Your ebook will be delivered by email after checkout.

You’ll receive messages from both Evan Graver and BookFunnel with download links. You can read your books in the free BookFunnel app or send them to your preferred e-reader.

Please log in to https://my.bookfunnel.com/ using the email address you used at checkout. All your books will be there!

You can read the ebooks on any ereader (Amazon, Kobo, Nook, your tablet, phone, computer, and/or the BookFunnel app.

CHAPTER 1
Aztlán Cartel headquarters
Tampico, Mexico

José Luis Orozco considered cocaine, tequila, subordinates to do his bidding, and the ever-present rotation of beautiful women to be the luxuries of command. One such creature was under his desk right now. He wanted to turn all his attention to her, but he had to finish this meeting first.
He needed revenge for their jefe muerto—dead boss—Arturo Guerrero. Orozco wanted Guerrero’s killers hunted down and killed. Better yet, he wanted them brought back to Tampico, where he could torture them. His gaze drifted to the massive Russian leaning against his office wall, a bounty hunter he’d hired to track down the Yanquis assassins—Ryan Weller and Mango Hulsey.
Suddenly, Orozco’s hand shot out to clamp onto the edge of the desk as his eyes closed.
“Are you okay, Patrón?” Eduardo Sanchez, Guerrero’s second-in-command, asked, even though he could see the woman’s bare feet sticking out from under the desk and knew exactly what she was doing. His boss had a habit of mixing business with pleasure.
¬¬¬“Sí, sí,” Orozco groaned, trying not to let the pleasure he felt from the girl show on his deep brown face. The creases around his mouth gave the appearance of a perpetual frown, accented by the shape of his long goatee. He kept his mustache, beard, and hair trimmed close to the skin.
His men did not dare utter another word. Beside Orozco’s right hand was a massive stainless-steel Smith & Wesson Model 500 revolver with rubber grips and a laser sight. He’d shot more than one man in a fit of anger, and no one sitting around the desk wanted to be the next to have his head turned into a canoe.
Orozco pushed the woman’s hands away. She laid her head in his lap, and he stroked her silky black hair. Again, his stare fixed on Grigory Dmitri Morozov, who was examining a statue of Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte—Our Lady of Holy Death, colloquially known as Santa Muerte. The idol, a cross between the Virgin Mary and the Grim Reaper, wore a hooded cloak and carried a scythe. Her face was a grinning skull. Orozco considered Santa Muerte to be his patron saint, and he often prayed to her for guidance.
Morozov smiled back at Orozco, laying his lips back and baring his teeth in the snarl of a feral hound. Even the man’s canines stuck out like the fangs of a ferocious hunter. Most did not know his real name and referred to him only by his nickname, Volk—the Wolf. Orozco did the same because, truthfully, Volk was one of the few men Orozco feared.
Volk was a monster. At six feet, six inches tall, he weighed nearly three hundred pounds. Hardened muscle packed his frame with the only visible fat around his midsection. His arm and chest muscles stretched the fabric of his dress shirt. He wore his blond hair swept back from his forehead. The blue-eyed Russian reminded Orozco of a beefier Dolph Lundgren when Lundgren had fought Sylvester Stallone in Rocky IV.
“Give me an update,” Orozco said.
“Patrón,” Sanchez pleaded, “let me send some sicarios after them. We can take care of this with our own assassins. We do not need this puta interfering with our business.”
Orozco smiled at Sanchez’s assessment. The bounty hunter was a whore, but Orozco’s voice held a warning when he spoke. “Do not bring this up again, Eduardo. Our sicarios are good for killing in Mexico, but not in the United States. We have enough heat on us already because of what Guerrero tried to do. Volk will keep us from being associated with the disappearance of the asesinos.”
“Si, jefe, but—”
