A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Holding onto the metal frame for balance, Simon watched as the small archipelago at the mouth of the bay slid by. The knot in his stomach tightened. They were going to war.

  He recognized Rat Island, made famous by Christopher Columbus’s meeting with several indigenous Taíno there. Since Columbus’s invasion—the Haitians thought of it as such—many men had vied for control of the island nation. Toussaint Bajeux was another tyrant who believed he was in line for the throne.

  The men in the boat belonged to a rival gang, one that wanted to see the current administration remain in place. For years, the government had pitted the gangs against one another, using them to control neighborhoods, and implement political warfare for the power elites who provided weapons, cash, and protection.

  In 2006, the UN Stabilization Mission in Haiti began a crackdown on the gangs, raiding their bases, arresting leaders and their followers. These raids resulted in civilian casualties and extensive collateral damage. The UN deemed it a success. However, the families under the protection of the gangs saw increases in violence, rapes, and murders, some at the hands of the UN troops themselves.

  Many of the gang members were driven undercover. Leaders such as Toussaint Bajeux and Wilky Ador continued to run their businesses, protect their people, and advocate for clean water, food, and adequate housing despite the pressure from the government.

  Simon glanced over at the man he considered a friend and a mentor. Wilky stood beside the old captain, one hand braced on the back of the captain’s seat. He wore a gray T-shirt, dirty white pants with the cuffs rolled up past his ankles, and like his men, his feet were bare. Wilky had a quiet disposition, yet he commanded a large group of men on the Northwestern Peninsula. To allow their rival Toussaint Bajeux to take delivery of the weapons would mean death to many Haitians and cause even more strife in one of the poorest nations in the world.

  Simon moved closer to hear the captain and Wilky speak.

  The captain said, “The freighter is further away than we thought. Toussaint is unloading off the coast near Fort Liberte Bay. It will take us about an hour to get there.”

  Wilky nodded. “We must hurry to beat the storm.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Ryan Weller and Mango Hulsey stood at the rail of the ancient freighter, Santo Domingo. They stared down at the tugboat holding a barge in place alongside the cargo vessel. On the barge was a single pallet. Its twin swung from Santo Domingo’s crane.

  The pallet’s cargo was a steel box. By Ryan’s rough calculations, the gold in the two boxes was worth just north of twenty-five-million dollars. A steep price for guns and ammo.

  The crane swung the pallet inboard and lowered it into the freighter’s cargo hold. Oso took charge of moving it deeper into the ship while the crane retracted its cable and swung outboard again. The crewmen on the barge attached the crane hook to the second pallet and the crane operator hoisted it aboard.

  “Well, the man got paid, bro,” Mango said. “I sure would like to get my hands on some of that gold.”

  “You and me both,” Ryan said. He fingered the EFP detonator remote in his pocket.

  Along the southern horizon, dark clouds were forming. The flat sea conditions they’d enjoyed yesterday and early this morning were diminishing. Long, rolling swells pushed ahead of the storm, would make transferring cargo hazardous.

  The two men tracked the progress of the gold strong box as it disappeared into the Santo Domingo’s hold. Once it was unhooked and moved out of the way, the ship’s crew attached the crane hook to an MRAP. The tan truck with a boat-shaped bow frontend was capable of transporting six troops plus a driver and passenger. Mounted on top was an armor shielded M2 fifty-caliber machine gun.

  Ryan was about to press the EFP detonator when he saw a pallet with a large cardboard box on it. The top flaps had been peeled back and Ryan paused as he saw what was inside.

  “I’m going down there. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Ryan told Mango. “Stay right here.” He turned and jogged across the deck to the stairs and leaped down them two at a time. He stopped by Oso, who was acting as loadmaster.

  “This is going to take forever,” Ryan said to the first mate.

  “Si. We can feel the swells down here. How close is the storm?”

  “According to the radar, it’s still two days away. But it looks like it could be here any second.”

  Oso said with confidence, “We will finish in time.”

