the gym and was physically fit. His blond hair fell past his ears, and his green eyes evaluated everyone at the table with a quick glance. What shocked Ryan was the below-the-knee prosthetic on the man’s right leg. The prosthesis cup was painted to look like an American flag and a titanium shaft ran down to his running shoe. His wife was a full head shorter than him with mid-back-length dirty blonde hair, watery green eyes, and a lean runner’s physique.

  Ryan rose from the table and extended his hand. “I’m Ryan Weller.” He pointed at each person around the table while introducing them.

  “Nice to meet everyone, I’m Mango Hulsey and this is Jennifer.”

  “What kind of chair do you have?” Mango asked Greg as he and Jennifer sat down beside the paraplegic.

  Greg pushed back from the table. “It’s a TiLite ZRA, all titanium.”

  “That’s a sweet
ride, bro. I’ve got an Invacare aluminum job, not as fancy as yours.”

  “You’re lucky to be walking around,” Greg said.

  “Indeed, I am.” Mango squeezed his wife’s hand and she returned his smile.

  Jennifer turned to Emily. “Do you work for DWR?”

  “Oh, gosh, no!” Emily said. “I’m an insurance investigator for Ward and Young, your boat’s insurer.”

  Jennifer opened her mouth and started to speak. Anger and revulsion spread across her face. Mango put his hand on hers and shook his head.

  Jennifer wasn’t placated. Irritation colored her words. “It would be nice if you paid our claim.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Emily replied, her smile now plastic. “We’re working on your case.”

  Ryan intervened by saying, “Tell me about your high-seas escapades.”

  Mango took a deep breath and was about to begin when Jennifer asked, “Why is a commercial diving outfit interested in our sailboat?”

  Greg took the question before anyone else had a chance. “Inside the company, we’re working on building a new operation for recovering small boats and yachts. We see a niche for salvage of noncommercial craft.”

  Mango fixed Greg with a stare. “I wasn’t born yesterday, bro. I think you’re both former military and you’re investigating either a drug or gunrunning operation in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Guilty on all counts,” Greg replied.

  “What branch?”

  “Navy EOD,” Ryan answered. “Were you military?”

  “Coast Guard Maritime Security Response Team.”

  His answer amazed Ryan. The MSRT was the Coast Guard’s equivalent to Special Forces, specializing in direct action counter-terrorism. They were extensively trained to handle any type of maritime security issue and considered by many to be the best in their field.

  “We worked with several of the MSRT teams during our time in,” Greg said.

  “I worked with SEAL teams,” Mango said matter-of-factly.

  “Great,” Jennifer cut in. “If you’re done having a pissing contest, what do you need?”

  “Tell us what happened,” Ryan said.

  Mango leaned back in his chair and sipped his light beer. “We left here and sailed down to the Yucatán Peninsula. We spent two weeks in Cancún and Cozumel before we started for the Cayman Islands. A couple of hours offshore, a Mexican patrol boat hailed us. They came alongside, and I tried to wave them off. I realized they weren’t Navy even though they wore the uniforms.” He glanced over at Jennifer. “They came right alongside, and a guy hopped on our boat and grabbed Jennifer by the hair. That’s when I pulled out my gun and shot him. They all pulled out guns and started shooting. I took out the guy I thought was the leader and then pumped lead into their engines and inflatable hull.”

  Ryan watched Jennifer. She’d been very assertive earlier in the conversation. As her husband talked, her eyes became glassy.

  “Then I grabbed Jennifer and shoved her into the dinghy we kept on the rear davits. I reloaded and kept their heads down while she got the engine going and we took off.” He fixed his gaze on Emily. “I chose not to stay with the sailboat because they were continually trying to board us, and our boat sustained multiple hits to the hull and rigging. The dinghy was the faster method of escape.”

  “Is this the boat they were on?” Ryan took a picture from a folder and spun it for them to see.

  Both Hulseys nodded in agreement.

  Next, Ryan asked, “What were the Mexicans wearing?”

  “They were dressed in black combat gear with Marina across the chest of their bulletproof vests,” Mango said. “They wore Mexican flags for shoulder patches on the right shoulders and a weird-looking patch on the left.”

  “This one?” Ryan showed them a picture of the Aztlán patch.

  “That’s the one,” Mango confirmed.

  “Did you get a look at the men?” Emily asked.

  “They all wore masks,” Jennifer said. Ryan saw her eyes had cleared.

  “Balaclavas,” Mango corrected.

  Ryan asked, “Anything else you can tell us that stuck out in your mind?”

  “I always thought it was strange a Mexican patrol boat was so far from land. My guess is they were operating off a mothership. I didn’t see anything on the radar, ours only had a five-mile limit.” He shrugged. “Plus, I’ve seen that patch before. I was stationed out in San Diego before I joined the MSRT and we had a run-in with what I thought were smugglers. CGIS found a patch and Navy uniforms on their boat. Under interrogation, the men admitted they were taking their wares to a group called Brown Berets.”

