A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  He watched the road behind him, through the rearview mirror, as he navigated the streets back to A1A. He glanced at the clock. He was going to get back late, and Stacey would not be happy about having to wait for supper. He dialed her number and apologized when she came on the line.

  “Typical, Ryan,” she said. He could hear the frustration in her voice. “Call me when you get to my place.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The phone went dead. He dialed another number.

  “What’s up, bro?” Mango Hulsey asked in typical fashion.

  “You ready to get back into the action?”

  “No … why?”

  “I’m going after the gold, you in?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Come on, man. I need you.”

  “Not after the last dive we did together. I’ll stay within recreational limits, bro.”

  Their last dive had been a harrowing experience. They’d sat in a Humvee while the Santo Domingo sank. When she came to rest on the ocean floor, the Humvee had rolled over several times and trapped them in its twisted frame. They’d negotiated their way out of the Humvee and the ship’s cavernous hold before swimming a mile to shore. The total dive had taken them two hours, and Mango had made it clear that he would not be doing any more technical diving.

  “This will be different. We’ll be on surface supply.”

  “He said no, Ryan.” Jennifer Hulsey’s voice came over the speaker. “He’s staying right here with me.”

  Ryan asked, “How’s the trip been so far?”

  “Really good,” Mango replied. “We’re in Guadalupe.”

  Ryan chuckled. “You haven’t made it very far.”

  “Far enough, bro. We’re taking your advice, enjoy the trip and don’t rush.”

  “I’m glad things are going well for you,” Ryan said.

  “What about you, bro?”

  “I was teaching diving in Key Largo. Now I’m going to recover some gold. You sure you don’t want in on this, Mango?”

  “Look, bro, I had a good time shootin’ and lootin’ with you, but, bro, I’m out. I can’t keep putting myself and Jennifer in harm’s way. We have to use fake IDs because we still have a bounty on us. I don’t need more bad guys chasing me. You know, bro, as soon as you perform your miraculous resurrection, they’ll be dog piling you.”

  “I understand,” Ryan replied glumly, disappointed Mango didn’t want to join him. He couldn’t blame him though. Their work was dangerous, and both men had come close to losing their lives on the two missions they’d performed for DWR and Homeland.

  “Be careful, Ryan.”

  “I will. Talk to you later.”

  “Later, bro.”

  Ryan hung up and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. “Well, crap.”

  The digital clock readout on the Kia’s dash blinked seven thirty as Ryan pulled the car into the lot at Stacey’s apartment complex. He parked and jogged up the stairs to her rental unit. She jerked the door open before he could knock.

  “You’re late,” Stacey said.

  “Hey, I called.”

  “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Here’s your car keys. Sorry I was late. I’ll see you later.” Ryan dropped her keys into her hand and started down the stairs.

  “You’re an insufferable …”

  Ryan paused and looked up at Stacey. “I don’t need to be treated like this. I’ve got enemies who treat me better than you right now.”

  Stacey raised her eyebrows and pulled the door shut behind her. With an air of exasperation, she said, “Let’s go.”

  “Maybe it’s better this way, Stacey. I’m leaving tomorrow, turning in my resignation at the dive shop, and taking off.”

  She stopped midstride and stared up at him. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my day job. This six-month vacation in the Keys has been nice, but I have a job I need to go back to.”

  “Where’s this job?”

  “Texas.”

  Stacey shook her head. “No way, mister. You’re not getting off that easy. You’re taking me to dinner. What other lies did you make up to get out of taking me out?” She started for the car again.

  “It’s not a lie.” Ryan ran to catch up, feeling bad that he’d misled her. He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “I’m out tomorrow.”

  “Get in the car, idiot.” She pointed at the passenger seat.

  Ryan climbed in beside her. Ten minutes later, the car slid to a stop outside Ryan’s apartment. Ryan stepped out and was about to close the door.

  Stacey asked, “Why now?”

