by Evan Graver
“Lead on.” Mango swept an open hand in the direction the road headed.
They continued walking, eventually coming to a small crossroad. A pickup truck with three different colored fenders was half on the road and half in the ditch. From the tracks, it appeared the man had attempted a U-turn and the truck’s rear wheel had dropped into a small hole. When the gray-haired Haitian man gunned the motor, only the wheel over the hole spun.
“Can you give us a ride to town?” Ryan asked.
The man looked at him blankly then started speaking in Creole while gesturing at the back of the truck.
Ryan held up an okay sign. He and Mango went to the back of the truck and leaned on the rusty tailgate. When they had their feet set, Ryan shouted for the man to go and Mango gestured forward with his hand. The old man trounced on the gas, and his two pushers leaned in hard. The truck eased forward with the back tire slipping and spitting sand as it tried to grab traction.
Suddenly, the truck shot forward. Ryan and Mango lost their balance and fell to the ground. They were showered with sand as both tires bit and accelerated.
“Great,” Ryan muttered as the truck rocketed away.
He climbed slowly to his feet and then helped Mango up. In the distance, the truck stopped on the side of the sandy road. The right backup light came on as the driver shifted the transmission into reverse. The truck barreled backward, and the driver slammed on the brakes to bring the truck to a stop beside them.
The old man hopped out of the cab. He pointed at his saviors and motioned for them to get into the truck bed. “Hello. Hello,” he repeated with a broad smile. “Hello.” He smacked the truck bed with his hands and motioned again for them to get in.
Mango was first to climb in. Ryan followed as the old man got back in his truck cab. He mashed the accelerator. The tires spit dirt, and the truck bounced and swayed and lurched down the rutted road. Ryan felt like his teeth were going to rattle out of his head. He kept a death grip on the sides of the truck bed and braced himself with his feet.
Ten minutes later, the truck slewed sideways as the driver turned onto another road. This one was at least smooth, and the passengers were able to relax their white-knuckled fingers.
The truck stopped in front of a squat cement block building with a steeply-sloped roof and a cross hanging from the peak. A small cluster of homes and shops circled the church. From the driver’s seat, the Haitian motioned for them to exit the truck bed. Ryan and Mango dismounted and stood in front of the block building. The truck sped away.
Mango spun in a slow circle. “This is one of those ‘blink-and-you-miss-it’ places.”
The door to the block building opened. A middle-aged black man with close-cropped hair stepped out. He was thin to the point of emaciation, yet his clothes appeared tailored to his slim figure. He smiled with stained brown teeth, and said, “Welcome to Paulette.”
“Who are you?” Mango asked.
“I’m Marco Vilmar. I’m the pastor of this church.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the building.
Both men shook hands with the pastor and introduced themselves.
Marco invited them inside and they followed him through the door.
“Is there a place to get something to eat and drink around here?” Mango asked.
“I was just sitting down to supper,” Marco said. “Please join me, I would love company.”
“Thank you,” Mango accepted for both men.
Ryan asked, “Do you have a cell phone?”
“I do.” Marco patted his pants pocket.
“May I use it? I’ll pay for the calls, Pastor.”
“Certainly.” Marco pulled a worn Nokia flip phone from his pocket and handed it to Ryan.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment?” Ryan asked.
“Certainly.” Marco motioned for Mango to follow and they continued to the front of the church and through a side door.
Ryan sat down in a pew and dialed Greg Olsen’s number.
“Da?”
The thick, rough voice caught Ryan off guard.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Who is this?” Ryan demanded.
“This is the Ryan Weller?”
Ryan felt his skin prickle and his throat constricted to force down rising bile. The word came out low and menacing. “Volk.”
“Da, my reputation precedes me?”
“Where’s Greg?”
“He is fine for now. But he is not who I want. I want you, Ryan Weller. I want the two million dollars your life is worth.” He laughed a deep throaty roar. “I told him; you were kot. You are running out of lives.”
