A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Ryan complied before he climbed up to the bridge. The current had pushed the two boats further apart. While checking out the controls, he found a pack of cigarettes. Not his usual brand, but they would work. He sparked one up and started the engine. By the time he maneuvered alongside the Sabre, Emily had the fenders over the side of the sailboat and helped tie off bow and stern lines.

  When Ryan hopped across, he saw Emily had more blood on her.

  “I was trying to move the dead guy,” she explained. “He’s too heavy for me.”

  Ryan stepped into the cabin and gagged from the smell of cordite, blood, urine, and excrement. In the confined space, it was overpowering. He grabbed a dish towel, wet it, and tied it behind his head to cover his mouth and nose. Together, he and Emily carried the corpse out of the cabin and put it on the back deck of the trawler beside his partner. Ryan used his phone to take pictures of the dead men and Eddie Mackenzie. He realized, as he sent the photos to Floyd Landis, that the dead men had been in the restaurant in Marathon and on the docks in Wrightsville Beach.

  Ryan was still in the trawler’s cabin when his phone rang. He’d just lit a cigarette for Eddie and one for himself.

  “Who are these guys?” Landis asked.

  Ryan recounted the night’s events, ending with, “What do we do with them?”

  “Let me make a few calls. Sit tight.”

  “Think I can clean up my sailboat?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Landis said.

  Ryan asked, “Can I feed the dead guys to the sharks and sink the trawler someplace nice and deep?”

  “Holy … you can’t just feed dead guys to sharks, Ryan. We don’t operate like that.”

  “Call me back soon or that’s what I’m doing.”

  With the sailboat’s bilge pumps turned on, they used a hose to spray down the decks, cushions, and cabinets. They used the basic cleaners Ryan kept aboard to scour the cushions. The blood left a nasty stain.

  “What happens if someone comes looking for those guys?” Emily asked.

  “The only person who’s going to miss those guys is the guy that sent them.”

  Emily sat down on the end of the V-berth mattress and looked at her boyfriend. “We just killed two men, should we report it to the police?”

  “I did. Landis is making some calls.” He sat down beside her. “Look, I’m not worried about it. We still have a job to do and I think someone sent these guys to keep us from continuing our investigation.”

  Emily leaned against him. Her voice shook when she said, “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

  He put his arm around her and held her hand. “Em, those guys were here to kill us. We were lucky to get the drop on them. I’m sorry you had to kill them, but we’re alive, and we might not be if you hadn’t shot them.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  They lay back on the bed. He stroked her hair and whispered calming words to her. Ryan was unsure how long he held her. His arm ached from being under her shoulders, and he was thankful when her breathing steadied and then slowed into the rhythmic sounds of sleep. He slid his arm out, replacing it with a pillow and climbed off the bed. Careful not to disturb her, he opened a cabinet door and pulled out a pack of cigarettes he’d tucked away at the start of the trip. He lit one in the cockpit and noticed the sky beginning to lighten in the east. If Landis didn’t get this straightened out quick, dive boat operators and fishermen would arrive to find a grisly double murder.

  He crossed over to the trawler and found Eddie passed out. The empty bottle of rum rolled back and forth across the deck with the boat’s motion. Ryan picked it up and set it in the sink. He checked Eddie’s pulse and found it beating strongly. The man wouldn’t die, but he would never walk right again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ten minutes later, a white center console with a black T-top pulled up beside the two boats. Ryan had watched them come from the west as he sat on the trawler’s bridge, smoking another cigarette. He climbed down and helped the two sheriff’s deputies tie up.

  “You Ryan Weller?” one deputy asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Ryan said, looking past him to the heavyset guy in a suit. He was already sweating in the early morning heat.

  “I’m Sheriff Sam Grady.” Grady held out his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

  The other man wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. “Dave Ritter, DHS.”

  Ryan nodded to him and the deputy who remained at the wheel of the patrol boat. He was thankful Landis had gotten cooperation from another agent. Sinking the trawler might have been similar if these men prevented him from leaving.