  He leaned down to see her. She blew a strand of purple hair out of her face.

  “Because I need to,” Ryan said.

  “Why not stay here?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is, really. If you want to stay, you stay. If you want to go, you go, and it sounds like you’re going.”

  “I’m going.”

  “What was the point of going to Stock Island?”

  He squatted down by the open car door. “Part of getting back on the job.”

  “Do you dive for a living, or was that a lie?” Stacey asked indignantly. Then softly, she asked, “Was it all a lie?”

  “No, it wasn’t all a lie. The truth is, I’ve been hiding out. I screwed up and my boss gave me a vacation. I am a dive instructor. I was in Navy EOD, and I did just break up with my girlfriend.”

  Stacey looked away, her hand wiggling the gear shifter. “Good luck.”

  “See you later, Stacey.”

  “I doubt it.” She slipped the transmission into reverse. Ryan stood and closed the door. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her drive away.

  Chapter Four

  Customers had formed two lines at the dive shop’s service counter, waiting to check in and be assigned their boat for the morning dives. Ryan pushed through the crowd, waved at the two women working the counter, and headed for his boss’s door. Ron Case had been kind enough to give Ryan a job with the understanding that he was between commercial salvage jobs and needed something to tide him over. Ryan’s qualifications as a dive instructor in multiple specialties and as a captain with his 100-ton Coast Guard license made him an easy hire.

  The office door, which was normally open, had been partially closed. Ryan stepped to the side to see through a gap between the door and the jamb. A man in his late twenties sat opposite Ron. He had sandy blonde hair over an oval face with a strong chin. He was fit, lean, and looked capable.

  Stacey snuck up beside Ryan, then pushed him out of the way so she could see. Without taking her eye from the crack, she whispered, “Who’s he? He’s hot. Looks like Zac Efron.”

  “Who?” Ryan asked, surprised she was speaking to him after last night.

  She lashed out with her sarcastic whip. “Duh. The movie star.”

  The guy glanced at Ryan, his blue eyes shining and intense, then back at Ron. “You sure you don’t have any work for me. I’m an SSI and a TDI/SDI instructor.”

  “I’m sorry, Travis,” Ron said. “We don’t teach with those agencies here. You’d have to go through our instructor crossover class, and we don’t have one for another two weeks.”

  “Can I do something? I came down here to get a job, and I’m striking out all over the place.”

  “You can keep trying the other dive shops.”

  Travis stood. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll find another commercial job. Any of those around here?”

  Ron gave Travis a list of commercial diving companies in the area. Travis folded the paper before sticking it in the back pocket of his well-worn khakis.

  Ryan glanced down at the man’s feet. They were encased in Doc Martens. He wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt which made Ryan sweat just looking at it. The newcomer was clearly not from Florida or used to the tropical climate.

  Travis pulled open the door and walked past Ryan and Stacey, giving them a look of exasperat
ion.

  Ryan followed Travis out the door and down the steps to the parking lot. The guy was steadily marching toward a mid-eighties GMC K-1500 sitting on a six-inch suspension lift with thirty-five-inch tires. Bolted to the bed was a chrome light bar adorned with six chrome KC Daylighter off-road lights.

  “That’s a nice pickup,” Ryan said. “Straight out of Fall Guy.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Travis said without stopping.

  “You’re a commercial diver?”

  This time, Travis stopped. He turned around. “You betcha.”

  “Where’d you work?”

  “I worked all over the Great Lakes and did some time in the North Atlantic. I got tired of the cold.”

  “Are you familiar with surface supply?”

  “Helmet, or hookah rig, eh?” Travis asked.

  “Helmet,” said Ryan.

  “I’ve got a few hours in a Kirby Morgan SuperLite,” Travis replied, referring to the yellow hard helmet ubiquitous to commercial divers.

  “Who’d you work for?”

  “Superior Salvage in Houghton, Michigan. What’s with the twenty questions, eh?”

