A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  When she awoke, she was lying in her bed, Farah wiping her head with a damp rag. The older woman smiled. “I was worried about you, my child.”

  “I had the most terrifying dream.”

  “You screamed several times while you were in your trance. I didn’t want to interrupt an important vision.”

  “Vision?” Joulie sat up.

  “Yes, you have seen the future.” Farah dabbed the rag against Joulie’s cheek.

  “How do you know?” the young woman asked, pushing aside Farrah’s hand as she sat up. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them.

  “I, too, had a vision,” Farrah explained. “That vision was of you, beside your dead parents. The loa showed me the path I must take. They have shown you the path you must take.”

  Joulie’s blue eyes narrowed, and her brow furrowed. “I can’t remember much of the vision.” She wondered how she could follow the gods’ path when she couldn’t remember what it was.

  “It will come to you at the right time.”

  “How long will I have to wait?”

  Farah shrugged. “I waited thirty-two years for my vision to come true.”

  “Thirty-two years!” Joulie exclaimed. She didn’t want to wait that long. She wanted to go to America. Somehow, she knew she would escape Haiti. She also knew she must marry Toussaint to be the thorn in his side as Mother had told her to be. That didn’t mean she was happy about it. Only by defeating him, could she earn her freedom.

  Joulie jolted back to the present. Every vivid detail of the vision was fresh in her mind. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten something so powerful, so real. Even the feelings of desire had returned to intensify her lustful thoughts.

  The phone was the present.

  She was the present.

  Quickly, she slid the phone into the pocket of her robe and adjusted the fabric to compensate for its weight. She tied the belt around her waist and crept to her bedroom door.

  She had willingly come to live with Toussaint and thought of him as her master, not a fiancé, for he used her status as a mambo to hold sway over the people and used her insights to help guide him. Still she dared not break his trust and sneaking out to see Ryan Weller would fracture their relationship. She had seen Toussaint beat, shoot, and starve people to death who betrayed him.

  She made her way along it on her tiptoes along the dark hallway, careful to not trip on the rugs or bump into the small tables. Her bare feet were silent on the cool tile floor. She paused outside Ryan’s room to look at the items he’d left on the table. Then she carefully eased off the door lock, craning her neck to see if anyone had heard the snick of metal on metal as the lock slid opened. She stepped inside. Before she let the door swing closed, she placed a small piece of cardboard she’d torn from a tissue box between the latch and the striker plate to prevent the door from locking.

  A thrill coursed through her body when she saw the man lying in bed. He sat up as she approached. She stopped at the edge of the mattress, conscious of his bare chest and the corded muscles of his arms. Slipping a hand into her robe pocket, she retrieved the phone. In the process of holding it out to him, her hand tugged the robe’s belt loose. Joulie wanted him to see her in her short, blue, satin nightgown.

  Ryan stared up at her. She felt self-conscious under his gaze. She wanted to reach for the belt and retie it to cover herself but left it open. If she was to be his present, then she should use all her charms to make him understand that he was to help her escape.

  She moved the phone closer to him, hyperextending her palm and fingers to allow him to see her offering. Without taking his eyes off hers, he took the phone. Shivers tickled her spine as his fingers brushed her palm.

  He flipped off the covers and stood to face the window. He was clad only in boxer briefs and she tried not to concentrate too hard on his muscular body as he walked to the window. He examined the phone in the low moon light and hit the button to power it up. He delighted her with a smile when it turned on, the screen’s glow reflecting on his face.

  Joulie watched as he dialed a number. He held the phone to his ear. The call went to voicemail. He dialed again. The call went to voicemail. This time he left a hurried message. “Greg, it’s me. Toussaint is offloading the cargo tomorrow.”

  Joulie moved to stand by the window. From here, she could see the moonlight on the waves. Absently, she played with a small gold pendant, sliding it back and forth along a gold chain. Farah had given it to her before she’d left with Toussaint. She heard Ryan dial another number. I like this view more than the one from my room. I’ll ask Toussaint if I can move. No! He’ll know I’ve been here.

