A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Ryan smacked his hand down on the navigation table. “I need to find Guerrero!”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The door to Arturo Guerrero’s study opened and a man stepped inside. Guerrero looked up in anger. No one was to enter this room without permission.

  “Get out!” Guerrero shouted.

  “I am sorry, señor Guerrero. I have spoken with a Muslim man who claims to be on La Carranza Garza. He says there has been gunfire and grenade explosions on the ship. He also claimed he could hear two men speaking English, one used the phrase ‘LT’ when addressing his superior.”

  Guerrero stood, knocking his chair backward. “Have you tried contacting Jorge?”

  “I have tried, señor, but I get no response.”

  Guerrero cursed in Spanish and shouted, “Alejandro!”

  A dark-skinned man with a luxurious mustache entered the room.

  “Sí, jefe?”

  “David says someone has captured La Garza. I know it is the work of this insufferable Ryan Weller.”

  “But, jefe, Jorge said they killed the men from the sailboat.”

  “They did not see the bodies,” Guerrero seethed.

  “How could they have survived?” Alejandro asked.

  “I don’t know. You will find out about the ship and who captured her.”

  “Sí, jefe,” Alejandro said. “I will find out.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Greg sat wedged into the corner of the settee, behind the dining table of Dark Water’s main salon. He had a beer in one hand and a white-knuckled grip on the back of the settee with the other. Even though the storm had passed, the waves were still four feet in height. It wasn’t a smooth ride on following seas.

  Ryan and Mango also sat at the table, braced against the boat’s jarring movements, and trying to keep their beers from spilling. They had just finished giving Greg a blow-by-blow account of their search and seizure of La Carranza Garza as they motored toward Tampico, Mexico.

  Greg shook his head and grinned. “I wish I could have been there with you.”

  “It wasn’t a picnic,” Mango said.

  “Still …” Greg sipped his beer.

  “How was it over here?”

  “Rough as a washing machine spin cycle. Those six-foot waves were killing us. These are killing me.”

  “You seem to handle it all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m just glad Shelly and Jerry were here to help with the driving. I was getting beat up. I need a nap.”

  “Me, too.” Ryan stretched.

  It had been a long night which had extended into the early afternoon of the following day as they waited for the Coast Guard. Manowar had sent over an armed boarding party as well as a crew to drive the ship back to Galveston. Landis and others at DHS had warned them not to advertise the seizure of the ship and its cargo.

  Landis had also given Ryan a brief background on Guerrero. “He comes from an old-money family in Mexico. They started mining silver near Matehuala in the early 1900s and later moved into oil. Now, Guerrero controls much of the drug and weapons trade on the Gulf Coast of Mexico.

  “He has a compound outside Tampico. It’s on a little peninsula extending into the Laguna del Chairel, a large swamp on the western edge of the city. Part of the guard detail is a pack of hungry crocodiles roaming the rivers and canals. I spoke with the State Department and they said Mexico won’t touch him. He has too much power and influence in Tampico. Besides, he’s brought stability and businesses back to the city.”

  “What about covert military action?”

  “That’s a no-go as well, Ryan. If you think this guy is a true hazard to our commerce and well-being, then it’s on you to take him out. You’re getting paid the big bucks.”

  “I understand.”

  “Listen, Ryan, if you go in there, we can’t come get you. There’s no quick reaction force ready to ride to the rescue. This place is heavily fortified, and Guerrero has a lot of armed guards at his disposal.”

  “I understand,” Ryan had repeated.

  “You’re going after him, Ryan?”

  “Yes. Someone has to.”

  “Good luck. I’ll give you all the help I can from my desk.”

  “You and every other fobbit,” Ryan had muttered.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done.” Ryan had switched off his comms gear and leaned against the railing, inhaling deep breaths of salt air, and thinking about the men who stayed in the rear with the gear.