  Sheriff Grady and Ritter stepped over to the trawler. Grady put his hands on his hips. “Suppose you tell me exactly what happened here. Walk me through it nice and slow.” He looked beyond Ryan and tipped his head. “Morning, ma’am.”

  Ryan felt the boat dip as Emily came aboard. They recounted and reenacted everything for the two men. Meanwhile, the deputy used the patrol boat to chase away divers and fishermen. Ritter listened and nodded while Grady took notes and asked questions. When Ryan finished his tale, Sheriff Grady shook his head and put away his notepad.

  Perspiration glistened on Ritter’s head and ran in rivulets down his face. He nudged the bigger corpse. “That’s Alex Hernandez. He’s a lightweight in the Austin Brown Berets, does enforcement work and bodyguarding. The other guy was Luis Martinez, a dirty cop fired from El Paso PD. They caught him stealing drugs and money from the evidence locker for the Juarez Cartel.”

  “What about Eddie?” Ryan asked.

  “He’s a horse of a different color,” Sheriff Grady said. “Eddie McKenzie’s a scumbag from Miami. He’s well known to the Monroe and Miami-Dade County Sheriff’s offices for petty crimes. Has a rap sheet as long as my arm.” The sheriff held out his right arm to demonstrate.

  “He said he was from the Keys,” Ryan told them. He sat on the trawler’s gunwale and lit another cigarette.

  “Maybe now, but originally Miami,” Grady said. “These two probably hired him to bring them out here.”

  “Are we free to go, Sheriff?” Emily asked.

  Grady scratched his chin and studied the pair. “Everything appears to be as you say it was. We have your information if we need to contact you. I understand you’re on your way to Tampa.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emily said, her arms wrapped around her chest.

  “Good luck.” Grady shook hands with Ryan and Emily. “Cast off those lines for me, and I’ll take this boat in and make sure Eddie gets medical attention.”

  “Aye aye,” Ryan said as he helped Emily across to the Sabre and went forward to handle the bow line.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Rueben Morales stared out his home’s sliding glass door at the shimmering pool surface. He clutched a cell phone to his ear and listened to Arturo Guerrero.

  “You have been irresponsible in your actions. I wanted the man eliminated, and still he is alive. Your men have disappeared, and one is now in a hospital. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Morales sighed, careful not to exhale loud enough for Guerrero to hear. Guerrero had already blistered his ear for the past ten minutes. He’d insulted Morales, Martinez, and Hernandez, and questioned the competency of Morales’s operations in both English and Spanish. It was unlike Guerrero to become so agitated over the death of two low-level foot soldiers.

  “We can contain this, Arturo.”

  Guerrero swore in his native tongue then continued in English. “We don’t need these problems now.”

  Morales tried to contain the situation. “We knew someone would investigate the sailboat thefts, and this is one man, one man looking for your ship. What can he do?”

  Guerrero snorted. “Plenty. Homeland Security kept the sheriff’s office from detaining your investigator. This man is well-connected, and if he finds my ship, he may call the Navy.”

  “We can do something about it,” Morales sai
d. “I sent a man to see Eddie Mackenzie. Eddie gave my man a receiver for a GPS device planted on Weller’s sailboat. The tracker has a five-mile radius. If we give the receiver to your men on La Carranza Garza, they’ll be able to find him.”

  “Send me the tracker.”

  “It’s on its way.”

  “Excellent, I will take care of this problem for you, Rueben.”

  “Thank you, Arturo.”

  Morales pressed the phone to his ear a minute longer, listening to dead air. He looked at the screen to ensure the phone was off and walked to his office. He placed the phone in his desk drawer and went back to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water and swallowed two Tylenol.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Eager to get across the Gulf of Mexico and find the pirates, Ryan and Mango left the girls in Fort Myers and sailed around the clock. Four-hour watches ground on them, and they snapped at each other out of frustration. Patience was wearing thin after ten days of constant sailing. The interior of the sailboat still stank of copper and excrement even though they’d scrubbed down the cushions with stronger cleaners and repeatedly flushed the bilges. Both men spent more time in the cockpit than in the cabin. They’d run out of stories to tell and books to read.

