A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  “That’s what she said,” Don said, excitedly. He pulled the picture away and peered through the window. “Did you take another bar?”

  “No.”

  “Seriously?” Stacey asked.

  “No, check my gear if you don’t believe me. Run all the footage, you can see exactly what I did down there. I didn’t move anything.”

  Don said. “We already did, and Travis went through your gear.”

  Ryan sat back down. Of course, they didn’t trust him. He hadn’t done much to engender that trust. The only way a gold bar could be missing was for someone to go down there and take it. There was only one other vessel near enough to them that could facilitate a technical diver, and that was Northwest Passage. Whoever Kilroy had sent down to verify that the gold was there had to have done it on a rebreather. He could have followed their trail through the freighter right to the strong box, and taking a brick was the best verification there was. The flash of yellow he’d seen could have been the cover of a rebreather. He racked his brain. What was the name of the rebreather they called “the yellow box of death?” The AP Valves Inspiration! A man using it could easily make the dive to the Santo Domingo. That would explain the open Humvee hatch as well.

  More thoughts rattled through Ryan’s brain as he lay on the hard pad inside the chamber. He wanted out. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted answers. He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. He had to keep the steel walls from closing in.

  A change in the engine’s pitch interrupted his meditation. The boat slowed, and Ryan guessed they were approaching Billy Parker’s docks. He sat up and looked out the porthole. The six-inch round window limited his view to the gear bolted to the stern.

  Travis darted by wearing bright, orange, foul weather gear. The boat swung around and came alongside the docks with her bow out to the harbor. Ryan twisted his body to see Travis leap to the dock and wrap the line around a cleat. A moment later, Peggy Lynn’s diesel engines shut off. The constant vibration of the deck stopped, and the world was silent.

  Ryan glanced at his watch⸻forty-five minutes left in the chamber. There was nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs. He hated riding in the Iron Cadillac. Until the weather calmed down, they couldn’t dive. Neither could anyone else. He’d set out to destroy Kilroy, and he’d barely escaped with his life. Now, Kilroy was meddling with his gold. There had to be a way to kill two birds with one stone; get the gold and stop Kilroy. His mind drifted back to his time on Northwest Passage when Kilroy was ferrying him and Mango to Nicaragua to meet with the Santo Domingo.

  He studied the problem. His mind was great with spatial shapes. Able to construct a 3D blueprint of Kilroy’s ship in his mind, he mentally rotated it in all directions. The most vulnerable spot was the hull and as a Navy explosives expert, that’s where he’d been trained to attack, silently and swiftly from the deep.

  An idea formed in his head. He’d have to go on a scavenger hunt.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emily Hunt dug her paddle deep into the azure blue water off Fort De Soto Park, shooting herself forward. Her body glistened from the heavy exercise of fighting the current running into Bunces Pass and staying up right on her paddle board. Her favorite place to slide into the water was at Arrowhead Picnic Area. From there, she’d work her way around to North Beach. On weekdays, it was a quiet place to hang out and if the tide was right, she could sprint to New Island Fort De Soto and run on the long, white, sand beaches. On the weekends, she avoided the place like the plague. The Fort De Soto beaches would be packed with families. Boaters invaded New Island, backing their pleasure craft up to the sand and partying in the hot sun. She didn’t enjoy the drunks and the college kids anymore.

  She thought about that as she paddled. She was changing. She no longer belonged to the generation of kids crowding the universities, roasting themselves on the beaches, and guzzling beer by the gallon in the local bars. She’d moved on, or was it just time? In her early thirties, Emily was still lean and fit, with a flat stomach from hours of working out and watching her diet. At five ten, her limbs were long and powerful, perfect for the many outdoor activities she enjoyed. Physically she still fit in, but mentally, she’d matured.

  Emily picked up the pace, shoving thoughts of frat boys out of her mind. Her strokes became more rhythmic. She tossed her long, blonde hair, the color of ripe harvest wheat, off her shoulders and continued to dig. She wished she hadn’t forgotten her ponytail band. Sweat collected under her thick mane and rolled down her back.

