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CHAPTER 1
Key Largo, Florida

Ryan Weller climbed out of the water and stood on the deck of the Newton 46 dive boat. He was one of twenty other divers on the cattle run to the wreck of the USS Spiegel Grove. He walked forward to the small cabin, unclipped the two bailout bottles, set them in the tank rack, and finally slipped the rebreather off his shoulders. After easing the device to the deck, he checked it over before stowing it under the boat’s built-in bench seat.
Next, Ryan peeled off his three-millimeter wetsuit. He wore compression shorts underneath and pulled gray boardshorts over them. After he shoved his wetsuit, mask, gloves, fins, boots, computers, and compass into his dive bag, he climbed up to the bridge with a cold bottle of water and stood beside the captain. Stacey Coleman was a short girl with wide hips, small breasts, purple hair, and several piercings in her ears, nose, and upper lip.
“Have a good dive?” she asked.
“Terrific, Stacey. How can they be bad on a day like this?” He spread his hands to encompass what they called Lake Atlantic on days when the ocean was mirror-flat, the current nonexistent, and visibility exceeded seventy-five feet.
“Days like this make me wish I was diving instead of driving the boat.”
“Are you driving this afternoon?”
Stacey stuck her lip out in a pout. “Yes, I’m taking forty-five snorkelers to the Christ of the Abyss statue.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun.” He took a long drink of water.
“It’s better than sitting in the office. Why aren’t you teaching today?”
“I took the day off. Speaking of which, can I borrow your car to run down to Stock Island?”
“You can’t borrow Mark’s?” Stacey asked, referring to Mark Lester, Ryan’s roommate and fellow instructor at the dive facility.
“He’s using it today.”
Stacey cranked up the stereo. Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ reverberated off the water. She cocked a hip and grinned lasciviously at Ryan.
He gave a half smile and shook his head. It was a game they played. Neither of them took it seriously enough to move past the overt flirting.
Sweat trickled down Ryan’s back as the sun bore down on them. He adjusted his sunglasses, took a swig of water, and absently watched the other divers climb back onto the boat. They’d done a double dip, two dives on the Spiegel instead of a single dive, before moving to another location. The double dip had allowed him to do a longer, forty-minute decompression dive instead of the two standard twenty-minute dives. He’d entered the water with the other divers on their first dip and surfaced before they’d completed their second.
Ryan had also surfaced because his mind wasn’t on the dive. When his mind wandered to other pursuits while underwater, it was time to head back to the boat. Complacency was a killer. His mind filled with memories of twenty-five million dollars in gold bars in a sunken ship off the coast of Haiti. Even sitting beside Stacey, he could see in his mind the gleaming gold bricks in the ship’s hold.
Queen gave way to Zac Brown. A few people began singing along with ‘Toes.’ Ryan tapped his foot and hummed the “I got my toes in the water …” lyrics.
Stacey grabbed a clipboard and headed down the ladder. She began calling out the names of the divers to ensure everyone was back on the boat. With the roll call complete, she returned to the bridge and cranked up the diesel engine. It eagerly snorted to life. She edged the boat forward, allowing the crewman to release the boat’s bridle from the mooring ball.
Ryan finished the water and crushed the bottle flat before screwing the cap back on. He watched Stacey spin the boat’s wheel, swinging the bow around to face Key Largo. She shoved the throttle forward, and the big Newton came up on plane.
Thirty minutes later, Ryan watched the multi-million-dollar houses slide past while they idled up the Port Largo channel. Most of the homes were empty this time of year. Some still had hurricane shutters bolted in place, and others had unrepaired storm damage. Occasionally, maintenance workers mowed lawns, trimmed bushes, or made improvements.
The boat made the blind left-hand turn, known as “Crash Corner,” and continued past marinas, more homes, hotels, and other dive charter services. Stacey spun the Newton one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and eased it alongside the dive shop’s dock. Crewmen tied the lines fast. She cut off the motors, climbed down to the main deck, spoke to the divers about tipping their guides, and invited them back to dive again.
Ryan carried his gear off the boat and set it on a picnic table. He turned back to the Newton. Stacey and her crew were busy refilling scuba tanks and preparing the dive boat for the afternoon run.
“Hey, Stacey,” Ryan called.
“Yeah?” She glanced up.
“Can I borrow your car?”
She laughed. “You really need to get a life, Ryan.”
The tide was out, and the boat was much lower than the dock. Ryan placed his hands on the bridge deck and leaned under it to see her adjusting the fill whip on a tank near the boat’s cabin door. “You’re right, but I still need to run down to Stock Island.”
Stacey climbed the steps off the boat and stopped in front of Ryan. He was six feet tall, and the top of her head barely reached his chest. “You might be all sexy with your sun-bleached brown hair and your green eyes, but this beach bum thing you got going is kind of a turn-off.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner,” he offered.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“No, just to thank you for borrowing the car.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Most of the time.” Ryan shrugged. “Stacey, do you want to go on a date?” He’d avoided getting involved with anyone because the job was only temporary until he figured out how to remove the bounty a Mexican drug lord had put on him, or he decided it was time to go for the gold. The bounty wasn’t going away. It was time to nurse the gold fever.
