A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  “Nice,” Ryan chuckled.

  “Seriously, if Oso sees you, he’ll stop you for a spot inspection. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.” Ryan slipped out the cabin door and made his way down to the storage compartment-turned-bomb factory.

  He kept the unlit cigarette behind his ear while he worked. He’d disarmed more EFPs than he cared to think about, giving him firsthand knowledge of how to build them. Ryan used a file he’d pilfered from the tool room and cut a groove into the pipe so the det wires wouldn’t be crimped when he tightened down the bolts. Then he fished the wires through the gap between the pipe and cap, finished screwing the cap bolts down. Finally, he molded the C-4 into the pipe around the detonator, leaving room for the conical cap, which he inserted with the cone point facing into the pipe. After repeating the procedure, he had two homemade insurgency devices. He set the detonators to the frequency of the car remote he’d use to trigger the EFPs, and then removed the battery from the remote. He didn’t want an accidental discharge.

  Ryan hid his bombs in the room by covering them with a length of heavy, two-inch diameter rope. Satisfied with his handiwork, he exited the compartment and walked up onto the main deck.

  He lit his cigarette which was now a bit soggy from sweat and saliva. It still tasted marvelous in the hot, afternoon sunshine. He made sure Oso saw him and when he finished his smoke, retreated to the bow of the ship.

  The main cargo area had access to the forward hold, a smaller version of the main hold. It was empty on this voyage and as Ryan stepped cautiously through the cavernous room, he could hear water rushing past the hull and feel the pulse of machinery though the deck plates. It was dark and eerie. He hurried forward to a hatch that would access the bow of the ship. Clicking on a small flashlight he’d brought from his backpack, he shoved open the door. The narrow grate of a walkway extended through the ribs and stringers to the very prow.

  Using the light, he inspected the hull to find a suitable location for his explosives. Not happy with the options he saw, Ryan got on his hands and knees, crawled under the decking of the forward hold, and shone the light around. He’d have to place the EFPs so they’d do maximum damage. If they didn’t punch a big enough hole, and Guzmán backed off the ship’s power and sent crews to secure watertight hatches and doors, the ship might have a chance of staying afloat. But Ryan knew they didn’t have the manpower or the supplies to make the necessary repairs to save the old girl. He stopped moving and focused the light. He’d spotted the perfect place to secure his charges.

  Ryan had to make two trips to the hold and enlisted Mango’s help to keep Oso and the crew distracted while he carried the EFPs to their final resting place. He braced them on either side of the keel, ensuring the projectiles would hammer though the thick, metal plating. Then he secured them in place by jamming pieces of old metal and wooden strongbacks, which were stored in the forward compartment for damage control, between the EFPs and the ribs they rested beside. He ran the thin detonator wires under the decking to the access hatch and wired the hatch hinges and locking mechanism with C-4. He placed the receiver above the door where it wouldn’t be seen.

  When he pressed the detonator, the door would blow off its hinges, then the penetrators would knock the bottom out of the old gal. The open door would allow the water to flow unimpeded into the forward hold.

  He was hot and sweating when he finished with the job. His clothes were dirty and wet from the water sloshing under the hold, so he took a moment to change. Then he climbed to the bridge where he found Captain Guzmán carefully observing the weather. Bands of rain were pushing north ahead of the hurricane.

  Guzmán said of the rain storm, “It will pass to the east.”

  The Santo Domingo was well out to sea to avoid the Haitian fishing vessels, which sometimes tried to capture and ransom freighters and other sailing vessels much like the Somali pirates had done. Ryan studied the charts laid out on the bridge’s table. They were marked with their precise position and scheduled arrival time. But his eyes traced depths along the ship’s course.

  He joined Guzmán on the bridge wing and lit a cigarette. “How soon until we contact Toussaint Bajeux?”

  “Not long, my friend,” Guzmán replied.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Greg Olsen powered the big Hatteras through the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. His Russian passengers were still seasick from their transition of the Windward Passage. The fifty-mile-wide channel between Cuba and Haiti was the main shipping lane into the Caribbean Sea. It was also the entrance to the Cayman Trench. Confused seas were common in the restriction formed by the Nicaraguan Rise and the Cayman Ridge where the earth plunged to nearly seventeen hundred feet in depth and two oceans collided.

