A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Leaning on his cane, Moses stepped sideways onto the seawall before he maneuvered himself along the ledge to the resort’s wall. He grasped the wall and swung his leg around it. The old man had to stand there, legs straddling the fence, and caught his breath. He moved his trembling left leg around the wall and stepped off the seawall. Flowering bushes and palm trees provided shade and cover for his clandestine activities. He walked along the beach to the dinghy dock and stopped to admire the small boats. Some had durable plastic bottoms, some metal hulls, and others were made of wood. Several were nothing more than inflatable rubber rafts with oars.

  From one end of the island to the other, he’d been on the move, and he was tired. He was ready for a nap and a meal. Suddenly, he no longer felt the strain of his years. A smile crossed his creased face as his eyes found what he’d searched for all day. A RIB floated in the crystal-clear liquid, leaving a shadow on the sand beneath it. Painted on its nose were the words Dark Water. Moses rewarded himself by pulling a plastic bottle of gin from his pocket and taking a healthy slug.

  “Moses, what’ve I told you about sneaking onto the property?”

  The old man turned to see Aaron Grose standing behind him.

  “Sorry, Mista Grose.”

  “I told you, Moses, I’ll give you a job.”

  “Mighty generous, Mista Grose.”

  “Come on. You want something from the kitchen?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Aaron Grose accompanied the aged Miskito toward the rear entrance of the kitchen. Moses watched the few guests he could see who were not in the shadows of the setting sun. He saw a man in a wheelchair and a man with an artificial leg. He did not see a third man with them. Still, Moses felt elated. He had found the boat and the men for whom his boss was searching.

  Aaron instructed the cook to fix Moses a hamburger and fries.

  Aaron Grose was one of the few men who treated Moses like an equal and always offered him a job. Moses preferred to sit in the shade and nurse his bottle. He was an old man. He had no desire to wash dishes, clean up after white tourists, and say, “yes, suh, no, suh.”

  Moses finished his meal before slipping out of the kitchen. He walked a few blocks to the small home he shared with his son’s family. Pulling a cell phone from his pocket, he dialed a number on the mainland.

  “Weh di go aan, Moses?” What’s up, Moses? Andreas Zavala spoke in the broken English of Belizean Kriol.

  “De be here on Caye Caulker at da Caye Caulker Adventures.”

  “Fu Chroo?” Really?

  “Yes,” Moses confirmed. “Me see dim. De boat in da sea. Man with no leg and man in wheelchair.”

  “What aboot di uder mans?”

  “Ah no see. He mus be heres.”

  “Gud.” The man ended the call, and Moses closed his flip phone. He smiled as he stepped inside the house. He would have his reward money soon enough, and he would feed his whole family.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Greg, Mango, and Ryan ate a late breakfast and went in search of Aaron Grose. He informed them of Jim and Karen’s early morning departure on a dive charter. They would return in the late afternoon. Aaron handed the trio a laminated map of the local dive sites and suggested they visit some of them, and then come see him in the evening when he would introduce them to Jim.

  The men used the rest of the morning to perform maintenance on Dark Water. Once they were done, they ate a quick lunch and then loaded their dive gear into the RIB.

  When they arrived at the first dive sight, Ryan helped Greg shrug into his BCD and attach the twin steel, eighty-cubic-feet dive tanks, one on each side of his torso. Greg dove sidemount, a configuration made popular by cave divers. Carrying one tank on each side of his body kept Greg from rolling side to side and allowed him to achieve neutral buoyance with ease. Ryan splashed right behind him and watched as his friend pulled himself through the water with swimmer’s hand paddles and strong strokes of his arms. Greg wasn’t a fast swimmer, and he enjoyed poking around under the coral and checking out the sea life.

  They spent several hours exploring some of the shallower dive sites. It seemed the colors of the fish and coral were brighter and more vibrant nearer the equator. Sea turtles swam effortlessly beside them, barracudas lurked in the distance, grunts, parrotfish, and angelfish ducked in and out of the rocks. Lobsters waved their antennas and small crabs scuttled about on the sand.

