A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Now, the Santo Domingo cruised toward Haiti over the vast depths of the Cayman Trench. They were passing Jamaica to the north. In another day, they would cruise through the Windward Passage, the strait between Cuba and Haiti, before circling the island of Tortuga off Haiti’s northwest coast. Tortuga had been the original haunt of swashbuckling buccaneers, and still harbored modern-day pirates. Guzmán would rather spend an extra twelve hours circumnavigating the island than have a chance meeting with pirates while traversing La Tortue Channel.

  When they arrived off Cap-Haïtien, Ryan would contact Toussaint Bajeux. He was unsure how he would do this. Kilroy had assured him Toussaint would know when the ship had arrived in the port city.

  Ryan stood at the railing, watching the relentless waves. Winds off the African Coast pushed the swells across the Atlantic to wash onto the shores of North, Central, and South America, and all the islands in between. He gripped the rusty, pitted rail, feeling the flaking paint chips and corroded steel bite into his skin. He knew his hands would be stained orange from the rust, yet he continued to grip the pipe, tensing the muscles of his protesting forearms, triceps, and shoulders. His skinned knuckles turned white from the strain under his sun-reddened skin. His body still ached from the abuse of his fights.

  He was forced labor on this unregistered, untraceable dark ship. Having been on the bridge numerous times, he knew there was no automatic identification system broadcasting the ship’s name, GPS coordinates, speed, hull number, and course to the world via satellite uplinks to websites like marinetracker.com. The World War II era rust bucket had little more than an antiquated radar system from the same time period and a modern Furuno GPS and chart plotter.

  “I wish I had a cigarette,” he grumbled to himself, thinking about the unopened pack in his gear bag.

  Ryan closed his eyes and filled his nostrils with the salt air and acrid diesel smoke. Kilroy had promised to bargain for their release from Orozco with more weapons. Just what the world needed, more guns in the hands of outlaws, Ryan thought grimly. Would Orozco be satisfied with his own load of weapons? If not, what was the answer to their dilemma? If Ryan got caught trying to sabotage the operation, he and Mango would be right back in the crosshairs. Jim Kilroy knew where they worked. He’d done his homework, and someone was feeding him information. This made Ryan worry about Emily.

  He looked down at the water rushing off the bow of the ship and shook his head. He’d survived tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and other hazardous deployments around the world, but never tied himself down with a woman. He’d been a faceless cog in the wheel of the mighty military industrial complex. Retaliation for his actions in operations were taken out on other military units, or the bombmakers placed a bounty on his head like many other EOD technicians who routinely thwarted the enemies’ plans of destruction. The whole military industrial complex was there to back him up and protect him. When he’d left the theater of operations, the threats to his life had stopped.

  He was on his own now, and in a relationship. There was no hiding from bounty hunters and madmen bent on threatening family and friends. There would be no decamping for home, leaving the enemy on a foreign battlefield, and finding safety in America. No military might to ambush and blister the enemy. There was only one way to deal with these people, and that was head-on. He had to come up with a direct course of action because so far, he had winged it, and winging it had gotten him nowhere.

  Unfortunately, he had no plan. Too many unknown variables were being thrown at him.

  Ryan had just been the sharp end of the stick, thrust outside the wire to do battle with the evil forces lurking on America’s doorstep. As he moved higher in rank, he had become more involved in the planning and leadership of the team and their missions.

  Right now, he was racking his brain for all the skills he had learned. What kept coming to him was an often-repeated quote among military personnel, German strategist and Field Marshal Helmuth Karl von Moltke’s, “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy.”

  What came next was the old axiom, “It never hurts to have contingencies.”

  But what contingencies? If he didn’t know the players, or the playing field, how could he develop a plan, let alone contingencies? He smacked the railing with his palm and rust flakes fell as the rail vibrated. Get it together, Weller, you’re a highly-skilled operator trained to act and think tactically. Connect the dots. There’s no reason why you can’t figure this out.