  This was Greg’s first passage through the strait. For him, navigating around the slower freighter traffic was more hectic than the actual waves themselves.

  He had no compassion for his companions. He was just a boat-driving hostage at this point. When Greg had left the bar to find Volk, Volk had been waiting for him on Dark Water. After Greg transferred to the boat, Volk had his men drag him inside the salon. The goons had set him on the settee. Volk rummaged through the small bag attached to the wheelchair’s cushion where Greg kept his valuables. He’d taken the phone and scrolled through the contents until he found the message from Ryan and the conversations with Landis and Emily.

  Greg was helpless without his chair, and Volk had all the evidence in his hands. The bounty hunter had then pocketed the phone and turned to leave.

  “I’ll take you to Haiti,” Greg had said.

  Volk turned back and gave him a hard stare. “We leave you here, take boat.”

  “Do you or your men know anything about running a boat like this?”

  The blond giant had paused for a moment and then nodded as if he’d reached a decision. He had pointed at Greg. “You do nothing funny.”

  Now, only Volk kept him company on the bridge, his eyes on the instruments and chart plotter. The GPS’s destination countdown timer was getting lower as the miles became fewer. Greg would be happy to get to Cap-Haïtien. There were few places on the Haitian coast where a private boat could take on diesel fuel because most Haitians still conducted their trades via sailing vessels and most cruisers avoided the island like the plague.

  A long swath of bioluminescent phosphorescence bloomed in their wake. Above, the stars were intensely bright. Greg traced the shape of Ursa Major, aligning the two stars of the dipper, Merak and Dubhe, to point at Polaris, the North Star. They were not yet curtained by the clouds of the hurricane Greg knew were moving fast across the Atlantic. It was a race against time to locate Ryan and Mango and extract them before the storm hit.

  He could feel the vibrations of the big diesels through the wheel. It comforted him to know they were running true. He had cut back on the speed, explaining to an irate Russian the relationship between fuel consumption and knots per hour.

  “We are getting close. We find ship.”

  “We need fuel,” Greg emphasized by pointing at the gauges.

  Volk nodded. “I get drink?”

  “Grab me a soda.”

  Greg smiled. One of the benefits of his guests being seasick was their lack of appetite. They hadn’t taken advantage of the supplies he’d had loaded before leaving Jamaica.

  After Volk disappeared down the ladder, Greg switched on the console-mounted tablet. It took several agonizingly long minutes to boot up and connect to the satellite internet system.

  “What are you doing?” Volk demanded as he climbed back onto the bridge.

  Greg looked over his shoulder at the big Russian. “Checking my email. You want to find Ryan? I need to know if he’s communicated with me.”

  “You call him on phone.”

  Greg ignored Volk and focused on an email from Floyd Landis. He tapped it with his finger, and the screen changed to show the message. “I told you we’d find him. Look.” He pointed t
o the email.

  Volk set the can of soda on the console before leaning over Greg’s shoulder. His breath stank of garlic and rotten food. Greg shifted his weight to lean farther away. Together, they read the brief email:

  Toussaint Bajeux is one of the most feared warlords in Haiti. He controls much of the northeastern portion of the island with his base being somewhere near Cap-Haïtien. Toussaint is wanted by the DEA for narcotics trafficking and by Immigration for smuggling Haitians into the United States. The Haitian National Police have listed him as number two on their most wanted list. His fingers also extend deep into the Dominican Republic and into both nation’s police forces. He even has United Nations troops working for him in exchange for drugs, sex, and money.

  Toussaint has escaped multiple hits on his life, at least five that U.S. intelligence are aware of. If he is acquiring military hardware from Jim Kilroy, it’s a safe bet he will attempt to overthrow the sitting government in Haiti and declare himself president.

