A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  “No, I cut myself shaving.”

  “Very funny.” Lucy unwrapped the bandage and examined the sutured wound. After cleaning off the fresh blood, she rewrapped it. Noticing Ryan digging his palm into his eyes, she said, “Try not to rub it. The grit can scratch the cornea.”

  Ryan asked, “Did you guys check on the truck in the ditch on 197?”

  “We did,” Schlub said. “There wasn’t anyone in it. Plenty of blood, though.”

  Lucy packed away her kit and then tried to flush Ryan’s eye again. The grit didn’t move. She handed him a towel to wipe off his face.

  “Thanks, Lucy.” Ryan stood.

  “You need to see a doctor,” she replied as she repacked her kit.

  Detective Schlub and his partner stepped over as the paramedic put away her kit. Ryan thought the partner defined the term hatchet-faced.

  “Some party you went to, Greg,” Schlub said, pointing at the ruined sedan.

  Greg deadpanned, “I think they were gunning for us.”

  “You like to crack jokes, Mr. Olsen?” Hatchet Face asked, his tone low and menacing. “I don’t think it’s very humorous when someone starts shooting up my district.”

  “Calm down, Joe,” Schlub said. “Didn’t you see that poor car over there? Looks like Greg was the one getting shot at. Greg Olsen, this is Detective Joe Schroeder.”

  “Nice to meet you, Detective. This is Ryan Weller and Mango Hulsey. Ryan was with me in the car.”

  “We need statements from both of you,” Schroeder said.

  “If you don’t mind, George,” Greg said, “I’d like to send Ryan to the doctor to get his eye looked at. I’ll give you a statement, and you can get his later. I’ll have him come down to the station.”

  “Very accommodating of you.” Schlub pulled a small spiral notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll drive you, Ryan,” Mango volunteered.

  “Take him to see Doctor Foster,” Greg told Mango. “I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming.”

  Doctor Foster flipped Ryan’s eyelid inside out and used water and a cotton swab to clean a speck of asphalt off the back of the lid, then used a fluorescein stain to find two specks on the cornea. Both the lid and the cornea were flushed with water and stained again before the doctor declared Ryan’s eye debris-free and flipped the eyelid down.

  Ryan squeezed his eyes shut before blinking rapidly. “You got it.”

  The doctor clapped Ryan on the back. “Glad to be of service.”

  Back outside, Ryan told Mango to drive to the oil storage field across the canal from DWR. Ryan showed the guard his DWR badge and said, “We’re checking a pipe for a potential leak.”

  The guard, accustomed to seeing DWR personnel passing through his gate, waved them through. Mango wove his way through the clusters of tanks to the canal, where they climbed up to the sniper’s hide and knelt by the gray tarpaulin. It was held down at the two rear corners by two-pound cloth bags filled with steel shot. Two more weighted pouches lay askew at the head of the tarp.

  A Knight Armament M-110 semi-automatic sniper rifle lay on the steel roof beside a spotting scope. A stain of red blood marred the otherwise smooth surface.

  “Greg hit him at least,” Mango said.

  “Yeah, he must be slipping. Guess you need to work with him some more.” Ryan lay down behind the gun, careful to stay out of the blood pool, and peered through the spotting scope. The gun was aimed at the spot in the parking lot where Ryan had cowered. He guessed the sniper had dialed in the scope for Mango’s boat, and when the sniper had shifted to shoot him, he didn’t properly adjust for windage and distance.

  Ryan climbed to his feet, rolled the rifle and spotting scope in the tarp, and carried them down to the truck. “I was hoping this guy would give us a clue as to who’s hunting us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Hatteras had two staterooms, one in the bow and one on the starboard side. Both had their own attached heads. On the port side were two bunk rooms with two beds each and a shared head. The V-berth stateroom and bathroom had been modified for wheelchair accessibility, and Mango had claimed the starboard stateroom. Ryan didn’t mind the bunk room. It had more room than his old sailboat. He tossed his backpack on the bunk and dropped a duffle bag full of clothes on the deck. He stored the clothes in drawers under the bed, along with personal hygiene items.