  When she was in the cut between Fort De Soto and New Island, she rewarded herself by stepping off her board into the cool water. She let the waves and the tide sweep her along for a few seconds before opening her cornflower blue eyes and surfacing. Her long hair streamed with water as she climbed back on the board. Refreshed, Emily started the reverse trek. The current helped carry her back to where she’d parked her car.

  At the picnic area, she shouldered her board and slid it onto the roof rack of the white Ford Focus RS. The hatchback had plenty of space for her gear and plenty of horsepower to let her weave in and out of traffic on the freeways. She drove around to the Gulf side of the island and walked down to the beach to watch the sunset. When the big orange ball was safely below the horizon, she climbed into her car and drove to her apartment. It was a hike across town to get to the park, but it was worth the drive.

  Emily secured her paddleboard and paddle in the small storage area and headed inside to take a shower. She came out of the bathroom wearing a pair of black yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt with a kitten playing with a ball of yarn on it. She sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and opened her laptop. She had a few minutes to check emails before going to bed.

  As one of Ward and Young’s lead insurance investigators, she carried a full caseload and often assisted with several other investigations at the same time. She enjoyed her job and had been instrumental in rewriting corporate guidelines for boat theft investigations.

  A knock on the door startled her; she wasn’t expecting visitors. Rising from her chair, she reached into her purse and grabbed the can of pepper spray. While she’d been proficiently trained in firearms by the Broward County Sheriff’s Office when she’d been a deputy there, she preferred the pepper spray. Blind them and run away. If she had to fight, she knew a few moves and her last boyfriend, Ryan Weller, had improved her fighting skills by teaching her a few more techniques. She had a brief flash of his warning about always being careful as she grabbed the door. Her normal assertion was that he was just paranoid.

  For some reason, she heeded the warning bells in her head. She double-checked the chain latch was in place and stepped to the side. She aimed the spray and twisted the doorknob. “Who is it?”

  “Hey, lady, I’ve got a delivery for you,” a voice called from the hallway.

  “What is it?”

  “A package from Amazon.”

  “I didn’t order anything. Go away.” She tried to slam the door, but the man’s foot blocked it open. She shot the pepper spray through the crack and the man screamed of pain. The foot jerked back. Before she could close the door, someone shoved the man’s red face into the crack to hold the door open while he snaked a pair of bolt cutters through to clip the cheap metal chain.

  Emily hit the button on the spray again. She got a whiff of the caustic capsaicin and coughed. Years ago, Emily had been dosed with the chemical herself as part of her sheriff’s deputy training. She understood the gas’s effects on her body and how to react to them. She stepped back to gain some distance, aimed the spray again, and waited for the door to open. The chain snapped, and a burly man swung the door open with so much force that it bounced off the wall. A giant loomed in the doorway, filling it almost to capacity. His face was red from the pepper spray, but it didn’t have the same effect on him as the smaller guy who had taken the spray directly to the face. He lay balled up on the hallway floor, rubbing his eyes and crying. Emily aimed her spray can at the g
iant and mashed the button with her thumb. Nothing happened.

  She dropped the pepper spray and ran to the bedroom. Emily snatched open the nightstand drawer and withdrew the Glock pistol she kept there. The giant swatted it away with a flick of his hand before she could even bring the gun up. Pain radiated up her arm like hot wires being shoved under the skin. Her hand and arm below the elbow went numb.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Giant said.

  Emily brought her knee up hard. He deflected the blow to the groin into his thigh.

  “Stop,” Giant bellowed with a grimace.

  She swung her open hand and caught him on the cheek with a slap that rang off the walls.

  The big man grabbed her by the hair and twisted viciously. Emily dropped to her knees, feeling her scalp being torn free. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks to drip off her chin.