  Those who went outside the wire to do battle began to loathe the men who never left the base. He understood the need for logistics trains, mess specialists, and security, but there were those who were afraid to step outside the wire and face the enemy. Ryan had chosen a profession where he had to step outside the wire. Now, he was going to cross the line once again. Instead of wrapping himself in duty and honor and country, he harbored hatred and revenge. Revenge for his sunken sailboat, for Greg and his dead parents, for all the people who’d had their boats stolen, and for every wrong he’d ever perceived. Guerrero was the target Ryan was hanging his baggage on.

  Greg interrupted Ryan’s reverie, bringing him back to the table on Dark Water. “What’s the plan?”

  “I need to get into Mexico undetected.”

  Mango said, “I’m going with you.”

  “You’ve got a bad leg. DiMarco wants to go home and Shelly flew off with the SEAL team when the Coast Guard got here. I don’t expect any of you to take on this fight.”

  Mango leaned closer to his friend. “They took my boat too, bro, and I’m good to go. You guys hired me to be your partner and that’s what I am going to be. This leg won’t hold me up, bro.”

  Ryan had his doubts. Mango was already using an ill-fitting backup leg. If something happened to his leg again, he was screwed. Ryan would be stuck with a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

  Ryan put an unlit cigarette in his mouth then took it out. “I need to get into Tampico and look this guy’s place over. I think it would be best if I went in alone.”

  “Do you think you’re James Bond?” Mango retorted.

  “It’d be less suspicious if I went in by myself and got the lay of the land. I’ll formulate a game plan and call you in.”

  Mango crossed his arms and stared at Ryan. “I don’t like it, and I know Greg doesn’t.”

  Ryan pointed at Greg. “The boss is right there. It’s his call.”

  Greg shifted as the big boat rolled. “Regardless of what Landis says, Tampico is still dangerous. To get from the U.S. border to Tampico, there are armed convoys escorted by local police and the military. No one travels those roads by themselves if they value their lives, especially U.S. citizens.” Mango and Ryan looked at him blankly. “Put it this way, if Batman needed a Mexican Gotham, it would be Tampico. This ain’t no Cancún vacation, boys, this is straight into the heart of darkness.”

  Mango whispered a Marlon Brando impression, “The horror, the horror.”

  Ryan chuckled.

  “Guerrero isn’t Colonel Kurtz,” Greg said. “I’m just telling you to be cautious. The walls have ears and it won’t take long for word to get out that a couple of gringos are roaming around the city, asking about the Godfather.”

  “See, you need backup.” Mango pointed a finger at Ryan. “I’m going with you and there’s no way you can stop me.”

  Ryan smirked.

  Mango read Ryan’s mind. “You’re not stealing my leg and hiding it from me, either. That would just be a dick move.”

  “All right.” Ryan held up his hands, palms out, and laughed.

  “I ask again, what’s the plan?” Greg demanded.

  “Mango and I will get a car and recon Guerrero’s place. We’ll track his movements for a few days and see if we can find an opening to hit him.”

  “What are you going to hit him with?” Greg wanted a detailed plan.

  “Landis gave me the number of a man in Mexico City who can g
et us whatever firepower we need.” Ryan shrugged. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “Ryan, you’ve always had a cavalier streak about you,” Greg said. “If we continue to do these operations together, we need to do more planning. Like we did for taking down the Garza.”

  “That was a straightforward mission with clear objectives. This is more fluid. We don’t know the situation on the ground, and we have limited intelligence on Guerrero and his cartel. I plan to recon the area and assess what we need to do. You and I both know the whole thing can go pear-shaped in a hurry.”

  “I agree, no plan survives the first shot of battle, but we can always modify the plan, and we build in contingencies. You were just getting into operational planning when you left the Navy. I was planning them from day one.”

  “You were an officer. That was your job. I went through the same training you did to become an operator. I know what needs to be done.”

  “Agree to disagree.”

  Mango watched the back and forth with a grin on his face.

  “Yes,” Ryan said. “You are more methodical than I am, in some areas, and I’ll admit, I might not have all the operational skill sets I need.” Ryan shrugged again. “It is what it is, and in six hours we’re going into Tampico to look around. We need to take this guy down.”

