A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Morales gave Fernando Ryan Weller’s name and emailed a photo he clipped from his home’s video surveillance feed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ryan had the Uber driver drop him at Austin’s private aviation terminal. He needed time to digest what he and Morales had talked about. He walked around the airport until he found a chair offering some relative privacy. Then he sat and dialed Floyd Landis’s number.

  “Whataya got?” the DHS man asked as a way of greeting.

  Ryan pictured Landis sitting in his rumpled, cheap suit, leaning back in a government-issued office chair with one foot propped on the open top drawer of his desk. His hard eyes would be focused on a notepad while his beefy hand clicked the ball point of a government-issued pen in and out.

  “I just spoke to Professor Rueben Morales. He gave me the name of a Mexican national, Juan Herrera.”

  “Never heard of him. What’s he involved in?”

  “I’m not sure, but he may be connected to our sailboat thefts.”

  “What’s your supporting theory?”

  “I asked Morales if anyone was uniting Chicano independence groups. Our pirates are wearing Aztlán patches, someone has to be coordinating the effort.”

  “I’ll consider it. What else?”

  “Mango and I are flying to Wilmington to get my Sabre. Then we’re going trolling for pirates.”

  “Why not use a sailboat already in Houston?”

  “Are you authorized to drop a hundred grand on a boat?”

  “No,” Landis snorted. “How soon will you be leaving for Wilmington?”

  “Floyd, was the mansion attack really the work of ISIS?”

  Landis chuckled. “Yes, we’ve found definitive proof our tangos were ISIS affiliates. Keep working the sailboats and the gunrunning, Ryan.”

  The Texas Governor’s Mansion was not a high-value political or military target like the World Trade Center or the Pentagon. It was, however, a soft target, and the hit proved the terrorists could strike anywhere and disrupt life.

  To fill the long pause, Landis asked, “Why?”

  “What if our gunrunners are tied to the bombing at the mansion? If they’re connected to Aztlán and they’re bringing in weapons to arm various Chicano separatist groups, they could form a veritable army capable of causing mass disruption in the US. If their goal was to gain control of the border states, wouldn’t a bombing campaign be an effective way to start it?”

  Landis was definitive. “The guys who did the mansion and Century City were from the Middle East, not Mexico.”

  “Just something to consider. I don’t know how it all fits together and maybe I’m way off base.”

  “Keep working the sailboat thefts. That’s the only way you’ll find out.”

  “Can we put surveillance on Morales?”

  “I can’t put assets on the guy based on a hunch.”

  “Okay,” Ryan conceded. “Let me know what you get on Herrera.”

  “I will and keep me updated on your travel progress.”

  “Will do.” Ryan ended the call and Googled Juan Herrera. There were seventy-four million hits with the two most popular being a Cleveland Indians’ baseball player and a U.S. poet laureate. He swore and stuffed his phone in his pocket. What did he expect, the man’s picture and an X marking his hideout along with a detailed terrorism curriculum vitae?

  Mango’s comment about the gunrunning Mexicans and the two bombings helped connect dots in his mind. If a group wanted to reclaim Aztlán at gunpoint—which was the only way he could see it happening—they would have to take a page from Al-Qaeda and start a bombing campaign to bring attention to their cause.

  “Excuse me, sir,” an elderly lady said. Her Southern-accented voice quivered with age. She was staring down at him as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, lost in thought.

  Ryan looked at the long row of empty seats and then back up at the lady. She wore a pillbox hat with black lace hanging down in front of Coke-bottle-thick horn-rimmed glasses. A black gloved hand clutched an equally dark roll-around suitcase. The rest of her outfit consisted of a black dress, stockings, and shoes.

  “Is there a funeral?” he asked.

  “Look, sonny, don’t give me no guff. Now, ya gonna move or ain’t ya?”

  Ryan stood and swept his right arm out in a be-my-guest gesture.

  The lady looked him up and down and grunted, “Hmph.”

  “There you are, Mrs. Anderson.” A tall man in a flight uniform, with the four stripes of a captain on his shoulder boards, approached.