  I am in contact with the State Department and the CIA in an attempt to stop the weapons transfer. As you know, Haiti is extraordinarily corrupt, and we can expect no help from them.

  Landis

  Volk asked, “Where is Cap-Haïtien?”

  “I thought you knew all the third-world shitholes?” Greg had told Volk they were going to Haiti, but not their specific port, hoping to dump him in either Port-au-Prince or another town on the western coast when they stopped to fuel Dark Water.

  “Do not get smart with me.” Volk slapped Greg across the back of the head.

  “Ouch!” Greg cried and immediately rubbed his scalp.

  “I warn you no more. Next time, you die.”

  Greg closed the email and used the internet to locate a marina in Cap-Haïtien. The port city on the north coast of Haiti operated a full-service container facility with petroleum storage areas alongside a massive concrete quay. He needed a smaller marina to fuel his sportfisher.

  “What is taking long time?” Volk demanded after Greg had spent forty minutes looking for a marina.

  “I think there’s a marina in Cap-Haïtien.”

  “You think?” Volk asked incredulously.

  “I see pictures of one but can’t find a website. We have enough fuel to get there. It should take a few more hours to get around the northern peninsula and take the strait between Tortuga and the mainland. We can outrun any pirates or fishermen.” Greg plotted the course on the GPS screen and hit Go. A new course extended across the blue screen. Turning to Volk, he said, “You can man the wheel. I need some sleep.”

  “Unacceptable.” Volk crossed his arms.

  “Look, I know you’re used to living in a third-world mudhole—”

  Volk shouted. “Do not insult Mother Russia!”

  Greg waved a hand in dismissal. “We don’t have time to argue. Follow the GPS plot and take us to Cap-Haïtien. We’ll go in for fuel as soon as its daylight. We’ll spot the Santo Domingo in the morning.”

  “And have no fuel to chase?”

  Greg shrugged.

  “We go into Port-au-Prince and get fuel,” Volk demanded.

  “How, at gunpoint? According to everything I’ve read, nothing is open at night. You and I both know nothing good would happen. I like my boat and have no desire to give it to the Haitian government, or some other warlord. Gunplay will get us all thrown in jail.”

  “You are right,” Volk conceded.

  “I’m going down to my room to take a nap. I set the autopilot to run us in close to Cap-Haïtien and then turn circles. As long as the seas don’t blow up, we’ll be good.” He transferred from the captain’s seat into his wheelchair and rolled to the lift. Going down would be a delicate balancing act as the boat pitched and rolled while plowing through the waves.

  “You cannot leave.”

  “I need some sleep if we’re going to find the Santo Domingo.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Make sure we don’t hit anything. When the autopilot begins the circle run, drop us back to five knots.” He used the remote to lower the lift and, for the first time in three days, entered the main salon. Greg fixed a sandwich and drank a bottle of water before turning in.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  In 1670, Bertrand d’Ogeron founded Cap-Haïtien as a haven for French Calvinists. The tiny town grew exponentially as colonists, traders, slavers and farmers discovered the lush harbor. They transformed the city into the “Paris of the Antilles,” known around the world for its architecture, culture, and artistic lifestyle. Sugar, coffee, cotton, and indigo fueled the boom on the backs of thousands of natives and imported slaves. The city suffered the growing pangs of the small country and through the years it had been raped by its citizens, burned by pillagers, and destroyed by earthquakes and hurricanes. Yet the resilient citizens rebuilt again, and again, forging Cap-Haïtien into the vacation destination for Haiti’s upper class and tourists from around the globe.

  Squalid huts and shacks rose on the hills above Cap-Haïtien’s French architecture and thriving inner city. Slave rebellions, presidential coups, and revolutions had been hatched in this incubator; led by men who wanted nothing more than to bring food and water to their people, and to rise above the poverty that had stricken their country since the arrival of Columbus.

  Toussaint Bajeux fancied himself one of those revolutionaries, refined in the pressure cooker of poverty and injustice to rage against his masters in Port-au-Prince. His escalation to power was due to equal parts of violence and charm. He’d started as a low-level errand boy for Cap-Haïtien’s criminal patriarch, Stanley Joséph. He worked his way up through the ranks until he was a trusted member of Joséph’s inner circle. The aged Creole ran things with an iron fist and tried desperately to control the rivalries within his syndicates.

