A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Toussaint sat forward and pressed his face to the glass. He reminded Ryan of a little kid on his first flight. Ryan glanced at the Joulie. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead. She hadn’t said a word, but when she caught him looking at her, she gave him a small, soft smile. The simple act lit up her entire face.

  There was no pleading in her eyes, just a beautiful woman with a charming smile, and he understood why Toussaint was in love with her, even if she didn’t love him.

  Tearing his gaze away from Joulie, he leaned forward to see out a window. When the helicopter turned into the breeze coming off the ocean, Ryan saw the landing pad. A shimmering pool occupied the space between the modern white stucco, steel, and glass house and the landing pad. Lush foliage and blooming flowers covered the terraced property. A small public road separated the home from the beach.

  Just after landing, the pilot slowed the rotor speed and asked his passengers to disembark. The group exited the aircraft, and the pilot took off as soon as they were clear.

  “Welcome to my home,” Toussaint said. He swung his arms wide to encompass the grandeur of the grounds.

  “A nice place,” Ryan said. “We have a saying in America, ‘The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.’”

  Ryan’s host gave him a hard look, then laughed. “A mercenary who speaks his mind. Are you afraid of spoiling your bargain?”

  “Not my bargain. You’ve already agreed to the terms.”

  “Your honesty and hostility can sabotage your employer’s deal.”

  “It wouldn’t break my heart.”

  “But it will break your bones, your spirit, and your life.”

  “I’m already a wanted man. You’ll have to pick a number.”

  Toussaint led the way into his home through sliding glass doors. He walked to a small bar and began to pour a drink. He suddenly turned and looked at Ryan. With the rum bottle in his left hand, Toussaint stroked his block of a chin with his right.

  “That’s right.” He smiled gleefully as he resumed pouring. “Joulie, this is the man who shot Arturo Guerrero.” Toussaint picked up his drink and turned to face Ryan. “You have a bounty on your head, non?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two million dollars, non?”

  Ryan nodded. “Correct.”

  Toussaint handed Ryan a glass of dark-colored liquor. “Fifteen-year-old Rhum Barbancourt, from Haiti’s oldest distillery.”

  Ryan tasted the rum. It was strong and smooth. His stomach growled at the scent of food coming from the kitchen. The last time he’d eaten was just after leaving the Santo Domingo when he and Oso had stopped for a traditional Haitian breakfast of spaghetti with diced hot dogs topped with ketchup.

  Toussaint led the way to a dining room. Ten chrome framed chairs, each with a different colored cushion, were pushed under a long chrome-and-glass table set with white China. Polished silver utensils nestled in white napkins.

  “Sit,” Toussaint commanded, taking his place at the head of the table.

  Ryan took a chair to Toussaint’s left. Joulie sat across from him on her fiancé’s right.

  A waiter began to pour wine and fill water glasses. A second man brought plates of food piled with chunks of roasted meat covered in slices of vegetables.

  “This is a Haitian specialty, my mercenary friend,” Toussaint said. “Griot, or fried pork, and pikliz, a combination of cabbage, onions, bell peppers, carrots, and my favorite Scotch bonnet peppers. The vegetables are pickled in white vinegar, salt, and garlic. It is magnifique.” He kissed his fingertips.

  Before Toussaint dug in, he motioned over his shoulder. A man stepped forward and bent down beside him. He cut a bite-size piece of pork and then stabbed a chunk of meat with a fork along with a healthy portion of vegetables. He shoved the large bite into his mouth and chewed. The warlord and the chef watched the man expectantly. The poison tester swallowed and smiled.

  The chef beamed.

  Ryan watched the curious scene with interest. The taste tester was the bodyguard who had accompanied them in the helicopter. Ryan first noticed him lurking in the darkness just beyond the glow of the candlelight in the small meeting room at the Citadel.

  Toussaint smiled at the chef, held his hand out, palm down, and used his fingers to wave the man away. The chef scurried back to the kitchen and Toussaint began to eat.

  Between bites, Ryan asked, “I saw quays in Cap-Haïtien, will we unload there?”