  “Landis, it’s me, Ryan.”

  “Did you get yourself a phone?”

  “No, it’s a gift.”

  Joulie looked up sharply, eyes wide.

  He grinned at her. “I’m at Toussaint Bajeux’s house. We’re offloading the cargo from the Santo Domingo tomorrow morning.”

  Every hair on Joulie’s body seemed to stand on end when she heard the name of the ship. She tuned out the rest of the conversation as she saw the ship float through her vision and explode.

  Ryan snapped the phone shut and handed it to Joulie. The action broke her trance. She placed it in her pocket. The robe shifted, exposing more of her dark skin. She wanted to let it slide from her body and step into his arms, yet she sensed it was the wrong thing to do. He was preoccupied and seemed not to notice her nearly naked figure. She shrugged the robe back on and tied the belt.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  “Why are you engaged to him?”

  “It’s my duty,” she whispered, her voice resigned.

  “Why?”

  Joulie faced him, her blue eyes searching his face. “I am a symbol of the vodou goddess of love and the warrior mother. He wants me to use my gifts to convince men to follow him into battle and reunite the clans and families into one nation. We will use our natural resources to bring electricity, water, and food to our starving nation.”

  “That sounds like a memorized speech.”

  She shrugged and turned back to the window. She’d given the prepared speech many times.

  “Can vodou really help?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s deeply rooted in our heritage. Our spirituality comes from our African ancestors and vodou is a uniting part of our society. The Spanish and French forced us to accept Catholicism. They tried to wipe out our beliefs. But, our loa—our spirits—are still with us. We serve them, not worship them.”

  “You’re a vodou goddess?”

  “No.” She shook her head and smiled. “I am a mambo, a priestess.”

  After a long moment, Ryan asked, “You don’t want to help your country?”

  “I do, but not this way. Not by war. We’ve suffered enough.” She paused, drawing in a ragged breath. She placed her hand on his cheek and traced her fingertips along his skin. “You are in great danger.”

  “Yeah, so are you for being in here.”

  She felt him tilt his head into her hand. “No, the ship will blow up. I saw it in a vision.”

  “You can see the future?”

  “Only what the loa reveal to me.”

  “Can you see what Toussaint has planned?”

  “I am not a bokor⸻a sorcerer. I do not practice the dark magic. There are some things he keeps from me. I do not know, and I will not ask, either him or the gods.” A shiver racked her body.

  “What happens if we stop the shipment?”

  “Toussaint will try again. That’s why I brought you the phone. You need to kill him. For me and for my country.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Daylight found Dark Water circling outside Cap-Haïtien. Greg drove the Hatteras into the harbor and cruised the waterfront. Small fishing boats with ancient outboards littered the beaches, and rusty steel work vessels were rafted together in the middle of the anchorage.

  On the west side of Port de Cap-Haïtien was a
long concrete quay. Near the shore end of the quay was a collection of power and sailboats. Greg made for them, keeping careful watch on the depth sounder and the sonar.

  “Hey, Volk,” Greg said.

  The Russian was standing at the front of the bridge, one hand gripping the bridge’s hardtop cover for support. “Da?”

  “I think we should post a guard. We have the nicest boat in the place, and I don’t want anyone getting sticky fingers.”

  “What is this, sticky fingers?”

  “It means to steal. A person who steals has sticky fingers.”

  “Makes no sense.”

  Greg shrugged. Easing the boat toward the concrete pier, he instructed the Russians to hang fenders over the boat’s rail. He shook his head in disgust while he watched their clumsy attempts to knot the fender ropes to the boat rails.

  As they came alongside the pier, a man hustled out of a long, brown building. He smiled as he caught the bow line.

  Greg shouted to him, “Do you have any diesel?”

  “Non!”

  “Where can I get some?”

