A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  The traffic began to move, and he worked his way west through Big Pine, Middle Torch, Saddle Bunch, and a host of other small keys to reach Stock Island, the next-to-last key before A1A dead-ended in Key West.

  Key West had once been the home of great fishing and shrimping fleets. In the name of progress, they were relocated to Stock Island and over the years the fleets had dwindled in proportion to the supply of their catch. Now, these meager fleets were in danger of being pushed out again as more houses, apartment complexes, and businesses encroached on their industrial docks.

  Fifth Avenue turned into Fourth Avenue just before it made a forty-five-degree bend to the northeast. At this bend, Ryan turned into a parking lot. The entrance was flanked by vine-covered chain-link fence and a haphazard stack of wooden pallets. Just inside the gate he turned right, and followed the cracked and eroded blacktop, passing between lobster boats backed up to the concrete quay and long stacks of their lobster traps. The road turned into dirt as it ended at another concrete pier.

  Ryan parked the Kia in the shade of a satinleaf tree, climbed out, and stretched his legs and back. He took a deep breath of the brine mixed with diesel, fish, and something rotten. He walked to the water and saw a sheen of oil prisming the colors of the rainbow beside a bobbing cigarette butt. Absentmindedly, he patted his cargo pocket. It was empty, and he remembered he hadn’t had a cigarette since his last visit to Toussaint Bajeux’s home in Haiti, over six months ago.

  He lifted his gaze from the polluted water and found the faded red steel hull of a seventy-five-foot trawler, Peggy Lynn. This was the boat he’d come to see. He walked across the parking lot, kicking up dust with each step. As he walked, he checked out the converted fishing boat. The tall steel posts of an A-frame mast, sprouting out of the hull and towering above the bridge, had been gusseted and bracketed to increase lift capacity. Thick braided cable ran off a heavy-duty reel, up through the block and tackle, and out along the single boom extending from the A-frame. Cables leading down from the peak of the A-frame supported the boom, allowing it to be raised, lowered, or swung over the sides of the boat. Ryan looked up at the crane’s big lifting hook and pictured a cargo net full of gold bars dangling from it.

  With the tide in, the boat’s railing was slightly higher than the quay. Thick rubber tires bolted to the concrete kept the converted trawler off the dock. More tires hung from chains around the boat’s stern.

  “Ahoy the boat,” Ryan yelled.

  A man with a thick head of white hair and a trim white beard stepped out of the bridge. He wore white tennis shoes, stained khaki pants, and a T-shirt with the words Peggy Lynn on the left breast pocket, matching the words printed on the boat’s bow in block white letters.

  “You hollarin’ for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryan said. “Are you Captain Dennis Law?”

  “I am.” Dennis nodded.

  “I’d like to talk to you about a job.”

  “I’m retired, son.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Everyone else is busy. I need a good salvage vessel to go after a load of cargo in a sunken freighter.”

  “Them days are long gone. Old Peggy Lynn doesn’t leave the dock anymore.” He patted the ship’s handrail. “She’s a grand old lady, but her days are numbered. You’ll have to find another captain to take you out. I was lucky to get her up in the mangroves and survive the hurricane.” He stepped back into the wheelhouse.

  “Look, Captain, I need your help.” Ryan moved closer to the rail. “This is a big haul. If you won’t go as captain, sell me your vessel.”

  Dennis slowly turned around.

  “I’m serious,” Ryan said. “I need a working salvage vessel. Yours fits the bill.”

  Captain Law ran a hand through his hair. “Make some sense, son. This vessel is older than you are. She’s seen better days. Besides Peggy Lynn is my home.”

  “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  “Come on.” He motioned for Ryan to join him on the bridge.

  Ryan climbed aboard, introduced himself, and followed the captain inside.

  “Cup of coffee?” Dennis asked.

  “Yes, black.”

  “Good. I don’t have anything to put in it unless you want a little whiskey.” Dennis held up a pint of Jim Beam.

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m good, I like mine black. Like my soul.”