  “What took ya so long, Kenneth?” she demanded as she shoved her suitcase at him.

  Ryan shook his head and walked across the terminal to find Chuck. As they walked out to the Beechcraft, Ryan saw the old lady being led up the steps of a Learjet.

  Chuck used his head to point at the scene. “That’s Thelma Anderson. She’s worth about two billion.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alex Hernandez and Luis Martinez exited the car and walked along a row of hangars to the small office coordinating all the fixed-base operations for private aviation in and out of Pearland Regional Airport, a light-aircraft commuter facility just south of Houston, where DWR kept its plane. Both men wore business suits and carried Glock 19 pistols in retention holsters on their right hips.

  Hernandez opened the office door and held it for his partner. Behind a desk sat an overweight woman with blonde hair held back off her forehead with pink barrettes.

  Her voice was nasally. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

  Martinez stepped to the desk and pulled off his sunglasses. He read the woman’s name off a desk plate. “Cynthia, can you tell me where the DWR plane went?”

  The blonde gave them a suspicious look, glancing at Martinez and then back to Hernandez. “That information isn’t available to the public.”

  “I’m not the general public, Cynthia.” Martinez flipped open a badge and allowed her to look at it for several seconds before he snapped the case shut.

  Cynthia yelled over her shoulder without taking her eyes off Martinez, “Tony.”

  A short, thin man with a wispy comb over appeared in the doorway behind Cynthia. “What?”

  “This man says he’s a cop and wants flight information for DWR.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “Sure, Tony,” she replied sarcastically, “that’s why I called for you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Tony approached the desk. “We need a warrant to give out that information.”

  Martinez eyed the small man for a minute then turned and exited the office with Hernandez on his heels. They stood outside discussing their next move. Hernandez kept glancing through an office window to stare at Cynthia. Tony had disappeared back into his office.

  “We should ask worker,” Hernandez grunted.

  Martinez agreed, and they walked across the taxiway, between hangars, to the refueling building. They stepped inside and found a man in his early twenties leaning against a fuel truck with his hands in the pockets of his dirty, blue coveralls.

  “Where Dark Water Research plane went?” Hernandez barked.

  “Man, you know I can’t be telling people about that kinda stuff. Get outta here.”

  Martinez produced a wallet and extracted a one-hundred-dollar bill. The kid’s eyes grew bigger.

  “You tell, we give.” Hernandez leaned against the truck beside the younger man.

  The kid’s eyes bounced between Martinez, Hernandez, and the one-hundred-dollar bill. His feet grew shifty. “Ah, c’mon, man.”

  “You don’t need da money?” Hernandez asked.

  “Yeah, hey, man, I could use the extra dough.” The kid reached for the money.

  Martinez pulled it back. “You tell, you get da money.”

  “Yeah, okay.” The kid wiped his forehead with a rag and looked around the building. He saw no one else. “They, like, flew to Wilmington, North Carolina, man.” He snatched the money from Martinez’s f
ingers and shoved the bill into the breast pocket of his coveralls.

  “What they do in North Carolina?”

  “I don’t know, man. All I do is gas up the plane. Chuck, the pilot, wanted some extra fuel and I looked at where he was going, that’s all, man, like, I swear.” He held up his hands.

  “You chur you don’t know no more?” Hernandez leaned in closer.

  Martinez wiggled another hundred from his billfold.

  “Man, I swear.” The kid stared greedily at the money. “Like, I don’t know no more. Like I said, they went to North Carolina.”

  “What they do there?”

  “I don’t know, man, come on.” The kid fidgeted with his hands. “Like, I don’t know any more.” He was almost pleading with the two Mexicans to leave him alone.

  “Who else on plane.”

  “Like, two dudes and two chicks besides Chuck. I never saw them before. That’s all.”

  “When they come back?”

  “Chuck’ll be back tomorrow, man.”

  Martinez let the bill slip from his fingers. It fluttered to the floor with the kid’s gaze fixed to it.