The cartel leader cut Eduardo off by wrapping his fingers around the grip of the fifty-caliber revolver. Orozco wasn’t in the mood for insubordination. He was more than ready for this meeting to be over. The woman’s presence was distracting, her movements insistent, but Orozco forced himself to stay focused—barely. Ignoring her as best he could, Orozco said, “Tell me how you plan to do it, Lobo.”
Volk pushed a lock of his blond hair behind his ear. “They work for a maritime salvage company called Dark Water Research.”
“We know this, Lobo,” Orozco snapped, using the Spanish version of the Russian’s nickname. “Guerrero knew this, too. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating them like he did. We need revenge, and I’m paying you for results.”
The Russian nodded, unaffected by the temperamental Mexican. “Mango Hulsey is living on a sailboat at the Dark Water Research facility.”
“Give me something new,” Orozco shouted angrily, once again brushing away the woman’s hand.
Volk ran his index finger over the statue’s scythe, letting the tip of his finger linger on the scythe’s point, then picked up the statue to examine it more closely.
“Put that down!” Orozco roared, snatching up his revolver and aiming it at Volk’s head. The laser sight painted a dancing red dot on the Russian’s forehead.
“Neechevo srashnava,” Volk said in Russian. No harm. He set the statue down, aligned as before, and looked at the shorter man. “Ryan Weller is traveling with a Homeland Security agent to Atlanta, Georgia. I sent a team after him. They will take him when they have the chance. Then they will go after Hulsey.”
Orozco rubbed his hands together. “I want to drag their bodies through the streets of Tampico. Let them be an example of what happens when you cross the Aztlán Cartel.” He couldn’t keep the girl’s hands off him, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. Waving the revolver around, he shouted, “All of you leave. Now!”
When the room was empty, Orozco leaned his head back and thought about his rise to power while the woman pleasured him. After Weller and Hulsey had killed Arturo Guerrero and escaped Tampico, war had enveloped the city. Street fights, car bombs, long-range assassinations, and drive-by shootings had punctuated the power struggle for leadership of the Aztlán Cartel.
José Luis Orozco had declared himself the victor.
Before Guerrero’s death, Orozco had been third in command. Guerrero had liked Orozco because the man worked hard, handled himself with confidence, and was not afraid of getting his hands dirty to accomplish his goals.
Because of these attributes, Guerrero had placed Orozco in charge of his cocaine distribution network. Orozco increased shipments and sales, which had pleased the late cartel boss. What Guerrero had not been pleased with was Orozco’s opposition to his scheme to start a war with the United States and retake what many believed to be Mexico’s rightful heritage: the land stolen during the Mexican-American War via the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.
Guerrero had believed that the U.S. had started an unjust war with their homeland and had forcibly taken more than half of Mexico’s land. But Orozco didn’t care about ancient history. He cared only about the money he could make from the sale of drugs, firearms, and slaves across the U.S. border.
When word of a gunfight at Guerrero’s isolated compound had reached Orozco, he’d been one of the first to respond, organizing the city-wide manhunt for the murderous pendejos.
Orozco held no love for Arturo Guerrero. But Weller had stepped into their territory and killed one of their own. That couldn’t go unanswered.
His eyelids fluttered as he braced his hands on the desk, the fingers of his right hand still wrapped around the grip of the pistol. The woman didn’t stop. He imagined the thrill of killing the Americans, firing his revolver point blank into their foreheads as they pleaded for their lives on their knees.
A low groan escaped him as the woman worked, unaware her master was already planning the executions.
Orozco vowed that this time, Ryan Weller would not escape.


