  “Whatcha thinking about, bro?” Mango asked, walking up beside him.

  Ryan spit over the rail. “Trying to come up with a plan.”

  Mango shook his head and gave voice to what Ryan had been thinking all along. “Can’t plan for what we don’t know.”

  They were interrupted by Captain Guzmán, an aged Dominican with skin like wrinkled parchment and deep-set black eyes. Ryan wondered if he was as old as the ship itself. He was undoubtedly frail and weathered enough to match the ship’s exterior. The old man knew the currents and the winds better than most and could probably pilot the ship by just the stars and a sextant.

  Guzmán asked if they would like coffee, holding out two cups filled with the black brew. Ryan gripped the rail tighter; afraid he would boil over at the captain who had treated him with nothing but kindness. His anger was at himself and at Jim Kilroy. Ryan let out a long breath and nodded. He let go of the railing and felt the pressure ease in his sore muscles. He took the chipped ceramic mug in his stained hands. Ryan smiled as he felt the hot liquid burn his lip, just the way he liked his coffee, black like his soul.

  The captain handed Mango the other scarred cup before stepping back onto the bridge. A moment later he returned with his own mug. He looked up at Ryan and in Spanish said, “I know you’re in trouble.”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Ryan said.

  “The only true way out is death.” Guzmán sipped his coffee.

  “La verdad.” The truth.

  Guzmán nodded thoughtfully and watched the sun setting on the western horizon. In the time he’d been aboard, Ryan had grown to like the old man. They sipped coffee and silently watched the day turn into night.

  The captain pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one loose. He stuck it between his lips. He shook out another one and offered it to both men. Mango shook his head, but watched his friend closely, searching his face for weakness.

  Ryan succumbed to temptation and relieved the man of the cigarette. Guzmán’s leathery face cracked with a knowing smile. Mango shook his head as Ryan lit it.

  “You promised Emily you’d quit.”

  Ryan checked the anger rising inside of him and managed a terse, “You’ve never broke a promise to your wife?”

  “This is twice you promised her you’d quit, and you haven’t.”

  Ryan turned away. There was no winning the argument. They were picking at each other because they were captives on a journey neither wanted to take, to a country neither wanted to go. Ryan thrust the cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply. It felt good to breathe the pungent smoke and feel the rush of nicotine.

  The trio stood in silence as the sun slipped below the horizon. Guzmán dumped the dregs of his coffee overboard and retreated to the bridge with all three coffee cups. Ryan and Mango walked down the stairwell to the main deck.

  “I’ve got an idea for using the transmitter,” Mango said.

  Ryan stopped walking. He blew out some smoke. “Yeah?”

  “Isn’t it disguised as a pack of cigarettes?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan nodded.

  “Next time you go sunbathing, lay it out beside you.”

  Ryan scratched the stubble on his cheek. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Good, I’ll see you later.” Mango waved his hand in the air to dispel the smoke. “That thing stinks.”

  He turned away from Mango and leaned on the railing, knowing his forearms would be rust red to match his hands. The repetitious motion of bringing the cigar
ette to his mouth was soothing. When he’d drawn the last pull, he rose to his full six-foot height and stubbed the butt out on the railing. He pocketed the filter instead of tossing it into the water. Salt water could break down many things, but cigarette butts were not one of them. He disliked seeing his fellow man pollute the oceans with their careless actions.

  Ryan turned away from the rail and went to find the cigarettes in his kit.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Greg Olsen sat at the outside bar of the Royal Jamaica Yacht Club. With an ice-cold Red Stripe in his hand, he had a clear view of the turquoise pool surrounded by sun-bronzed beauties and splashing kids. Past the pool, a C-shaped breakwater protected a marina crowded with all manner of sail and motor vessels. Farther still were the dark blue waters of Kingston Harbor, framed by the verdant hills of Jamaica. His gaze traveled back to the sleek white and blue fiberglass of Dark Water.

