A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  The door slammed behind Ryan as he stepped out. He went to the car. The hot leather attempted to burn his skin through his thin dress pants. Feeling boiled alive by the steamy interior dampened his mood further at not accomplishing anything by his confrontation with Karen. The New York traffic didn’t help his disposition as he drove back to the hotel.

  Deep in the hotel’s concrete parking structure, the heat wasn’t as bad. Ryan was thankful for the relief as he walked toward the elevator. He noticed a dark SUV gliding up the entrance ramp and turning toward him. Automatically, he moved closer to the row of parked cars. He heard the vehicle’s engine roar as it accelerated. Headlights snapped on and aimed right at Ryan.

  He dove onto the hood of a red Hyundai and jerked his feet up as the silver Ford Explorer slammed into the car. Using his momentum, he brought his legs up over his head and somersaulted off the car. Hoping to land on his feet, he dropped off the edge of the car and crumpled to the ground, landing hard on his side, and grimacing as pain shot through the ribs he’d bruised in Mexico.

  The pain didn’t distract him for long. He glanced up to see the SUV backing toward him. The driver had his window down, a long, black silencer aimed at Ryan. He rolled under a high-clearance Ford pickup, then, instead of rolling all the way to the other side, he stopped halfway and rolled back out the side where he’d started. The Explorer continued backward, passing Ryan.

  Gaining his feet, Ryan wished he was wearing something other than his slick-soled oxfords. He kept low and ran between the cars, angling for the stairwell. As he passed a thick support column, he tripped over a man’s foot when the man stuck his leg out from behind a column.

  Instinctively, Ryan thrust his hands out in front of him. His right hand hit first, and the wrist gave as it took the full weight of his body. He slammed down on his right shoulder and continued the roll to his right.

  The man leaped from behind the column and landed on Ryan, pinning Ryan on his back. Ryan recognized the two small wooden handles and the thin metal wire of a garotte in his assailant’s hands but brought his left wrist up and stopped the wire from tightening around his neck. Ryan jerked his knee hard into the man’s crotch and at the same time delivered an open-handed heel strike to the man’s face. The man deflected the blow and kept trying to wrap the garotte around Ryan’s neck.

  The wire dug deep into his skin and sawed through to raw flesh. Blood flowed freely down his arm. With his right hand, he delivered repeated blows to the man’s face. The wire was forcing his wrist tighter against his neck. The pressure was slowly crushing his windpipe. His attacker planted his knee on the inside of Ryan’s right thigh, effectively immobilizing his leg. Garotte put all his weight on Ryan’s leg and drew back his other, slamming it forward into Ryan’s groin. The blow didn’t have much power, but it still took away what little breath Ryan’s had left.

  Tires screeched. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw the Explorer come to a stop on the other side of the parked cars. From his vantage point, all he could see was a set of combat boots stepping out of the SUV.

  Garotte drew his leg back to hammer Ryan’s groin again. Ryan shifted his attention back to Garotte. The pain of the wire biting through his wrist was excruciating. He extended the fingers of his right hand, forming a slight cup. With all his might, he smacked Garotte on the ear in a thunderclap strike. Garotte immediately dropped his weapon and grasped his ear. Ryan knew the strike could rupture an eardrum, turning an attacker temporarily deaf and disoriented. Garotte moaned as he sat up straight. Ryan punched him in the windpipe. His assailant let go of his ear to clutch his throat. The strike was hard enough to crush the throat and, as Ryan rolled away, he knew he’d killed the man. It was only a matter of time before he suffocated to death.

  Ryan came up in a crouch behind the closest car. The guy in combat boots was approaching, a silenced pistol clasped in both hands. He stopped at the grotesque sight of Garotte’s purple face and bulging eyes. Combat Boots swung the pistol to the left, his eyes tracking the sights.

  He fired his body straight up, shoving the heel of his hand between Combat Boot’s outstretched arms, and slammed it into his jaw. The man’s teeth shattered as they crashed together. Combat Boot’s head snapped back, and his knees gave out. He crumpled to the ground. Ryan dashed for the stairwell door.