  The captain laughed. He handed Ryan a cup of steaming black coffee and poured a shot of whiskey into his. “What’s this nonsense you’re talking about, wanting to buy my boat?”

  “I know where there’s a lucrative treasure in the hold of a sunken ship.”

  Dennis sat down in the chair behind the helm and propped his foot on the dash. “How exactly do you know where this ship is, and what’s on it?”

  “I was on the freighter when she sank. I also helped load the cargo.” Ryan sipped at the coffee. It was hot and bitter. He would have to make a change in what grounds they used if they agreed to work together.

  Captain Law stared out the front windows of the bridge for several long minutes. Ryan waited patiently for the older man to continue. He took a sip of coffee and then ran a hand through his hair.

  “I met my wife before I went to Vietnam,” Dennis said quietly. “I spent my whole life fishing, shrimping, and salvaging just to make money to keep her happy. She gave me three children.” He turned to face Ryan. “She died four years ago, be five next May. Cancer stole her from me and her babies.” He shook his head. “I lost my will to do much of anything when she died. I did some fishing and some salvage work, but my heart wasn’t in it. A man’s got to have something to live for, you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ryan glanced down at the framed picture of the couple. Peggy had been a petite blonde with a broad smile.

  “What makes you want to salvage this ship?”

  “I’d like to tell you about it, Captain, but only if you agree to skipper this vessel.”

  “And if I say no again?”

  “I’ll find someone else, and you can go back to wallowing in your pain, sir.”

  The older man was about to take a sip of coffee. He stopped and looked over the rim. “Blunt, aren’t you?”

  “I need you, Captain. I need your boat. You need me. You need this job. You have surface supply air?”

  “You’re being impertinent, son.”

  “I can get some men to go over your boat, check all the systems, and put on some new gear.”

  “You got deep pockets?”

  “Deep enough, and when we complete this job, neither of us will have to worry about making a living again.”

  “What are you after?”

  “Not until you say yes.”

  “If I say yes, you’ll tell me what you’re after and have men fix up my boat?”

  Ryan finished his cup of coffee. “Yes, sir.”

  “This must be important to you.”

  “It is, Captain.” Ryan poured another cup. He figured the liquid could double as paint thinner, or rust remover. “I almost died over this cargo, and I’ve been declared dead because of it. What we’re after is the stuff dreams are made of. Men will be willing to kill, steal, and lie to get their hands on it. Men have already died for it. Are you willing to take that chance, Captain Law?”

  “Son, I’ve been shot by gooks, stabbed by disgruntled crewmen, and suffered more than one broken heart. The only things I’ve got left in this world are this boat, three kids, and five grandkids, most of which I don’t see.” Law stood up. “The only thing to drive a man as crazy as you say is gold, or drugs. I don’t mess with drugs. So, what are we talking about, son?”

  Ryan said, “It’s not drugs.”

  “All right, Mr. Weller,” Dennis said, thrusting his hand out. “I’m in.”

  “Great news, sir.”

  “How much are we talking about?” Dennis asked.

  “There were fifty-two gold bars, each weighing twenty-seven pounds. That’s ...”

  “One thous
and four hundred and four pounds,” Dennis finished the sentence.

  Ryan paused to look at the old man, his mind obviously clear and sharp despite the two shots of booze Ryan had seen him pour into his coffee. Who knows how many he’d swallowed before he’d arrived?

  Dennis continued, “At the current spot price of gold, that’s $26,766,540.43.”

  “How do you know what the price of gold is, Captain?”

  Dennis tapped the flat screen computer monitor beside the coffee pot. “I keep an eye on my wife’s stocks. She was a frugal woman. I gave her every paycheck. She put it to good use, raised our kids, bought a house, invested in the stock market. When I wanted to buy this boat, I told her I needed to go to the bank and get a loan. She had a sizeable down payment already saved up, like she knew what I wanted before I did.”

  Ryan laughed. “Leave it to the women to take care of us.”

  “You got a woman taking care of you?”

  “I did, but she didn’t like my adventurous life.”