  Toussaint waved his fork in the air. Around a mouth full of food, he said, “No business while we eat.”

  Ryan glanced at Joulie. She smiled at the waiters and received beaming grins in return. She gave softly spoken directions to them and thanked them for serving the food. While they showed deference to Toussaint, they doted on Joulie.

  He went back to his meal. He had to admit the food was excellent.

  When Toussaint finished, the waiter collected the plates and brought steaming cups of hot chocolate. The drink was not like the hot chocolate Ryan’s mother made for him as a child, or the powdered version found onboard ships and in their MREs. This drink had hints of cinnamon and spices with a citrus bite, combining to make one of the best after-dinner beverages he’d ever drunk. He said as much to his host.

  “Ah, this is one of Joulie’s favorites.” Toussaint put his cup to his lips while watching her. She looked at him for the first time since they’d sat down at the table. When she gave Toussaint a smile, before sipping carefully from the steaming cup, Ryan saw it was different from the smile she’d given him.

  “Your fiancée doesn’t seem very happy to be in our company.”

  Toussaint laughed. “I assure you, she is most pleasant. Say something to our guest, mon amour.”

  Joulie smiled at Ryan. Again, the genuine emotion lit up her face. Her blue eyes sparkled. In a warm voice, tinged in her native patois, she said, “Welcome to our home, Mr. Weller. I am pleased you have enjoyed our food.”

  “I’m pleased to be here.” Ryan smiled back at her, wondering if Toussaint could hear the disconnect between the way Joulie spoke to him and the way she spoke to everyone else.

  “Come, Mr. Weller,” Toussaint said as he stood. He smiled. “We’re old friends now, we have dined together, a great … joie de vivre, how do you say …” For the first time he seemed at a loss for words, and he twirled a finger in the air as if trying to jumpstart his mind. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “A happiness derived from life.”

  Ryan snorted. “I wouldn’t say we’re thick as thieves.”

  Toussaint laughed again. “I really do like you, Ryan. May I call you Ryan?”

  “Sure.” Ryan shrugged and stood. He carried his glass of rum with him as he followed Toussaint into a study. The Haitian opened a box of cigars and withdrew two. He picked up his refilled glass of rum along with a lighter. They walked through a set of sliding glass doors and onto the pool deck. Small lights illuminated walkways, and the pool was lit with underwater bulbs which cast an eerie glow through the translucent water.

  When Toussaint offered Ryan a cigar, he passed.

  Toussaint lit his cigar before saying, “You asked about the quays in Cap-Haïtien?”

  “Yes, can we unload there?”

  “Non. We’ll unload at sea onto barges. There are too many eyes watching us at the port. Many work for me, but some for my competition. I want them to be surprised by my newly acquired military hardware.”

  “I assume you have the payment handy.”

  “But, of course.”

  “I’d like to be done with this tomorrow.”

  “As you say, the sooner, the better.”

  Ryan nodded. “May I make a phone call?”

  “Why? You are my guest. You are perfectly safe here.”

  “I want to make arrangements with the crew.”

  Toussaint waved his hand to dismiss the statement.

  Ryan fingered the two cigarette packages in his pocket. Cigars were good, but he preferred his Camels. One pack
contained his burst transmitter. He would use it to send a message to Greg, but he had no way of contacting Mango. He pulled out a cigarette from the regular pack and lit it. He asked, “Are you concerned about Hurricane Irma?”

  “Non. It is well to the south of us and will hit the Lesser Antilles first. They’ll reduce the force of the storm and it’ll be of little consequence by the time it reaches us.”

  “I’m cautious about unloading at sea with the weather approaching. It could mean heavy swells, which will make unloading cargo a royal pain.”

  Toussaint conceded the point with a nod. “Then we’ll need to unload quickly.”

  Ryan sipped his rum. The long hike to the Citadel had worn him out. Dinner and the rum made him sleepy. He took a final draw on his cigarette and crushed it out. “I hate to spoil the party, but I’m tired and ready to hit the sack.”