  Ryan looked at the long rows of Humvees and MRAPs sitting beside more crates of ammunition, rifles, tactical gear, load-bearing assault vests, RPGs, pistols, and a host of other items Toussaint Bajeux had ordered.

  Ryan walked over to the open cardboard box and lifted out two rEvo III rebreathers. Standard scuba diving gear consists of a tank mounted on the diver’s back. The diver breathes air from the tank and exhausts it into the water in what is known as open circuit operation. A rebreather functioned as a closed system, recycling and scrubbing the diver’s breath of carbon dioxide and injecting oxygen into the breathing loop. This allowed the diver to stay underwater longer and remain undetected.

  Pressing the button on each of the rebreather’s electronic consoles gave him the percentage of diluent and oxygen in their respective tanks and he was glad to see they were all full. He glanced up to motion for Mango to join him in their stateroom, but Mango wasn’t standing by the hold. Hefting the two rebreathers, Ryan began to walk away.

  “Where are you going with those?” Oso asked.

  “Toussaint won’t mind me taking a little payment for services rendered.” He wanted them as compensation for putting his ass on the line. If he was going to act like a mercenary, he should get paid like a mercenary. And he had formulated a new plan to escape from the ship and from the bounty. He and Mango would strap the rebreathers on, blow the EFP, and swim out of the sunken ship.

  “Bring those back,” Oso demanded.

  “I’m putting them in my cabin. I’ll take it up with Toussaint when I see him.”

  “They’re on the manifest. He’s paid for them and will want them.”

  “Like I said, I’ll take it up with him when I see him.”

  Oso pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Ryan. “Put them back.”

  “No, Oso. Put the pistol away.”

  “I will when you return the diving gear.”

  “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” Ryan kept walking. He paused at the top of a ladderwell and looked down at the stout Nicaraguan. The man had holstered his weapon and was checking items off a list on a clipboard.

  Ryan continued to his stateroom and set the rebreathers down on his bunk. He ran the automated function tests on both and double-checked tank pressures. Next, he strapped one on his back, opened the breathing loop, and breathed through it while watching the computer. There were no issues or leaks he could detect. He did the same for the second rebreather and found no problems with it.

  Ryan stowed the rebreathers and walked up to the bridge. He wanted to spend a minute with Guzmán. He felt bad for what he was about to do, and he wanted to warn the man, but, he couldn’t. Guzmán had a pair of binoculars to his eyes, focusing on the Haitian coast.

  “Anything interesting out there?” Ryan asked.

  “Some small boats.”

  “What about the weather?”

  Taking down the binos, Guzmán said, “It should hold long enough for us to unload.”

  Ryan looked down at the barge where crewmen were strapping down a Humvee.

  “What do you think about all of this?”

  The old man shrugged and pulled out a cigarette. He offered the pack to Ryan, who took one. Guzmán got his lit and looked back at the water. “It is not for me to say. I am only a ship captain.”

  “You ever want a job working for someone other than Kilroy, my boss would hire you.”

  “Who is your boss?”

  “Greg Olsen. He owns Dark Water Research.”

  Guzmán nodded. “I know of this compan
y. They are quite large.” He shrugged. “I have my ship, and I’m my own man.”

  Ryan shrugged. “The offer stands.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ryan went down the ladder to the main deck and joined Mango, who was staring into the ship’s hold.

  Mango said, “I don’t think we’ll make it. These guys are going too slow.”

  Ryan snubbed out his cigarette. “Don’t worry about it. Toussaint’s not going to get everything anyways.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Toussaint Bajeux stood on the beach several miles west of the entrance to Fort Liberte Bay. A mobile crane sat in the soft sand with its wheels and external legs on pads to keep the heavy machine from sinking into the ground. The operator was busy slinging the large military vehicles from barges run in through the surf by the tugboats. Between the MRAP’s weight maxing out the crane’s lifting capacity and the worsening weather, Toussaint employed groups of men to wade in and out of the water, dragging boxes and crates from the barges to stack them in the back of the off-loaded MRAPs and Hummers.

