by Evan Graver
When they finished eating, Paul asked Ryan, “What did you do before commercial diving? Something tells me you’re ex-military.”
“I was in the Navy,” Ryan replied.
“What’d you do—SEAL teams?”
“No, I was a diver.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Ryan had been an Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician, and as part of that training, he had gone through the Navy’s rigorous dive school where they’d taught everything from the use of basic scuba gear to surface-supplied diving operations. Once he’d passed the EOD school at Eglin Air Force Base in the Florida Panhandle, he’d gone on to learn how to dispose of underwater mines while using closed circuit rebreathers.
Ryan had left home the day after high school graduation to sail around the world. When he’d returned, he joined the U.S. Navy to fight for his country after the devastating attacks of September 11, 2001. He’d spent ten years as an EOD tech, completing multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan before calling it quits and moving back to his hometown of Wilmington, North Carolina. There he had worked for his father’s construction company, renovating houses. While he enjoyed spending time with his family and getting to know his nieces and nephews, he’d missed the sea and craved adventure. Pounding nails didn’t give him the same thrill as chasing bad guys or diving wrecks.
When Greg Olsen, his former EOD team leader and owner of the commercial dive and salvage company Dark Water Research, had asked him to be DWR’s liaison with the Department of Homeland Security, Ryan had jumped at the chance to get back into action, and for the last two years, he’d bounced around the Caribbean, doing commercial diving jobs and combating terrorism.
Then Emily had come back into his life and everything changed. The two of them had met while he was investigating pirates in the Gulf of Mexico and they’d had a short but intense relationship before she’d dumped him for putting her life in danger. Several years later, when she needed help to find a stolen freighter, Emily had turned to Greg Olsen, who paired her with Ryan, forcing them into an uneasy truce as they worked together. The passion they had shared in those early days had returned, and they’d been inseparable since. He looked at her now and grinned. She returned the smile and reached for his hand. He winked at her and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she giggled and shook her head.
“I can see you lovebirds are ready to be alone,” Paul said. “Youse guys go on. I’ll get the bill.”
“You sure?” Ryan asked. “Can I get the tip?”
“Fuhgeddaboudit. You saved my life.”
Emily and Ryan stood, and Diane gave them each a hug. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” Emily told her. “Call me anytime.”
Diane smiled. “I will, dear.”
Ryan took Emily’s hand and he led her out of the restaurant.
“What’s the hurry?” she asked as they stepped onto the wooden dock that ran along the waterfront.
“In a minute,” he said, continuing toward Windseeker. When they were in the cockpit, Ryan unlocked the cabin door and went below, returning with a beer for him and a glass of wine for Emily.
Ryan took a sip of beer and said, “Someone ransacked their house, Em, and it was probably the same people who sank their sailboat. I think Paul screwed up and now his enemies want him dead.”
“What do you think he did?”
“I’m not sure, but the whole time I was at their house, I felt like a sniper was watching me through his scope. It was the same feeling I used to get when I was disarming IEDs in Afghanistan. Those AQ and Taliban bastards liked to take potshots at us while we worked.”
Emily raised her eyebrows. Ryan rarely talked about his time overseas. If he did, it was not about the tragic secrets he kept locked inside, but about the good things that had happened. He had come to terms with most of his demons. Sailing, diving, and working helped to keep them at bay, but they still surfaced occasionally. They came out in nightmares, paranoia, or bursts of anger that led many to believe Ryan was a rogue actor, a loner with trust issues. Emily knew better. She’d seen him at his best and at his worst. She accepted it for what it was—post-traumatic stress—and she loved him anyway.
They sat in silence on the cockpit bench, watching the sun set behind the homes perched on the hill across the bay and listening to the sounds of their environment. Birds sang in the nearby trees, ropes creaked, and water lapped against the boat hulls. A flock of pelicans swooped over the water and settled onto dock posts.
Then they heard a woman scream Emily’s name.
Emily sat bolt upright as Ryan stood.
“What the hell was that?” he said.
The next shout was louder and longer. “Emily!”
