A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Ryan shuddered again and focused back on the driveway which curled around a ten-foot-high fountain in front of a three-story mansion. At the top of the fountain, an angel mounted on a pedestal poured water from a jug into a basin. Water cascaded over three tiers into a pool below.

  The house was a traditional hacienda style with tan stucco, white columns under arches, and a red tiled roof. At the right rear, a round tower overlooked the five-thousand-square-foot palace and grounds. On closer inspection, Ryan saw an armed guard carrying a rifle with a large scope standing in the tower’s window. The perfect sniper’s nest.

  “Out,” Mustache prodded when the Suburban came to a stop. He led the Americans inside the three-story grand entryway, flanked by stairs leading to the second level.

  Mustache’s shoes clicked on marble tile. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls. A ten-foot-diameter crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. It tapered down in consecutively smaller circles until the bottom was almost level with the second-story balcony.

  Mustache led the Americans up the right-side flight of stairs and then down a hall, marching them to a closed door. He knocked.

  “Adelante.” Come, a deep voice called.

  Mustache opened the door and motioned for Ryan and Mango to enter. Ryan glanced around the room. To his right were floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books, framed photos, model ships, and ancient Aztecan and Mayan cultural pieces. A Persian rug covered dark hardwood planks. At one end of the rug was a large wooden desk and at the other sat two leather high-back chairs. On the wall opposite the bookcase, between a bathroom door and the open French patio doors, hung a framed map of Aztlán. Under the map was a liquor cabinet with heavy crystal decanters as well as crystal glasses and other drinking accouterments on its marble top. A cedar humidor rested beside the liquor bottles.

  Ryan licked his scabbed lips. He could use a drink.

  Through the patio doors, they could see a man standing on the balcony, smoking a cigar. He was lean and tall, dressed in black pants, black dress shoes with square toes, and a black button-down dress shirt with the top three buttons undone. He used a hand to sweep his black hair to the left, a prominent part on the right. High cheekbones offset a thin nose and lips. Black eyes danced under thick brows. Around his neck hung a Mexican eight-reale coin and chain, identical to the one Professor Morales wore.

  Ryan swore and muttered, “I knew he was in on it.”

  The man stepped past the door’s heavy curtains and removed the cigar from his mouth. “Ah, Mr. Weller.” He extended his hand to shake and then waved it dismissively in the air after realizing his guest couldn’t reciprocate.

  Ryan narrowed his brows. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “I am, how do you say …” The Mexican gave a little bow. “John Smith.”

  “Arturo Guerrero,” Ryan said with disdain. “High priest of Aztlán.”

  “I see my men talk behind my back.” He took a long draw on his cigar. “Alejandro, you may go.”

  Mustache disappeared out the door.

  “If you want to try something evasive, I have many men outside who would love to place a bullet right here.” He put his index finger between Ryan’s eyes.

  Ryan shrugged, more to ease the pain in his shoulders than to offer a disaffected air.

  “Please sit. Did you find the accommodations aboard La Carranza Garza satisfactory?”

  “Your cook needs a better repertoire,” Mango retorted.

  “I have not had the pleasure of learning your name, señor.”

  “Mango Hulsey.”

  “Ah, yes, the man with the name of a fruit.” Guerrero chuckled.

  “How about turning us loose? I could use el baño y cerveza.” Ryan turned so Guerrero could see the cuffs behind his back. He did need to use the bathroom, and he really wanted a cold beer. More than anything, he wanted the cuffs off. With his hands free, he could wring Guerrero’s skinny neck.

  “Alejandro,” Guerrero called.

  The door opened, and Mustache stepped in. Guerrero made a scissoring motion and Alejandro spoke rapidly in Spanish. His boss shook his head in displeasure and rebuked his lieutenant. Alejandro stepped forward, flipping open a folding knife. Ryan recognized the CRKT tactical knife the Mexican had pulled from his pocket: it was his. He figured Shorty had kept it. A minute later, Mango and Ryan were rubbing circulation back into their wrists. Alejandro accompanied them to the bathroom one at a time.