  Dennis nodded in understanding and sipped his coffee. “Where are we going?”

  “Haiti.”

  Captain Dennis Law shook his head and laughed. “I hope you have some good engineers, son, ’cause we’re gonna need ’em.”

  Chapter Three

  Ryan sat at a waterside table at Hogfish Bar and Grill, staring at the sailboats floating along the small wharf. He nursed a margarita and waited for the waitress to deliver a hogfish sandwich smothered in Swiss cheese, onions, and mushrooms on Cuban bread. He had to take Stacey to dinner in a few hours, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to eat one of the restaurant’s signature sandwiches.

  The last time he’d occupied a stool at the famous eatery was last June when he and Emily Hunt had what would become their first date. There weren’t many women in Ryan Weller’s life whom he really missed. If he counted, there were three⸻his mother, his high school sweetheart, Sara Sherman, and Emily Hunt.

  He tried not to reminisce about their evening at Hogfish, or the night of lovemaking that had followed. She was passionate about many of the same things as he was: sailing, diving, and traveling. But they lived in two different lives. Hers was the starched world of insurance investigation. His was the more fluid world of what? What was his job right now? Scuba instructor? Salvage diver?

  Ryan grinned as he thought about what John D. McDonald’s fictional character, Travis McGee, told people when they’d asked what his job was. He’d always answer, “Salvage consultant.”

  He took a sip of the margarita. Beyond the masts of the sailboats, Ryan could see Peggy Lynn’s red hue. A slight breeze rustled the palm leaves and a metal clip clanged against a hollow aluminum sailboat mast. It made a rhythmic clinking sound, adding to the engine noises of the steady stream of boats passing in and out of Safe Harbor.

  Ryan picked up his cell phone and scrolled to his favorite contacts. He tapped the button over Greg Olsen’s name and held the phone to his ear.

  “How’s the vacation?”

  “Pretty good,” Ryan answered. “I’ve got a favor to ask you?”

  “Oh, no. How much is this going to cost me?”

  “Consider it an investment.”

  Greg laughed. Ryan pictured his friend and former employer. The two men could have passed for brothers with similar height and builds. Greg’s eyes were gray, and his hair was a darker shade of brown. His shoulders and arms had filled out from pushing his wheelchair, and the constant use of his upper body.

  Greg had been president of Dark Water Research when he’d recruited Ryan to be the company’s Homeland Security liaison. Greg had wanted to be part of the action and tagged along on both of Ryan’s assignments and had nearly got himself killed on the last one.

  “What kind of investment, Ryan?”

  “Why are you so suspicious?”

  “Because I think you’re about to do something crazy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Details,” Greg demanded.

  “Remember the ship that sank a few months ago?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I want to go after the cargo.”

  “I’m not authorizing my crews and vessels to get tangled up with a psycho gun dealer.”

  “I found an old salvage boat and captain. What I need is a few goodies added on and a guy to go through the mechanicals.”

  Greg let out a deep sigh.

  Ryan prodded, “You know what’s down there.”

  “I know the risks, too.”

  “This is what DWR does, Greg,” Ryan said. “Send me a diver if you want.”

  “I’d rather come myself, but I’ve been told I can’t play hooky anymore.”

  “This is a dangerous business. I want you to be safe at the office.” Ryan glanced up to see the waitress delivering a plateful of sandwich and fries. “Speaking of the office, what are you doing now that Admiral Chatel is running the place?”

  Greg yawned. “I’m sitting on my back deck, enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Are you doing anything at DWR?” Ryan asked. Greg had chosen to step down from his position as president after hiring Kip Chatel, a former executive at Boeing and at one time their commanding officer at Navy Expeditionary Combat Command.

  “Yeah, Shelly made me the point of contact for all our operations in Puerto Rico. We’ve been rebuilding port facilities and upgrading their infrastructure.”

  “Sounds like you’re busier than you want to be,” Ryan said with a grin. Shelly wasn’t going to let her boyfriend sit around with nothing to do as long as she was DWR’s chief operating officer.

