A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Evens Cotin jerked the tarp away from the weapons box. The men pushed through their seasickness and grabbed rifles. Simon found an RPG shoved into hands. Wilky Ador shouldered the second rocker launcher.

  Without orders, the captain increased the speed of his vessel, angling for the massive freighter. They closed the distance quickly.

  Wilky turned to Simon. “We shoot on my command. You will aim for the tugboat. I will aim for the ship. Fire and reload as fast as you can.”

  “Which tugboat?”

  Wilky grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Take your pick.”

  Simon was no stranger to the RPG-7. He had practiced with it on another boat. He and Wilky had each fired a rocket a piece.

  “You know what to do,” Wilky yelled and gave him a thumbs up.

  Simon nodded and turned to his RPG. He checked it over quickly and thumbed off the safety.

  “Run us in close,” Wilky yelled to the captain.

  The captain fed more fuel to the engine.

  Simon steadied himself against the starboard gunwale of the small craft which would pass the freighter on the starboard side, allowing Wilky the most advantageous shot. Simon lined up his rocket with the approaching tugboat.

  Ahead, the freighter loomed large over the smaller boat. People were now visible on the upper decks. Simon was oblivious to this as he waited for the command to fire. The waves made it hard to sight the rocket accurately. He prayed it would hit its intended target. He braced his head against the RPG’s round, wooden cover and stared down the iron sights.

  At two hundred meters, the rocket had a fifty percent chance of hitting its target. Every meter further away decreased its accuracy even more so. A crosswind could blow the warhead off its path. These were things Wilky Ador had told his pupil when they’d test fired their rockets. Simon didn’t doubt Wilky’s statements, and concentrated harder on adjusting for the roll and pitch of the two vessels.

  “Fire!” Wilky shouted an instant before he triggered his rocket.

  The RPG’s backblast ripped the tarp from its metal frame and ignited it in flames. Simon’s backblast scorched the wooden boat’s stern.

  Simon watched as his high-explosive anti-tank round screamed across the water. It missed the barges by mere inches and slammed into the bow of the tug. Simon bent to grab the second round as Wilky pulled the trigger on the fresh rocket he’d just loaded. The hot gases peeled off Simon’s skin as easily as it did his clothes. The blast’s concussive force flung his lifeless body over the side of the boat.

  Wilky’s first rocket had struck the water near the ship’s bow. The force of the explosion had stove-in the riveted plates of the freighter’s bow. He was too busy watching the second warhead, designed to penetrate armored steel, slice through the skin of the Santo Domingo and explode inside the freighter’s bow, to realize he had killed his friend.

  “Shoot!” Wilky commanded. His men began to fire wildly at the freighter and the tugboats.

  The gang leader turned to share a joyous moment with Simon. To his dismay, he couldn’t find his friend. Wilky shrugged and loaded the next warhead; the one Simon had been bending down to pick up.

  He aimed it at the tugboat tied alongside the listing freighter. With a grin on his face, he stroked the trigger and sent the rocket down range.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Greg’s head pounded from the smack Volk had given him. His ear rang, and he felt dizzy. He’d never been seasick, but if his equilibrium didn’t return soon, he might join the Russians as they chummed for fish.

  “Tiny boat is going to ram freighter,” Volk said.

  Greg, busy navigating some traffic as they circled off the coast, angled the Hatteras toward Santo Domingo for a better view.

  Light flared under the canopy of the tiny boat and the canvas top erupted in flames as it blew into the air. Then a second streak blazed away from the boat. Greg managed to see the first impact near the bow of the freighter. It hit the water just in front from the hull and sent up a geyser of water. The freighter’s bow plunged into the frothing sea. When it reemerged, Greg saw the hull plates had been knocked inward.

  He turned in the direction of a boom rolling across the water. A massive ball of fire erupted from the ragged hole torn in the tugboat’s skin.

  “Ho, ho, ho, ho!” Volk laughed, his deep baritone carrying over the wind.

  “What’s so funny?” Greg asked.