  The door bounced off its stops as Ryan tore through it and up the first flight of stairs. He heard rubber shriek on pavement as a vehicle accelerated. He waited, hands on knees, sucking in big lungsful of air, and shaking from the adrenaline. He’s just killed a man and badly injured another, and he had no idea why.

  After ten minutes of silence, Ryan crept down to the door and peered through the small window. He couldn’t see anything out of place and eased the door open. There was no one around. No man sucking his dying breaths through a crushed throat, no shattered teeth, no discarded pistol. Nothing. The only sign that an assault had taken place was the blood dripping from Ryan’s wrist. He checked the wound. The wire had bitten deep into his flesh in a straight, thin line. If he held his hand out and flexed his wrist down, he thought he could see bone. His stomach lurched, and he quickly hyperflexed his wrist toward the elbow to close the wound. Pulling his tie from his suit coat pocket, he wrapped it around the cut and did his best to tie it off. Done with his makeshift triage, he punched the elevator button and stood with his back to the wall until the doors opened and he could step inside.

  In his room, he went into the bathroom and ran hot water over the cut. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked the empty room while wrapping his wrist in a hand towel. He needed stitches to fix the deep cut. He changed into cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and a pair of worn boat shoes. He hurriedly packed his suitcase, then used the automated checkout on the television to close his room account before carrying his suitcase downstairs. He climbed into the rental car and headed for an urgent care center.

  When he left the clinic, he’d received twenty stitches and a tightly-wrapped white bandage to close his wound. The nurse gave him instructions for care, and the doctor signed a prescription for antibiotics and pain killers.

  All Ryan wanted was a cold beer and a cigarette. And to know who was trying to kill him.

  Chapter Seven

  It was close to sunrise when Ryan finished picking up his prescriptions. He turned in his rental car and ordered an Uber. When the white Chevy Malibu arrived with a Middle Eastern man behind the wheel, Ryan hopped in and ordered the driver to make a few extra turns on the way to the Holiday Inn on Sixth Avenue to see if he was being followed. He wanted to leave Manhattan altogether, but he also wanted to be close to Karen’s townhome if she decided to call. He’d give it one more day and then he was going back to Texas

  Outside the hotel entrance, he satisfied his nicotine craving and watched for parked cars with occupants, or other suspicious actors. Done with his smoke, he checked in with a bleary-eyed, overweight woman behind the counter, bought a cold beer and a water from the small store, and went up to his room. After filling a plastic cup with beer and thinking about how cheap the hotel chain was for not having actual glasses in the room, he swallowed one of each of his pills. He ignored the “do not mix alcohol and antibiotics” warning on the pill bottles and washed them down with the beer.

  Ryan shucked off his shorts and shirt, finished the beer, and curled up under the covers. He was asleep within minutes.

  The ringing of a phone brought him out of a deep sleep, and he fumbled for his cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Weller?” a female voice asked.

  “Yes,” Ryan sat up in bed.

  “This is Karen Kilroy. You left your number with me yesterday.”

  “Uh, yeah, I did,” he managed to stammer out in surprise.

  “Do you know where the Cambria Hotel is?”

  “Not really. I’m not from New York.”

  “It’s on West Twenty-Eighth, between Sixth and Seventh.”

  “Okay.”

  “M
eet me at the rooftop bar at nine this evening.”

  “Okay.” Before he could ask more questions, the line went dead. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was almost five now.

  At eight, Ryan sat at the inside bar adjacent to Cambria’s rooftop lounge. A baseball game played on the television. Three people chatted in a circle at the far end of the room. Through the massive sliding glass doors, he could see the Manhattan skyline. On the open-air roof, white wicker chairs with black cushions were neatly aligned around black wicker tables. Several wicker couches faced the glass railing with an excellent view of the setting sun as it dropped below the skyscrapers.

  He was partway through his second Stella Artois when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Caller ID read Emily Hunt.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Manhattan.”