  A call on the satellite phone interrupted a bickering session about who should clean the coffee pot. Ryan snatched the phone from the chart table and pressed it to his ear, allowing his irritability to spill over. “What?”

  “I thought sailing mellowed you out,” Landis commented.

  “These pirates better show up soon,” Ryan said, “or we’re putting in at Cozumel and getting drunk.”

  “I was just going to ask if you’d had any luck.”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “We’ve been sailing in circles above the Yucatán. Mango says we’re close to where he got ambushed, and we’re in the hot spot according to our piracy map.”

  “I’ve been watching your satellite tracker. Keep at it. Now, I wanted to tell you about your mystery man, Juan Herrera. He might as well be a ghost. The name is the equivalent to our John Smith. My guess is the professor gave you a bogus name. I got permission to put a detail on Morales in connection with your pirates, but we haven’t come up with anything. I only have them for two more days before they’re reassigned.”

  “What about wiretaps?”

  “No evidence he’s done anything wrong. I can’t justify a warrant.”

  “So much for the NSA spying on American citizens.”

  “My hands are tied. It’s up to you to find something to stop the thefts. We had another report three days ago.”

  “Then we should be ripe for the picking.”

  “Be safe out there.”

  “Thanks.” Ryan hung up the phone and poured himself a cup of coffee. Even though he was sweating profusely, he still craved the hot caffeine. He carried a thermos out to Mango and recounted his conversation with Landis.

  “Hopefully, we get something to happen soon, bro, because I’m about to go crazy,” Mango admitted.

  “Better not try to cross the Pacific. Days and days of nothing.”

  “How did you do it by yourself?”

  Ryan shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Easier than you’d think.”

  As if on cue, the radar chimed. Ryan got up and looked at the screen. The Automatic Identification System designated the radar target as La Carranza Garza. The AIS also gave the nine-digit Maritime Identification Number, radio call sign, GPS coordinates, speed, and direction.

  “How far away?”

  “About seven miles,” Ryan said, still staring at the radar screen’s sweep. He was unconcerned about a supply vessel running between oil rigs. He straightened and stared at the horizon where the ship would be. Then his ears picked up a buzzing sound.

  Suddenly, a black military-style Zodiac RIB, with the words Marina emblazoned in yellow down the side of the black inflatable tubes, appeared. It had an aluminum tower in the rear, holding a radar dome and several antennas. Mounted on the bow was a fifty-caliber machine gun. Ryan could barely hear the outboards and knew they were silenced for stealth.

  Mango had time to say, “That’s the same boat that attacked me and Jennifer.”

  The machine gunner cut loose with a long burst of automatic fire, sweeping right, and left. Bullets raked the side of the Sabre, splintering fiberglass, destroying wood, pinging off the aluminum mast, slicing cables, and shredding canvas. Ryan jerked his pistol from its holster as he dove for the floor of the cockpit. Mango fell to the deck and covered his head with his hands. Sustained bursts of fire from the fifty cal continued to chew on the boat. The storm of lead ended as the belt emptied and the gun’s bolt slammed open.

  Ryan raised his pistol and blindly fired all fifteen hollow-point rounds over the gunwale. He dropped the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home.

  The sailboat listed toward the Zodiac, exposing their tentative position. The mast, now unsupported by its rigging, toppled over, taking lines, sails, and running gear into the ocean. A stanchion cable snapped with a sharp crack. Ryan ducked as the cable whipped through the air. It missed his head by mere inches.

  Then the machine gun opened up again.

  Mango and Ryan were face to face in the cockpit’s bottom, gripping the shattered fiberglass, which was poor protection from the incoming fire. Mango looked at his friend with wide eyes. His mouth was slightly open as he took short, rapid breaths.