  “Too busy. But I’m tired of paperwork. Where’s this boat you want to fix up?”

  Ryan finished chewing his fry. “Safe Harbor on Stock Island. Her name’s Peggy Lynn.”

  “What makes you so sure that Jim Kilroy hasn’t already recovered the gold?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Lucky for you I know a guy who says there haven’t been any salvage boats operating around Cap-Haïtien, or Fort Liberte.”

  “Really?” Ryan asked. “You have a source in Haiti?”

  “Yeah. Billy Parker, the guy who runs the marina where Volk held me hostage, keeps me updated on what’s going on.”

  “You knew I was going after the gold?”

  “Ryan,” Greg said patronizingly.

  Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’ve been waiting for this call, haven’t you?”

  Greg laughed. “From the moment we left Haiti. Send me a list of what you need, and I’ll have Chuck fly everything out.”

  Ryan asked, “Do I need to find a diver, too, or do you have one handy?”

  “I should sic Jerry DiMarco on your ass,” Greg said. “But he told me he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t come back from the dead.”

  “Tell Jerry I miss him too,” Ryan said without any warmth in his voice.

  Greg laughed. “Okay. I have a guy I’ll send along.”

  “Is he any good?”

  Greg snorted. “Send me the list.”

  Ryan was about to say something when he realized Greg had hung up on him. He pocketed the phone and tucked into his meal.

  Twenty minutes later, the waitress brought him the bill and a refill for the cup of coffee he’d ordered halfway through his sandwich. Ryan watched the passing boats as he sipped his drink. The plan was coming together. He couldn’t wait to get started. A nervous energy surged through him, and he wanted to jump up and run a marathon just to burn off some steam. A smile crossed his lips. He was going into action, and once he stopped hiding, the bounty hunters and the cartel would come for him. It made him feel alive.

  A man walked out of the restaurant and lit a cigarette. He lingered along the dock, admiring the boats. When the smoker came abreast of him, Ryan asked, “Can I bum one of those?”

  “Yeah,” the man said, digging out the pack. He handed a Marlboro Gold to Ryan and turned away.

  “I hate to bug you again, but can I borrow your lighter.”

&
nbsp; The guy chuckled. “Want me to smoke it for you, too?”

  “Nah, I’ve been trying to quit.” Ryan took a deep inhale of smoke and handed the lighter back.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said and picked up his coffee cup. The man continued his stroll down the dock.

  The first few inhales were good. The rush of nicotine hit his system, and he enjoyed the repetitive action of putting his hand to his mouth. He’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker during his deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. When he’d returned home, he’d cut back, but still smoked at least half a pack a day. Mango and Emily had been on him to quit, and he would have for her. While she wasn’t around anymore, he had gone cold turkey after his arrival in the Keys. Right now, he didn’t care. She’d tossed him off like some bad hat, so what difference did it make?

  It was the fifth inhale of smoke which made him feel like he was just going through the motions. His lips were dry, and his throat and lungs ached. Ryan crushed the butt out before he was halfway through.

  With his tab paid, he walked out of the Hogfish and found the Kia. He climbed in and started the engine. Backing out of the spot, he glimpsed two men standing beside a beat-up pickup truck. One was a muscular African American with long dreadlocks and a full beard. It was obvious he spent many hours in the gym. His arms and chest bulged around the fabric of a black wife beater and his thick calves indicated he hadn’t skipped leg day. The second man was shorter and of Mexican descent. His black hair was cut close to his scalp and a ragged goatee hung from his chin. He wore baggy jeans and a short-sleeved fishing shirt.

  Both men looked straight at Ryan as the nose of the Kia swung past. When Ryan made eye contact with them, the Mexican turned away, and Dreadlocks opened the door of the pickup truck.

  Ryan’s heart rate increased. Relax, they’re fishermen sharing a joke at the end of the day, or friends meeting for dinner. The conjecture did little to satisfy the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had no reason to be suspicious of the men, yet their actions had made them suspicious. If they were friends, why not continue to talk? Why turn away?