  “That I agree with,” Greg said. “Go get some sleep.”

  Ryan stood. “I’m glad we’re working together again, Greg. I’m glad you have my back.”

  “Same here, brother,” Greg said, and the two men bumped fists.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Alejandro Vargas set down the phone and drummed his fingers on the desk. The news wasn’t pleasing. A week ago, a fisherman had pulled two men, one matching the description of the elusive Ryan Weller, from the Gulf of Mexico.

  Vargas could only surmise Ryan was behind the raid on La Carranza Garza. No news outlets displayed footage of the U.S. military or Coast Guard boarding the vessel and capturing firearms. Normally, they paraded such actions across the cable news networks, newspapers, and internet. The news outlets had all been silent on the subject.

  The profile of Ryan Weller Guerrero had handed Alejandro said the American was former military and now worked for Dark Water Research. He may also have a former military accomplice who he called LT. Alejandro was uncertain about some facts. What he did know was the man had the lives of a cat to survive a hit near Marathon, Florida, have his boat machine-gunned from under him, and live through several days of floating in the open ocean.

  Alejandro walked down the hallway to his boss’s office and knocked. When summoned, he entered the ornate room and reported his findings while standing on a finely woven Persian rug.

  “This Ryan Weller is a thorn in my side.” Guerrero leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and looked past Alejandro. “If he’s captured my ship, then he will come here.”

  “I want to send his picture to all of our men,” Alejandro said. “They will capture him if he comes to Tampico.”

  “Excellent idea, Alejandro.” Guerrero looked down at the papers on his desk and picked up a pen. It was the signal for Alejandro to leave.

  Back at his desk, Alejandro sent Ryan Weller’s picture to his lieutenants via text message. His lieutenants would continue to disseminate the photo to other members of the Aztlán cartel.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Hatteras came off plane and idled into the no-wake zone along the Tampico waterfront. Greg steered the boat off the Pánuco River and into Canal de la Cortadura. The Cut Channel.

  Mango and Ryan slipped over the side of the Hatteras and slowly swam to the woods bordering the canal’s mouth, while the boat continued up the Cut. They wore black fatigues and carried backpacks in waterproof bags. After crawling through the stinking mud of a tidal flat, the two men took shelter in the pine trees growing along the riverbank. They stripped off their mud-caked fatigues and put on jeans, T-shirts, and athletic footwear designed to look like dress shoes.

  Through the trees bordering Proteins of Tamaulipas, one of the six private terminals forming the Port of Tampico, Ryan and Mango studied the facility. PROTAMSA’s four massive grain silos provided storage for corn, wheat, and soybeans. Next to the silos were warehouses holding cement, lumber, and fertilizers. Train tracks ran to and from the facility, and a cargo ship floated under a silo’s auger arm at the deep-water dock.

  Ryan and Mango watched for armed guards and searched for a likely candidate for auto theft. They skirted pools of light cast by security lamps and stayed in the shadows. Moving past the massive grain silos, they came to a parking lot.

  Mango remained hidden in a small grove of trees near the eight-foot-high concrete block wall bordering the property while Ryan ran in a low crouch to the battered door of a mid-nineties Toyota Corolla. He tried the door handle and found it unlocked. The door hinges creaked as it swung open. Ryan eased back and slung his pack to the ground. Reaching for a flashlight, he froze. Cold steel pressed against the base of his neck. The pressure was hard enough for him to feel the barrel of the pistol leaving a mark on his skin.

  Ryan lifted his hands.

  “Stand up, pendejo. Slowly.”

  As he stood, Ryan scanned the trees for Mango. He saw movement in the shadows. Mango stepped forward with two men flanking him and his arms in the air. When he got closer, Mango gave Ryan a little shrug and a frown as if to say, What could I do?

  The man who’d gotten the drop on Ryan ordered him to back up against the Corolla. He consulted a smart phone and held it up near his captive’s head. When he dropped it down, Ryan saw the man had been studying his picture. Ryan recognized the shirt he’d worn while visiting Professor Morales’s house. He shook his head in frustration at the professor’s duplicity.