“Let me talk to Greg.”
Greg came on the line. “Ryan?”
“Hey, buddy. You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Volk took my gun and knocked a few teeth loose.”
“I’m coming for you,” Ryan promised.
“Don’t,” Greg said. “That’s what he wants.”
“Enough!” Ryan heard Volk scream. Wind blew over the phone’s speaker before Greg’s phone bounced on the Hatteras’s fiberglass deck. He heard more rustling, and then the Russian accent returned. “I have your Greg. You want him to live? You come to me.”
“Where?”
“Cap-Haïtien. The dock beside the power plant. We’ll be on Dark Water.”
The phone went dead.
Ryan shouted, “Hello,” several times.
Mango approached holding two bottles of water. He handed one to Ryan and took a sip out of the other.
Ryan explained the phone call.
“What’re we going to do?” Mango asked.
The big man put his face in his hands. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“I’m telling you, I don’t like it,” Mango said.
Ryan hunched over the wheel of the Honda Pilot they’d rented in Cap-Haïtien after Pastor Marco had driven them to the port city. “I don’t either, man, but we need help.”
Mango slouched in the passenger seat. Ryan gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles of both hands were white. He relaxed one hand and buzzed the window down. A guard, with a polished Sam Browne gun belt and holster over a dark blue uniform, leaned into the window.
“I’m here to see Toussaint Bajeux,” Ryan said.
The guard looked suspiciously at Ryan and Mango. “No one here.”
“Tell Toussaint that Ryan Weller is here to see him. Tell him I can get his gold back.”
The guard eyed them suspiciously and stepped into a booth beside the driveway gate. He stared at Ryan as he lifted a phone from its cradle and spoke into it. A moment later, the guard hung up the receiver and ordered them out of the car.
“Guess that answers that question,” Mango said as he leaned spread eagle over the hood of the car while the guard patted him down.
“I told you he wasn’t dead,” Ryan said.
The guard frisked Ryan before pointing at a gate behind the guard shack. The two Dark Water Research employees stepped through the gate and walked up the driveway.
Looking up, Ryan saw Toussaint standing on a balcony beside Joulie. He had on dark slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned. She wore a simple blue dress with a multicolored headscarf.
Toussaint called down, “You’re a brave man to walk into my home after trying to kill me.”
Ryan stopped walking. “I came to broker a deal.”
“A deal.” Toussaint burst out laughing.
Joulie said something to her fiancé which neither Ryan or Mango could hear.
Toussaint stopped laughing. “Come inside, gentlemen.” He turned and disappeared through a glass door.
Ryan and Mango continued to follow the driveway as it wrapped around the back of the home. Jean Francois met them beside the garage. He led them through another gate onto the pool patio. Toussaint stood in the shade created by the upper balcony with a cigar in one hand.
The warlord motioned them
to stop when they were several feet from him. He ordered Francois to step aside. Francois moved behind the two visitors but kept his hand on his holstered pistol. Toussaint took a long draw on his cigar, then he let the smoke out in a stream and said, “The only reason I entertain you is for Joulie. She has vouched for you and says you will not attempt to kill me.”
“She’s right,” Ryan said. “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to make a deal.”
“My guard said you can recover the gold, non?”
“Yes. I know exactly where the ship is, and I have the equipment to recover it.”
“Interesting, and what do you want in exchange for this service, besides your lives?”
“My employer is being held hostage by a Russian bounty hunter named Volk. I need your help freeing him.”
Toussaint ordered the men to sit and Joulie brought out two tumblers filled with dark liquid. She set them on a table between Ryan and Mango. She disappeared inside again and returned with a third glass, which she handed to Toussaint.
“Anything else, gentlemen?” Toussaint asked before sipping from his glass.
“A cigarette.”
Mango rolled his eyes.
“Even your friend knows you shouldn’t smoke,” Toussaint goaded.
