by Evan Graver
“Did you get my letter?” Ryan asked. He had sent a multiple page tome as an apology and an explanation.
Emily nodded.
“What’s the matter, Ms. Hunt,” Kilroy asked. “The man asked you a question.” He leaned toward Ryan and pointed his fork at Emily. “She’s been a mute since she got off the plane.”
Henri delivered the margarita. Emily thanked him with a tight smile. He grinned before departing. She took a sip and then set the drink back on the table. Her hand lingered by the long stem of the glass, gently rubbing it with her fingers. Ryan reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. Emily looked up.
Ryan said, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. A tear welled at the corner of her left eye and rolled down her cheek.
Ryan withdrew his hand. He started eating again. He couldn’t tell what was worse, his responsibility for putting Emily in this situation, or the pain of seeing her in it.
Her toes rested on his foot again. Ryan’s pulse rate increased, and a surge of hope swelled through his body.
Kilroy interrupted his thoughts. “When will you dive again?”
“As soon as the weather clears.”
“Have you found all of it?”
“No, we still need to locate the second box.”
“You better,” Kilroy said. He laid his silverware on his plate. “Dessert and a night cap aboard the Passage, dear?”
“Yes,” Karen agreed.
“Mr. Weller, we must be going now.” Kilroy stood and tossed an American one-hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Enjoy your meal.”
From the side of a room, a large man approached, took Emily by the arm, and forced her to stand. There was nothing Ryan could do despite Emily’s pleading eyes. The enforcer shepherded the group out the veranda doors. Ryan followed them to the small courtyard.
Damian jumped from behind a pillar to block Ryan’s way. He had a black pistol in his hand and leveled it at Ryan’s chest. The Jamaican lowered his gun and grinned his gold teeth. “Where your Taser be at now, mon?” He jerked his gun back up and yelled, “Bwah!”
Ryan stood stock still, staring at Damian’s black eyes. In a voice just loud enough for Damian to hear, he said, “I’m going to put you in the dirt.”
“Dat what you tink, mon!” Damian pointed his gun gangster-style at Ryan’s head and danced around.
“Let’s go, Damian,” Kilroy ordered.
“Let me scare da boy some more, Mista Kilroy.” He waved the barrel in front of Ryan.
“Enough, Damian, let’s go. I need him alive.”
“Too bad.” Damian leveled the gun and poked Ryan in the chest with the muzzle.
Without thinking, Ryan snatched the gun barrel with his right hand and pushed it to his left. At the same time, he caught Damian’s wrist with his left hand and forced it to the right. The violent movements ripped the gun from Damian’s hand and snapped his trigger finger inside the guard. He let out a blood-curdling scream as he dropped the pistol and clutched his hand.
“Ya broke me finger, mon!”
“Next time you pull a gun, you better use it.” Ryan pointed the gun at Kilroy. “I should have done this a long time ago.”
Karen gasped. Kilroy laughed. “You’re going to shoot me in cold blood in front of all these witnesses?”
Ryan dropped the magazine, ejected the cartridge from the chamber, and tossed the gun at Damian’s feet. To Kilroy, he said, “Next time I see you, I’ll have the gold. Stay out of my way until then.”
“Smart boy,” Kilroy said. He turned his attention to Damian, looking impassively at his hired man still weeping on his knees and holding his broken finger. “Get up and stop blubbering.” He shoved Damian in the shoulder with his foot.
Damian climbed slowly to his feet and glared at Ryan. “You dead, boy! You dead!”
“Get in line, asshole,” Ryan replied.
The group retreated. Ryan could see tears sliding down Emily’s cheeks as she glanced over her shoulder at him.
Ryan called out, “I’m coming for you, Emily.”
In a shaky voice, she said her first words of the night, “You better.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The wind and rain had stopped. The earth seemed to be taking a breather after Mother Nature’s fury. Ryan stood on the steps, watching the bright taillights of Kilroy’s hired car swing out of the hotel’s drive. A moment later they were gone. Ryan took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. The nicotine and the routine of smoking helped calm his frazzled nerves. The adrenaline that had surged through his body for the whole encounter had shut off. Suddenly he was weak with exhaustion, and he sagged into a chair.