  “Up over the rail. Go!” Ryan shoved Mango and rose enough to bring his pistol to bear. This time, he took measured shots. Two bullets hit the machine gunner while Mango sprang up onto the bench and vaulted the rail. The foot on Mango’s artificial limb slipped and he splashed awkwardly into the water. Ryan emptied his magazine. A second gunman dropped his rifle and fell over the side of the RIB.

  Ryan reached up to trip the activation switch on the emergency position indicating radio beacon. A bullet had shattered the EPIRB, preventing him from sending a distress message. He cursed as he dove over the rail and swam underwater to the far side of the floundering Sabre. Mango was treading water when Ryan came up beside him. Ryan was heartbroken and angry. These men were destroying his home. The machine gunner concentrated his fire on the sailboat’s waterline, chewing a big hole in the fiberglass. Ryan screamed in vain for him to stop. Hot tears burned his cheeks. The boat quickly succumbed to the weight of the water rushing in. It felt like he was losing an old friend.

  As it slipped beneath the waves, Ryan told Mango to follow him. They dove toward the boat amid tunneling bullets, which lost energy quickly in the water and fluttered gently to the seabed below.

  Through salt-stung eyes, Ryan watched as the boat dropped like a stone into the deep blue abyss. He hovered ten feet below the surface, watching the craft get smaller and smaller, listening to the boat creak and groan as the water pressure slowly crushed it like a boa constrictor crushing an egg.

  Above them, the RIB’s motor burbled and surged as it circled the site. Ryan felt a tap on his shoulder and saw Mango motioning with a thumbs-up gesture. At the surface, they drew in deep lungsful of oxygen. The RIB charged in. A long string of bullets ripped through the water to the right of the swimmers. They stopped moving and watched as the RIB slowed and came alongside them.

  The crew’s uniforms matched the descriptions given by the Hulseys and Philip Nagel. The master of the craft braced a foot on the RIB’s inflatable tube and smiled.

  In heavily accented English, he said, “My orders are to kill you. I think a bullet is too good for you.” He leered down. “I wish for you to suffer before you dead.” He laughed, and the others joined in.

  Ryan stared up at the man. He wanted to lunge out of the water, wrap his hands around the captain’s neck, and watch the life seep from his eyes. Instead, he treaded water.

  “Vamos!” the captain cried, as he circled his hand above his head.

  The driver threw the boat into gear and the RIB roared off.

  “You think they’re coming ba
ck?” Mango asked.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Emily Hunt walked into her office and set a folder on her desk. The meeting had run longer than planned and she felt exhausted from the endless presentation. All she wanted to do was go home, drink a glass of wine, take a hot shower, and snuggle up with Ryan. But he was a thousand miles away on some adventure and her apartment was empty. Jennifer had gone back to Texas City to start a job as a nurse at Mainland Medical Center.

  At her window overlooking the bay, Emily placed her hands at the small of her back. Leaning against her palms, she stretched her muscles and let out a long sigh. After a few minutes, she sat at her desk and wiggled the mouse to wake up her computer. Following Ryan’s course at least kept her close to him, and she felt better knowing where he was. There was danger in what he was doing, but she believed he and Mango, both highly trained operators, could handle themselves.

  She clicked the tab of the open internet browser, which brought up the tracking page for Ryan’s boat. She hit the refresh button to update the browser and waited while satellites linked and synchronized before sending the information to her screen.

  A white dotted line marked Sweet T’s course over an expanse of blue she knew to be the Gulf of Mexico. The dotted line had stopped. The last recorded tracking update was three hours ago.

  She hit refresh again and waited for the response. It showed the same information. She picked up her cell phone and dialed DWR.

  “Dark Water Research, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Emily Hunt calling for Greg Olsen.”

  “Hold, please.” After seven rings, the operator came back on the line.

  Emily hung up and dialed Greg’s cell phone. It went to voicemail. “Greg, this is Emily, call me back. I think something is wrong with the tracker on Ryan’s boat.”

  She dialed DWR again. This time, she asked for Shelly. Before Shelly came on the line, Emily’s cell phone chimed.