  Bajeux watched as the weather continued to worsen. The surf had built into three-foot swells which forced the tug captains to continually manipulate the boats to keep them from being forced onto the beach. The tug pushing twin barges struggled valiantly in the waves. At each link, where the three vessels connected, they surged and plunged when the waves passed under them.

  As quickly as possible, the men unloaded the trucks, stacked them with weapons, and then drove them to a rendezvous point further inland.

  Toussaint made a running leap and landed on the bow of a barge. He ran back to the tugboat and climbed onto the vessel’s bridge.

  “Hurry, we must unload as much as we can.”

  The tugboat captain was too busy jockeying his craft to object. He backed away from the beach, and the ride smoothed out as they passed the breakers.

  “The storm, she is worse,” the tug operator fretted.

  “Drive,” Toussaint commanded. He patted the holstered pistol on his hip.

  “Sir, my barges are not designed to be in the large swells.”

  “I’m paying you, non?”

  “Wi, but—”

  “Non! You will take us to the ship.”

  The captain turned his vessel toward the Santo Domingo. Waves battered the barges as they labored through seas.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The Hatteras GT63 sliced through the building waves. Spray cascaded off the wide Carolina bow flares. Greg steered them in a downwind leg of a search block that ran east into the Atlantic, north to Tortuga, and south to the Dominican Republic border. Greg reasoned the Santo Domingo would be close inshore to limit the amount of distance the tugs had to travel, which meant less than a mile out. These parameters made their search box smaller, but it still covered hundreds of square miles of open ocean.

  He heard the salon door open and slam shut before a Russian puked over the gunwale, joining his partner at the stern.

  Greg flipped open the console cover and pressed the button to zoom out the weather radar. Bands of rain were spread across the islands, pushed ahead of Hurricane Irma. The storm had already devastated the Lesser Antilles as she tracked along the ribbon of green jewels forming the Caribbean’s necklace.

  “This is going to get bad!” Greg yelled.

  “We hunt prey,” Volk said. “We have power to run away from storm.”

  “We should be running right now.”

  “You will not run.”

  The man was right. Greg wasn’t going to run. Not with Ryan and Mango so close. Their mission was almost over, and they would need a ride back to Texas City. Unfortunately, he’d brought the bad guys to the party. This was a coalescence of forces: Mother Nature, Volk, Toussaint Bajeux, Jim Kilroy, and who knows who else was lurking out there.

  Greg glanced down at the radar again. The hurricane had lessened to a Category 4, but was building again, bringing dangerous waves, deluges of rain, and winds strong enough to blow over the Hatteras. He closed the clear instrument cover and woke up the tablet. The current screen showed engine performance numbers. He opened an internet browser and began to scroll through hurricane news to gauge how fast the storm was moving and how much time they had to vacate the island.

  “Tugboats going out,” Volk reported.

  Greg looked up, surprised to see them steaming through building seas. He picked up a pair of binoculars and studied their path. They motored straight for an ancient freighter. He could see men milling about the freighter’s deck. Using the zoom, he concentrated on two men near the starboard rail. Greg recognized Ryan’s posture, the easy swing of his step as he moved, like a big, shambling, beach bum. Mango walked with a more mechanized gait, a slight sway to compensate for his prosthesis.

  “You see your comrades, da?”

  “Da, da,” Greg said in annoyance. He itched to grab his pistol from its a custom-made holster under the seat of his wheelchair. He’d placed it there when he’d gone down to take a nap before arriving in Cap-Haïtien. Right now was the perfect opportunity to grab the gun and dispatch the three goons. Except he would need to transfer from the high captain’s seat into his chair to grab it, and if he did, Volk was sure to turn around before he could draw and fire.

  He set the autopilot and swiveled in his seat.

  Volk sensed his movements and turned.

  “Just getting more comfortable.” Greg lifted himself up by the seat’s armrests to allow for a pressure relief to keep the blood circulating in his legs. He wanted to avoid getting a pressure sore on his bottom. It was a move Volk had seen him make thousands of times.

  “Don’t get cute,” Volk said.

  “I’m already cute enough.”