She pointed across the docks. “It came from over there.”
Ryan grabbed the binoculars from the pulpit and scanned the adjacent boats. He saw two black men horsing Diane Langston aboard a large gray yacht. One clamped his hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream again, while a third man guided Paul up the boarding ladder with the muzzle of his pistol.
“Do you see anything?” Emily asked.
He handed her the binoculars and pointed at the yacht. “Diane is on that Viking.”
Emily put the glasses to her eyes as Ryan dashed into Windseeker’s cabin. He went straight to the navigation table, lifted the lid, and removed his Walther PPQ nine-millimeter pistol from its hiding spot. He kept it in a Kydex holster that he clipped inside his waistband.
When he came back topside, Emily said, “They’re casting off.”
Ryan closed and locked the companionway door before they raced down the dock to shore as the Viking began pulling away.
“There.” Ryan pointed at a Renaissance Prowler 36 fishing catamaran with twin Suzuki four-hundred horsepower outboards docked at the fuel pumps. The rocket launchers mounted on the Prowler’s T-top were full of heavy-duty offshore fishing tackle.
They ran to the boat where the captain, a middle-aged white man with silver-flecked hair, had just finished fueling his boat and was casting off his dock lines.
Ryan stopped at the edge of the dock. “Are you for hire?”
“Yeah,” the captain said, “but I’m taking her to her berth and going home for the night.”
“I need you to follow that Viking.” Ryan nodded toward the yacht leaving the harbor.
“What?”
“A friend of ours is on that boat,” Ryan said. “We think they kidnapped her.”
“Call the cops,” the captain said.
“I’ll pay you cash. Double the rate,” Emily said.
Both Ryan and the captain turned to look at her. She stepped over the Prowler’s gunwale. “Let’s go.”
“Where’s the money?” the captain asked.
Emily pulled off a gold necklace and laid it on the console. “That’s worth five hundred dollars. I’ll give you the money when we get back.”
The captain held up the necklace and examined it in the low light, then pocketed it and started the engines. He eased them away from the dock and clicked on the running lights as they glided through the black water.
“I’m Captain Stuart. Normally, I’d tell you about the fishing spots we’re going to, but I don’t think you’re interested.”
“Just follow the boat,” Emily said, sitting on the seat beside Stuart.
Ryan leaned against the seat and held onto the aluminum tubing of the T-top. Stuart glanced over at him. The breeze lifted the T-shirt around Ryan’s side and Stuart saw the butt of the Walther.
“You got a permit for that gun?” Stuart asked.
“You let me worry about that, Captain.”
Stuart turned back to the wheel and adjusted the brightness of his GPS screen. They trailed the Viking at a safe distance, appearing to be just another vessel going night fishing. Ryan kept one eye on the GPS, the yacht making a nice fat blip on the screen, and the other on the vessel as it pushed out into Pillsbury Sound and turned south.
“What do you want me to do?” Stua
rt asked.
“Stay with them, and when I tell you, run up fast on their stern. I’ll hop across, and you back off. You stay on the starboard quarter, and when I’m ready for you to pick me up, I’ll flash a light three times in quick succession.”
“Okay,” Stuart agreed.
“What did you do before you became a fishing guide?” Ryan asked, trying to occupy the guy’s mind while they waited for the vessels to get clear of the traffic in the channel.
“I’m a recovering attorney. I worked for a major firm in D.C. until I got burned out. Then I moved down here and bought a boat.”
“Recovering attorney. That’s an interesting way to put it,” Ryan said.
“After twenty-five years, two divorces, and one heart attack, I figured it was time to do something else.”
They rode in silence for a few more minutes, the yacht gaining ground on them until Ryan said, “Okay, Captain—let’s see what you’ve got.”
Stuart threw the throttle to its stop, and the catamaran shot forward like it had been kicked in the stern. The nose came level, and they rocketed through the water.
When they were within ten feet of the Viking, Ryan moved to the casting platform on the bow of the Prowler and waited as Stuart maneuvered his vessel into place. When the gap closed to two feet, Ryan sprang across to the Viking. He crouched at the base of the steps leading to the main deck as the Prowler veered away into the darkness.