  “Why are you there?”

  “Chasing a lead.” He stepped out to the roof and sat in a wicker chair, sinking deep into the cushions. His gaze roved over the high rises, marveling at the round wooden water tanks that dominated the rooftops. He propped a foot on the wicker coffee table and took a sip of beer.

  “Is everything okay?” Emily asked.

  “Everything is fine.” He glanced at his wrist. He’d put on a long-sleeved dress shirt to help cover the bandage.

  “Are you sure? Shelly called me and said you were on a personal vendetta.”

  Ryan took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he let it out. “I’m working a case.”

  A waitress appeared at his side, and he considered ordering a third beer but decided to wait until Karen arrived. He covered the phone, told the waitress he was expecting company, and described Karen to her. She pocketed the Andrew Jackson he handed her as she walked away.

  “Who are you meeting?” Emily asked when Ryan put the phone to his ear and told her he was back.

  “The wife of the man we’re tracking down.”

  “Ryan …”

  He could hear the displeasure in her voice. He’d been a hero not long ago. Now he was a rogue element on a vendetta, and the women were gossiping behind his back. Or Greg was using them as a conduit to express his displeasure.

  “Everything is fine, Em. I’m going to talk to this woman and then get on a plane to Texas. From there, we’re going to Belize.”

  “Just you, or you and Mango? Why isn’t he with you right now?”

  Ryan gazed out at the stunning view of the city. The buildings were ablaze with lights as far as he could see. “Greg, Mango, and I are going to Belize to meet with another source. That guy is supposed to put us in contact with our man.” He didn’t want to spell it all out, because he didn’t know who was listening. After last night, he had to be on his toes.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Shortly after I get back.”

  Her voice dripped with honey when she asked, “Do you have time to make a layover?”

  Ryan laughed. “Absolutely!”

  “Call me when you know your flight schedule.”

  “Will do, babe. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bye, sweetie.”

  He hung up the phone and rolled his beer bottle around in his hands. He wasn’t nervous about meeting Karen, but he didn’t enjoy interviews or stakeouts. This was outside his purview. He was a diver, an explosives expert, a carpenter, and a sailor. He could talk to beautiful women, and he’d done his fair share of it, but this was something other than a date. He sipped his beer again. DWR had eyes everywhere and they were tasked with “see it, report it.” He was the direct-action arm of the company. To him, action meant actively doing something, not poking around the edges with Aaron Grose and hiding out in a car to ambush a woman tending to her sick mother.

  He was ready to get into Jim Kilroy’s space and poke him. In the grand scheme of things, stopping one dealer wouldn’t end the illicit arms trade. Another would crop up to take Kilroy’s place, or two, or three. If history taught any lessons, it was that eventually arms dealers made a mistake and they were forced out of business, or arrested, or found dead with a bullet in the brain pan. It was Kilroy’s time to find a new line of work.

  Ryan shifted in his seat and fiddled with his phone. He’d downloaded an app that would allow him to record on his Android device. He plugged in his headphones and tested the system.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the waitress delivered Karen Kilroy to Ryan’s seat. She sat in the chair beside him and ordered a Cosmopolitan. Ryan ordered a third Stella. The waitress moved around the outside bar collecting empty glasses and bottles before returning inside. More patrons had arrived.

  Ryan discreetly clicked on the recording app and draped his earbuds over the chair arm. He hoped they didn’t pick up too much background noise. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Kilroy?”

  “Call me Karen, please.” She took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed-up cheeks. “Jim and I had a fight a couple of weeks ago. I left him and came up here.”

  “What did you fight about, Karen?”

  She fixed her pale blue eyes on him, and Ryan understood why Jim Kilroy had married her. “I found out he was an international arms dealer.”

  “How long have you been married to him?” Ryan asked incredulously.

  “Five years, next month. I knew Jim was a resort developer and had properties all over the Caribbean, but I didn’t find out about his other business until I overheard one of his phone calls.” She laid a hand on Ryan’s. “I swear I didn’t know he was supplying Arturo Guerrero’s men.”