  “Just asking.” Ryan pointed at the dive shop. “This place is really great if you can get on.”

  “I can’t wait two weeks for the crossover program. I need work now.”

  Ryan nodded. “I get that. Let me get your number and where you’re staying. I know a few guys who do commercial work around here. I’ll put in a good word.”

  “Who are you again?” Travis asked.

  “Ryan Weller. I work here.” He extended his hand. By way of further explanation, Ryan said, “I heard your conversation with Ron.”

  “Travis Wisnewski. Some people call me Whiskey.” He shook Ryan’s hand.

  Ryan glanced over at Stacey. She’d followed them to the parking lot and was staring at Travis. Ryan thought he saw drool coming out of the corner of her mouth. He could almost hear her say, “That’s some well-aged whiskey.”

  Stacey shook Travis’s hand while she continued to stare. “I’m Stacey Coleman.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stacey,” Travis said, looking her up and down.

  “I’ll give you a call if I hear of anything,” Ryan said to interrupt the silent appraisal both Stacey and Travis were giving each other.

  “Thanks,” Travis said and climbed into his truck.

  Stacey followed Ryan back into the dive shop. “What are you doing here, I thought you were leaving?”

  “I’m tendering my resignation.”

  “Are you going to take Travis with you?”

  Ryan stopped at Ron Case’s door. “If he wants to go.”

  Chapter Five

  Ryan left the dive shop and walked to where he’d chained his bicycle to a tree. He unlocked it and swung a leg over the saddle and set off toward A1A. He hadn’t seen the need to buy a car and put his name on a title and registration in Florida. It was one of the things keeping him off the radar. He had to use his real name to get a job as a dive instructor and used direct deposit for his paycheck, but anyone searching for him couldn’t access his records without a warrant. His name wasn’t on the apartment lease. All he had were some clothes and his dive gear. He was a ghost, and it was liberating.

  The downside to not having a car was that he would need to bum a ride to get himself and his dive gear to Stock Island. He glanced at his watch. It was too early for a margarita.

  He stopped at the Shell station and bought a pack of Camel Blues and a Mountain Dew. He cracked open the soda and took a long swig. He loved the first long, cold drink. The colder, the better. With his thirst quenched, he set his purchases in the cruiser’s basket and started for his apartment. The place was a mile down the road and when he got there, he was hot and ready for a shower. He walked through the small breezeway and into the rear courtyard. He knew everyone would be at work, except Mrs. Hillsborough, the owner. She spent most of her time either watching television or taking her white Bichon Frise for long strolls through the island’s back streets. Mrs. Hillsborough carried the dog more than the dog walked. Ryan could hear her television blaring a game show, even with the air conditioner running and the windows closed.

  Pulling his prepaid smart phone from his pocket, he scrolled through the contacts to find Greg Olsen’s number. He hit send and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder while he packed the Camels against his palm and then opened the pack. He got a cigarette sparked up as Greg came on the line.

  “This can’t be good.”

  Ryan said, “Don’t be jealous because Shelly has you under lock and key.”

  “Ever time you go down range, I’m jealous.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not that exciting, and besides, you didn’t have to hire me.”

  Greg laughed. “My life would be less entertaining without you.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Ryan replied.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “I thought you weren’t my mother.”

  “I should call her and have her talk to you.”

  “Hasn’t done any good so far,” Ryan admitted.

  Greg laughed again. “What do you need, dude?”

  “I want you to check out a guy by the name of Travis Wisnewski. He’s a commercial diver from Michigan.” Ryan filled Greg in on what he knew about the man.

  “All right, as if I don’t have enough on my plate already, and Shelly is giving me the stink eye for even talking to you.”

  Ryan said sweetly, “Give her a kiss for me.”