  These rivalries had cost Joséph his life, and Toussaint Bajeux, emerging from the man’s room with a bloody knife in his hand, had united the factions. Those who stood against him were killed, along with their families.

  Toussaint chose not to live in the inner city but in a modern home in the seaside resort of Rival Beach, an affluent suburb of Cap-Haïtien. From his front balcony, he had a commanding view of the harbor’s shipping channel and easy access to a high-powered fishing boat he kept at the beach. He had utilized it to escape assassination attempts more than once.

  Now, he stood braced against the deck railing, holding a pair of Leupold binoculars to his eyes. The noonday sun caused beads of sweat to form on his shaved head and roll down his temples. The red camp shirt clung to his body, and his white pants ballooned around his legs in the breeze. Removing the optics, he looked at his watch and then scanned the channel with his naked eye.

  “They are coming,” Jean Francois told his boss.

  Toussaint put the binoculars to his eyes again without comment.

  Francois lit a cigarette and watched the ocean. Long low waves rolled in and became clear, small breakers, lapping at the sand. Sunlight winked like diamonds on the water. A fresh wind carried the smell of brine with an undercurrent of raw sewage. Two massive cargo freighters steamed in from the Atlantic as a tanker exited the bay.

  “They know to contact you on the private number?” Francois asked.

  “Yes,” Toussaint responded irritably; binoculars still glued to his eyes.

  Francois nodded. “Would you like some shade, patwon?” —boss.

  “Non!” Toussaint tried to keep the anger from his voice. “Go inside, Jean Francois, if you’re hot. I can’t stand your complaining.”

  Francois left the balcony and returned several minutes later.

  “Phone call, patwon.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Ryan Weller. He says he is Jim Kilroy’s representative.”

  Toussaint handed the binoculars to Francois and strode to the telephone.

  “Where are you?” Toussaint demanded.

  “I’m on the Santo Domingo, two miles off Cap-Haïtien.”

  “You will go
to the Sans-Souci Palace, purchase a ticket to La Citadelle Laferrière. Hike to the Citadel. Take the stairs to the top of the Batterie Coidavid. I will meet you there tomorrow afternoon at four.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Citadelle Laferrière, simply known as the Citadel, was the mountaintop fortress built by Henri Christophe after Haiti gained independence from France in the early 1800s. Afraid the French would return, Christophe used slave labor to construct the fortification and equipped his redoubt with three hundred and sixty-five cannons.

  The shape and angle of the massive stone and masonry structure appeared like the prow of a ship slicing out of the bedrock of the three-thousand-foot high peak of Bonnet a L’Eveque mountain. Christophe had designed the fort to be impenetrable from attack and equipped it with cisterns and storerooms to sustain five thousand men for up to a year. The fortress never saw action and fell into disrepair as Haitians concentrated on the basic needs of survival.

  Ryan continued to fan through the pamphlet:

  In 1998, the UN declared the Citadel and Sans-Souci Palace as World Heritage Sites. The once-opulent structure of the palace was now one of the most significant tourist attractions on the island. Both the UN and the locals catered to the visitors, providing tours, and collecting funds to aid in the restoration of the two-hundred-year-old structures.

  Ryan quit reading and shoved the pamphlet back into the brochure stand. He glanced around to ensure his minder, Oso, had departed. They had ridden the ship’s tender to Cap-Haïtien and caught a cab to the palace. Ryan had jumped from the taxi as soon as it pulled to a stop and admonished Oso not to hang around.

  He crossed the stone veranda to where three teenaged boys laughed and chattered while sitting on a low stone wall outside the palace. Ryan found most Haitians spoke in Creole, a mixture of French, Spanish, English, and African dialect. He addressed the boys in the limited French he had gleaned while sailing through French Polynesia and the South Pacific. “Parlez-vous Anglais?” Do you speak English?