  When Ryan came out of the bathroom, he stopped at the liquor cabinet and looked at the map. Small red dots marked multiple cities in the southwestern United States. Three of them were now blue: Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Austin. Beside each dot, in neatly printed Spanish, were names, addresses, and dates.

  Guerrero stepped over beside him and gestured to the table. “You wanted a drink, Mr. Weller?”

  Ryan nodded. “A beer would be great.”

  “There is a refrigerator built into the liquor cabinet. Please, help yourself.” He pointed to the cabinet door before pouring himself a shot of tequila. He carried his drink to the desk. Ryan bent and retrieved a beer.

  Mango stepped out of the bathroom and Alejandro exited the study.

  Guerrero asked, “Would you like a beer, Mr. Hulsey?”

  “Yes.” Mango took the beer Ryan handed him.

  Ryan opened his bottle and remained standing by the liquor cabinet. “Where did you go to school in the States? You’ve lost most of your accent.”

  Guerrero smiled around his cigar and spoke with a haughty air. “I am a proud alumnus of the University of Texas.”

  “Is that how you met Professor Morales?” Ryan asked.

  Guerrero removed his cigar and sat in his desk chair. “Yes. Rueben and I went to college together.”

  “He has a matching medallion,” Ryan said. “Can I get one of those, or do you have to join a secret club?”

  Guerrero’s words were a scathing retort. “I give these medallions to men who have been influential in establishing a new Aztlán.”

  “Care to share your plan for Aztlán domination?” Ryan figured he might as well learn as much as he could while he was at the feet of its designer. If he could escape, he’d get the details to Landis. He felt like he was in a Bond movie talking to the evil villain. While he could kill one or two men with his hands, he needed weapons to facilitate their escape.

  The cartel leader placed his cigar in the crystal ashtray. His calm demeanor had returned. “I could wait another thirty to forty years until the Latino population outnumbers the whites and we are firmly planted on the government’s payroll, but that takes too much time. We are sending waves of, as you say, ‘illegal immigrants’ across the border to aggregate the population. They take your jobs and fill your schools and vote in your elections. No other country in the world is so easy to infiltrate. Mexico would put you to death for sneaking in.” He leaned forward. “I will put you to death for sneaking in.”

  Guerrero laughed as he leaned back in the worn, brown, leather chair. “Yes, you will die because I must carry out my plan. I do not need my ship anymore. She has served her purpose well, bringing guns and weapons through your porous border. It also brought my partners so they could distract your law enforcement agencies from the truth. Your police force is reactionary and only sees what they want to see. Those bombings were not the work of ISIS, but of my agents.”

  Mango looked at Ryan, who had a see, I told you so expression on his face.

  “I see you do not believe me.” Guerrero chuckled. “You are as gullible as your peers.”

  Mango’s anger spilled over. “Explain it to us then, genius.”

  Guerrero laughed deep and loud. “It’s right in front of you. I partnered with the leader of ISIS, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, to bring over his trusted men. They are more than willing to die for their cause. We both hate the Great Satan, and both want to bring it to its knees. For different reasons, obviously, but the means to an end is, how do you say, mutually beneficial.” He spread
his arms wide then dropped them.

  “We smuggled Abu Bakr’s men into Mexico and put them on La Carranza Garza. We took them and a load of weapons into the States on stolen sailboats.” Guerrero held up a hand, palm out. “I’m sure you figured this out.”

  Ryan nodded, took a long chug of beer, and wished he had a cigarette. They were in his confiscated backpack. “So, you’ll use these ISIS ragheads to blow up the cities you labeled on your map.” He jerked his thumb at the wall behind him.

  “You are observant.”

  Ryan lifted the lid on the humidor. Thick, dark cigars packed the Spanish cedar-lined box. He flared his nostrils to take in the rich aroma.

  “You would like a cigar?” Guerrero smiled around his own stogie. “Pick one. I will grant a dying man his wish.”

  “I’d like the pack of cigarettes in my backpack.”