  The man pointed across the water. Greg glanced over his shoulder at a large power plant on a small peninsula. At the very end of the peninsula sat a squat building with a gray roof beside a dock occupied by four boats. Two more boats were tied to posts sticking out of the water.

  “Thanks,” Greg yelled.

  The man waved as Greg backed the boat away.

  “Shipwreck.” Volk pointed at a sunken boat lying on its side between the two docks.

  Greg had also seen the rusted hulks of at least two other wrecks lurking just below the waves. He spun the Hatteras and angled it toward the far dock. Beyond the rickety wooden pier Greg could see a massive, round above-ground fuel tank, longer than the crew cab pickup truck parked beside it.

  There was no space at the dock, so Greg had the men rig several more fenders. He came alongside the largest vessel and slowed just enough to kiss the steel fishing boat with Dark Water’s fenders. Immediately, one of the Russians jumped to the other boat and tied off the bow and stern lines.

  An older white man, with a shock of white hair and a white beard, came out of the marina building and jogged down the dock. He climbed on the boat where the Russian was tying off the lines and looked up at Greg.

  “Hell of a nice boat you got here.”

  “Thanks. We need some diesel.”

  The man shaded his brow with his hand. “Where ya headed?”

  “Trying to link up with a friend of ours.”

  “Right, right.” The man nodded. “I’m Billy Parker. I got your diesel. Gonna cost ya, and I don’t know if I can fill ya all the way up. Diesel can be scarce in these parts.”

  “I’ll take what I can get. Should get us down to Luperon.” Greg had done the calculations before they came into port and knew they could make the port city just across the Dominican border without taking on fuel, but every drop would help.

  “I know they got plenty of diesel down there. The Dominican Republic is a hell of a lot nicer than here.” He glanced down at the mess the Russian had made with the ropes. “These boys sure don’t know how to tie off a boat. You got any experienced crew with ya?”

  “Just what I got,” Greg told him. “We ran over from Jamaica.”

  “A far piece. That will make seamen out of ya, crossing the Windward.” He bent, untied the line, and rewrapped it around the cleat. He straightened and watched Greg ride down on the lift. “Sure am sorry we can’t get you off the boat. I can move this one if you need to get somewhere. Course we’d have to rafter ’er off you.”

  “No worries,” Greg said. “I’m all right. Anywhere close we can get some supplies?”

  “Got a few little stores down the road. You’ll be lucky if you find much. Damn hurricane preparation about wiped them out.”

  “I’d like to be gone before it hits.”

  “When’s your friend comin’ by?”

  “Should be any day now.”

  “I’d say if he don’t make it in the next day or two, you ought to light out for Luperon, get you a tank of diesel, and get the hell out of here.”

  “Sound advice.” Greg rolled over to the edge of the gunwale and leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner. “Should we post a guard? I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’d say you’d be pretty safe here. Course them Haitians get a look at a boat fine as this one and, well, you never know what might happen. If you got a gun on there, I’d keep it hidden, like. Don’t want them government people down here takin’ you off to the hoosegow. Say, before I go and forget, I’m gonna need to see your papers, and take the fee. Gotta make sure the government gets its take.”

  Greg went into the salon and came back with the boat’s papers and their passports. He paid the entrance fee, and Billy Parker took their documents to the building where he could copy them. Volk sent one of his minions to keep an eye on him.

  Ten minutes later, he was back. “We done took care of the paperwork. Everything is in order.” He handed back the packet of papers. “About that diesel?”

  Greg handed him a credit card which Billy took to the office. He came back carrying a long hose and plugged it into the fuel tank filler neck.

  “What’s the capacity of the tanks?”

  “Nineteen hundred gallons.”

  Billy Parker let out a whistle. “Ain’t no way I can put that much in. I can give you half.”

  “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” Greg said. The tanks were more than half empty from the long run. Ideally, he’d liked to fill them completely.

  “I’ll go watch the counter. You have one of them boys make sure the hose don’t come out.”