  “The man was blown off tiny boat by RPG.” Volk laughed again.

  Another explosion roiled the air when a warhead smacked into the bow of the Santo Domingo. A gaping hole appeared just above the water line and the freighter began listing to starboard as she continued to plunge through the seas.

  A fourth RPG round struck the tugboat alongside the freighter. The tugboat’s bridge exploded into flames. Shattered window glass shredded the air.

  Immediately following the RPG strikes, the men on the fishing boat opened fire with machine guns. Bullets pinged off sinking steel.

  “Get us out of here!” Volk shouted.

  Greg spun the wheel while shoving the throttles forward. He hated to run away from Ryan, but at the same time, he couldn’t help him if the Haitians damaged the Hatteras.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Ryan found himself face down on the deck of the freighter. His hands and knees ached from slamming into the unyielding steel. He shook his head and rose to his knees and then to his feet. Under him, the ship’s starboard list increased by the second.

  He saw Mango further forward, near the massive cargo hold opening. He, too, was climbing back to his feet. Both men ducked behind structure to avoid the incoming gunfire.

  Ryan ran hunched over toward Mango.

  “Get the lifeboats in the water!” Captain Guzmán shouted from the bridge. “Get the guns into action!”

  The machine guns Guzmán was screaming about were near the sinking bow of the Santo Domingo and covered by old oil drums to keep them clean and dry.

  “I’m going for the gun,” Ryan shouted to Mango.

  Together, they sprinted to the port side barrel and levered it off the gun. Ryan wasn’t surprised to find a well-oiled, professionally-maintained, M2 fifty-caliber “Ma Deuce” with a bandolier of bullets had already been fed into the chamber.

  The ex-Navy EOD technician jerked the gun’s charging handle back, grasped the double grips, and depressed the thumb trigger.

  “What are you doing?” Mango screamed over the roar of the gun. “Shoot those guys!” He pointed at the fishing boat.

  Ryan ignored him and continued to send burst after burst through the shattered windows of the second tugboat. The one he’d seen Toussaint Bajeux on. He aimed the gun low, allowing the thumb-sized bullets to blast through the tin skin of the tug and punch down through the bridge deck. He hoped he hit everyone taking cover there.

  The men in the fishing boat realized Ryan was manning the Ma Deuce and began concentrating their fire on his position. He swiveled the gun to aim at the smaller boat and rained fire down on them. It was like watching the hand of God strike. Green tracers formed a solid, visible rope of bullets. Wood splinters flew into the air and body parts exploded as Ryan walked the bullets down one side of the boat and back up the other. His machine gun clicked empty just before he could shoot the last man. They didn’t need to worry about him, because he threw away his rifle and dove into the water. The boat’s gasoline tank erupted in fire.

  “What do we do now?” Mango shouted. His ears still rang from the intense pounding of the fifty cal.

  “Come on,” Ryan yelled back, and he ran toward the bridge. The detonator in his pocket had been forgotten.

  Passing the crane at the base of the bridge, they saw Guzmán lying on his back in a pool of blood, legs twisted underneath him.

  Ryan kept moving and opened the port bridge castle hatch. The weight of the hatch and the angle of the ship caused the door to slam open and bounce against the bridge bulkhead. Ryan was thankful he’d jerked his fingers
off the edge of the door—they would have been cut off. He needed to be more careful.

  Santo Domingo was a ship who knew she was dying. She groaned in resignation as the ocean swirled in through the holes blasted through her skin. Unlike the new ships, she didn’t have a double-walled hull and watertight bulkheads to seal out the intruding water. Even if she did, there wasn’t any crew left to provide the damage control desperately needed to save her.

  Ryan and Mango ran half on the deck and half on the starboard bulkhead as they maneuvered deeper into the ship.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Toussaint Bajeux lay huddled in a corner of the tugboat with his hands over his head. The bullets had punched ragged, fist-sized holes through the tug’s aluminum skin. They’d ripped and tore at everything around him. Shattered window glass was strewn about the cabin and some had found its way into his clothes. Smoke poured from the hole in the bow where the rocket had detonated and ripped away a chunk of metal large enough to drive a car through, but it hadn’t done enough damage to sink the tug.