“I shouldn’t do a lot of things, but smoking is the least of my worries right now. Remember, Toussaint, I’m just a mercenary. I work for the highest bidder. Right now, I’m selling myself to you.”
Toussaint laughed, holding his gut with his left arm while he leaned forward.
Joulie gave Toussaint a questioning look as she handed a pack of Marlboro Golds to Ryan. He shook one loose and lit it while Toussaint wiped tears from his cheeks.
Between gasps, Toussaint said, “You … You are a mercenary.”
Mango stretched out his right leg to take the weight off his prosthesis. “What’s in the glass?”
“Rhum Barbancourt,” Toussaint replied. He took a seat and motioned Ryan to sit. Joulie moved to stand behind her fiancé.
Ryan took a sip of his rum. He smashed out his cigarette and lit a second one, earning him a glare from Mango.
“Is this your mother?” Toussaint asked, motioning to Mango.
“He’s my work wife,” Ryan said.
Toussaint laughed again. “Work wife! You Americans and your slang.”
“Look, we’re not here to discuss colloquialisms. I need your help killing Volk.”
“What’s your plan?” Toussaint asked.
Ryan glanced up at Joulie’s cool blue eyes and then back to Toussaint’s black beads. He leaned forward and sketched out a rough draft.
Chapter Sixty
Mango watched Dark Water and her Russian guards through the scope of a Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle. An hour ago, Joulie had dropped him off along the commercial docks. He’d boarded the neglected hull of a one-hundred-and-forty-foot fishing vessel, the only boat left along the commercial docks. Inside the bridge, the crew had helped him set up a table to lie on, so he was level with the windows. He was far enough back in the structure that he would remain undetected, light would not glint off his scope although the clouds were now blocking most of the sunlight. They had twenty-four hours before the hurricane would hit. Right now, Irma’s leading edge was demolishing the island of Puerto Rico. Everyone was keeping tabs on the storm’s movements and praying it would bend to the east and avoid Hispaniola all together. Mango knew the storm trackers predicted it would cross the island before hitting Cuba and striking the Florida Keys.
The big fishing boat he was on made for a steady shooting platform. The long concrete quay blocked the incoming waves, and the vessel’s crew had snugged her tight to the jetty. After helping Mango arrange his overwatch position, they’d disappeared. Mango suspected they were trying to make a dent in the large donation Toussaint had made to their drinking fund, and in an hour or so, they’d be so drunk that they may not care whether they even got underway to avoid the storm.
Through the forward bridge windows, Mango could see Toussaint’s Carver Voyager. The boat was coasting to a stop, its bow angled toward Dark Water.
He took a moment to look away from the scope and surveyed the scene. Across five hundred feet of open water, an old two-masted yawl and a trawler fishing vessel were moored to a T-shaped dock. Both boats’ noses pointed toward open water. Dark Water had been snugged against the steel hull of the fishing trawler with her bow toward land. It would have made more sense for her bow to be facing out for a rapid getaway, and so it took the seas better, especially with the rollers starting to build in the bay. Some of the larger waves lifted and jerked the big boats.
When they’d reconned the area yesterday, Ryan had mentioned the Hatteras’s orientation and they’d observed only two Russian guards besides Volk. To get to the T-dock required them to drive down the single access road on the tiny peninsula. The whole thing was a choke point, and Volk would see them coming as soon as they turned down the road leading to the marina. The easiest way to approach the dock unseen was underwater. Putting the boat stern out was logical for Greg because he knew Ryan would be coming from the water, and Ryan could observe what was happening in the cockpit before he made his approach.
Mango settled his eye back to the scope when he saw the Honda Pilot come to a stop in the marina’s dirt parking lot. Joulie exited the passenger side, and a man matching Ryan’s physical height and weight climbed from the driver’s seat. He wore a black ball cap pulled low over his brown hair and sunglasses to mask his features.