“So that was Emily?” Stacey asked from his elbow.
“Yeah,” Ryan managed to say.
“She seems nice. A lot prettier in person. I can see why you fell for her.” Stacey paused, and when Ryan didn’t answer, started talking again. “What was that move you put on Damian? That was awesome, what’d you do, like break his finger, or something? Totally cool.” She kept mimicking Ryan’s hand movements over and over.
“Shut up, Stacey.”
“Okay.”
She sat beside him for a while. Dennis came over with two beers. He nudged Stacey out of the chair by using a nod of his head to tell her take a hike. Ryan took one of the beers and drained half of it, not realizing how parched and raw his throat was.
“You told me it wouldn’t be complicated,” Dennis said. “You’re entitled to be wrong on occasions. I knew it would be dangerous, and I believe you’re a man who could handle himself. I used to be fearless, too, and wanted to make every moment count.”
Silence and smoke enveloped them. Lost in his own thoughts, Ryan had barely heard the captain.
After several long minutes, Dennis said, “I’ve never had to fight for a woman. Peggy never got kidnapped by some pirate.” He took a long swig of his bottle. Dennis’s voice became so soft that Ryan had to focus on his next words. “If someone took my Peggy, I’d bring hell on earth to them. I’ll help you do the same.”
“Thanks, Dennis, that means a lot to me.”
“We can’t dive until the weather clears. Looks like it’ll be around for another day or so. Even then the current might still be running strong.”
“I’ll risk it. We’ve got the chamber.”
Dennis nodded.
“What’s the plan? You have Don working on something.”
“That’s shot to hell. I can’t do what I’d planned with Emily on Kilroy’s boat.”
“Don’t throw it out. Something might change.”
“Always plan for contingencies.”
“You’ve got a few days. If you want to run something by me, just ask.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
Dennis stood. “I’m headed back to the boat. I don’t trust those security yahoos Parker hired even if he says they’re on the police force, especially with your new friends in town. If it was this easy for Kilroy to find you through the coconut telegraph, then who knows what else the natives know about.”
“You know where we stored the hardware,” Ryan said.
“I’ve slept with a revolver under my pillow since I was a private in-country. This isn’t any different.”
Ryan nodded and drained his beer. “You got my shiny trinket under there too?”
“You remember where McGee kept his safe?”
“Yeah.” Ryan smiled. The salvage consultant had a safe in the bilge of his houseboat. He kept it covered with water and when he needed it, he activated a secondary pump, which drained the bilge and then pumped water back over it when he was done.
“McDonald got that idea from me. I’ve been using that old smuggling trick for pert near half a century.”
Ryan smiled. “I won’t tell.”
Dennis squeezed the younger man’s shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Puerto Rico was a country in turmoil. Hurricane Irma had left
the island decimated. Seven months after the storms hit, the majority of the island’s electrical grid had been rebuilt but it was still subject to blackouts. More work remained, and Dark Water Research was part of those efforts to restore the country to a semblance of what it had been. Within days of the hurricane’s passing, DWR ships and equipment were off the coast of the island, providing power and water through on-board systems.
After his trip to meet Ryan in Key West, Greg Olsen wanted to be close to Haiti, and his job as coordinator for DWR’s relief efforts in Puerto Rico gave him the perfect cover. It wasn’t his favorite job, but he needed something to do after resigning as DWR’s president. Greg had chosen to dock the blue-and-white Hatteras across the Mona Passage from Puerto Rico. The Dominican Republic marina, they were staying at, was also closer to Ryan’s operation in Haiti.
“Hey, boss, you want me to get you anything while I’m out?” Rick Hayes asked.
“I’m good for now,” Greg said. “We’ll have lunch at the marina club when you get back.”
“Roger that.”