  The two Mexicans walked out of the fuel building and into the sunshine. Martinez pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed Morales.

  “Weller and three others took a flight to Wilmington, North Carolina.”

  “I’ll have two plane tickets waiting for you at the American Airlines desk at the Houston airport. Weller has family in Wilmington. I’ll text you the address.”

  “We’re on our way,” Martinez said.

  “Keep me up to date, Luis.”

  “Yes, sir.” The phone line went dead. The two men were already in the car, heading for George Bush Intercontinental.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The 1985 Sabre 36 sailboat, Sweet T, sat on blocks at the Wrightsville Beach Marina storage yard. Ryan had covered her in tarps, pulled tight around the bottom of the hull with bungee cords and rope, before moving to Texas. To Ryan, she looked in sad shape. Out of water, the boat seemed to flounder awkwardly with her long keel drooping from her belly. In the water, she looked sleek and regal.

  Mango and Ryan pulled a tarp back from the hull, so Ryan could access the cabin. He was leaning a ladder against her rub rail when they heard a gruff voice, heavy with Irish brogue, call out, “Who’s tryin’ ta steal me lad’s boot?”

  “No one’s stealing your boot, Henry,” Ryan replied to the old man.

  “Come here, lad.” The old man grabbed Ryan in a bear hug then held him at arm’s length. “You not tell me you come for your boot. What’s with you nowadays, Ryan?”

  “We’re taking her to Houston.”

  “That’s but a wee journey for this lass.” He slapped Sweet T’s hull.

  “Henry, meet Mango Hulsey. Mango, this is Henry O’Shannassy. Mango’s helping me crew.”

  The two men shook hands. Mango said, “Nice to meet you, Henry.”

  “Likewise, lad.” He looked down at Mango’s titanium leg. “War souvenir?”

  “Got it during a ship-boarding incident in the Persian Gulf.”

  “SEALs?”

  “No, Henry.” Ryan laughed. “I befriended a Puddle Pirate.”

  “I’ve no beef with da Coasties. Pulled me out of da drink a time or two, they did.” He slapped Mango on the shoulder. “Ready to get dis lass in da water?”

  “You bet, Henry.” Ryan grinned. “Her hull’s a little too dry.”

  Henry unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and used it to call for the travel lift. The giant boat lift lumbered over Sweet T and took her in its slings. Ryan always held his breath when they moved his boat like this. Even though the men running the lift were professionals, one slip and the boat would be ruined. The lift drove out onto the cement quays and lowered the Sabre into the water. Ryan leaped aboard and pulled the straps free, and once again the sailboat floated majestically in the water.

  “Aye, there’s none a prettier sight,” Henry quipped as Mango and Ryan leaped aboard to move her to a transient pier.

  Back at the office, Ryan paid for storage and the boat move.

  “Come back to me office, lads.” Henry motioned for them to follow him behind the counter to a back room.

  “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee, you want one?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” Mango replied.

  “You know how I like it, lad,” Henry answered.

  “I know. Black like your soul.”

  “Aye and black it tis.” He laughed.

  It was a line Ryan had used most of his adult life. Sometimes his soul felt as black as the cups of hot coffee he carried into the office.

  Mango listened to Henry tell stories about a young Ryan Weller. After they caught up on their lives and lies, Ryan and Mango bid farewell to Henry and climbed on the sailboat. They sat on the cockpit benches.

  Mango, sitting across from Ryan, stretched his legs across the gap and propped his feet on the bench beside Ryan. “An interesting guy.”

  “I’ve known Henry for as long as I can remember. He retired from the Navy as a Senior Chief after twenty-five years. He was a diver back when men were iron, and ships were wood. When I was thinking about joining the service, he was the guy I talked to.”

  “I joined right out of high school,” Mango said. “A recruiter came to my school in Indiana. I liked his pitch, so I joined up. I had no desire to go to college. Now, I think Jennifer would like me to use the G.I. Bill.”

  “What about getting another boat?”

  Mango spread his hands and shrugged. “I think she’s for it, but we’re still waiting on your girlfriend to come through on the insurance.”