She rolled her eyes before handing him her car keys. Smiling, she said, “Make sure you fill the tank.”
Ryan took the keys and shoved them into his pocket. “Thanks, Stace.”
“Call me if you’ll be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He snapped to attention and saluted.
“Asshole,” Stacey muttered, stepping down into the boat.
Ryan gathered his gear, rinsed it in the freshwater buckets, and crammed it into the back of Stacey’s Kia Rio. He drove south on Highway 1 to a small apartment complex, parked the car, and carried his equipment inside. After a quick shower, Ryan pulled on cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and deck shoes. He grabbed a sandwich and a Mountain Dew and shoehorned himself back in the car for the drive south, searching for the perfect boat to use to recover the gold.


























CHAPTER 2
National Geographic and multiple bloggers rated the Overseas Highway as one of the best drives in North America. What had once been the Overseas Railroad—built by Henry Flagler and operated from 1912 until its partial destruction by the Labor Day Hurricane in 1935—became a four-lane highway to bring tourists, industry, and trade to the Florida Keys. Routes had changed, and new bridges constructed to handle the increasing traffic traveling through the jewels of the American Caribbean, but the beauty, mystery, and adventure remained.
Ryan always enjoyed the drive. It put him in a tropical frame of mind. Everything from scuba diving to skydiving was at his fingertips. He couldn’t help but smile as he passed sunburned tourists, swaying palms, and run-down T-shirt shacks. Old Florida mixed with the new. Today, though, twenty-five million other things occupied his mind.
Over the last six months, he’d thought a lot about the gold. It called to him. He now understood why thousands of miners had braved the frontier and crossed oceans in search of the precious metal and the opportunities it brought. But it was more than the prospect of striking it rich; it was the excitement of the hunt. Adventure called. He’d been idle long enough. He needed to get it, or someone else would.
As far as Ryan knew, besides himself, only a handful of people in the world knew there was gold on the Santo Domingo. Chief among them was Jim Kilroy, the international arms dealer who had agreed to supply Haitian warlord Toussaint Bajeux with a shipload of weapons in exchange for the two pallets of gold.
After Kilroy’s deliveryman died at a resort in Belize during a raid by Russian hitmen trying to capture Ryan and his partner, Mango, Kilroy had offered the men sanctuary on the Santo Domingo in exchange for delivering the weapons. He had also promised to get the two-million-dollar bounty lifted by negotiating with José Luis Orozco, leader of the Aztlán cartel. The bounty was Orozco’s retribution for Ryan killing the former cartel leader, Arturo Guerrero.
During the delivery of the weapons, a rival warlord attacked the Santo Domingo with RPGs. The ship had sunk with all the weapons, vehicles, and gold still in its hold. Ryan and Mango had donned rebreathers and sat inside a Humvee until the ship sank to the seabed and then swam to shore. They then rescued Greg Olsen from the hands of a Russian bounty hunter. The trio and Toussaint’s mistress, Joulie Lafitte, used DWR’s Hatteras GT63 sportfisher, Dark Water, to escape to the Bahamas to avoid Hurricane Irma.
DWR had declared Ryan and Mango lost at sea, but even with their supposed deaths, Orozco hadn’t lifted the bounty. Mango and his wife, Jennifer, had sailed away on their Amazon 44 sailboat, Alamo, and Ryan had hidden out in the Florida Keys—like many outlaws and pirates before him. He’d worked various jobs to help clean up after Hurricane Irma had destroyed much of the Lower Keys. He’d gutted houses, salvaged boats, and helped remove debris, scraps, abandoned shacks, and rusted appliances.
Eventually, Ryan made his way to Key Largo, where he spent most of his time teaching scuba diving and thinking about the gold.
However, like many people who hide in the American Caribbean, Ryan found the pace of life could be just as hectic as living on the mainland with schedules, bills, stop-and-go traffic, and high rent.
Ryan groaned as he slammed on the brakes for the lengthy line of cars that had stopped for a camper turning into Bahia Honda State Park. Several car horns blared to express the displeasure of the waiting drivers. Ryan felt the frustration himself but didn’t let it boil over. He took a deep breath and watched the vehicles as they whizzed by in the opposite direction. To his right, a couple rode bicycles on the repurposed railroad bed known as the Florida Keys Overseas Heritage Trail.
The traffic began to move, and he worked his way west through Big Pine, Middle Torch, Saddle Bunch, and a host of smaller keys to reach Stock Island. It was the next-to-last key before A1A ended in Key West.
Key West had once been the home of great fishing and shrimping fleets. In the name of progress, they’d relocated to Stock Island, and over the years, the fleets had dwindled in proportion to the supply of their catch. Now, these meager fleets were in danger of being pushed out again as more houses, apartment complexes, and businesses encroached upon their industrial docks.