CHAPTER 2
Hartsfield-Jackson Airport
Atlanta, Georgia

Ryan Weller shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He rolled his neck and leaned against the wall as a steady flow of people exited U.S. Customs.
The travelers paid no attention to him as they streamed past, stuffing documents into pockets and speaking excitedly in myriad languages. Besides English, Ryan was fluent in Spanish and knew a little French, allowing him to pick up snatches of their conversations.
He checked his watch again and glanced over his shoulder at Floyd Landis. The Department of Homeland Security agent was on the far side of the crowd, his arms crossed, sipping coffee and scanning the crowd. His dark eyes met Ryan’s. Landis motioned with his head to continue searching the crowd. Ryan turned away, frustrated.
They were waiting for Aaron Grose.
Aaron’s flight from Belize had arrived at the same time as two other inbound planes, so travelers trying to clear Customs packed the terminal. Ryan glanced at his watch again and scanned the lines. He shifted his feet, feeling the pinch of the patent leather Oxfords. He longed for the comfortable fit of his usual attire: shorts, a T-shirt, and his well-worn boat shoes.
Ryan spotted his man as Aaron glanced around at his fellow passengers, gauging the distance to the booth where his passport would be checked and stamped. Like most travelers, Aaron fidgeted with a smartphone, scrolling and pecking at the screen. Ryan caught the DHS agent’s eye and motioned toward their quarry.
Landis nodded and moved through the throng of people to stand beside Ryan. He was there because Ryan had asked him to help with an investigation into Jim Kilroy, the international arms dealer who had supplied the Aztlán Cartel with weapons for their attempt at starting a war for the desert Southwest, which many Latinos still considered part of Mexico.
It irritated Ryan that no one wanted to do anything to stop the guy. Just because Kilroy had contracts with the U.S. government did not mean he was a good guy. And Aaron Grose was in bed with Kilroy. They had invested in a scuba diving resort together on Caye Caulker, an island off the coast of Belize. Ryan reasoned that since Kilroy often used his resorts to launder his ill-gotten gains, then Aaron Grose was probably helping him. Or maybe he was just guilty by association. Either way, Ryan wanted to get answers from him.
Aaron stepped to the customs booth and handed over his passport. The uniformed TSA agent with black braids piled high on her head took the passport and fanned through it. Ryan knew the female agent was verifying that the image of the five-foot-ten-inch white male with brown eyes and blond hair in the booklet matched the man standing in front of her.
Aaron flashed a smile at the agent. She smiled back, then ducked her head to look at the stamps in the booklet.
Ryan moved closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“This says you’ve been in Belize for the last five years,” the TSA agent said.
Aaron leaned on the counter and gazed at her. “Yeah, Tamica,” Aaron said, reading her name tag. “I own a scuba diving resort on Caye Caulker. I run charters in every country in the region. You should come down sometime.”
“I don’t scuba dive, Mr. Grose.”
“I tell you what, Tamica.” He slid her a business card embossed with the name Caye Caulker Adventures. “You call this number, and I’ll make sure you have a free stay.”
The woman used her hand to cover her smile and hide her embarrassment, but she still took the card. “Thanks, Mr. Grose,” she managed to say.
“Call me Aaron.”
With a little too much honey in her voice, she said, “Anything to declare, Aaron?”
He grinned again. “Nope. Just heading to Wyoming to see my family.”
Tamica stamped his passport before sliding it under the plexiglass divider.
Aaron slipped the passport into his back pocket and walked past Tamica’s booth. He gave her a parting smile and turned to find Ryan and Landis blocking his path.
Landis pulled his gold-and-blue Homeland Security Investigations badge from his pocket. “Mr. Grose, I’m Floyd Landis.”
Aaron glanced from one man to the other. Landis’ steel-gray hair and hard, dark eyes gave him the look of a man who’d seen it all and no longer cared about other people’s feelings.
Ryan was taller than both men at six feet, with brown hair going shaggy around the ears. His green eyes stared at Aaron with curiosity. Both men sported dark suits. Landis wore a tie.
“Who are you?” Aaron asked Ryan.
Landis tucked his badge into his pocket and said, “He’s Ryan Weller, a civilian contractor. We need to speak with you privately. Follow me.”
“Am I being arrested?”
“Mr. Grose, we want your full cooperation,” Landis said. “Now, you can come quietly, or I can slap some cuffs on you. We can make a scene about you being a threat to national security. Which would you prefer?”
Ryan nodded toward Tamica. “I’m sure your new friend would like to see you go peacefully.”
Aaron glanced over his shoulder. Tamica was watching them. He flashed a reassuring smile at her, then turned to face Ryan and Landis. Resigned to his fate, he muttered, “I’ll go quietly.”
Landis led the way. Ryan carried Aaron’s backpack and towed his rolling suitcase while following them through a series of hallways. They escorted Aaron to a small room and told him to sit in a chair. When their detainee had taken a seat, Landis closed the door.
The two men continued down the corridor to another room. A computer monitor played footage of Aaron’s tiny holding room, which was cramped even further by a desk shoved into one corner, the chair Aaron was sitting in, and a second chair beside the desk. As they watched, Aaron switched seats so he could face the door.
“How long are you going to let him stew?” Ryan asked.
“Until I get bored.” Landis poured coffee into a paper cup and sipped the steaming liquid as he watched the monitor.
Thirty minutes later, Landis heaved himself out of the chair and poured more coffee. He filled two more cups and said to Ryan, “Put some cream and sugar packets in your pocket and carry these.”
Carrying two cups of coffee, Ryan followed Landis to the holding room. Landis pushed open the door and held it for Ryan, who nudged it closed with his foot as he stepped inside.
Now they’d see what Aaron Grose was really hiding.


