Dark Hunt: A Ryan Weller Thriller

by Evan Graver

  “You okay?” someone asked.

  Ryan looked up at a taller man with thick blond hair and a shaggy mustache.

  The man stuck out his hand. He had the Second Amendment of the Constitution tattooed on his forearm in the shape of an AR-15 rifle. “I’m Scott Gregory. You’re Ryan, right?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said as they shook.

  “Jinks said you needed gear.”

  “I know my way around.”

  “No offense, but I’m the quartermaster around here. I’ll issue you the gear. We’ll be wearing civvies under our kit. Normally, cargo pants and tactical shirts or T-shirts. You got those?”

  “Yeah, I got ’em,” Ryan replied. Things had really changed since he had operated as a lone wolf out of the office. “You still got a KRISS Vector in the gun vault?”

  “Sure do. You want that with a side of Glock 19?”

  “With an extra helping of thirty-round mags.” Ryan grinned. He had been in a funk a moment ago but was coming out of it.

  “You got it, boss man.” Scott pulled gear from a locker and stacked it on a workbench. “This is your kit. Get it squared away how you want it.”

  “Thanks.” Ryan went to work adjusting the pockets on the load-bearing vest, tightening the straps on the drop leg holster, and checking his firearms. As he crammed rounds in magazines, he asked Scott if they had an EOD kit handy, and the man produced a standard issue Navy kit.

  By the time Ryan had finished sorting his kit, all the team had come by, introducing themselves before checking their own gear. They were a mix of former Rangers, SEALs, and Air Force Pararescue, and they bantered about, using the usual black humor that accompanied every mission. Ryan hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

  He stepped out of the team room and fished another soda from the fridge on his way to the office.

  “Hey, come here for a minute,” Jinks said, waving him toward the cubicle.

  “What’s up?” Ryan asked, leaning on the divider.

  “I forwarded our emails about the Explorer to a mutual friend of ours, Iceman.”

  “Why?” He knew only one man with that nickname. Larry Grove had earned it not just because he was cool under pressure, but because he also looked like Val Kilmer’s character in Top Gun.

  Jinks shrugged one shoulder. “He’s at the ONI. I figured an extra set of eyes would help.”

  Ryan hadn’t known that Grove had moved over to the Office of Naval Intelligence. “I thought he was still with SEAL Team Six.” He and Larry had worked together on several operations when Ryan had been on active duty. Larry had also gotten the green light from the Navy to help Ryan with his first mission for the DHS.

  Jinks smiled. “He got transferred when they promoted him to commander.”

  “He’s a commander now?” Ryan questioned.

  “Yep. Rumor has it they’re looking to make him an admiral.”

  “Holy shit,” Ryan said, dragging the words out.

  “Yeah, no kidding. Our little tadpole is all grown up.”

  “What did he say about the container?”

  “Here’s the thing; I’m waiting for him to get back to me still. I called and left a message a few minutes ago, but we gotta hop so we’ll be in position to take the Explorer, no matter what he says.”

  “I agree. I’m all set. Gregory hooked me up with a full kit.”

  “You going in those shorts?” Jinks asked.

  “No. I need to run back to the house and change.” He drained the last of his soda and tossed the can in the trash.

  “Make it snappy.”

  “Roger that.” Ryan leaned into the office and said to Emily, “I’ve got to go to Greg’s place. Do you want to come?”

  “Yeah.” She closed her laptop, and he held the door open for her.

  They climbed into the truck and headed south through town toward the freeway. Ryan hit the speed dial for Ashlee’s number, and when she answered, he asked, “Any luck on the footage from Puerto Cortés?”

  “No. They won’t give it to me, and I’m not going to hack their system.”

  “Why not? It would help us a lot.”

  “I’m not doing that,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “Everything we’ve done has been above board. I’m not a hacker, Ryan.”

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel in frustration as he accelerated onto the Gulf Freeway. “Okay. Okay. Calm down,” he said, more for his benefit than hers. “Any news on tracing the container?”