Fifth Avenue turned into Fourth Avenue just before it made a forty-five-degree bend to the northeast. At this bend, Ryan turned into a parking lot. A vine-covered chain-link fence and a haphazard stack of wooden pallets marked the marina’s entrance. Just inside the gate, he turned right and followed the cracked and eroded blacktop, passing between lobster boats backed up to the concrete quay and long stacks of their lobster traps. The road turned into dirt as it ended at another concrete pier.
Ryan parked the Kia in the shade of a satinleaf tree, climbed out, and stretched his legs and back. He took a deep breath of the brine mixed with diesel, fish, and something rotten.
Walking to the water, Ryan saw a sheen of oil refracting the colors of the rainbow beside a bobbing cigarette butt. Absentmindedly, he patted his cargo pocket. It was empty, and he remembered he hadn’t had a cigarette in several months.
He lifted his gaze from the polluted water and found the faded red steel hull of the seventy-five-foot salvage vessel, Peggy Lynn. This was the boat he’d come to see. He walked across the parking lot, kicking up dust with each step. As he walked, he checked out the converted fishing trawler. The tall steel posts of an A-frame mast, sprouting out of the hull and towering above the bridge, had been gusseted and bracketed to increase lift capacity. A thick braided cable ran off a heavy-duty reel, up through the block and tackle, and out along the single boom extending from the A-frame. Cables running down from the peak of the A-frame supported the boom, allowing it to be raised, lowered, or swung over the sides of the boat. Ryan looked up at the crane’s big lifting hook and pictured a cargo net full of gold bars dangling from it.
With the tide in, Ryan noticed the boat’s railing was slightly higher than the quay. Thick rubber tires had been bolted to the concrete to keep the converted trawler from hitting the dock. More tires hung from chains around the boat’s stern.
“Ahoy, the boat!” Ryan yelled.
A man with a thick head of white hair and a trim white beard stepped out from the bridge. He wore white tennis shoes, stained khaki pants, and a T-shirt with the words Peggy Lynn on the left breast pocket, matching the words printed on the boat’s bow in block white letters.
“You hollerin’ for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said. “Are you Captain Dennis Law?”
“I am.” Dennis nodded.
“I’d like to talk to you about a job.”
Law snorted. “I’m retired, son.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Ryan said. “Everyone else is busy. I need a good salvage vessel to go after a load of cargo in a sunken freighter.”
“Them days are long gone. Old Peggy Lynn doesn’t leave the dock anymore.” He patted the ship’s handrail. “She’s a grand old lady, but her days are numbered. You’ll have to find another captain to take you out. I was lucky to get her up in the mangroves and survive the hurricane.” He stepped back into the wheelhouse.
“Look, Captain, I need your help.” Ryan moved closer to the rail. “This is a big haul. If you won’t go as captain, sell me your vessel.”
Dennis slowly turned around.
“I’m serious,” Ryan said. “I need a working salvage vessel. Yours fits the bill.”
Captain Law ran a hand through his hair. “Make some sense, son. This vessel is older than you are. She’s seen better days. Besides, Peggy Lynn is my home.”
“Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Come on.” He motioned for Ryan to join him on the bridge.
Ryan climbed aboard, introduced himself, and followed the captain inside.
“Cup of coffee?” Dennis asked.
“Yes, black.”
“Good. I don’t have anything to put in it unless you want a little whiskey.” Dennis held up a pint of Jim Beam.
Ryan shook his head. “I’m good. I like mine black, like my soul.”
The captain laughed. He handed Ryan a cup of steaming coffee and poured a shot of whiskey into his. “What’s this nonsense you’re talking about, wanting to buy my boat?”
“I know where there’s a lucrative treasure in the hold of a sunken ship.”
Dennis sat in the chair behind the helm and propped his foot on the dash. “How do you know where this ship is and what’s on it?”
“I was on the freighter when she sank. I also helped load the cargo.” Ryan took a careful sip. The coffee was hot and bitter. He would have to change what grounds they used if they agreed to work together.
Captain Law stared out the front windows of the bridge for several long minutes. Ryan waited patiently for the older man to continue, shifting in his seat, fingers drumming the side of his cup.
“I met my wife before I went to Vietnam,” Dennis said. “I spent my whole life fishing, shrimping, and salvaging just to make money to keep her happy. She gave me three children.” He turned to face Ryan. “She died four years ago, be five next May. Cancer stole her from me and her babies.” He shook his head. “I lost my will to do much of anything when she died. I did some fishing and salvage work, but my heart wasn’t in it. A man’s got to have something to live for, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan glanced down at the framed picture of the couple. Peggy had been a petite blonde with a broad smile.
“What makes you want to salvage this ship?”
“I’d like to tell you about it, Captain, but only if you agree to skipper this vessel.”
“And if I say no again?”
“I’ll find someone else, and you can go back to wallowing in your pain, sir.”
The older man was about to take a sip of coffee. He stopped and looked over the rim. “Blunt, aren’t you?”
“I need you, Captain. I need your boat. You need me. You need this job. Do you have surface supply air?”