Chapter Four
The steps up from the Viking’s swim platform led to a small seating area. Beyond it was an open sliding door. Ryan saw a man at the helm and another guy who held an M4 rifle to his shoulder, coming toward where he was kneeling.
The Viking had only one set of steps from the swim platform up to the cockpit, so Ryan pressed himself close to the hull, hoping the guard wouldn’t see him. The Prowler came darting by, and Emily screamed in delight as the two boats almost collided. This drew the attention of the man with the M4, and Ryan ran up the steps. The guard with the long gun spun on his heel, detecting nearby motion in his peripheral vision, and Ryan struck him with an open palm strike on his chin. As he staggered backward, Ryan hit him with a judo kick to the chest, sending him tumbling over the rail.
Moving across the deck, Ryan jammed his pistol against the helmsman’s head. “Put it on autopilot.”
The man complied, then raised his hands from the controls.
“Jump overboard,” Ryan ordered. They were only a mile from the nearest island, a little chunk of awash stone called Dog Rocks.
“No, man. Are you crazy?” the captain asked.
Not wanting to spend any more time dealing with him, Ryan crashed the butt of his gun against the man’s temple, and he fell to the deck. Ryan saw nothing handy to tie him up with and hoped that he’d be out long enough for him to get to Diane and Paul and get them off the boat. He quickly patted the man down and chucked the pistol he found overboard.
The door to the main cabin was beside the driver’s controls. Ryan pushed it open and saw steps leading to the lower level. He aimed his pistol at a thin black man in his late twenties who stood in the center of the salon. His hair was styled in cornrows and he wore black dress pants, black square-toed shoes, and a gold dress shirt. A small soul patch jutted out from under his lower lip and a close-cropped goatee graced his chin, with a thin strip of hair connecting the two. Soul Patch grabbed Diane and forced her to her knees, pressing his pistol against her head.
“Drop it or I’ll kill her!” Soul Patch warned.
Ryan kept his gun trained on Diane’s would-be executioner. “Go ahead, but if you pull that trigger, you’re dead.” He stepped off the companionway stairs and stood five feet away from Diane. She was sobbing. The tears streaked her face and dripped from her chin.
Paul Langston sat on the sofa, his hands bound in front of him. He looked at Ryan and shook his head, his eyes silently pleading for him not to do anything rash.
Ryan felt cold steel against his back and guessed that the captain was now awake.
“Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican stand-off, eh, playa?” Soul Patch said.
“You get to keep Paul because he screwed you over. But his wife has nothing to do with this. Let her go and we can all walk away from this happy.”
“I thought you didn’t care about the woman,” Soul Patch jeered.
“She’s innocent,” Ryan said.
“And who are you?”
“I’m the hostage negotiator,” Ryan replied, his gunsight never wavering from Soul Patch’s head.
Soul Patch thumbed the hammer back on his semi-automatic.
“He can dive for the box,” Paul blurted out. “He’s a Navy diver.”
“Oh, he is, is he?” Soul Patch said. “Then let’s make a deal, playa. You get the box from Paul’s sailboat and you can have Mrs. Langston back.”
Ryan assumed the box in question was the same one he had convinced Paul to leave behind in Balance Sheet not more than six hours ago. “I’m not leaving without her.”
Soul Patch wrapped his hand in Diane’s hair and wrenched her head back. She screamed in pain and flailed against Soul Patch’s hand.
“Shut up!” Soul Patch screamed, and he smacked her in the face with the barrel of his gun. Blood gushed from a cut on her cheek.
Ryan’s voice rose in anger. “She’s an old lady, asshole. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
Soul Patch slung Diane out of the way, her head hitting the floor hard, and she was still. He raised his gun gangsta style and stepped closer to Ryan. “You wanna go hostage negotiator?”
Paul scrambled off the couch and knelt over his wife, putting his finger to her neck.