  “That was awesome,” Mango exclaimed, climbing back in the RIB after the second dive.

  “Wish it was a shipwreck,” Ryan grumbled.

  “What’s the matter?” Greg asked. “You don’t like nature?”

  “I love nature,” Ryan said. “As long as it’s attached to a shipwreck.”

  All three laughed.

  Ryan did enjoy looking at coral and sea life. He especially enjoyed it when a lobster was in a mesh bag on his hip, and a fish was on the tip of his spear. He’d spent many hours of his youth freediving, spearfishing, and lobstering as he sailed around the world on his old Sabre 36, Sweet T. He felt a touch of melancholy as he thought about the loose of the sailboat that had been his home since he’d left North Carolina at eighteen.

  Mango ran the RIB back to Dark Water where the three showered before heading to dinner. While they saw Aaron Grose, he did not introduce them to either Darren Parsons or Jim Kilroy, even though they recognized both men from photographs provided by their DHS handler.

  After dinner, Mango excused himself to get his bag and head out to Dark Water. They’d decided to have someone spend the night on the boat for security purposes. Ryan had lost the game of rock-paper-scissors last night, making tonight Mango’s responsibility.

  Ryan interrupted him, saying, “I’ll do it. Stay in the hotel and enjoy the bed.”

  “You sure, bro? I don’t mind.”

  “I’m good.” Ryan stood and laid his napkin on the table. “I’m going for a walk before I go out.”

  “Be careful,” Greg admonished. The background information they’d read about Caye Caulker indicated crime was low on the island. Still, gang activity existed and the sale of drugs to tourists provided a criminal underbelly to paradise.

  At the north end of the island was a bar called The Lazy Lizard, drawing sunburned patrons like moths to a flame. Ryan ordered a Lighthouse beer from the bartender and walked out on the boardwalk overlooking a channel known as The Split. It separated the two islands which constituted Caye Caulker. The Split was popular with snorkelers, stand-up paddlers, kayakers, and bar bums.

  Ryan watched the sunset with the other customers. There were oohs and ahhs, reminding him of the sunset watchers in Key West’s Mallory Square. From the deck of the bar, cigarette smoke wafted down to Ryan. He was tempted to find the guy and bum a smoke from him.

  Emily had asked him to quit. Not just for her, but for his health. After being a two-pack-a-day smoker on overseas deployments, he’d cut back to one pack or less after leaving the Navy. Quitting cold turkey was tough. He considered patches and gum but felt they were just another form of addiction. If he wanted to quit, he would just quit. There was an unopened pack in his gear on Dark Water. He craved them.

  He finished his beer and headed back to Caye Caulker Adventures to retrieve the RIB and go to Dark Water. He walked along the street, listening to music spilling out into the night from little bars and restaurants. Ryan wished Emily was with him.

  His wandering mind snapped back to the present as he sensed someone behind him. Occasionally, he heard the slap of a sandal. He could feel the man’s eyes on him. Ryan focused on two men lounging against a small shack advertising high-speed internet and prepaid cell phones. Alarm bells clashed in his head. Behind him, the man was closing in. Ryan wanted to look back.

  Instead, he continued to walk at the same speed. He tensed his muscles. His ribs still ached, and his shoulders were sore. Ryan was ready for a fight and willing to bring it to the men waiting for him. He could almost taste the adrenaline as it surged through him. He walked
on, rolling his left wrist in the tight bandage. The men stepped away from the shack. Ryan knew the drill. They wanted him to stop, so the man trailing him could give him a tap on the back of the skull with a pipe, or a sap, or a bullet.

  “Bakra bwai, wee sen yu hoam.” White boy, we send you home.

  Ryan got the meaning, but not the exact interpretation. He stepped to his left, toward the man who’d spoken, wanting to gain distance from the lurker behind him. Ryan labeled the talker, Mouth. The one on the right became Muscle and the one behind him, Mystery. Muscle held a pipe in his right hand. Mouth had a shiny knife down by his leg. Ryan took two fast steps forward and punched Mouth in the mouth with the heel of his hand. The man’s jaw unhinged, and his knees sagged under him. Ryan followed the first punch with a hard left, driving Mouth into his buddy, Muscle.