  Greg used a small lift to lower himself down the stairs to the stateroom level from the salon and rolled into the stateroom. He carried two bags of his own and had a third strapped to the back of his chair. As he passed Ryan, he said, “Being a paraplegic requires a lot of extra crap.”

  Ryan leaned on the stateroom’s door jamb and watched Greg maneuver around the small room. He was at a loss for words when Greg commented on his disability. “You sure you’re up to this trip?”

  Greg spun around to face Ryan. “I spent a lot of time on this boat picking your ass out of the Gulf of Mexico last month. Pretty sure I can handle a few days to Belize.”

  “You could always fly down and meet us.”

  Greg shook his head. “No way.”

  Mango jumped in to defend Greg. “Come on, bro, the man says he’s good to go.”

  “Leave it to the gimps to stick together.”

  Greg and Mango both flipped Ryan the bird.

  “I got more gear to load, so you guys enjoy your party in here.” Ryan grinned at them before walking up to the salon. “Freakin’ gimps,” he muttered.

  Mango leaned out the stateroom door. “I heard that, ya able-bodied jerk.”

  They loaded scuba tanks, dive gear, boxes of food, water, and beer, along with guns and ammunition. The last items were stored in lockers concealed beneath bunks and in canisters built to look like plumbing in the engine room. These smuggler’s holds kept prying eyes from seeing the weaponry. Many countries considered the possession of firearms a jailable offense. While the men preferred not to break the law in their host countries, they also wanted to protect themselves from others who would do them harm.

  “You boys leaving so soon?”

  Ryan looked up the stairs from the stateroom level to see George Schlub standing in the Hatteras’s salon. The detective wore jeans and a black vest over a navy checked dress shirt. “We’re going down to Belize.”

  “Belize.” Schlub shook his head. “Well, that’s real nice, fleeing the country during an investigation. Belize is an extradition country.”

  “We have our own work to do, Detective,” Ryan said.

  Schlub looked around the salon, taking in the opulent finishes. “Nice boat you have. I never understood why they call it a salon when its spelled saloon.”

  “We’re all confused about that one,” Greg replied.

  “What did you call it in the Navy?” Schlub asked.

  “Captain’s quarters,” Mango quipped.

  “Good one.” Schlub turned to Ryan. “You haven’t been to my office like Greg promised.”

  “Did Greg give you a statement?”

  “Yes.” Schlub nodded.

  Ryan said, “Then that’s how it went down.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you.” Schlub leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his arms. “I’d like to hear how you got gravel in your eye. Rumor has it there were dueling snipers out here. Did you find the guy shooting at you?”

  “We didn’t,” Ryan said.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Want a beer?” Ryan asked.

  “No, I’m on duty.”

  Ryan popped the cap off a beer. He took a long swig. “Look, Detective, what did Greg call you, George?” Schlub nodded. “George, we have no idea who came after us. I’d tell you if I did. The sniper was gone when we found his hide, but he left his gun behind. Greg winged him. It was a fair fight, and he got away.”

  “That was police evidence. You tampered with a crime scene.”

  Ryan eyed the detective while he took another pull from his bottle. “No, Geo
rge. It’s a Homeland Security issue.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a DHS agent.”

  “I’m not. We do enough work for the government that they consider us a national security interest. I called a DHS agent I know, and he took the gun off my hands.”

  “You’re pulling that shit on me, huh?” Schlub shook his head. “I’m watching you Dark Water types. I don’t need any more violence in my town than the normal drugs, murders, rapes, and suicides.”

  “Well, George, I can’t make you any promises,” Ryan said. He sipped the beer and watched the detective.

  “Did Homeland tell you anything about the gun?” Schlub asked.

  “No prints and no trace.”

  “No NICS?” Schlub asked, referring to the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Check System, which potential gun buyers are processed through before they can purchase a gun from a Federal Firearms License dealer.

  “Nothing. Which doesn’t mean anything. We know illegal weapons come into this country every day.”

  “Or,” George said, “they bought it from a private seller.”