“You’re being impertinent, son.”
“I can get some men to go over your boat, check all the systems, and put on some new gear.”
“You got deep pockets?”
“Deep enough, and when we complete this job, neither of us will have to worry about making a living again.”
“What are you after?”
“Not until you say yes.”
“If I say yes, you’ll tell me what you’re after and have men fix up my boat?”
Ryan finished his cup of coffee. “Yes, sir.”
“This must be important to you.”
“It is, Captain.” Ryan poured another cup. He figured the liquid could double as paint thinner or rust remover. “I almost died over this cargo, and I’ve been declared dead because of it. What we’re after is the stuff that dreams are made of. Men will kill, steal, and lie to get their hands on it. Men have already died for it. Are you willing to take that chance, Captain Law?”
“Son, I’ve been shot by gooks, stabbed by disgruntled crewmen, and suffered more than one broken heart. The only things I’ve got left in this world are this boat, three kids, and five grandkids, most of whom I don’t see.” Law stood up. “The only thing to drive a man as crazy as you say is gold or drugs. I don’t mess with drugs. So what are we talking about, son?”
Ryan said, “It’s not drugs.”
“All right, Mr. Weller,” Dennis said, thrusting his hand out. “I’m in.”
“Great news, sir.”
“How much are we talking about?” Dennis asked.
“There were fifty-two gold bars, each weighing twenty-seven pounds. That’s ...”
“One-thousand-four-hundred-and-four pounds,” Dennis finished the sentence.
Ryan paused to look at the old man. His mind was clear and sharp despite the two shots of whiskey Ryan had seen him pour into his coffee. Who knew how many he’d swallowed before he’d arrived?
Dennis continued, “At the current spot price of gold, that’s $26,766,540.43.”
“How do you know what the price of gold is, Captain?”
Dennis tapped the flat-screen computer monitor beside the coffee pot. “I keep an eye on my wife’s stocks. She was a frugal woman. I gave her every paycheck. She put it to good use—raised our kids, bought a house, invested in the stock market. When I wanted to buy this boat, I told her I needed to go to the bank and get a loan. She had a sizeable down payment already saved up, like she knew what I wanted before I did.”
Ryan laughed. “Leave it to the women to take care of us.”
“You got a woman taking care of you?”
“I did, but she didn’t like my adventurous life.”
Dennis nodded in understanding and sipped his coffee. “Where are we going?”
“Haiti.”
Captain Dennis Law shook his head and laughed. “I hope you have some good engineers, son, ’cause we’re gonna need ’em.”








CHAPTER 3
Ryan sat at a waterside table at Hogfish Bar and Grill, staring at the sailboats floating along the small wharf. He nursed a margarita and waited for the waitress to deliver a hogfish sandwich smothered in Swiss cheese, onions, and mushrooms on Cuban bread. He had dinner plans with Stacey, but couldn’t pass up the chance to eat one of the restaurant’s signature sandwiches.
The last time he’d occupied a stool at the famous eatery was last June, when he and Emily Hunt had what would become their first date. There weren’t many women in Ryan Weller’s life whom he missed. If he counted, there were three—his mother, his high school sweetheart Sara Sherman, and Emily Hunt.
He tried not to reminisce about their evening at Hogfish or their passionate night of lovemaking. She was passionate about many of the same things he was: sailing, diving, and traveling. But they lived in two different worlds. Hers was the starched world of insurance investigation. His was the more fluid world of what? What was his job right now? Scuba instructor? Salvage diver?
Ryan grinned as he thought about what John D. McDonald’s fictional character, Travis McGee, told people when they’d asked about his job. He’d always answer, “Salvage consultant.” But the truth was that he was more of a troubleshooter as of late, fixing everyone’s problems.
He took a sip of his drink. Beyond the masts of the sailboats, Ryan could see Peggy Lynn’s red hue. A slight breeze rustled the palm leaves, and a metal clip clanged against a hollow aluminum sailboat mast. It made a rhythmic clinking sound, adding to the engine noises of the steady stream of boats passing in and out of Safe Harbor.
Ryan picked up his cellphone and scrolled to his favorite contacts. He tapped the button over Greg Olsen’s name and held the phone to his ear.
“How’s the vacation?” Greg asked.
“Pretty good,” Ryan replied. “I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“Oh, no. How much is this going to cost me?”
“Consider it an investment.”
Greg laughed. Ryan pictured his friend and former employer. The two men could have passed for brothers, having similar height and build. Greg’s eyes were gray, and his hair was a darker shade of brown. His shoulders and arms had filled out from pushing his wheelchair and the constant use of his upper body.
Greg had been president of Dark Water Research when he’d recruited Ryan to be the company’s Homeland Security liaison. Greg had wanted to be part of the action and tagged along on both of Ryan’s assignments. And Greg had nearly gotten himself killed on the last one.
“What kind of investment, Ryan?”
“Why are you so suspicious?”
“Because I think you’re about to do something crazy.”
“Maybe.”
“Details,” Greg demanded.