Greg watched Rick step over the gunwale and walk up the dock. When Rick reached land, he took off running. Rick made the turn onto the beach and his feet kicked up little rooster tails with each stride. When Rick wasn’t tending to his duties on the Hatteras, he was tending a woman. His trips up the beach were always scouting missions to one of the all-inclusive resorts to find his next conquest. The man was only five-feet-six-inches tall, but he constantly joked about his sexual prowess and the size of his manhood. Greg didn’t care as long as Rick’s affairs didn’t interfere with his job.
Rick Hayes was another warrior Greg had worked with during his time in the Navy. He’d met Rick during an operation in Afghanistan. Rick was Army EOD, and they’d been through the same basic service-wide EOD school at Eglin Air Force Base.
While Greg was waiting for Chuck Newland to pick him up, he’d bar-hopped along Duval Street and spotted Rick coming out of Sloppy Joe’s. Greg had offered to buy the beer, and they did the scratch-and-sniff dance of who do you know and what had happened since then. Rick was bumming around Key West and Big Pine, flying tourists in a Robinson R44 helicopter. He wasn’t thrilled with carting around gray-haired civilians and young kids, and he’d been reprimanded on more than one occasion for flying dangerously according to company policy.
Greg had listened to him grouse about his job, the lousy state of the economy after the hurricane, and the puke-stained civilians he had to tote around. After fifteen minutes of the tirade, Greg had said, “Come work for me.”
Now they were in the Caribbean, waiting for Ryan to signal he needed help, or for the DWR crews to require assistance.
The ringing satellite phone cut through the fog of his thoughts as he stared out the window, ignoring the spreadsheets and endless work orders on his computer screen. Reaching for the phone, he wished he were running on the beach with Rick. “Hello, this is Greg.”
“Hey, boss,” Ryan said.
“You don’t sound very happy.”
“Killer Roy has Emily on his ship.”
Greg straightened. “Tell me what happened?”
“He kidnapped her from her apartment and he’s holding her ransom until I give him the gold.”
“Did you make the trade?”
“I haven’t recovered the gold yet.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Some backup. I need Mango with a sniper rifle.”
Greg chuckled. “You really want him to say he saved your ass three times?”
“If it means I get Emily back safe and sound, I don’t care.”
“I’m in Punta Cana. I can be up there in two days.”
“What are you doing in Punta Cana?”
“Right now, I’m enjoying the tropical sun while fighting to stay awake as I work my way through budget spreadsheets.”
Ryan snorted. “Yeah, right. You’re hanging around hoping I’d call you for help.”
“Guilty as charged, but I was right.” They may have had a running joke about how many times Mango had saved Ryan’s life, but Greg felt a burden of debt that he could never repay. Ryan had saved his life by pulling him from a Humvee in the middle of an ambush.
“Teamwork, brother.”
Greg smiled. “You remember Rick Hayes?”
“Rick the Dick?”
“That was Rick Gillespie. Rick Hayes is the Army EOD officer we worked with to find Nightcrawler.” Nightcrawler was the code designation for a Taliban bomb maker they’d hunted in Afghanistan on their last tour. Rick had determined that Nightcrawler had instigated the ambush on Greg’s team.
“Oh, yeah, Short Rick,” Ryan said. They’d known three Ricks on that trip, the third being Bald Rick, one of their admin pukes.
“He’s with me,” Greg said.
“Cool, what’s he been up to?”
“Flying helicopters in Key West when he wasn’t chasing women.”
“Sounds about right. Look, I can’t dive until tomorrow when conditions improve. The current is ripping right now. I’ve got an idea on how to stop Kilroy, but I’m lacking on the details.”
“Tell me. Let’s work it out,” Greg said, grabbing a soda from the fridge. He cracked it open and wheeled into the cockpit while Ryan recounted the events of the past few days and explained his plan.
“First thing I need to do is get a more help,” Greg said. “Get the gold up and stall. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said.