  Ashlee rustled some papers, then gave Ryan a phone number to call, which Emily wrote on a slip of paper from her purse. “His name is Barry Thatcher. He’s the guy I told you I was subcontracting with. I’ll call you if anything changes here.”

  “Ash, I appreciate everything you’ve done. Thanks.”

  “Just show up at my wedding on time, goofball.”

  “I’ll make sure he does,” Emily chimed in. “Did he tell you he’s bringing his plus one?”

  “No,” Ashlee said, annoyed. “Whose name am I putting on the guest list, Ryan?”

  “Uh … Emily Hunt.”

  “Thank you for letting me know, Emily. Your friend can be rather forgetful.”

  “You’re welcome.” Emily smiled at Ryan as if to say she knew exactly what Ashlee meant.

  “I gotta go, Ash.” He hung up, and had Emily dial the number for Barry Thatcher.

  The man immediately told Ryan the container had come from Barranquilla, Colombia, on the Caribe Princess, a container ship. “Most likely, she was just the transporter. She makes a circuit around the Caribbean.”

  “What about the agent or the company that ordered the container?” Emily asked.

  “The company who placed the order is a shell corporation based in the British Virgin Islands, which is owned by a shell corp in the Caymans, and it’s owned by one in the Seychelles. I could keep chasing it, but I figure it will just be more dead ends.”

  “What about banking information?” Ryan asked.

  “That’s how I tracked the shell corps. Each routing number is tied to a post office box. Once the money was in the account, it bounced right out to the next one.”

  “Can you keep working it for me?” Ryan asked. “I know it’s a long shot, but I’d like to see who paid for the container.”

  “Will do,” Thatcher said, “but I make no promises.”

  “One more question. How’re your hacking skills?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” Barry asked incredulously.

  “Can you get me the security video of the Everglades Ex—I mean, the Evergreen Express at her berth in Puerto Cortés and any corresponding footage of the crew or agents.”

  “I’ll get started. I told Ashlee this wouldn’t be cheap, but she promised that you have deep pockets.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Ryan muttered. “Call me on this number when you have something.”

  He thumbed the button on the steering wheel to end the call. Ryan pressed the pedal, and the big truck rocketed down the highway. If they got the proof Sadiq was on the ship and turned it over to the FBI, would they cut them out of the mission? Getting sidelined after doing all the work would suck.

  Ryan could feel an energy building inside of him, propelling him forward with a focus and drive that always helped him to achieve his goals. Now it was telling him that they needed to have a sense of urgency about finding the Everglades Explorer. To him, it had escalated from a hunt for pirates and a missing freighter to how to stop an impending terrorist threat.

  An hour later, Ryan and Emily met Jinks and the rest of the Trident boarding party at Pearland Regional Airport. A Sikorsky S-76D helicopter flown by a former pilot with the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, a support unit commissioned in the 1980s to handle the specific requirements of Special Forces operations, sat on a wheeled dolly outside DWR’s hangar. Black Chevy Express cargo and passenger vans sat in the hangar, and the men were doing a bag drag from the vans to the helicopter, loading their ge
ar and weapons.

  They would fly in three legs to accommodate the Sikorsky’s fuel window from Texas City to Gulf Port, Mississippi, then on to St. Petersburg, Florida, finally landing at the Florida Keys Marathon International Airport in Marathon. The entire flight and refueling operations would take them no longer than seven hours, and hopefully the current crew of the Explorer didn’t do anything rash in the meantime.

  It was nearly eight p.m. they’d boarded the helicopter. Ryan and Emily each carried a laptop computer and satellite phone to run logistics. As Ryan slid the helicopter’s door closed, he glanced out at the dying light of the setting sun. He was going hunting once again, and this time, he had Emily by his side.

  He settled into the seat beside her. Jinks flashed him a thumbs-up, and Emily squeezed his hand, her blue fingernails pressing against his tan skin.