  “Roger that.” Greg pointed at the Russian who had tied off the boat and indicated he should watch the hose. The man nodded.

  Twenty minutes later, the tanks had all the fuel Billy Parker was willing to give them. He had Greg sign the credit card receipt.

  “Want a beer?” Greg asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Come on aboard.”

  Billy Parker stepped over the gunwale of the Hatteras. The soles of his bare feet were black with ingrained grime. He accepted the cold Stella Artois from Greg and took a took a long swig.

  “That sure is good. All we got is Prestige. Been a long time since I’ve had a Stateside beer.”

  “Why are you in Haiti?” Greg asked.

  Billy swirled his beer. “I came down here to help out after the earthquake in 2010. I kinda fell in love with the place. I mean, this place is kind of a paradise all its own, and the U.S. government sends my checks down here regular as clockwork. Helps to be retired.”

  “I appreciate the help,” Greg said.

  “Glad to be of service. This place keeps me busy, and I like it. Locals leave me alone, and I got me a Haitian woman to cook and clean. She does other stuff too, if you know what I mean.” He gave Greg a wink before draining his beer. “I gotta get back to work. You holler if you need anything.”

  “Will do,” Greg said. “Oh, hey, you know a guy by the name of Toussaint Bajeux?”

  Billy’s face clouded. “That the friend ya’s meetin’?”

  “No, just a guy I’m supposed to stay away from.”

  “You best stay away. That man is dangerous.”

  Billy Parker stepped off the boat and went back to his building.

  Volk, who had been leaning against the counter while listening to the exchange, said, “I’m going to send Alexei and Gregor to store. You check new messages.”

  Greg pulled out a tablet and connected to the internet. A new message from Floyd Landis appeared in his inbox:

  Toussaint Bajeux unloading Santo Domingo offshore Cap-Haïtien today.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Simon Duvermond sat in in the middle of the beat-up pickup truck’s bench seat, sandwiched between Wilky Ador and Evens Cotin. In the bed of the truck, three other men sat with their backs to the cab and tightly gripped t
he bedsides as the pickup bounced and swayed along a rutted sand road.

  Wilky stopped the truck at the head of a rough wooden dock. The men climbed out of the truck. Some lit cigarettes while they waited in the shade of a thatched-roof hut. Simon accidentally kicked a rotten fish carcass, and the men swore at him as the stench drove them from the shelter.

  They scanned Acul Bay, looking over the sun-drenched waters and green hills. The mouth of the bay was challenging to navigate due to the ever-changing shoals. It took a skilled pilot to maneuver through the small islets and sandbars. The navigational hazards had fooled more than one captain, and their shipwrecks now littered the ocean floor.

  Evens Cotin pointed at a small boat cutting a white wake through the blue water. In Creole, he said, “He’s here.”

  The men watched as the battered fishing vessel approached. A rickety white cabin hunched over the helm. Extending from the cabin to the stern of the boat was a metal frame covered by a frayed canvas top, bleached white from the sun. There was one man behind the wheel and another in the bow, holding a rope.

  Simon stamped out his cigarette and walked to the back of the truck. He opened the tailgate and pulled a heavy, wooden box to the rear of the bed. One of the men who’d ridden in the truck bed walked over and grabbed the other end of the wooden crate containing AK-47s and two RPG-7V2 reloadable rocket-propelled grenade launchers, spare magazines, and five grenades for the RPG launchers. They carried it onto the dock and set it down as the boat coasted to a stop. The bowman sprang out, tied a line to a dock post, and ran to the back to tie off the stern line.

  Simon and his mate loaded the box into the boat after Wilky, Evens, and two others stepped aboard. The bowman untied the bow line and pushed the boat away from the dock. The boat pivoted on the stern line. When the boat was perpendicular to the dock, the man unwrapped the stern line and leaped aboard. The driver bumped the drive into gear with a grinding thunk and they sped away.