  Toussaint nodded. “I understand.”

  “Please excuse me, Mesye Bajeux.”

  “You speak Creole?” Toussaint asked, surprised his guest had used the Creole term for mister.

  “I heard it enough on the walk up to the Citadel. Every one of them beggar kids were so damned polite.” He shook his head.

  Toussaint laughed. “Let me show you to your room, Mesye Weller.”

  Ryan followed him through the house to a room with a view of the ocean.

  “Make yourself at home. But first, empty your pockets onto the table.”

  Ryan looked past the warlord at the guard who shadowed their every movement before dropping his cigarette packs, lighter, and folding knife onto the steel and glass table. He stepped into the room, and his host closed the door behind him. The door locked with a click.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jesula Duvermond finished storing the clean dishes in the cabinets of Toussaint Bajeux’s spacious kitchen. She wiped down the countertops and the center island before switching off the lights. Her work finished; she was thankful to be going home. She pulled off her apron as she walked down the road to her small home.

  Under the starlit sky, salt air mingled with the scent of hibiscus and wild impatiens. She turned off the road onto a path which would lead her cross country to the house in Rival Beach she shared with her husband and three children, as well as her mother and father. Her weathered hands gripped small trees to steady her descent. It was a journey she had made countless times since beginning her job at Bajeux’s home.

  A large man stepped out of the shadow of a tree. She let out a gasp and clutched a hand to her chest. “You startled me, Simon,” she said in Haitian Creole.

  “Mwen regret sa, Manman.” I am sorry, Mother. “Do you have news about Bajeux? He took her arm in his to help guide her down the path.

  “Wi, he has a visitor.” She continued in her native tongue, “His name is Ryan Weller and he’s delivering a load of weapons.”

  “Toussaint confirmed this?”

  “He said he was acquiring new military hardware.”

  “Where? When?” Simon asked.

  “Tomorrow. Toussaint will unload at sea. Onto barges.”

  At the door to their home, he kissed his mother’s cheek and disappeared into the darkness.

  Jesula said a prayer to the vodou gods and to the Holy Mother for the protection of her son. She made the sign of the cross over her breasts.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Unable to sleep, Joulie Lafitte slid from her bed. The glowing clock on the nightstand read two a.m. She pulled a black silk robe around her shoulders as she walked to the window. She gazed out at the darkened landscape lit by a half-moon. Her mind wasn’t on the beauty of the foliage or the barely audible murmur of waves on the beach. She was thinking of the handsome stranger two doors down.

  He had no fear of Toussaint and spoke to him without regard to his authority. She knew of no one who dared to speak to the warlord with such irreverence. It thrilled her to be in his presence. His commanding authority and his handsomeness aroused feelings she had forced into dormancy. But it was something more, she’d seen him before and had stood in his presence.

  Her thoughts trailed off as she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool window pane. She had grown up in a small mountain village near the Dominican Republic border. Her parents had eked out a living by farming the barren, rocky soil, and herding goats. She remembered a happy childhood, playing in the small stream, chasing the other children, and snuggling with Mother at night near the charcoal fire while she cooked their meal.

  Then, when Joulie was five, her world had changed without warning. An earthquake savaged the country and a landslide had killed her parents. She could still see their mangled corpses through teary eyes. She had called their names and patted their cheeks, but they wouldn’t answer her. Her hands became stained with the blood oozing from Mother’s nose and mouth, and Joulie’s lips tasted of copper from kissing Mother’s face.

  Joulie had been dragged away by a village elder and watched as they buried her parents in shallow graves with the rest of the dead. Several days later, an elderly woman arrived at the village. She walked with a strange stiffness and leaned on a staff to aid her movements. She’d explained that she was Joulie’s grandmother, Farah, the mother of her mother.

  Farah took Joulie back to her home. Joulie disliked the new town and deeply missed her parents. Farah sent her to a local school run by one of the many nongovernmental organizations operating in Haiti. She’d never seen a white woman before, and suddenly there was one teaching her about math and science, reading and writing. Dana told her class about going to college and traveling. The children all clamored to know about America and dreamed about living in a land where food and water were plentiful. Joulie wanted to go to America with Dana.