“Remember the ship that sank a few months ago?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want to go after the cargo.”
“I’m not authorizing my crews and vessels to get tangled up with a psycho gun dealer.”
“I found an old salvage boat and a captain. I need a few goodies added on and a guy to go through the mechanicals.”
Greg let out a deep sigh.
Ryan prodded, “You know what’s down there.”
“I know the risks, too.”
“This is what DWR does, Greg,” Ryan said. “Send me a diver.”
“I’d rather come myself, but Shelly told me that I can’t play hooky anymore.”
“This is a dangerous business. I want you to be safe at the office.” Ryan glanced up to see the waitress delivering a steaming plate loaded with a hogfish sandwich and fries. “Speaking of the office, what are you doing now that Admiral Chatel is running the place?”
Greg yawned. “I’m sitting on my back deck, enjoying the sunshine.”
“Are you doing anything at DWR?” Ryan asked. Greg had stepped down from his position as president after hiring Kip Chatel, a former executive at Boeing and at one time their commanding officer at Navy Expeditionary Combat Command.
“Yeah, Shelly made me the point of contact for all our operations in Puerto Rico. We’ve been rebuilding port facilities and upgrading their infrastructure.”
“Sounds like you’re busier than you want to be,” Ryan said with a grin. As long as she was DWR’s chief operating officer, Shelly wouldn’t let her boyfriend sit around with nothing to do.
“Too busy. I’m tired of paperwork. Where’s this boat you want to fix up?”
Ryan finished chewing his fry. “Safe Harbor on Stock Island. Her name’s Peggy Lynn.”
“What makes you so sure Jim Kilroy hasn’t already recovered the gold?”
“I’m not.”
“Lucky for you, I know a guy who says there haven’t been any salvage boats operating around Cap-Haïtien or Fort Liberte.”
“Really?” Ryan asked. “You have a source in Haiti?”
“Yeah. Billy Parker, the guy who runs the marina where Volk held me hostage. He keeps me updated on what’s going on.”
“You knew I was going after the gold?”
“Ryan,” Greg said patronizingly.
Closing his eye, Ryan shook his head. “You’ve been waiting for this call, haven’t you?”
Greg laughed. “From the moment we left Haiti. Send me a list of what you need, and I’ll have Chuck fly everything out.”
“Do I need to find a diver, too, or do you have one handy?” Ryan asked.
“I should sic Jerry DiMarco on your ass,” Greg said. “But he told me he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t come back from the dead.”
“Tell Jerry I miss him, too,” Ryan said with no warmth.
Greg laughed. “Okay. I have a guy I’ll send along.”
“Is he any good?”
Greg snorted. “Send me the list.”
Ryan was about to say more until he realized Greg had hung up on him. He pocketed the phone and tucked into his meal.
Twenty minutes later, the waitress brought him the bill and a refill for the cup of coffee he’d ordered halfway through his sandwich. Ryan watched the passing boats as he sipped his drink. The plan was coming together. He couldn’t wait to get started. A nervous energy surged through him, and he wanted to jump up and run a marathon to burn off some steam. A smile crossed his lips. He was going into action, and once he stopped hiding, the bounty hunters and the cartel would come for him. It made him feel alive.
A man walked out of the restaurant and lit a cigarette. He lingered along the dock, admiring the boats. When the smoker came abreast of him, Ryan asked, “Can I bum one of those?”
“Yeah,” the man said, digging out the pack. He handed a Marlboro Gold to Ryan and turned away.
“I hate to bug you again, but can I borrow your lighter?”
The guy chuckled. “Want me to smoke it for you, too?”
“Nah, I’ve been trying to quit.” Ryan took a deep inhale of smoke and handed the lighter back.
“Aren’t we all?”
“Thanks,” Ryan said and picked up his coffee cup. The man continued his stroll down the dock.
The first few inhales were good as the rush of nicotine hit his system, and he enjoyed the repetitive action of putting his hand to his mouth. He’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker during his deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. When he’d returned home, he’d cut back but still smoked at least half a pack a day. Mango and Emily had been on him to quit, and he would have for her. While she wasn’t around anymore, he had gone cold turkey after his arrival in the Keys. Right now, he didn’t care. She’d tossed him off like some bad hat, so what difference did it make?
The fifth inhale of smoke made him feel like he was just going through the motions. His lips were dry, and his throat and lungs ached. Ryan crushed the butt out before he was halfway through.
With his tab paid, he walked out of the Hogfish and found the Kia. He climbed in and started the engine. Backing out of the spot, he glimpsed two men standing beside a beat-up pickup truck. One was a muscular African American with long dreadlocks and a full beard. It was obvious he spent many hours in the gym. His arms and chest bulged around the fabric of a black wife-beater, and his thick calves indicated he hadn’t skipped leg day. The second man was shorter. He was of Mexican descent, with black hair cut close to his scalp and a ragged goatee hanging from his chin. He wore baggy jeans and a short-sleeved fishing shirt.
Both men looked straight at Ryan as the nose of the Kia swung past. When Ryan made eye contact with them, the Mexican turned away, and Dreadlocks opened the pickup truck door.