  “What’s CGIS?” Shelly asked.

  “Coast Guard Investigative Service,” Greg, Mango, and Ryan said in unison, and then burst out laughing.

  Emily broke up the laughter. “When I was a sheriff’s deputy, we had run-ins with Brown Berets. They’re a Mexican separatist group advocating for the return of Aztlán. They have chapters in every major city in the US.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Greg said. “The pirates are dressed like Mexican sailors and they’re connected to a separatist group? It sounds like they want to place the blame on the Mexican Navy?”

  “What good would come from the deception?” Shelly asked.

  “If these pirates want to retake parts of the United States, it would be helpful if Mexico and the United States were at odds.” Mango picked up his beer and set it down. “If they create friction between the two countries, it might not take long for it to escalate into a war. We’re already at each other’s throats over a border wall and illegal immigration.”

  “If someone would supply Brown Berets with weapons, they’d have a readymade army,” Ryan added.

  “Can someone really do that?” Chuck wanted to know.

  “Look what ISIS is doing in the Middle East and in our country,” Greg shot back.

  Chuck held up his hands in defense.

  Ryan said, “It’s all speculation until we go out there and find these guys.” The group was silent for a minute and Ryan continued, “What if the bombings in Texas and Los Angeles are the work of this Brown Beret group.”

  “Why would you say that?” Mango asked.

  Greg said, “ISIS already claimed responsibility for the bombings, and all the evidence the FBI has collected points to Middle Eastern terrorists.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I always thought ISIS would follow the same plan as Al-Qaeda, target financial and political centers to do maximum damage to U.S. infrastructure. These targets are in the Southwest, the heart of Aztlán.”

  “What are you saying, Ryan?” Emily asked.

  “Maybe it’s a conspiracy.”

  “Oh no. Here we go!” Greg exclaimed. “These guys aren’t grassy knoll shooters and New World Order buffs.” He waggled a finger at his friend and employee. “Ryan, here, believes that crap.”

  Mango laughed. “Some of it’s true, Greg.”

  “Great, another nut,” Greg muttered.

  When lunch wrapped up and they were leaving the restaurant, Mango cornered Ryan outside. “I want in.”

  “In on what?” Ryan asked innocently.

  “Whatever you’re doing to track down these pirates. I got sidelined from the action by this stupid leg. I need a job to get out of the house. Jennifer’s driving me crazy. I mean, I love her, but I need some space. You know what I mean, bro?”

  Ryan nodded but didn’t know what Mango meant.

  “I’m qualified to run boats, scuba dive, shoot a gun, and jump out of a plane, if need be. There aren’t too many civilian jobs that fit those qualifications, you know what I mean?”

  This time, Ryan knew what he meant and said so. He had the same skill set.

  “Just keep me in mind if you run into trouble,” Mango pleaded.

  “I will, Mango. By the way, what’s with the name?”

  Mango shook his head. “My parents named me after Clint Eastwood’s character in the Man with No Name series.
In the movie For a Few Dollars More, the innkeeper calls Eastwood Manco, but they misheard it and named me Mango.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to shake his head at the craziness. “I’ll keep you in mind. If nothing else, DWR could use a good diver, or security man. The Olsens have made a habit of hiring former military to fill positions. I’ll put in a good word.”

  “That would be awesome, bro,” Mango replied as he walked with Ryan toward the dock where everyone else had crowded around the Hatteras.

  Shelly was showing Greg’s bridge lift to Jennifer when the two men walked up. From the flying bridge, Shelly called down, “Do you guys want to go fishing?”

  “Absolutely,” Jennifer exclaimed.

  “Let’s go,” Mango agreed. “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Come on, Puddle Pirate,” Greg yelled.

  “Hey, Coastie, can you handle the lines?” Chuck called down from the bridge. “These Navy boys haven’t unmoored a boat since boot camp.”

  “Step back, squids,” Mango said, “and let a professional line handler show you how it’s done.”

  It wasn’t uncommon for service men to hassle each other over their decision to join a particular branch. They believed all other branches were inferior to their own. The service branches had been rivals since their inception, and each service had derogatory nicknames for the other.

  “Don’t let him fool you, Mango. Chuck was in the Air Force,” Greg chided his friend.

  “Say it ain’t so, a wing nut!” Mango said.

  “I am,” Chuck replied, “and I’ll let you guys do the work while I drink beer,”

  “We expect nothing less from the Chair Force,” Ryan groused as he tossed off the lines and climbed aboard.

  Shelly engaged the drives and they headed for open ocean where the men’s good-natured ribbing spilled over to their fishing skills or lack thereof.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dark Water had been back at the dock behind Virginia’s for thirty minutes when Ryan, who was standing on the bridge, heard his phone ring. He had a brief conversation of yeses, nos, and okays before hanging up. He lit a cigarette and looked over the rail at Mango who was standing on the finger pier, talking to Greg and Chuck.