  The movement threw Muscle off balance. Ryan turned to face Mystery. An iron pipe whistled past his head and slammed into his right shoulder. Pain exploded through his body and Ryan’s arm went numb. Muscle staggered out from under his friend. Mystery took the time to bring the pipe back like a batter lining up for a home run swing.

  Chapter Twenty

  Juan Comacho swung. Suddenly, the American ducked under the pipe, stepped into Comacho’s outstretched arms, and punched him in the side of the neck. Comacho dropped the pipe and clutched his throat, feeling the muscles spasm and constrict from the blow. He gasped, barely able to breathe, and fell to his knees. He watched the world spin around him in slow motion.

  Clutching his injured shoulder, the American turned and lashed his foot out at Muscle’s knee. Muscle, who Comacho knew as Carlos Rios, screamed in pain as his knee twisted and bent at an unnatural angle. Rios dropped his pipe and grabbed his knee. Their big victim-turned-assailant landed a sweeping left hook on Rios’s chin. Rios’s head snapped back, and his body went limp.

  Camacho knelt in the street looking at his two men sprawled in the dirt. He made little wheezing sounds as he struggled to breathe through his constricted windpipe. Both of his hands were on his throat in a vain attempt to ease the pain. His eyes tracked Ryan as Ryan attempted to rotate his right arm where the pipe had struck him. He raised the arm above his head and winced.

  Comacho staggered to his feet. People were crowding into the road to see what the commotion was about. He glanced at them and let his hands drop from his throat, even though it was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. He had to move, to get away from the man now advancing on him. He tried to swallow, but the swelling made it difficult. Panic rose in his chest as he started to hyperventilate.

  “Walk with me,” Ryan ordered in a low, calm voice.

  Comacho walked with the man instead of fighting. Even with a wounded wing, Comacho knew the American was more dangerous than most men he knew. They pushed through the throng of people and continued down Front Street.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ryan Weller clamped his hand on his attacker’s shoulder and guided him away from the street. The man wheezed from the neck punch. The other two attackers were still on the ground. Ryan wanted to put as much distance between them and himself as possible. He also wanted answers. They came to the beach and Ryan stopped under some palms. He forced the smaller man to sit in an Adirondack chair.

  Kneeling over him, Ryan carefully checked his attacker’s neck and throat. A bruise was starting to form in the shape of Ryan’s fist. “I hit you in the neck, probably did some damage to your trachea and larynx. You should be all right. The swelling will go down in a week, or so.”

  The man nodded, holding his throat. Ryan knew the unconscious clutching of the throat wouldn’t help him breathe.

  Ryan sat down on the arm of another chair. He worked his shoulder in a circle. It was painful, but the initial sting of the blow was going away. “What’s your name?”

  The man croaked, “Jua … Juan Comacho.”

  “All right, Juan, why’d you attack me?”

  “You … you are …” He swallowed before trying again, his throat visibly constricting. “You are asesino de Arturo Guerrero.” Ryan watched the man’s eyes drift to the sand and then up to lock onto his. “There is … two-million-dollar … bounty for … you and … Mango Hulsey.”

  With instant clarity, Ryan understood the attacks in both New York and Texas City. “Who ordered the bounty?”

  “José Luis … Orozco, new … leader of Aztlán … cartel.”

  “Did he send you after me?”

  Comacho shook his head stiffly, trying desperately to keep his neck still but still move his head.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself …”

  “You’re trying to collect the bounty.”

  “Me and every … body else in … da world.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan demanded. He needed to get a handle on this situation.

  “Eduardo Sanchez … Orozco’s lieutenant, passed … the word. You … will … will not get far. They will … will find you, especially … the Russian.”

  “What Russian, Juan?”

  “Volk … El Lobo.”

  “The Wolf?”

  “Si. He is hitman … Orozco … hired. I see his man.” Comacho gasped in a wheezing breath. “At bar in Texas … City where I got … information about where you … go. He’s not far … behind me. He may … be … here.”