  The Sikorsky rose from the ground, reigniting the familiar sinking sensation in his stomach, not just because they were defying gravity, but also because he had a feeling that thousands of people would die if they failed to find and retake the Everglades Explorer.

  Emily’s left hand locked with his right, and he wondered what her fourth finger would look like with a diamond on it. Emily squeezed his hand again, bringing him back to the situation at hand. This wasn’t the moment to get sappy.

  He had to be at the top of his game.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Marathon Airport

  Marathon, Florida

  As the thirteen-million-dollar dark-blue Sikorsky S-76D settled onto the tarmac on Vaca Key, the sun was just coming over the horizon. Ryan glanced at his watch. It was six-forty a.m, and the flight had taken ten hours instead of the supposed seven because of fueling delays in the dead of night and high winds along the western coast of Florida.

  When the rotors came to a stop and the howl of the twin Pratt and Whitney turbo-jet engines had faded, Jinks opened the sliding door and everyone stepped out, stretching their legs and backs. The pilots went to the general aviation building to arrange for fuel and to pay the landing fees.

  Ryan made a quick phone call, and several minutes later, a gray fifteen-passenger van pulled into the parking lot and stopped beside the gate in the airport fence. A stocky man with unruly blond hair slid out of the driver’s seat. He wore tan cargo shorts, a white T-shirt with the logo for J.F. Green Builders on the pocket, and desert tan combat boots. Ryan walked over and shook hands with Joe Green, a man he’d worked for when he’d been hiding out from the bounty hunters the Aztlán Cartel had sent after him, shortly after Hurricane Irma had struck the Keys.

  “How you been, Joe?”

  “Doing good. Mugdha has everything ready for you.” Mugdha was Joe’s wife. They’d met online, and he’d flown to Mumbai to meet her. Now, she helped Joe run his construction company.

  “Good. The guys could use some rest and hot food.”

  “You know her. She’s always ready to entertain, even if it’s for a group of your ragamuffin friends.”

  “Did she get her citizenship?”

  “In December of last year. It was a nice Christmas present.”

  “I bet.” Ryan turned to the group. “Guys, this is Joe.”

  Emily extended her hand and introduced herself.

  Joe glanced at Ryan in surprise. He had known she and Ryan had just broken up when Ryan had worked for him, and he must have recognized the name. Ryan shrugged. “We’re working things out.”

  “Come on, everyone.” Joe slid open the rear passenger door, and the men groaned at having to ride in another vehicle after the lengthy flight.

  “Don’t worry, it’s a short ride,” Joe assured them.

  After they arrived at Joe’s house and sent the men into the kitchen to get breakfast, Joe and Ryan sat on the back deck with cups of coffee, overlooking the crystal-clear waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the nature preserve known as Shands Key. A gentle breeze fanned away the early morning heat and the mosquitoes.

  “What’s the deal with the Spec Ops team?”

  “We’re looking for a cargo vessel in the Florida Straits.”

  “Seems like overkill.”

  “It’s a credible terrorist threat.”

  Joe nodded.

  Ryan was glad the man didn’t press him for more information. “I need to set up things so we can keep searching. We don’t have a precise fix on the ship.”

  “You know where my office is.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Let me know what I owe you.”

  Joe laughed. “You ran up a pretty big tab last time you were here. Can I backdate the bill?”

  “Sure. Greg’s the one paying, anyway.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Ryan left the contractor to sip his coffee and headed for the office. He motioned for Emily to follow him, and she carried two plates loaded with bacon, eggs, and toast, and set them on the desk. Ryan pulled their laptops from the carry cases, opened their screens, and turned them on. He found outlets for the cords, munching on bacon as he worked.

  Once he had his laptop up and running, he called Ashlee Calvo. She had texted him during the flight to let him know that Barry had sent her the security cam footage from Puerto Cortés, and she was running it through the facial recognition software in search of Masoud Sadiq.

  Instead of ‘hello,’ Ashlee answered with, “I’m supposed to be off work right now. I’m getting married in a week.”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m eternally grateful that you’ve taken the time to help me.”