  “Just stop,” Giant said, his voice calmer now that he was in control.

  Emily dug her fingernails into the man’s arm. “You’re hurting me.”

  “You hurt me first, lady.”

  “Let go, please,” she begged, tasting tears on her lips. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to cooperate. If I let go, will you be a good girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  She sobbed in big, heaving gasps. “I promise.”

  “Good.” Giant shoved her to the floor as he let go. “Stay there.” The man collected her gun and left the bedroom.

  Emily buried her face in her hands and let the tears flow. She was too frightened to move, and she’d learned that staying still would keep her from experiencing more pain.

  Her ex-boyfriend, James, had abused her, both physically and verbally, even though she was a sheriff’s deputy. He’d left bruises where they couldn’t be seen, and he’d constantly undermined her accomplishments. It took her two years of responding to calls of women in similar situations for her to see that she was also a victim of domestic abuse. She’d resigned from her job and run to Tampa. She was done with the abuse and the fear, but the actions of the apartment invaders had put her right back in the middle of those feelings.

  Realizing that, she sat up, and wiped her eyes and cheeks with the palms of her hands. She couldn’t be a victim again. She had to fight back. She needed a weapon. Fighting technique alone wouldn’t help her take down two capable men, especially now that one of them had her gun. She couldn’t call for help because her cell phone was in the kitchen beside her computer. She glanced at the nightstand. Her father’s old pocketknife was in the drawer. He had given it to her when she’d graduated from the Broward Police Academy, shortly before he’d passed away. While he’d carried it every day, and kept it sharpened and oiled, she hadn’t taken such good care of it. A wave of regret and guilt washed over her. She deeply missed him, and the tears started to flow again. In those moments of introspection, while sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, she wondered if her misguided relationships were a replacement for a father who had always seemed larger than life.

  Emily ran her hands down the sleek spandex fabric of her pants, thinking she had nowhere to hide the knife even if she took it out of the drawer. Just then, the massive man squeezed himself back into the room.

  “Get dressed.”

  “I am dressed,” Emily said defensively.

  “Put on some regular clothes, then pack a bag. You’re going on a trip.”

  She went to the closet and pulled out several pairs of pants, shorts, and shirts. At the dresser, she removed panties and bras. She laid them out on the bed as instructed.

  Giant grinned as his leering eyes flicked up from the panties and roamed over her body.

  “Where are we going?” Emily asked.

  “On a trip.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned and picked up a pair of slacks and a shirt. “I’m going to change in the bathroom. Plus, I need to pack my toothbrush and a few other things. My suitcase is under the bed. Will you get it?”

  The man slid off the bed and aimed the Glock at her. “Stay where I can see you and no tricks, lady.”

  “I promise.” While she was regaining her swagger, the threat of being shot kept her in check. She didn’t think he would shoot her, but she wasn’t going to take that chance.

  He knelt on the floor and looked under the bed. While he was down there, Emily quickly changed from her yoga pants to the slacks. She was halfway through pulling the shirt on when Giant came up with the black rolling case.

  “Very nice,” Giant said, setting the case on the bed, and not taking his eyes off her chest. He grabbed her clothes and tossed them in the bag, fingering her panties before dumping them on top.

  Emily buttoned the shirt and stepped to the bathroom, the giant right on her tail. She collected her toilet kit and hairbrushes, then added some feminine hygiene items to the mix. He backed away as she came out and placed everything in her suitcase.

  “Are you ready now, lady?”

  “My name is Emily.”

  “Don’t make this personal. You’re just a package I’m delivering.” He picked up the suitcase. “Nice shot with the Mace by the way, you got Victor really good.”

  Victor was standing in the kitchen, snot running down his nose in long globs. His face was bright red and shiny from tears and the water he’d been using to rinse his eyes. He held the faucet hose with one hand and bent down to rinse his face again. Emily smiled. There was some personal satisfaction at having caused pain to one of her kidnappers.

  “Let’s go, Vic.”