Ryan’s heart rate increased. Relax, they’re fishermen sharing a joke at the end of the day or friends meeting for dinner. The conjecture did little to satisfy the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He had no reason to suspect them, yet their actions had made them suspicious. If they were friends, why not continue to talk? Why turn away?
Ryan 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. Stacey wouldn’t be happy about him being late for dinner, so 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. Ryan 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. Are 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 into the ship’s cavernous hold before swimming a mile to shore. The total dive had taken them two hours, and when they’d surfaced, Mango vowed never to go technical diving again.
“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?”
“Fantastic,” 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 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 dogpiling 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 onto the passenger seat. “Well, crap.” He would have to find a new crew for his salvage boat.

*
The digital clock 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 steps 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 key. 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 do 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. I’m resigning from 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 avoid 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. She blew a strand of purple hair away from her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.
“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 into his pockets and watched her drive away.



























CHAPTER 4
Customers formed two lines at the dive shop’s service counter, waiting to check in and get their boat assignments for the morning dives. Ryan pushed through the crowd, waved at the two women working the counter, and headed for his boss’ 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 usually 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 had the poised confidence of someone used to hard work.
Stacey snuck up beside Ryan and 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 SDI/TDI 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 everywhere.”
“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 Doc Martens on the man’s feet. 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 brushed past Ryan and Stacey with a tight-lipped look of exasperation.
Something about the guy struck a chord with Ryan—professional, frustrated, on edge. Desperate enough to sign on to a long-shot salvage crew.

Ryan followed Travis out the door and down the steps to the parking lot. The guy steadily marched 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 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 did 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 to 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 call you if I hear of anything,” Ryan said, interrupting the silent appraisal 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 to knock on Ron Case’s door as he said, “If he wants to go.”























CHAPTER 5
Ryan left Ron’s office after quitting his job.
He walked to where he’d chained his bicycle to a tree, unlocked it, swung his leg over the seat, 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 that kept him off the radar. He’d 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 was 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. Outside, 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 smartphone from his pocket, he scrolled to Greg Olsen’s number. As the number connected, Ryan tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, smacked the Camels against his palm, and then opened the pack. He sparked up a cigarette 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.”
“Every time you go down range, I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be. It’s not that exciting. 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.”
Ryan took a deep drag. “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 named 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. 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 double-checked his room for stray items. He’d left the phone on the kitchen counter and heard it ringing as he fished an errant sock from under the bed. The call went to voicemail before he could get to it. Ryan ignored the fact Greg hadn’t left him a message and hit redial.
“What’s up?”
“Your dude is a straight arrow. Nothing unusual stands out, no arrests or warrants. I talked to Joe—the guy who owns Superior Salvage—and he highly recommended him. 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. “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. Haiti ain’t a Sunday picnic. You’re pulling him into a world of bounty hunters and gunrunners. He might not be ready for that.”
“There’s danger with every job.” Ryan knew Greg was right. The stakes were infinitely higher when the job involved treasure.
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 discussed ready to fly. When will you be back in Key West?”
“Tomorrow, if not tonight.”
“Call me so I can get Chuck booked,” Greg said. “He’s been flying crazy hours with all the hurricane backlog we’ve got going on.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said. He could feel the adrenaline start to flow as the plan came together.

















CHAPTER 6
Ryan sat in the apartment courtyard, smoking another cigarette and thinking about the mission’s logistics, when he heard car doors slam. It wasn’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.
Ryan cursed as he recognizing Stacey’s purple hair behind the wheel.
The two men from the pickup started up the walk toward the apartments.
Ryan took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline hammering 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 being hunted, and here they were, on his doorstep. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. A bird chirped. Shadows played across the wall. Dreadlocks’ 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 tall 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.
Dreadlocks glanced back at Stacey. Mexican brought his hand forward. Ryan saw the glint of a blade in the man’s fist. Stepping inside the arc of the knife, Ryan grasped Mexican’s wrist with his right hand. He jammed his left palm hard into the man’s jaw, forcing his head up and back. Ryan spread his fingers, and the tips dug into the Mexican’s eye sockets. The man let out a muffled scream into Ryan’s palm as Ryan applied pressure to his eyes. At the same time, Ryan continued to push the Mexican backward. The shorter man stumbled, and Ryan ran him hard into a wall. Mexican’s head hit with a sickening thud, and he went limp.
The knife clattered to the concrete, and Ryan kicked it away during his spin to confront Dreadlocks. As he raised his fists and crouched into a fighting stance, Ryan saw two thin wires arc through the air. One hit the big black man in the chest, the other in his abdomen. Suddenly, Dreadlocks began to dance and shake. Electricity crackled in the air. His knees buckled, and he fell face down on the sidewalk.
Stacey held an Axon Taser Pulse in both hands. The gun continued to stun the man for twenty more seconds.