  Guerrero summoned Alejandro, who brought the backpack. He produced the pack of Camel Blues from a side pocket as well as a plastic lighter. After testing the lighter to ensure it was indeed a lighter, he laid the cigarettes and lighter on the cabinet and retreated from the room. Ryan lit a cigarette and let out a long stream of smoke before leaning on the sideboard.

  “What happens after your bombing campaign?” Ryan asked.

  “I won’t divulge all of my secrets.” Guerrero waved dismissively.

  Mango rose to Guerrero’s bait. “Do you really think the American people will stand idly by as you try to force the government to hand over half of the US? You may have some die-hard fanatics in sombreros and dishdashas, but there’s at least eight million armed U.S. citizens willing to bring the fight to your doorstep.”

  Guerrero held up his hands in defense. “I have an army waiting to rise as well.”

  This time Ryan intervened. “According to the papers he wrote, Professor Morales envisions a socialist utopia where everyone has a job and the government is responsible for the care of the people. If you run Aztlán like you run Tampico, your subjects will beg the U.S. to take them back and extend the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo all the way to Guatemala.”

  “Enough,” Guerrero shouted and slammed a palm against the desktop. “You don’t know what you speak about.” He stood abruptly. “Morales told me you were an insufferable man. I have work to do. Alejandro!”

  Mustache stepped back into the room. He trained Mango’s Glock on the Americans. Guerrero strode onto the balcony and motioned with his hand. Another armed man ducked into the room as Guerrero disappeared.

  The second man leveled an AK-47 at the Americans. Ryan picked up the pack of cigarettes and pulled out another. He put it in his mouth and cupped his hands to shield the flame of the lighter. After a deep drag, he slipped the lighter and cigarettes into his pocket.

  “Vámanos.” Alejandro motioned with Mango’s pistol toward the door.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ryan held the cigarette in front of his face with his thumb and index finger. He let out a stream of smoke while studying it. Then he brought it down and glanced over at Mango and flicked his eyes at the guard holding the AK. Mango closed his eyes. When he opened them a second later, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Ryan took a long pull of the cigarette and held it out to study again. The cherry smoldered close to a line he’d drawn half way down the white paper. The line indicated where he’d placed an explosive charge. He took a deep draw, pulling the cherry almost to the line.

  “Let’s go,” Alejandro demanded.

  Ryan slowly exhaled the smoke, stalling for time. Then he flicked his cigarette at the guard and spun toward Alejandro.

  Mango leaped toward the guard. His artificial foot slipped on the carpet. He fell face first onto the floor at the same instant the cigarette exploded in the guard’s face. The guard dropped his rifle and brought his hands to his face to assess the damage. He let out a wail of anguish. Blood coursed down his cheeks and neck.

  The blast tore Alejandro’s gaze from Ryan, who stepped inside Alejandro’s outstretched arm. He grabbed Alejandro’s wrist with his left hand and pushed the gun away. Ryan’s right elbow came up as he spun. The elbow slammed into Alejandro’s jaw. Shock reverberated up Ryan’s arm as he kept turning into the busted mouth. Keeping Alejandro’s gun up with his left hand, he grabbed it with his right and used Mustache’s finger to fire two shots into the guard. The silenced shots drove the already injured guard backward, sprawling him on the balcony.

  “Get the AK.” Ryan pulled the pistol from Alejandro’s limp grasp as the unconscious man crumpled to the ground. He placed the silencer to the Mexican’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Mango scooped up the rifle and looked over the balcony to see if anyone had reacted to the explosion.

  “How many guards?” Ryan whispered.

  Mango crouched by the railing, using his finger to point and count.

  Ryan opened the hallway door and shot a guard running down the corridor. He spied their packs sitting on a table. Dashing out to grab them, he came under fire from another guard. Bullets stitched along the marble floor and up the wall in front of him. Shards of marble and plaster exploded into the air. He dropped to the floor and shot his attacker in the foot sticking out from behind the door jamb where the guard had taken cover. The man fell forward to grab his ruined appendage and Ryan drilled him in the temple.

  When he stepped through the office door with the packs, Mango had his AK-47 pointed at Ryan’s head.