  After arriving at the yacht club, he had taken on a full load of fuel and fresh water. He wanted to be ready to go the moment he received a signal from Ryan. Greg monitored the tracker website, had a mechanic check over Dark Water’s engines, and paid two men to scrub down her hull before applying a new coat of wax.

  The signal finally came. Greg was thankful because he had chewed his fingernails to the skin. He’d picked up the nervous habit of cleaning and cutting his nails with his teeth after his injury. For him, it was a calming action, and he noticed he was worrying his left thumbnail as he read the dispatch.

  Mango and I on cargo vessel Santo Domingo. Passing Jamaica today.

  Greg called Floyd Landis who had also seen the burst transmission and initiated satellite coverage of the Caribbean to look for the Santo Domingo. Without the industry-wide AIS, the ship would be difficult to track. Fortunately, they knew the starting and ending points of the vessel’s track. It wouldn’t be difficult to gauge the vessel’s speed and therefore its transition time.

  The next call Greg made was to Shelly Hughes.

  She answered on the third ring and sounded preoccupied.

  “Want me to call back?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Shelly said. He could hear her moving around. “How are you?” Her voice changed to the sweet, soft notes he enjoyed.

  “I can’t be too bad, I’m in Kingston, Jamaica.”

  “Have you heard from Ryan?”

  “Yeah, he sent me a message. I just got off the phone with Landis.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “All we know it that they’re heading for Haiti. Do we have any assets there?”

  Shelly moaned in disgust. “We had a few crews working on oil rigs for DINASA, but the Chinese ate us alive with contract prices. We ended up pulling everyone out. Right now, we’re moving everything out of the way of Hurricane Irma. Speaking of which, you are aware you’re in her projected track, right?”

  “I know. I’m ready to run if I need to.”

  “Keep a close eye on this storm. She’s one of the most powerful hurricanes ever registered.”

  “What about salvage vessels and crews?”

  “Nothing close. We moved everyone, Greg,” Shelly said in exasperation. Her voice steadied as she continued. “I’m prepared to send them in as soon as they’re needed and let me tell you this: Admiral Chatel and I are preparing to do goodwill operations for some of the smaller islands. This storm is going to damage a lot of homes, infrastructure, and equipment.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  “Do you have something in mind for one of our teams?” she asked. “We’re already stretched pretty thin.”

  “I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask. Is everything else good?”

  “I’d rather be in Jamaica with you.” Shelly had gotten a taste of action when she’d helped Greg race across the Gulf of Mexico to rescue Ryan and Mango after their sailboat had been shot out from under them.

  “I wish you were here, too,” Greg said. He took a sip of beer and watched two kids jump off the edge of the pool, wrap their arms around their knees to form cannonballs, and splash half a dozen dozing bikini-clad women. The cool water against their sun-warmed skin made them sit bolt upright. Several screamed in surprise. Greg laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Shelly demanded.

  “Kids jumping into the pool. Can you call Jennifer and Emily and let them know what’s going on?”

  “Can’t you do it? I’ve got work I need to get done, and you’re not busy.”

  “Why don’t you quit that stressful job and we can be Ryan’s chauffeurs?”

  “That sounds lovely, Greg …” she trailed off.

  Greg could hear another voice in the room.

  Shelly said, “I have to go.”

  “Love you.” Greg didn’t know if she heard him.

  Calling women to report on the progress of their men was not an activity he enjoyed. It felt too close to writing letters to the wives and families of sailors who had died under his command.

  He set the phone down on the bar top and motioned for another beer. Greg pointed to an empty shot glass resting on the surface. A minute later, the bikini-clad bartender brought a shot of Appleton Estate Jamaica Rum and a Red Stripe beer. Fortified, he picked up the phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Grigory Dmitri Morozov exited the plane, walked across the tarmac of Jamaica’s Norman Manley International Airport, and climbed into a black Suzuki Grand Vitara. The massive man had to turn sideways to squeeze his shoulders in and to stuff his long legs into the front passenger seat footwell. He swore in Russian and ratcheted the seat all the way back. It was not enough to keep his knees from still being wedged into the dash.