“Is she okay?” Ryan asked, looking around the gangster at the older couple.
“I think so,” Paul said shakily. “Her pulse is strong, and she’s breathing.”
“Good. See if you can wake her up.”
“Leave her alone,” Soul Patch ordered through gritted teeth.
Paul stroked his wife’s cheek before bending and kissing her on the lips.
Soul Patch jabbed his gun at Ryan. “You still wanna go, playa?”
“Yeah, and I’m taking the woman with me.”
“Bullshit! You’re gonna take that worthless piece of shit Paul, who thinks he can steal from me, and you’re gonna bring me that box with my documents in it. Diane is gonna keep me company. If you’re not back in twenty-four hours, I’ll feed her to the fish.”
“I need forty-eight hours to get my gear in order and make the dive,” Ryan said.
“No,” Soul Patch spat. “Twenty-four hours. Starting right now.” He raised his left wrist to look at his gold Rolex. “Ten-thirty.”
Ryan rolled his wrist and looked at his Citizen dive watch. “Okay.” He holstered his pistol and held up his hands.
Paul helped Diane sit up against the couch and held her hand. “I’m sorry, Di. I promise we’ll be back soon.”
Diane raised a hand to probe the bleeding gash oh her cheek and looked past her husband at Ryan. Despite the dazed look on her face, her eyes bored into him, and he knew he had no choice but to comply with Soul Patch’s demands and figure out a way to rescue her. Ryan knew that as soon as Soul Patch had his box, he would kill everyone involved.
“Let’s go, Paul,” Ryan said.
The older man heaved himself to his feet, a defeated expression on his normally gregarious face. Ryan slowly turned and faced the helmsman, who had found a pistol from somewhere and kept it trained on Ryan as he backed up the accommodation ladder.
At the steps to the swim platform, Ryan asked Soul Patch, “Can I borrow a flashlight to signal my boat to pick us up?”
“What’s the signal?” Soul Patch asked.
“Three quick flashes to the boat on your starboard rear quarter.”
Soul Patch flashed the light just as Ryan had said, then he aimed his pistol at Ryan’s head. “Get the hell off my boat, playa.”
Ryan saw the running lights o
f the Prowler turn toward them, and he stepped onto the rail. Paul jumped first, and with a sigh and a shake of his head, Ryan reluctantly followed him into the water.
Emily and Stuart must have seen them jump because the Prowler slowed and they snapped on a spotlight, instead of pursuing the Viking.
The light centered on the two swimming men as the Prowler approached. Stuart and Emily helped Paul climb aboard, and Ryan pulled himself up between the Prowler’s twin outboards.
“You guys okay?” Stuart asked.
“We’ll live,” Ryan said, wiping the water from his face.
“Where’s Diane?” Emily demanded.
“She’s being held hostage while Paul and I do a little recovery dive.” Ryan stood and stepped to the center console. “What are you doing tomorrow, Captain? I need your help.”
“I’m supposed to take a charter out in the morning, but I can get a buddy of mine to do it if you make the pay right.”
“Emily said she would pay you double your normal rate. Does that work for you?”
“Sounds good,” Stuart said. “The pickin’s have been slim lately.”
“I need to borrow a vehicle to run some errands in the morning,” Ryan added.
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be at the dock at seven.”
Ryan slapped Stuart on the shoulder and asked Emily for his cell phone. He pulled up his favorite contacts and hit the call button beside Rick Hayes’s name. Like he’d done for Ryan, Greg had plucked Hayes from a mundane life and brought him into the fold at Dark Water Research. He and Ryan had worked several ops together since, and Rick was both Ryan and Greg’s go-to man when they needed extra muscle.
A moment later, Rick came on the line. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on? Long time, no hear.”
“Where are you at?” Ryan asked.
“In Nicaragua with Greg. We’re still working on the port contracts for Bluefields.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it; I’m over Central America. Why are you calling me, anyway? Is it playtime?”
“Yeah, I need some backup on St. Thomas.”
“Wish I could make it, brother, but I’m tied up here. You need to call Jinks.”