  At the same time, Farah tried to draw Joulie into her world. She was a mambo⸻a vodou priestess⸻and saw enormous potential in the young girl. She began to teach Joulie the spells, chants, and traditions of a priestess. Joulie didn’t want to learn the old ways. She wanted to go to the United States, and such practices were frowned upon there. Farah prepared a ceremony for her granddaughter and invoked the spirit of her mother, whom Farah had also taught to be a priestess. Mother’s spirit came into Joulie’s body, and she began to sway back and forth on her knees. Joulie could feel her mother inside of her, all around her, the love and affection Mother had shown her completely enveloped her. Mother whispered a message into her ear. “Help your people. A man will rise to power. You will be the thorn in his side.”

  When the trance broke, Joulie was left sweating, shaking, and gasping for breath on her hands and knees. It was almost terrifying to hear Mother’s voice. Yet, Joulie knew the message was real, and that she must prepare.

  She enveloped herself in vodou culture, learning to be a priestess and serving her people and the many gods they called upon. It wasn’t long before she developed a reputation for being able to speak to the spirits and deliver messages from the dead. She was able to see glimpses of the future and when she wanted to expound on them, Farah explained to her that as mambos they allowed the future to happen normally unless it revealed itself as it had in Joulie’s dream. People from surrounding villages began to seek her advice, asking her to cast spells, and to intervene with the dead.

  Just after Joulie’s seventeenth birthday, Farah came to her with a man whom she instantly recognized as the man Mother had whispered about. Her belly turned cold with fear. Farah introduced him as Toussaint Bajeux. He had come to seek her advice. By the time he left, Farah had arranged a marriage between the beautiful priestess and the warlord.

  Joulie turned away from the window. Her body shook as if she were cold. Even her teeth clattered. She couldn’t stop the shaking, no matter how tightly she clenched her muscles. She threw herself onto the bed and pulled the covers over her body. The shivering did not stop. Squeezing her eyes shut, she called to Mother.

  The image of a cell phone came into her mind.

  A present.

  For the man.

 
; Joulie sat bolt upright. The shivering stopped. She tossed back the covers and raced to the giant armoire. She pulled back the door and knelt on the terracotta tile. Reaching through the hems of dresses and coats, she found an old shoe she’d shoved into the back. Her hands closed around the rough leather and she drew it out. An old flip phone she’d secreted away several years ago slid out of the shoe. She didn’t know if the battery still had a charge. She prayed that it would work.

  As it dropped into her palm, she felt a jolt of electricity. Her eyes closed as she remembered a vision she’d had years ago, just after the announcement of her arranged marriage. It came to her now in startling clarity. In the vision, she was a leaf on an oak tree in a hurricane. As the leaf tore free of the tree, she felt the action inside of her body, a twisting, tearing, strain in every muscle, causing her to lay spread eagle on the ground and scream as if her limbs were being painfully stretched. Fluttered away from the tree, her body collapsed into a ball. She was floating on the breeze yet falling. The ground came up fast. She knew the impact would hurt and her body tensed in anticipation.

  Plummeting toward the earth, she saw a giant hand reach out. Curious, she thought. Why is it white?

  She landed in the palm. The fingers closed slightly to allow her to nestle into the flesh. She felt safe, warm, and content. The hand released her, and she stood on the ground, gazing up at a man with brown hair. She ran a hand along the man’s cheek and stared into his green eyes. She felt a deep longing to be with him, to satisfy and please him. She knew she must present him with a gift. As her fingertips left the man’s face, he smiled and instantly vanished.

  Joulie had closed her eyes, reveling in the soft warmth of the man’s presence. She drifted in darkness. A cargo ship floated out of the gloom. She realized she was standing on the ocean, watching it pass. Looking up at the vessel’s stern, she saw a name. She blinked but could not make it out. Then the ship disintegrated in a massive explosion.