  Mango brought the gun down from his shoulder when he recognized his partner. “Sorry, bro.”

  Ryan closed the door and tossed the silenced Glock to Mango and rifled Alejandro’s pockets for his knife. “How many men outside?”

  “I counted six,” Mango replied.

  “Not a lot of guys to guard his compound.”

  “Guess he feels safe,” Mango said. “He owns the whole city. I’m sure he can call in reinforcements.”

  Ryan used his smart phone to take pictures of the map. Each caption received a close, detailed photo. Working the keypad with both thumbs, he composed an email to Landis and attached the pictures. He hit send and pocketed the phone.

  “Any idea where we are?” Mango asked.

  “We’re on a peninsula in the Laguna del Chairel. From here, it’s a straight shot to the Pánuco River by a canal.”

  “Call Greg and let’s get out of here.”

  “We need to stop Guerrero. If we only dismantle his network, he’ll just build another one.” Ryan looked up at Mango. “Guerrero’s already destroyed three buildings and he’ll destroy a lot more if we don’t end this now.” He picked up his MP5 and hung its three-point harness over his shoulders. The gun hung sideways across his chest.

  Mango frowned. “How do we do that?”

  Ryan shrugged. “We have to find him first.”

  The sound of a helicopter, passing over the house, drowned out his words.

  “There’s his ride,” Ryan yelled and bolted left through the double doors and sprinted down the length of the balcony. The balcony ended just above the tiled roof of a gazebo. He glanced down to the pool patio and his brain made an instant decision. Ryan vaulted the railing and landed on the gazebo roof. His feet slid on the barrel tiles. Before he could fall, he launched himself into the air.

  Gunshots echoed all around. The firefight was underway. Adrenaline surged through Ryan’s veins. He was back in the game. Everything else washed away in the periphery. He was a combat machine, back in his element.

  Thick cushions kept him from busting through the heavy wicker of a chaise lounge. His feet slipped out from under him and he slammed hard into a second chaise. His ribs caught the edge of the chair, driving the wind from his lungs.

  Bullets ripped through wicker and chirped off the concrete. Ryan rolled off the lounge and tried to breathe. He felt like he was suffocating as his muscles spasmed. Finally, he was able to draw a deep breath. His bruised ribs shot pain through his body with any movement. Just breathing was mind-numbing. This wasn’t the playg
round, he couldn’t call time out. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the MP5 to his shoulder and loosed a three-round burst at a guard across the pool. Pain flared through his body with each buck of the gun.

  The report of the sniper rifle echoed above the automatic fire of the cuerno de chivos, or goat’s horn, Mexican narco slang for the AK-47, named for the curve of the rifle’s magazine.

  A sniper’s bullet struck the concrete inches to the right of where Ryan knelt. Concrete fragments peppered his leg. He continued to shoot at two men who were engaging him from across the pool deck.

  Under the cover of his own fire, he dashed toward the woods on the far side of the grounds. The sound of the sniper’s rifle burst in his ears again.

  Ahead, the helicopter flared above the treetops.

  Gunfire chased Ryan into the woods, and he hoped Mango was all right. Brush and scrub tore at his clothes and skin as he ran. He spilled through the trees onto a gravel path. The wash of the helicopter’s rotors tore at his clothes and sent sand and leaves hurling through the air as it came to a hover. Running made his ribs ache, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The only way to survive was to shove the pain into a far corner of his mind and push on.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Mango followed his partner onto the second-story balcony. He couldn’t make the same leap Ryan had just made to the gazebo and down to the chaise lounges. Instead, he turned right to look for stairs to the ground level. He found them inside the tower. The second and third-story balconies connected to the tower which had a spiral staircase built against the inside walls of the circular structure.

  Mango eased to the railing and peered down through the open center to look for guards. When he saw none, he started down the stairs. Two men burst through the tower’s door and charged up the steps. Through windows cut into the tower, he could see four more men racing toward his position. He pressed his shoulder blades to the cement wall and fired at the two men below him. He hit both in the chest, starting with the trailing man and letting the muzzle of the MP5 rise to the first.