“My mom got it for me last Christmas,” she said, grinning at Ryan.
She unplugged the wire pack from the front of the gun and dropped it on the ground, then shoved the gun into her pocket.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The reason I’m hiding out here instead of working in Texas.”
“Now would be a good time to explain.”
“It really would, but let’s get my stuff out of the apartment first.”
They ran up the steps and grabbed his gear. Ryan made a second trip, and when he came down, he grabbed the wire pack and jerked the plugs out of Dreadlocks’ chest. He wrapped the wires up and stuffed them into his bag while he slid into the passenger seat. Stacey put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot.
“Where to?” she asked.
“You know where Travis is staying?”
“Yeah, it’s not too far up-island.” She turned north out of the parking lot and accelerated with traffic. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Those dudes were trying to collect a bounty.” He leaned forward to look out the passenger side mirror.
“Are you some kind of criminal?”
“No. A Mexican drug cartel had put a bounty on me for killing their leader.”
“Holy shit, Ryan!” Stacey stared at him.
“Look at the road,” he yelled.
Stacey swerved to miss a slower car.
Ryan glanced at the speedometer. “Slow down. I don’t want to get pulled over.”
“Are you wanted by the cops, too?” she asked, hunched over the wheel with her hands at ten and two.
“No, just slow down.” He kept glancing in the mirror but didn’t see anyone following them.
Stacey complied, and ten minutes later, she pulled into the crushed-shell parking lot of a small hotel. Travis’s GMC was sitting near the front entrance.
“Park around the side where they can’t see the car from the road,” he instructed.
She obeyed and put the car in park.
“What’s going on, for real?” she demanded.
“I want to talk to Travis.”
They exited the car and followed a winding stone path through a small pool courtyard to the back of the hotel, where Ryan knocked on Travis’s room door.
“Hey, what’s up?” Travis asked when he opened the door.
“Can we come in?” Ryan asked.
Travis smiled at Stacey. “Come on.”
They crowded into the tiny room. Stacey sat on the queen-size bed, and Travis leaned against the bureau, doubling as a TV stand for a small flat screen. Ryan pulled the curtains back and looked out at the courtyard.
Travis asked, “What’s this aboot, guys?”
Stacey screwed up her face. “What’s this aboot?”
“A-boot.”
“You mean about?” Stacey corrected.
“What I said, a-boot.”
She shook her head. “Where are you from?”
“Da U.P.”
“Where the hell is the U.P.?” Stacey asked.
It was Travis’s turn to look askance. “The Upper Peninsula.”
Ryan laughed. “He’s a Yupper, Stacey, from Michigan.”
When Ryan saw no one had followed them, he let the drapes fall back into place and took a seat at the little round table. Other than the flat screen, everything in the room was right out of the 1970s. The carpet looked like it could use a good raking.
Travis asked, “Did you come about a job, eh?”
“Yeah, Ryan, tell us what’s going on,” Stacey insisted.
“Look, this will take a few minutes to explain, and I’ll end it with a job offer.”
“Okay,” said Travis.
Ryan asked, “Do you remember the bombings that happened in Austin, Phoenix, and Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, some ISIS guys were behind it,” Travis said.
Ryan shook his head. “The ISIS agents were working for Mexican drug cartel kingpin Arturo Guerrero. He wanted to start a war with the United States to take back what they call Aztlán, the desert Southwest.”
“What?” Stacey said, confused. “The news said it was ISIS.”
“Law enforcement initially thought it was,” Ryan confirmed. “But the real guy behind it was Guerrero. I figured it out and went into Mexico to stop him. I ended up killing him. Then their new leader, José Luis Orozco, put a two-million-dollar bounty on me and my partner, and now everyone is trying to collect. Until today, they’ve left me alone because they thought I was dead. I guess someone figured out that I wasn’t.”
Stacey screwed up her face. “What do you mean, dead?”
“Six months ago,” Ryan continued, “and this is where we get to the job. My partner and I were chasing an international weapons dealer. We ended up delivering a shipment of guns and Army vehicles to a Haitian warlord. Before we started unloading the goods, we took payment in the form of twenty-five million dollars in gold bars.”
Travis whistled, and Stacey’s eyes widened.
“We offloaded some of the gear before a rival warlord sank the ship. My partner and I went down with the ship and swam out on rebreathers. We let everyone think we were dead.”
Travis crossed his arms and legs. “Where’s your partner?”
Ryan recognized the closed-off, defensive posture the man had adopted. “He’s with his wife on an around-the-world sailing expedition. Which is what I should have done.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked Travis.
“Because I’ve got gold fever.”
Travis narrowed his eyes, and then his expression relaxed into a smile. “You’re going after the gold.”
Ryan nodded.
Stacey frowned. “So, these guys will keep trying to kill you to collect the bounty?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes.”
“Do you have a boat?” asked Travis. “What’s the plan?”
“I have a boat in Stock Island. It needs some work, but my benefactor will hook us up.”
“Who’s your benefactor?”
“Dark Water Research.”