  Volk frowned. “Such lip from Americans. You are sarcastic brood.”

  Greg laughed as Volk turned back to his binoculars. He waited a minute more and glanced over his shoulder at the two men in the cockpit. They were still bent over the rail, praying to Neptune.

  Waiting a moment longer, he shifted again, and made the transfer down to the wheelchair.

  Volk swung around. “What are you doing?” he demanded again.

  “Just want to adjust the spray curtains.” Greg wheeled to the side of the bridge and pulled down the heavy plastic drapes hanging from the roof. He finished zipping the starboard side closed and went to the port side. He got the curtain down and secured before turning to see where his minder stood. Volk watched the freighter through his binoculars.

  Slowly, Greg reached between his legs and pulled the Sig Sauer .380 from its holster. The boat rolled heavily to starboard. He had to grab onto a rail to keep from tipping backward. His right hand brought the gun up.

  From ten feet away, Volk was impossible to miss. He braced his hand against the console and aimed the muzzle at Volk’s back. The man’s sheer mass alone meant Greg would have to hit him at least twice and maybe three times; the Mozambique Drill, two to the chest, one to the head.

  “Hey!” a Russian voice yelled from the cockpit.

  Volk spun as Greg fired. The shot went wide as the boat rolled. Greg pulled the trigger again.

  The big Russian dove at the man in the wheelchair. He slapped away the firearm before Greg could get off the third shot. The gun spun out of Greg’s hand and landed on the deck. It slid off the back of the bridge and into the cockpit. Greg’s hand stung from the blow. His eyes were tracking the gun, and he didn’t see the heavy hand smack him across the face. He reeled in the chair and fell over. His arms lurched out to catch himself.

  Before Greg could right himself, Volk shoved him all the way over. Greg tumbled onto the heaving deck and slammed into the settee. He winced as pain shot through his back and elbows. He looked up at the Russian looming over him.

  “I told you, no tricks!” Volk flipped the wheelchair upside down and ripped the gun holster off. He tossed it into the ocean. The chair slid across the deck and came to rest against one of the padded benches.

  Greg leve
red himself into a seated position and used his arms to take the weight off his butt.

  Alexi, one of the seasick Russians climbed onto the bridge. He pulled a gun from his waistband. “I kill?”

  “He’s not worth killing. A cripple who cannot even die properly.” Volk spat on the deck. “Get him into captain’s seat, so he can drive boat, unless one of you useless fools can do it.”

  They seized Greg roughly under the armpits and lifted him onto the settee.

  “Get his feet,” Alexei said.

  Volk grabbed Greg’s feet while Alexei lifted from behind and they transferred him into the seat.

  “Do not try stupid trick again,” Volk warned.

  “I had to try,” Greg said sullenly.

  “You will die next time.”

  “Stop telling me and just shoot me already! You think I like being a cripple?” Greg stared boldly into Volk’s face. Throwing his arms wide, Greg screamed, “Just do it!”

  Volk laughed so hard he had to grip his stomach. Between breaths, he said, “I kill you … ho, ho … after I kill your friend.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The spray coming off the bow of the fishing vessel had soaked Simon Duvermond to the skin. Except for the captain, and Wilky Ador, who stood under the small cabin roof, the rest were just as wet. Several of the men leaned over the rail, vomiting in time with the rolls of the boat. Simon had thrown a tarp over the crate to keep the guns dry.

  Simon felt the lurching of his stomach with each rise of the bow before it smacked hard into the next wave. He looked up from his misery when the captain shouted. On the horizon was a freighter that had seen better days. Rust streaked the sides where the faded, black paint had peeled off. A cloud of black smoke hung over the stern as the craft labored the stay in place. A tugboat and a barge were just coming alongside the freighter and a second tug pushing two barges was rapidly approaching.

  Simon stared at the name on the ship’s stern. In block white letters, it read Santo Domingo. As he watched, the ship’s crane began to hoist a desert tan American Humvee from its hold. There was no machine gun mounted in the armor-protected turret above the cabin.