  “Cut away the barges! Cut away the barges!” the captain shouted as soon as the hailstorm of bullets stopped raining down. Both had taken refuge behind the large control console. It had sustained hits but was still relatively intact.

  “Get up, Mesye Bajeux. I must cut away the barges. I may be able to save the tug.”

  Toussaint looked up at the brilliant sunlight streaming through the bullet holes. He scrambled to his feet. Once again, he’d come through the fire unscathed. The loa were smiling on him, giving him a sign that he would conquer Haiti and rule forever.

  His elation was gone the instant he looked out the broken window. The Santo Domingo, along with its load of weapons and armament, was sinking. Of little consolation was the fact that the small fishing boat, which had initiated the attack, was being torn to shreds by automatic fire. He entreated Baron Samedi to deliver their souls to the Devil.

  Anger seethed though Bajeux when he caught sight of the two men manning the machine gun on the freighter. “Damned mercenaries.” Then he laughed when he thought of Ryan Weller’s defiance at being labeled as such.

  “Mesye Bajeux,” the captain shouted as he leapt back onto the tug and climbed to the bridge. “We must prepare to abandon ship.”

  “What?” Toussaint spun around.

  “The ship, she is sinking.” The captain ran off the bridge and scrambled up a ladder to the top of the tugboat.

  Toussaint followed. Together they stood on the roof, watching as the Santo Domingo succumbed to the sea, dragging the other tugboat and barge with her into the deep.

  Toussaint thought about the cargo on the sinking ship. They’d only unloaded a small portion of what he’d ordered from Jim Kilroy. While he could cause considerable damage, he didn’t believe he had enough to take over the government and hold it while he transformed the country. Sadness crept over him, not for the equipment, or the gold, or for himself, but for the people of his country.

  A horn sounded behind them. Toussaint turned to see his thirty-seven-foot Carver Voyager come alongside the floundering tug, Joulie at the wheel. She gave him a brief smile before he and the tugboat captain scrambled aboard the pleasure craft.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “Hey, bro,” Mango shouted. “We’re supposed to be getting off this tub.”

  “We are,” Ryan yelled back.

  “Want to explain that to me?”

  To keep from falling, they were clinging tightly to the port handrail as they descended a ladderwell.

  Ryan said, “If we go down with the ship, everyone’ll think we’re dead, right?”

  “Yeah, and we will be.”

  Ryan jerked open the door to their stateroom and leaped back to let the hatch swing through its arc. They clawed their way into the stateroom on the port side of the ship. The deck was almost at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “You ever dive with a rebreather?” Ryan asked.

  “A few times, we had the old Draeger units.”

  “These are a little more sophisticated, and a lot easier to use. I already checked them out. They’re good to go.”

  “We’re going to swim out of here?”

  “Yep.” He grabbed his gear bag and pulled it out from under his bunk. “We’re going to sit down in the hold and wait for the ship to sink. Then we’ll swim to shore. Everyone will think we’re dead. End of bounty. End of story.”

  “What about Jennifer? I can’t die without telling my wife.”

  “We’ll hide out on Haiti until the hurricane passes. After that, we’ll cross over to the Dominican Republic and find a ride home.”

  “This sounds complicated, bro.”

  Ryan pulled mask, fins, and boots out of his gear bag. He stepped out of his worn Top-Siders and shoved his feet into neoprene dive boots. Mango followed suit with his own gear.

  “So, were you planning this all along, or what?”

  “I had no idea we were going to get attacked,” Ryan replied.

  “Then why steal the rebreathers? I watched that little showdown you had with Oso.”

  “Because I decided I was a mercenary and I wanted to get paid. These babies are like eight grand a piece.” He held up the car remote. “And I rigged the ship with explosives.”

  “That’s what you were doing?”

  Ryan chuckled as he helped Mango shoulder the rebreather.