  “Damnit, Ronnie, that bitch messed me up.”

  “You’ll get over it. You’ve had your head under that faucet for ten minutes now. Let’s go. We got a flight to catch.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vic muttered. He coughed hard, rinsed his mouth, and spat in the sink. He left the hose out but shut off the water.

  Emily looked longingly at her cell phone still laying on the table beside her computer.

  “Don’t think about it, missy,” Vic said, wiping his face with one of her kitchen towels; the good one she used for decoration because it had two flamingos on it. Anger smoldered inside of her.

  “Take the suitcase,” Ronnie said to Vic. He kept a tight grip on Emily’s right arm, just above the elbow, and steered her toward the door. Vic grabbed the suitcase and followed them down the elevator, and out to an old station wagon. Ronnie wedged Emily into the backseat and sat beside her. Vic got behind the wheel. They drove across Old Tampa Bay on Courtney Campbell Causeway, and turned south onto Bayside Bridge, which dumped them off outside the St. Pete-Clearwater Airport.

  Emily had a sudden vision of the last time she’d flown out of this airport with Ryan and Chuck Newland. They’d gone to Key West to look for sunken sailboats and she’d found Ryan to be a man who was rough and calloused, but with a kind heart. He reminded her of her dad. Ryan had kept her from drowning and then took her on a roller coaster of emotions as he was lost at sea, found, and infiltrated a Mexican drug lord’s compound. After his last mission to arrest Jim Kilroy, she’d ended up with two Homeland Security agents in her apartment as a protection detail because Kilroy had threatened her life. That’s when she’d dumped his ass.

  Vic stopped the car beside a sleek Jetstream 32 twin-engine turboprop plane.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Ronnie didn’t answer as he maneuvered her out of the car and up the stairs. He shoved her into a seat and Vic tossed her bag into the plane before the two men retreated to the tarmac. The captain pulled the stairs in and locked the door.

  “Where we’re going?” she asked the captain.

  “Haiti, mon,” a muscular man with long dreadlocks and a beard said from the back of the plane.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was well after dark when Ryan returned to the Hotel Roi Christophe. While they were in port, Stacey and Travis had asked about hotel accommodations and Ryan had called Joulie. She booked all of them into the h
otel.

  Ryan was wet, hungry, and tired when he walked into the dining room. His small crew had lingered over drinks, and Dennis was about to return to Peggy Lynn. He’d insisted on spending the nights on his boat. Ryan sat down beside him. “What’s the latest on the weather report?”

  “Rain and rough seas for the next three days.”

  “Dang it,” Ryan said, shaking his head.

  A waiter came by, and Ryan ordered fish and vegetables. He wondered where they were getting the fish from. Haiti’s waters were notoriously overfished, and on his dives, he hadn’t seen much marine life, save for the shark buzzing his position. He decided not to ask any questions.

  “What did you do all day?” Stacey asked.

  “I told you, I had some errands to run,” Ryan said.

  “Your mysterious bullshit is causing a rift in the crew,” she said. “First it was the patch, then it was negotiating away half the haul, and now you’re running all over the city on errands.” She used her fingers to make air quotes around errands.

  Ryan glanced around the room. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Did Don show you the pictures?”

  They all nodded.

  “Okay, someone is messing with our take, and I have a feeling it’s Jim Kilroy. He owns the mothership that’s been hanging out near us. When I was down there, I saw a flash of yellow in the haze. I think it was a guy on a rebreather. It’s the only explanation for what’s missing.”

  “Makes sense,” Travis said.

  “Kilroy is an international arms dealer. He supplied the weapons to the cartel who bombed the Southwest. I went after him a few months ago, and we tangled. I want to finish the job.”

  “Why’s he after the gold?” Dennis asked.

  “It was supposed to be payment for the weapons on board the Santo Domingo.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stacey said. “This is the same arms dealer you told us you partnered with to deliver the weapons?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan nodded.