  Mango’s guards looked like gorillas with broad shoulders and muscular bodies. They held their rifles tight against their chests, one hand on the pistol grip, fingers off the trigger. The leader of the captors was a skinny kid who only stood five feet three. His short stature forced him to look up at Ryan, and Ryan leaned over him for the intimidation factor. It didn’t work. Even if it had, he still needed to deal with the two goons, who took no chances and manacled their prisoners’ hands with zip ties.

  The goons marched them to a small guard shack and forced them to sit inside. Ryan got comfortable and watched the guards to see if he and Mango could escape. One goon took up station just outside the door, the other lounged nearby. Their ringleader, who Ryan called Shorty, paced with a cell phone pressed to his ear. He could hear part of Shorty’s side of the conversation when he was near Ryan. Shorty was calling someone to come pick up the intruders.

  The two goons seized Ryan and jerked him to his feet. His legs ached, and his left foot was asleep. With the goons’ aid, he stumbled out of the building and leaned against a wall. Then they dragged Mango out. Ryan looked up to see Shorty beaming with pride as a black Suburban slid to a stop. A thin but muscular man, with close-cropped black hair and a luxurious mustache, stepped out.

  Mustache conversed quickly with Shorty before walking over to the Americans. He looked them up and down, then motioned for them to get into the backseat of the SUV. While they embarked, Shorty threw their gear packs into the rear cargo area.

  Ryan watched out the window as they drove. Tampico was a city of contrasts, run by drug lords and gangs while legitimate businesses tried to stay above water. Abandoned buildings stood in disrepair, with trees growing through their roofs and windows, next to well-kept markets and apartment buildings. Nature’s reclamation of the concrete jungle was both beautiful and haunting.

  For fifteen minutes the Suburban worked its way through the city. They passed broken-down hovels and rich suburbs, some of which looked strikingly like developments in the US. They moved along a freeway before turning onto surface streets again. The driver rolled through stop signs and merely slowed for red lights before hammering through. Ryan believed the driver was going to kill them before they
reached their destination. It might spare them the fate of being tortured by a ruthless cartel kingpin. Ryan didn’t want to be tortured or dumped in a swamp with a bullet to his head. He hoped these men were taking him and Mango to see Guerrero. It would put them in the lion’s den and if he could convince someone to free his hands, well, he was going to kill them all.

  Leaving the cramped city streets, the driver navigated onto a road lined on both sides by water and trees. From his studies of the satellite terrain maps while on Dark Water, Ryan knew they’d entered the Laguna del Chairel, a giant estuary formed by the Tamesí River. The marsh of wooded islands and flowing pools bordered the west side of Tampico. Resorts and housing developments crowded the eastern edges of the Chairel, sharing the water with crocodiles, birds, snakes, and fish.

  The Suburban slowed for a bend in the road, and the driver braked, preparing to turn. Water on the north side of the road gave way to a peninsula guarded by a heavy wrought-iron fence. The driver turned the big SUV onto a paved driveway and stopped at a double gate hung from stucco pillars.

  Ryan counted four guards, two in the gatehouse and two checking the vehicle. One stood at the driver’s door while the other used a long pole with a special convex mirror to check the undercarriage of the SUV for bombs. Waved clear, the Suburban passed through the gate and continued up the driveway. The beds of flowers, pruned trees, and immaculately trimmed grass reminded Ryan of a golf course.

  Ten feet off each side of the driveway, the mowed grass ended in heavy stands of brush and trees. Ryan shuddered as he thought about the crocodiles and snakes lurking in the bushes. He hated snakes and always had. He avoided them even if they were caged at a zoo. He got the creeps just thinking about their scaly skin and beady eyes. Military training, in the swamps around Eglin Air Force Base, in the Florida panhandle, had forced him into an uneasy tolerance. He understood their hierarchy in the food chain, but still didn’t like them. His motto: the only good snake was a dead snake.