  “The gun was clean,” Ryan said. “It’s never been in the system. There were no prints on it.”

  “None on the cartridges?” Schlub asked. “That’s where most people slip up.”

  “No, and the ammunition was a standard, off-the-shelf brand.”

  “What about hair and fibers?”

  Ryan motioned Schlub to join him in the cockpit. Schlub leaned against the stainless-steel ladder to the bridge. He fished a stub of a cigar from his pocket and chewed on it while Ryan lit a cigarette. Ryan let out a stream of smoke and said, “The guy was lying under a gray tarp on that oil tank over there.” He pointed out the tallest tank across the canal. “I rolled the gun and spotting scope into the tarp and took it to San Antonio for examination. They found standard cotton clothing fibers from cheap stuff at Walmart.”

  “Are you kidding?” Schlub asked. “This sounds too good to be true.”

  “I wish I was, Detective. This guy’s a ghost. I want to know who’s shooting at us just as much as you do, if not more.”

  Schlub looked at Greg and Mango, who were listening silently to the exchange. “You guys all on the same page?”

  “Yes, we are,” Greg said.

  “What’s happening in Belize?” Schlub wanted to know.

  “Dive trip.”

  Schlub pulled the cigar stub from his mouth and rolled it in his fingers while staring thoughtfully at Ryan. He dropped the cigar into his pocket. “You boys be safe.”

  “We will, George. If we’re not here, your town will be a little safer.”

  Schlub cocked his head. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Volk watched José Luis Orozco scream at him. “You said you would kill him! You have not kept your promises! They were supposed to be dead. Muerte! Muerte! Muerte!” With each shouted word, his fists banged like gavels on the oak desk.

  The giant Russian sat beside Eduardo Sanchez. Both were across the desk from Orozco. Volk was quickly tiring of the little man’s antics and firmly believed he was in control of the cartel only because he was the most ruthless member. Close to the man’s hand was his big revolver and a mirror with a small hill of cocaine on it. Each time Orozco had slammed his fists onto the desk, a small white cloud had blossomed from the pile. Volk was pleasantly surprised to see there were no hookers in the room with them. It was unimaginable that this tyrant would remain in power for long. Nevertheless, he was in control and paying the bounty hunter’s bill.

  Hatred burned in the cartel leader’s black eyes. He grasped his goatee in a fist at the base of his chin. Two inches of hair stuck out the bottom of his hand and he stroked the hair several times in a soothing gesture.

  “Calm down,” Volk said. “You give yourself stroke.”

  “Calm down, Lobo? Calm down?” the man shouted. “I’m paying you a fortune to eliminate these men, and you’ve been thwarted at every turn.”

  “Hey, Patrón, dis Russian don’t need to be in our business,” Eduardo said. “We take care of our own. I tell you dis from da first day. We don’t need no help.”

  “You know, what, Eduardo, you’re right. Lobo, you need some competition. I’m going to offer a reward for dos Yanquis.” He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk. Volk’s expression did not change. “Two million dollars to the man who kills these asesinos.”

  “I will pass da message, jefe,” Eduardo said as he stood.

  “You want an international manhunt?” Volk asked.

  “It might be better than what you’ve done so far.”

  “I will kill them. You pay my fee plus two million dollars.”

  Orozco shook his head. “I’ll pay the bounty to whomever kills Ryan Weller and Mango Hulsey. If it’s you, I’ll pay you two million dollars.”

  “You pay me what you owe me,” Volk thundered. He knew better than to do business with these hot-blooded Mexicans. These drug dealers were volatile and prone to mood swings. Instead of letting him do his job and track down the men he wanted killed, Orozco was changing the game and the terms of their contract. Volk leaned forward in his chair.

  Orozco laid his hand on the pistol. “I will pay nothing for your failure. You can compete for the money like everyone else.”