  She amused him. She was a well-educated woman, yet she spoke like a young socialite and added a bit of New York flavor, which made her sound like a sorority girl. He knew better than to underestimate a well-educated woman married to an international arms dealer.

  “What was the phone call about?”

  “He was talking to a man named Darren. Darren was supposed to make a delivery, and something happened which made Jim irate. I’ve never heard him tear someone down like that.” She shook her head.

  “And you confronted Jim about it?”

  She stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut. After a moment, she said, “Yes.”

  The waitress set their drinks on the coffee table. She smiled at Ryan and asked if he needed anything else. Ryan shook his head and the waitress moved away.

  Karen leaned close to him and whispered, “Someone has a fan.”

  Ryan almost choked on his beer.

  “You have a girlfriend?” Karen asked. “You’re not married. You’re not wearing a ring, anyway, and you have no tan line where a ring would be. What’s your story?”

  “I have a girlfriend,” he replied.

  Karen smiled coyly. “A good-looking guy like you probably has them waiting in line.”

  “I can only handle one at a time.”

  Karen laughed, leaned back in her chair, Cosmo in hand, and crossed her long, tan legs. She took a sip while peering across the rim at Ryan.

  Trying to get back on track, Ryan asked, “What happened when you confronted your husband?”

  Karen took another drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. She leaned close to him. “He told me the truth. He supplies firearms, explosives, tanks, missiles, and even medical supplies to those who need them. He explained that at various times he works for the rebels and, at others, he works for the governments. It depends on the direction the wind is blowing and who’s willing to pay the most money.

  “I was angry at him and ran home to my mother. I was coming anyway. She’s been getting radiation. She has cervical cancer, Ryan, and it’s awful. Did you see how frail she looks?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “She’s been through such a difficult time lately. I had to come back, even if I wasn’t mad at Jim. I talked to my mother about it. She said it was just another part of his business. It is just business, isn’t it? He has contracts, and much of what he does is legitimate. He sells guns like some sell cars, or houses, or blenders
.”

  “People don’t kill each other with blenders, Karen.”

  Her mouth turned down in a frown. “I see what you mean.” She took another sip of the Cosmo. Ryan watched her lips curve over the rim of the martini glass again. She tilted her head back and drained the last bit of liquid, then waved the glass at the waitress.

  When the waitress arrived, Karen said, “I’d like another and get him a beer as well.”

  The waitress looked at Ryan, who nodded. He watched her walk away, enjoying the sway of her hips under tight black dress pants.

  “She’s a looker. No doubt she’d give you her number.”

  “I don’t doubt she would.” He already had it in his pocket. She’d handed it to him before Karen arrived. “Tell me about Darren. What kind of business does he do for your husband?”

  Karen tapped a manicured pink fingernail against her front tooth as she thought.

  Ryan prompted again, “Tell me exactly what Jim said to him over the phone.”

  “My goodness.” She frowned again and looked away to the horizon beyond the endless water barrels. “Let’s see; I was going down to Jim’s office at our home in the Bocas del Toro islands. That’s in Panama, on the Caribbean coast. We have such a beautiful place there. Every morning I walk on the beach and say hello to the children. I teach English at one of the schools when they need help. It’s wonderful.

  “I wanted to tell Jim about the lobster we were going to have for dinner. I’d just caught them myself. I love to scuba dive. Do you dive, Ryan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful! It’s so lovely, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Karen. Keep going.”

  “He left his office door open, which was unusual. I guess he thought I was going to be gone longer than I was. I heard him arguing with this Darren fellow. Jim was extremely upset because Darren hadn’t made a delivery to some men in Colombia. He must have reassured Jim everything would be all right, because Jim quieted down and told him he’d better get the job done because he had another shipment ready to go out. This one was bigger than the Colombia one. Jim said it was the biggest arms deal he’d ever made. Something about Santo Domingo.”