  “I’ll be eternally grateful if you’re on time for the ceremony. Maybe I should plant a bomb and need someone to defuse it, then you’ll be there with bells on.”

  He laughed. “I’ll pack my bomb suit.”

  “I don’t care if you show up in a clown suit, as long as you’ve got your wedding clothes on under it.”

  “Okay, I get the picture, Ash, but I’ve got work to do. We only have two days before this ship is scheduled to berth at Port Everglades.”

  “That’s the bad news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From the satellite photos, your ship cut Cuba’s international boundary and got chased by a gunship. My guys at MarineSat think that, based on the GPS coordinates between photos and the increased wake, the ship is traveling at twelve knots. You’re down to one day.”

  Ryan involuntarily looked at his watch. “Where’s the ship now?”

  “It should be coming abreast of you in Marathon shortly.”

  “Damn.”

  “I do have some good news for you. Sadiq is on the Explorer. The camera footage from Puerto Cortés caught him standing at the rail and holding a clipboard. Ryan, he looked right at the camera and smiled.”

  “Sick bastard,” Ryan muttered. “Have you sent it to me?”

  “On the way, along with photos of the other crewmen I could spot. I also included the last known coordinates of the freighter.”

  “Thanks, Ash.” He hung up and relayed the good and bad news to the team crowded into the office.

  “What’s the plan?” Jinks asked.

  “We have to board and stop it. Now.”

  “I think we need to call in some support,” Emily said. She laid FBI Agent Stickney’s card on Ryan’s keyboard.

  “Can you send me an email with all the information on it?” Jinks asked. “I’ll pass it to Iceman.”

  Ryan emailed Jinks, Agent Stickney, and Floyd Landis at DHS. His phone rang almost immediately after sending it. He said, “Hey, Landis, I take it you got my message.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Jinks and I are in Marathon, Florida, with the team. We’re getting ready to move out.”

  “Hold for right now.”

  “Why? The ship is racing for Port Everglades.”

  “We need more assets in place.”

  “Jinks is calling a Navy buddy.”

  “I need to coordinate with the FBI, Coast Guard, and local police,” Landis said. “We need to eliminate as much collateral damage as p
ossible.”

  “We can get aboard and stop her at sea. That would be the best way.”

  “I’m ordering you to wait.”

  “Okay,” Ryan said and hung up the phone.

  He looked at the men staring back at him. “Time to move.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  National Maritime Intelligence Center

  Washington, D.C.

  Established in 1882, the Office of Naval Intelligence was the nation’s longest-serving intelligence agency. In recent years, ONI had combined with Coast Guard Intelligence to form the National Maritime Intelligence Center, making it the nation’s premier maritime intelligence service.

  ONI had also split into four separate centers of operations, each with its own concentration of duties. The Kennedy Irregular Warfare Center, or IWC, provided cutting-edge analytical support to Navy Special Warfare and Navy Expeditionary Combat Command forces.

  Cmdr. Larry Grove had landed at the IWC after his tour had ended with SEAL Team Six, what was now called the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, or DevGru. If he wanted to become an admiral, he needed to serve in the intelligence community, and he was thankful he hadn’t gotten stuck in the Pentagon. He’d walked those marble tiles for intelligence and operational briefings, and he had no desire to work in the backstabbing, paper-pushing ruthlessness of the Concrete Carousel.

  For Larry, becoming a SEAL had been a dream come true. He’d joined the Navy in the summer of 2002, having graduated from the University of New Mexico with a degree in civil engineering. After completing BUD/S, he had joined Team Five in Coronado, California, and, eventually, he’d been selected for DevGru and tasked with the most complex and dangerous assignments.

  Over his eighteen years as a SEAL, he’d found motivation in thinking about the people who had died on 9/11 or watching the video of them jumping from the burning towers of the World Trade Center. It infuriated him to no end that people in the United States cared more about appeasing the terrorists than killing them, and that attitude seemed to have filtered into the nation’s intelligence and law enforcement agencies.