  Thirty minutes later, Ryan had his gear packed into several duffle bags and was double-checking his room for stray items. He’d left the phone on the kitchen counter and heard it ringing as he fished an errant sock out from under the bed. The call went to voicemail before he could get to it. He ignored the fact Greg hadn’t left him a message and hit redial.

  “What’s up?”

  “Your dude is a pretty straight arrow. Nothing unusual stands out, no arrests or warrants. I talked to Joe, the guy who owns Superior Salvage, and got a pretty high recommendation. Are you thinking about taking him to Haiti?”

  “Yeah, and you won’t need to send one of your guys and leave a crew shorthanded.”

  “Sounds good, but you better lay it on the line for this guy. Tell him what the stakes are because he’s not an operator. This isn’t pumping concrete for the Mackinac Bridge or welding string in the North Atlantic.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Ryan, listen, dude,” Greg’s voice grew serious and hard. “I know how cavalier you can be about some shit, but you’re asking another man to put his life on the line for sins you committed. This ain’t a Sunday picnic. This is gold, and bounty hunters. It’s the real deal.”

  “There’s danger with every job.” Ryan knew Greg was right. Anytime treasure was involved, the stakes were infinitely higher.

  Greg and Ryan were more prepared to handle the danger. They’d been in combat and had worked as technicians in the Navy’s most rigorous program, Explosive Ordnance Disposal. The initial course was a grueling year of diving, ordnance disposal, parachute training, small unit tactics, hand-to-hand combat, and firearms skills. For ten years, Ryan had been on constant training cycles, staying in peak physical condition while deploying to Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hot spots around the world to disarm and dispose of all manner of explosive devices from car bombs to underwater mines.

  Greg changed the subject. “I’ve almost got the list of stuff we talked about ready to fly. When will you be back in Key West?”

  “Tomorrow, if not tonight.”

  “Call me so I can get Chuck booked. He’s been flying crazy hours with all the hurricane backlog we’ve got going on.”

  Ryan grinned. “Roger that.”

  Chapter Six

  Ryan sat in the apartment courtyard smoking another cigarette and thinking about the mission’s logistics when he heard car doors slam. It w
asn’t unusual for people to come and go in the neighborhood, but these doors had shut right in front of his four-unit complex. He eased out of his chair and stepped to the breezeway.

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw Dreadlocks and the Mexican standing beside the same pickup truck as the night before.

  Then a Kia Rio turned into the parking lot.

  Shiiiiit! Ryan thought, recognizing Stacey’s purple hair.

  The two men from the pickup started up the walk toward the apartments.

  Ryan took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline mainlining through his system. He’d trained to work through the “fight-or-flight syndrome.” These dudes were up to no good and Stacey was about to walk into a street fight.

  He watched as she pulled into a parking spot beside the men’s truck and opened the door. “Stay in the car!” Ryan shouted.

  Stacey continued to get out. The two men turned to look at her. Dreadlocks’ face twisted into an evil grin.

  “Get back in the car,” Ryan commanded.

  Stacey stood in the open door, staring at the three men in the breezeway.

  “What do you want?” Ryan asked the two men.

  “Two million dollars, mon,” Dreadlocks said.

  “What are you talking about?” Ryan feigned innocence. He was ready for this moment. He’d grown used to the idea there were men hunting him, knowing someone was coming. Here they were, on his doorstep. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. A bird chirped. Shadows played across the wall. Dreadlocks’s gold teeth gleamed. Ryan’s heart rate had increased, and he blinked long and slow. Oh, this was going to be fun.

  “Chu know, pendejo,” Mexican snapped. He slid his left hand behind his back.

  Ryan wanted nothing more than to pull a pistol and plug both men in the head. He’d have done it in the Iraqi desert or the high mountain peaks of Afghanistan without hesitation. They were a threat to his life. Even though he had a Taurus Protector .38 revolver in his pocket, this wasn’t a war zone. This was a peaceful apartment complex in Key Largo. Unless this got really messy, he didn’t want to go loud.