  Comacho leaned forward in the chair. Snakelike, he whipped a knife from behind his back. He thrust it toward Ryan’s belly. Ryan slapped the strike away with his left hand. Excruciating pain tore up his arm and neck as he instinctually used his injured right arm to drive his fist through the little Mexican’s jaw. The knife dropped soundlessly into the sand. Comacho slumped over.

  Ryan jumped up and ran toward Caye Caulker Adventures.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Greg Olsen thanked the waitress for the beer and took a long swig of it. He relished the buzz the alcohol gave him. In the past hour, since Ryan had gone for a walk, he’d drunk six beers. A light night for him. He was finally coming to terms with his handicap. Becoming a paraplegic was a complication he had not handled well.

  Afghanistan soldiers had found a collection of plastics explosives, artillery shells, grenades, AK-47s, and ammo. As a commanding officer of the imbedded Navy EOD unit, Greg had chosen to take what he thought was the easy job. Since the government didn’t have facilities to store all the old ordnance—some of it gifts from the U.S. government to the Mujahideen to fight the Russians in the 1980s—the standard operating procedure was to blow the ammunition cache in place. Blowing the lot also prevented enemy forces from being able to use the munitions.

  Greg had taken four of his EOD team and sent the rest to check out a possible IED at an Army vehicle checkpoint. Greg’s convoy had been ambushed on the way to the ammo dump. His Humvee had been blasted open like a tin can by an IED. The blast sent shrapnel into his back, severing his spinal cord below the waist. Ryan had pulled him out of the Humvee and carried him to safety before charging off to counterattack.

  He set the beer bottle down. The adventure of chasing Ryan across the Gulf of Mexico and driving the rescue boat had helped excise some of his demons. He was useful, not the way he had been, but he added value to the team, and that made him feel good. Better than sitting in an office.

  There was no regret in his decision to wheel away from DWR’s management team. He felt less pressure to live up to the legacy of this grandfather and his father. He hoped that with less pressure he would have less depression, but it was still there, lurking in the shadows of his mind. It was easy to feel sorry for himself, and drinking often intensified those feelings until he had drowned them out. Unfortunately, he woke up every morning still afflicted with the same condition. And every day he tried to make his legs move as they had before. They always refused to answer his call.

  Picking up the beer again, he took a long swig to drain it. Just as he was setting it down, a massive explosion rocked the building. The front window of the restaurant blaste
d inward, showering everyone in glass shrapnel. Gunfire poured through the opening. Greg shoved himself backward, but the chair’s rear wheels struck something hard. Momentum tipped the chair over backward. He tucked his chin to his chest and wrapped his arms around his body. His shoulder blades slammed hard into the tile floor, and he let out a groan. The wheelchair slid out from under his legs.

  Bullets raked the wall above Greg. He tried to lie motionless on the floor. A spasm shook his leg. Behind him, bottles exploded, and dishes shattered. As the patrons stampeded from the building, they flipped over tables and cast aside chairs. Tourists were cut down in the gunfire. Someone stepped on Greg’s hand, and he screamed. He crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his body under the bar to get out of the way.

  Glancing to his right, he saw a woman lying on the floor. Her blonde hair splayed over her face and her brown eyes were blank. Blood oozed from slightly parted lips and pooled under her back. Greg struggled to get away and his hand slipped on something sticky. He brought it up to his face. His palm was red with blood. Turning, he saw Darren Parsons staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling with three bullet holes in his chest.

  Greg closed his eyes to shut out the carnage. At the same time, his body surged with adrenaline. His face, neck, and chest flushed with the powerful drug. Gunfire continued throughout the compound. Rolling onto his belly, he pulled himself along the floor toward his chair. Greg wished for a gun. Reaching his wheelchair, he jerked the footplate down, so the chair rested on all four wheels. Another explosion tore through the night.

  “I don’t want to die!” Greg’s waitress sobbed.

  Greg turned to see her lying spread eagle on the floor. “I think the last explosion was by the pool. If we keep down, we’ll be fine,” he lied to her. He manipulated his body into a seated position beside the wheelchair then levered himself up into it.