Greg hung up the phone and scratched his jaw. He sat in the sunshine pondering the situation until he’d finished his soda, and then went back inside. He tapped the laptop to wake it up and pulled up a satellite tracking network. He input the name of the vessel he was searching for and was pleased to see Alamo was still in Guadeloupe. He made two calls before going down to the bunkroom and retrieving a metal case. With it on his lap, he wheeled out to the cockpit. Then he called Rick and told him to hustle back to the boat.
Two hours later, the two men were in a dark-blue Bell 407GXi helicopter. They skimmed along the clear blue ocean at one hundred and thirty-three knots. The owner, Max Weber, hadn’t wanted to fly all the way to Guadeloupe and interrupt his scheduled day of sightseeing tours, but Greg had plied the man with money and promises of further use as a contract transporter for DWR operations in the area. This had brightened Max’s otherwise dull day and he agreed to fly them personally. Rick had time in the Bell Jet Ranger, but the 407’s avionics suite was distinctly different. He rode in the co-pilot’s seat and watched the large LED screens in the dash. Greg sat in the back, beside his wheelchair, which they’d had to take apart to fit into the five-person cabin.
Another two hours and they were bearing down on the split between Grande-Terre and Basse-Terre, the two islands forming Guadeloupe. Max radioed ground control at Pointe-à-Pitre International Airport and they vectored in for a landing. Below them was what people pictured when they dreamed about the Caribbean, lush palms along brown sand beaches lapped by translucent blue water. Boats looked like they floated in air, casting shadows on the sand below. Greg made a mental note to bring Shelly here when they took a vacation, if he could drag her away from work.
“You’re going to have to get a cab into town,” Max said into the headset. “They won’t let me land near the marina.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Rick said.
“It’s my bird, and I’m not having her impounded,” Max replied, setting the chopper down on the tarmac.
“Fair enough,” Rick said.
Rick helped Greg put together the wheelchair and get situated before they went to find a cab. Max stayed to fuel the helicopter for the return trip, which Greg had promised would happen in less than an hour. Rick carried the metal case with them through the surprisingly large airport. In front of the terminal, they hailed a cab. The cabbie stopped the taxi two feet from the curb. The old man jumped out and came around to open the trunk.
&
nbsp; “Get in. Get in,” he urged.
“Hey, buddy, you need to pull this rig right up to the curb. My boss needs to get in.”
“No problem,” the cabbie said. “He walk to car.”
Rick clenched his fists. Greg’s head lolled back, and he rolled his eyes.
“Are you an idiot? Pull the car right up to the curb.” Rick pointed.
With a smile, the cabbie said, “No, he can walk like all other old people.”
“Look, dumbass,” Rick seethed.
Greg punched Rick in the hip to shut him up and said, “I’m a paraplegic. I can’t walk. Please, pull a little further away from the curb so I can get down and into the car.”
The cabbie looked between Rick and Greg, slammed the trunk, and ran around to the driver’s seat. He jumped in and pulled away with a screech of tires. Greg and Rick stared in disbelief at the departing cab.
Another cabbie slid to a stop beside them, its tires squealing as they rubbed the curb. The man gestured for them to get in. Greg opened the front passenger door and tossed his legs into the footwell. Then he slid across to the seat. Rick disassembled the chair, putting the frame in the trunk and the wheels, cushion, and Greg’s metal case beside him on the back seat.
“Pointe-à-Pitre Harbor,” Greg said.
The man nodded and spoke a few words in Creole, neither of which Greg nor Rick understood. The cabbie pointed at the meter and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Greg held up a wad of euros. Dull yellow teeth appeared under the cabbie’s dark fleshy lips and he gave them a thumbs up.
On the way through the twisting streets of the island’s capital, the cabbie turned on the stereo. Katie Perry blasted from the speakers. The cabbie gave Greg another grin and a thumbs up before tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. Several songs later, and thirty-five euros lighter, Greg and Rick exited the cab and headed for the marina office.
“Does Mango know you’re coming?” Rick asked.
“If he knew I was coming, he wouldn’t be here,” Greg said, giving his wheels another hard push.