  The driver pulled away from the hanger, apologizing for the small vehicle. Volk ignored him and accepted a pistol from a man sitting behind the driver. He shook the Beretta 92F. The slide rattled. Volk shook his head in disgust at the lack of care the firearm had received and pulled the slide back. Next, he dropped the magazine and examined the full metal jacket rounds. He thumbed a cartridge out and looked at the name stamped into the brass. He held the bullet under the nose of his subordinate. In Russian, he said, “What is this shit? All the money I give you and you buy this junk?”

  “We bought the best we could through our street gang connections,” Alexei Rodin answered. “We didn’t have time to find decent weapons.”

  “What else did you get?”

  “Twelve-gauge Mossberg 500 shotguns.”

  Volk nodded and crammed the bullet back into the magazine. Angrily, he slammed the mag into the butt of the pistol and rested the gun in his lap. He missed working for the SVR, Russia’s external intelligence agency. There he had protection via diplomatic immunity and access to state secrets and resources. Pushed out by the petty politics and backstabbing created by the current czar for life, Vladimir Putin, Volk had become an outsider. He naturally fell into the lucrative wet work and bounty hunting offered by Chechen gangs and other organized criminal groups in the former Soviet satellite countries. After a stint as a lap dog for those pidarasy—assholes—he had stepped out on his own.

  Absentmindedly, he rattled the pistol again, and again he missed the convenience of a diplomatic pouch. He could carry his favorite pistol, a customized nine-millimeter Yarygin Grach, the preferred pistol of the Russian police, through international customs without anyone being the wiser. How many unsolved crimes had he committed with that gun? He sighed and thought ruefully of it lying in the bottom of the murky River Seine. Stupid bourgeois French Gendarmerie and their dogs chasing him through the arrondissements like a common criminal.

  Turning to Alexei, Volk asked, “How long until we arrive at the marina?”

  “Ten minutes, Grigory Grigoryevich.”

  Volk shoved the pistol barrel against Alexei’s head and roared, “Never call me that again.”

  Alexei, head jammed between the window and the gun, nodded.

  Volk had told him several times that he did not like being called by his first name, let alone bei
ng reminded he bore the last name of his father, a disloyal patriot.

  Alexei recognized his mistake in the time it took him to speak the words, and he quickly moved on. “Using the tracker, we placed on Greg Olsen’s Zodiac, we were able to follow him to the Royal Jamaican Yacht Club. We’ve been watching him since he arrived. He doesn’t leave the club grounds. He acts like he’s waiting for something.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Volk said.

  They drove along Buccaneer Beach, following the serpentine road past the Caribbean Maritime University to the yacht club. The driver parked the SUV under the shade of a tree just inside the yacht club grounds and shut off the engine.

  The three beefy Russians exited the Suzuki. Two were dressed in pressed slacks with long-sleeved dress shirts under sport coats while Volk sported a pair of khaki cargo pants and a Columbia fishing shirt. They left the shotguns in the vehicle and walked to the clubhouse.

  Volk bypassed the stairs, took a long ramp to the bar, and sat at the far end with his back to the breathtaking views of the harbor. He eyed the American in a wheelchair, who was eating a hamburger and washing it down with beer.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Greg Olsen watched the blond giant sit on a bar stool and order a beer. In the three days Greg had occupied a seat at the bar, he’d seen many people come and go and had made several interesting acquaintances, but Volk was the first Russian he’d seen. Greg recognized the man from a photo Landis had texted him after their phone conversation.

  What the hell is he doing here? Greg wondered.

  Trying to remain calm, Greg dragged a fry through a puddle of ketchup on his plate and shoved it into his mouth. They must be here because they think Ryan and Mango are on Dark Water. How did they find me?

  The answer was logical. They had put a tracker on Dark Water. He castigated himself for not checking the boat for tracking devices. Then he cursed his useless legs for not allowing him full access to all the boat’s spaces.