The small team was confident the man would pass the distance test. Volk had only seen Ryan one time, and in low light conditions during a fist fight. Toussaint had called a Belgian who worked for the UN and offered a substantial bribe for the man to assume the role of Ryan Weller. They had explained the risks to him, and he expected that he might be involved in a gunfight, though his only job was to divert the guard’s attention.
Joulie’s hips swung like a runway model’s in her tiny jean shorts and an orange bikini top as she strutted down the dock ahead of Fake Ryan. The Russians were instantly distracted. The gunman on Dark Water’s bridge turned away from the water and ogled the woman. A second gunman stepped out from behind the hull of the sailboat and moved up the dock to meet Fake Ryan.
The two people not in Mango’s sight picture were Greg and Volk. Mango believed they were in Dark Water’s salon, and the boat’s tinted windows made it impossible to verify his assumption.
Mango had been dubious when he heard Ryan’s promise to help Joulie escape from Toussaint, but he had to admit Ryan’s plan to get her onto Dark Water was working well. It was time for Ryan to make his appearance.
Chapter Sixty-One
Ryan stepped into the water as soon as Toussaint dropped the engine into neutral. The boat coasted forward, pointing like an arrow at Dark Water. Ryan took a compass bearing off the boat’s keel, extended his arm, locked his wrist in place, and began the swim toward the Hatteras. The rebreather he’d recovered from the beach was functioning flawlessly. No bubbles marked his progress, and the bay’s choppy waves hid him from view in the shallow water.
It took him less than ten minutes to cover the distance to the Hatteras. He swam beneath Dark Water’s hull and came up under the bow. Looking across the bay at the commercial docks, he hoped Mango was ready to rock and roll. He ducked below the surface again and swam under the dock where he shed the rebreather, mask, and fins. He bundled the gear together using a short piece of rope and left it tied to the piling, the counter lung inflated just enough to allow the gear to bob just below the surface.
A moment later, he pulled himself up on the dock. The guard was talking to Fake Ryan and Joulie, who had her hands in her back pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. She gazed up at the unshaven Russian with what Ryan could only describe as fondness. He realized it was the same doe-eyed look she’d given Toussaint; a look that would melt any man’s heart. Only Ryan now knew it lacked warmth and sincerity.<
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The board beneath Ryan’s foot creaked. The Russian spun, reaching for the pistol behind his back. Ryan advanced with lightning speed and reflexes honed through hours of training. His knife came up in his right hand and he drove it deep into the man’s sternum.
Ryan eased the dead man to the dock, liberated the pistol from the Russian’s holster, and brought it up to cover the Hatteras. Joulie had squatted behind the hull of the fishing boat. Fake Ryan turned to dive off the dock as the guard on Dark Water’s bridge fired the first shot.
The roaring bellow of a shotgun’s discharge echoed off the boat hulls. Buckshot splintered the decking right where Fake Ryan had been standing before he dove into the water. The shot was immediately followed by the chunk-thunk of the Russian working the shotgun’s action before more buckshot peppered the docks, boats, and water.
Ryan dropped to the weathered dock boards and rolled behind the trawler. When he looked up, he saw Joulie staring at him. Their eyes met, and she looked unafraid.
He dropped the Russian’s pistol on the deck in front of her and pulled his own from the small of his back.
The guard stopped firing.
Ryan sprang into a crouch and ran forward.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Mango Hulsey saw his partner’s head pop out of the water just forward of the Hatteras’s bow and then disappear again.
“Showtime, bro,” Mango muttered.
He tracked Ryan’s movements as he reappeared on the dock. As soon as Ryan was within five feet of the Russian guard speaking to Joulie, Mango refocused his scope on the second Russian on Dark Water’s bridge. He had yet to see the bounty hunter.
Mango’s sole purpose was to take out Volk. He had to be patient. They wanted Volk to think he was safe to expose himself and when he did, Mango would put him down like the dog he was. The Wolf had led his last pack into battle.