  Mango asked, “How were we going to get off the ship before you stole the rebreathers?”

  “Lifeboat.”

  When he had Mango adjusted, he slung the second rebreather onto his back and explained the rEvo’s procedures as he buckled and tightened the straps.

  “So, the fishing boat was just a coincidence?”

  “Pretty much. Must be one of Toussaint’s rivals.”

  “Think you hit him when you were spraying the tugboat?”

  “Let’s hope so.” Ryan strapped a dive knife to his calf.

  Holding his fins in his hands, Ryan led the way deeper into the ship’s bowels. He wanted to be in Santo Domingo’s hold as it went down. If the ship rolled further to the starboard, or over completely, the hold would be the easiest place to navigate out from. Even though they’d spent the last several weeks on the Santo Domingo and were intimately familiar with her layout, those same ladders, passageways, and decks would look distinctly different upside down.

  The lower they went, the more water they encountered. Two decks above the main hold, water boiled out of the hatches.

  “Good time to test our gear.”

  “Good luck, bro,” Mango said.

  Ryan turned and clasped the hand Mango held out. They chest-bumped in a buddy hug and set about donning their fins and masks. Ryan opened the breathing loop and took a deep breath. He watched Mango do the same, and Mango signaled he was ready to dive.

  Holding the railing, Ryan pulled himself down through the restriction. Once past the hatch, the force of the water flow lessened, although not completely. He realized they didn’t have any weights to compensate for their buoyancy. He hoped the dive lockers containing the lead weights hadn’t been craned over to the barges yet. Otherwise, they would need to find something else to help hold them down.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Mango right behind him. They descended through the next ladderwell, following the light coming in through the cargo hold. Once past the last hatch, they swam through the flooded cargo bay and dropped down to a row of Humvees still chained to the deck.

  Ryan found the pallet with the diving gear on it and helped Mango stuff lead weights into his pockets. Mango did the same for his dive buddy. On the pallet were several tanks of one-hundred-percent oxygen and others marked with partial blends. Ryan grabbed two bottles of oxygen and two bottles of compressed air.

  They put the spare bottles in the front footwell of a Humvee and climbed into the rear seats to wait for the ship to finish sinking.

  All around them the ship moaned with exertion. Items tumbled and rolled as the list b
ecame more pronounced. Chains holding one of the MRAPs gave way. The heavy vehicle plunged in slow motion into the Humvee in front of Ryan and Mango’s refuge. The chains on the driver’s side of the Humvee broke, and the weight of the MRAP shoved it onto its side. The MRAP flipped over onto its top, coming to rest with its nose on the Humvee and the rear bumper jammed against the ship’s hull.

  Ryan glanced at his dive computer. They’d passed one hundred feet in depth and were still dropping like a stone. When he’d last glanced at the depth sounder on the Santo Domingo’s bridge, while offering Guzmán a job, it had read four hundred feet. According to the charts, the ship was steaming along the continental shelf where the island’s ancient volcanic sides dropped deep into the ocean. The ship had angled inshore to gain a respite from the waves and the depth chart said the seabed rose up quickly.

  He prayed he was correct, and the inertia of the ship would guide them into shallower water, closer to the fifty-fathom mark—three hundred feet. That depth was well beyond the recreational limit for scuba divers and would limit salvage operations on the vessel. The gold was there, and it would draw Kilroy and anyone else who knew about it like a Siren. And like the mythical Greek creatures, Ryan had no doubts that the search for Santo Domingo’s treasure would lure men to their deaths.

  Terrible screeching sounds ripped through the water as the increasing water pressure slowly crushed the ship’s hull. In the fading light, Ryan could see Mango’s face. He couldn’t read his expression. Mango must have sensed him looking and glanced over. Ryan flashed an okay sign with each hand. The gesture of reassurance did little to help the panic in Mango’s eyes.

  From inside the Humvee, they felt the whole ship shift and shudder as the ship’s bow buried itself into the seafloor. It quivered like an arrow stuck in the dirt. Slowly, the stern began to settle to the ground.