  Ryan lit a cigarette, cupping it in his hands against the breeze.

  “I thought you told Emily you would quit on this trip.”

  “I am.” Ryan grinned around the cigarette clamped in his teeth. “Starting tomorrow.”

  “Sure, that’s what they all say.” Mango rolled his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hernandez and Martinez watched the two men lock the sailboat, walk off the pier, and continue down Marina Street to a restaurant. Earlier, when Martinez had seen Ryan putting a sailboat into the water, he’d left Hernandez to keep watch and found an electronics store. He purchased a GPS tracking unit with a six-month battery life. The device came with a tracking monitor capable of pinpointing the sending unit anywhere within a five-mile range.

  Martinez carried the hockey-puck-size sending unit in his pocket. It would be best if he could wire it into the boat’s power supply, but he knew he wouldn’t have the time to do the work, and they could easily detect the device if something went wrong with the boat’s small electrical system.

  With Hernandez as a lookout, Martinez picked the lock on the cabin door and slipped inside. He placed the GPS transmitter in the engine room, using the adhesive backing on the unit to hold it in place. He verified it was working by checking the receiving unit then slipped out, careful not to disturb anything, and relocked the cabin door. Then he ambled back to where Hernandez waited. They continued to their car and drove to a hotel where Martinez again verified the signal and reported their progress to Professor Morales.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bald Head Island slid by Sweet T’s port side. The tiny community and lighthouse marked the end of the Cape Fear River and the beginning of the treacherous Frying Pan Shoals where many a ship had wrecked since Europeans first began exploring the eastern coast of what would become the United States.

  Ryan, Mango, and Jennifer had spent the better part of the morning traveling down the Intracoastal Waterway, through Snow’s Cut and into the Cape Fear River. It was a trip Ryan had made countless times in both sailboats and powerboats, and he still enjoyed it. He felt he would have enjoyed this trip more if Emily had accompanied them. She’d flown back to Tampa, late last evening, at the request of her boss. Before she left, she’d huddled with Jennifer, and the two women had conspiratorial smiles on their faces when
they’d come back to the table where the two couples were having dinner with Henry O’Shannassy and Ryan’s parents. Neither woman would divulge the nature of the secret, and Ryan had not pressed Emily when he dropped her off at the airport. He was sad to see her go, and he missed her company.

  Mango rose to stand on the deck, one hand fingering the mainsail halyard. He, too, had the smell of salt in his nose and was eager to be under sail. The bow rose and fell on two-foot rollers. Mango looked back at Ryan and Jennifer with a grin on his face.

  The captain grinned back, feet planted wide against the waves, hands loose on the wheel. “Let ’er fly!”

  “Aye aye,” Mango cried and ripped the line from the cleat, hauling it hand over hand.

  The sail sprang up the mast, snapping open with the breeze. Ryan turned the boat into a close reach as Mango unfurled the jib. The sheet snapped taut. Mango locked the line in a cleat and sat on the bench beside Jennifer and spread his arms across the back of the seat.

  “This is the life, bro,” Mango said behind sunglasses and a grin.

  Ryan tightened the sheet, making the little Sabre heel over further, which increased their speed. “We have a few days to enjoy ourselves before pirate watch. It’s a little over four hundred nautical miles between here and Stuart, Florida, where we’ll catch the Okeechobee Waterway to Fort Myers.”

  “Then it’s Gulf sailing.”

  “You ever go anywhere else besides Cancún on your boat?” Ryan asked.

  Mango leaned his head back. “We did two short trips over to the Florida panhandle. Then we just went for it. What’s it like making it all the way around the world?”

  “Incredible. Some days, I wonder why I’m still working. Right now, I’m tempted to finish this job and sail off into the sunset.”

  “What did you do for money on your trip?” Jennifer asked.

  “I had a modest savings account, plus Mom and Dad gave me money they’d set aside for a college fund. Guess it was clear I wasn’t going to get a degree. Anyway, I was a divemaster at some Pacific resorts and waited tables for six months in Australia.”