Travis whistled. “Bringing in the big dogs, eh?”
Stacey looked puzzled. “What about the bounty? Are you just going to gloss over that?”
“No,” Ryan replied. “I want to get out of here as soon as possible. That means getting to Stock Island and getting the boat ready.”
“How are you connected to DWR?” asked Travis. His posture relaxed, but Ryan could tell he wasn’t on board yet.
“I used to work for the owner.”
“Is he getting a cut of the gold?” Travis asked.
“We haven’t discussed it.”
Travis scratched his chin. “If he’s not getting a cut, why’s he helping?”
Ryan leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He could see out a slit in the curtains to observe the courtyard. “Let’s just say Greg Olsen and I have a mutual understanding.”
“DWR has all kinds of divers, so what do you need me for, eh?”
“This isn’t an official DWR project.”
Stacey got off the bed and leaned over Ryan’s shoulder. “See anything?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“How deep?” Travis asked.
“Three-hundred-plus feet.”
“On surface supply?”
“Yes,” Ryan shrugged. “I have some rebreathers as well.”
Travis pondered this for a minute. “What’s the pay?”
“Five percent of the haul.”
Travis pulled out his cellphone and used the calculator to figure out his cut. “If I’m risking my life to recover gold and have to put up with a bunch of bounty hunters, then it’d better be a bigger number.”
Ryan stared out the window.
Stacey asked, “Ten percent?”
Ryan closed his eyes and pictured the gold. Ten percent wasn’t bad. It was fair, but if everyone received ten percent, then his share would get smaller with each hire.
“I’ll do this,” Travis said, rubbing his chin and pinching his cleft between his thumb and index finger. “Ten percent of what we haul. If we don’t haul anything, I get paid thirty dollars an hour for every hour I’m on the salvage boat.”
“Fair enough,” Ryan said.
Travis’s next question was one Ryan had been pondering himself. “What about line handlers?”
Ryan turned away from his window vigil and faced Travis. “Me and the captain.”
“What about her, eh?” Travis pointed his chin at Stacey. “Is she coming?”
Ryan said, “She drives a boat at the dive shop.”
A look of disappointment clouded Travis’s face. “That’s a shame.”
Stacey chirped up, “Oh, I’ll go. I can go. Can I go, Ryan?”
“Can you tend lines?” Travis asked.
With too much enthusiasm, and while leering at Travis, Stacey said, “I can tend anything you want.”
Ryan shook his head. “Stacey, please stop drooling.”
Travis winked exaggeratedly at her and clicked his tongue.
Stacey flushed across her neck and cheeks, turning her tan a crimson red.
“I’ll go if the purple-haired, crazy chick comes.”
Ryan furrowed his brow. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Travis shrugged while grinning at Stacey. “I dig the purple hair.”
Ryan gave Stacey a stern look. “If you want to come, you’ll place yourself in the same danger as everyone else.”
Stacey nodded. “I know, Ryan. I had to Taser some guy to save your ass already.”
Ryan chuckled, remembering when Mango had said something similar after he’d used a sniper rifle to kill a man about to shoot him.
Stacey crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” Ryan stood. “We need to get going. It’s a long drive to Key West.”
Travis said, “I haven’t made it that far south yet.”
Stacey grinned and touched Travis’s arm. “I’ll take you out on Duval Street.”
“I’m ready to give ’er tar paper.”
Ryan and Stacey looked dubiously at their new friend.
“What does tar papering mean?” Stacey demanded.
“Give’ er tar paper,” Travis corrected. “It’s like Larry the Cable Guy saying, ‘Git-R-Done.’”
Stacey smiled seductively at Travis. “I’m ready to tar paper a few drinks in Key West with you.”
“Easy, Stace,” Ryan said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Let’s get started,” Travis said.
“Do you have room to haul my gear?” Ryan asked. “I don’t have much, and I don’t have a car.”
“I’ve got some room,” Travis said. “Let’s load it up, eh?”
“You sure you’re not from Canada, eh?” Ryan asked with a grin.
Travis held up his middle finger and emphatically said, “I am not from Canada.”
Stacey ran a hand through her hair. “How soon are you leaving, Ryan? I have a bunch of stuff in my apartment, and I’m not sure how long it will take me to move it or where to move it to.”
“You don’t have to move. This job won’t take more than a couple of weeks, and you can be back here driving a boat and teaching diving in no time.”
Stacey crossed her arms and glared at him. “What if I don’t want to come back?”
Ryan threw her words back at her. “It’s simple: either you want to go or not. What’s it going to be?”
“I’m going.”
“Pack light,” Ryan told her. “There’s not much room on the boat, and bring your dive gear.”
“Give me two hours,” Stacey pleaded.
Ryan checked his watch. “We’ll put my gear in the back of Travis’s truck, and he can get started to Stock Island while we load you up.”
Travis picked up Stacey’s keys from the bed. He tossed them to Ryan. “You drive her roller skate down, and I’ll help her pack.”
Ryan shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
He didn’t like the plan, but they were a step closer to the gold.