  Volk ignored the pistol and stood. He strode to the office door and threw it open. “I take your money, and you pay me what you owe.” He slammed the door as he walked out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Juan Comacho stepped inside the dark interior of The Pitbull, a bar frequented by roughnecks, divers, and refinery workers in Texas City. He walked through the crowd and found a seat on a stool at the end of the bar. He watched the men shoot pool, drink beer, play cards, and pump quarters into the jukebox. Kid Rock screamed about being an illegitimate son of man. Comacho ordered a beer and sipped it while picking out his target.

  A man in a DWR polo shirt and jeans sat at a table drinking with a woman Comacho decided was a hooker. She wasn’t even a pretty one. He ordered two of what the man was drinking and ambled over to the table. He set a beer down in front of the man and told the hooker to beat it.

  “What do you mean, bub?” the man demanded.

  “I want to talk to you. After I get done, you can talk to the … the lady.”

  The woman stood and snatched the full Bud Light off the table.

  “Hey!” the man yelled.

  “Leave it. I’ll buy you another one.” Comacho sat down across from the guy.

  “Damn right you will.” The man crossed his arms. His face turned sullen. “Whatcha want?”

  Comacho set the other beer bottle on the table. “Here, have it. I didn’t drink out of it.”

  The man grabbed the bottle and drained half of it. Comacho, who had watched him guzzle at least six bottles of Bud Light before he’d walked over, shook his head. No wonder the guy was talking to that girl. He had on his beer goggles.

  “Whatcha want?” the man demanded again when he set down the bottle.

  “Information. I’ll make it worth your while.” Comacho glanced around the bar. For two million dollars, he figured Texas City was now home to the world’s largest hitman convention. He laid a folded one-hundred-dollar bill on the table under his palm and tilted his hand just enough for the guy to see it.

  “Kinda information?” the guy slurred.

  “Where did DWR’s Hatteras go?” Comacho asked.

  “The what?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “The big sportfisher that was sitting at Dark Water’s docks this morning. Where did it go?”

  He shrugged. “Hell, if I know.”

  “What about Ryan Weller, Greg Olsen, and Mango Hulsey?”

  “Oh, those guys.” The man’s eyes narrowed. The fog of booze seemed to clear away. “Got any more of those Ben Franklins?”

  Comacho nodded. He pulled a second one hundred from his pocket.

  The
guy shrugged and drank his beer.

  Comacho dug deeper and pulled out three more bills. He kept them under the table and fanned all five for the man to count.

  “Assholes went to Belize. Like they’re on vacation, or some shit.” He took a hit from the bottle. “I bust my ass all day long humping string to rigs, and all I see them do is ride around on that damned boat. You know what I mean? Like they’re too good to work.”

  Comacho ignored the tirade. This was why he’d picked this drunk. He’d just looked disgruntled and he was. “Where in Belize?”

  “Don’t know.” He shrugged.

  Comacho flagged down a waitress and ordered two more beers. When she brought the long necks, Comacho told her he would pay his new friend’s tab. She smiled and returned several minutes later with the bill. Comacho paid cash and left all five bills under his beer bottle. He had no doubt they would more than pay for the man’s evening dalliance.

  Walking from the bar, he glanced around once more. A foreign man sat in a corner, talking to another DWR worker. Money had a way of making people talk. These guys had no secrets to hide. Comacho thought they probably didn’t even know there was a bounty for two of their coworkers.

  Outside, Comacho climbed in his car. He started it and turned on the air conditioner, thankful for it sucking the humidity from the oppressive air. He drove across town to a hotel where he used a prepaid cell phone to dial his cousin, Andreas Zavala.

  “Hola, tipo, como estas,” Hey, dude, how are you? Zavala asked.

  “Muy bien.” I’m good. Comacho continued in Spanish. “Our friends are headed for Belize.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. They’re in a blue-and-white Hatteras sportfisher named Dark Water. It shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “I’ll have my playadores watch for it.”

  Comacho knew Zavala’s beachcombers didn’t look for shells or treasure, but parcels of drugs dropped by Columbia narcotics traffickers at set points to be picked up by their Mexican counterparts. Changing tides and weather conditions sometimes carried the packages away from the rendezvous location. They floated into the mangrove thickets and beaches along the Belizean coastline where the playadores recovered them and passed them on to Zavala.