CHAPTER 3
Hartsfield-Jackson Airport
Atlanta, Georgia

The dive resort owner watched the civilian contractor shove the door closed.
“Hope you have someone out there to open the door after it locks,” he said.
“And you better hope you get to walk out that door,” Landis responded. “It might be a one-way trip to Gitmo for you.”
“Gitmo! Why would you send me there? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then you’d better cooperate,” Landis replied.
Ryan set a cup of coffee on the desk and deposited a handful of cream and sugar packets. Aaron ignored the coffee. He didn’t want something to drink. He wanted to catch his flight to Wyoming. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you guys want?”
Landis sat down in the empty chair. Aaron watched Ryan lean against the wall in the far corner of the room. To him, the man in the corner appeared to be the more dangerous of the two. He had an edge to him, a hardness to his lean, muscular body. He reminded Aaron of the American Special Forces troops who sometimes came through his dive shop while on leave from conducting operations in Central America.
When Landis moved, Aaron got a glimpse of a pistol butt, but he couldn’t see a gun imprinted along Weller’s waistline or under his shoulder.
Aaron tried to relax. The closeness of the three bodies had increased the room’s temperature. A trickle of sweat rolled down his temple. Aaron shifted in the chair and glanced up at the ceiling. In the corner above Weller, an all-seeing electronic eye winked back at him with a flash of red light.
To break the silence, Aaron pointed at the camera and asked, “Who’s watching us?”
Landis leaned forward, ignoring the question. “Mr. Grose, how long have you operated a business in Belize?”
Aaron smiled. “Twelve years.” He was trying to remain calm. “Look, maybe I should call my lawyer.”
“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that,” Landis said. “You’re being held on suspicion of terrorism.”
Aaron abruptly rose as he shouted, “Terrorism!”
Landis looked up at the befuddled resort owner. “Calm down, Mr. Grose. Please, sit back down.”
Ryan didn’t move from his corner. Aaron glowered at him, unnerved by the man’s nonchalance.
The two men stared at each other until Ryan pushed away from the wall and took a step forward.
“Sit down, Aaron.” Menace laced Weller’s words, and, in the small room, the step had brought them nose-to-nose.
Aaron backed up. His knees hit the edge of his chair, and they buckled. He dropped heavily onto the thinly padded steel.
“Who’re you going to call?” Ryan continued. “Your sister? Trisha is a real estate lawyer. She can’t help you. Or maybe you’d like to call your business partner?”
Aaron’s eyebrows arched. “Who?”
Ryan leaned closer. “Come on, Aaron. We know you’re helping Jim Kilroy smuggle illegal weapons.”
Aaron gulped. “Jim’s a resort developer.”
“Don’t play dumb with us, Aaron,” Ryan said. “Jim Kilroy is one of the largest arms dealers in North, Central, and South America. And you know it.”
Aaron’s jaw dropped open. “No way.”
Landis made a motion for Weller to back off, and the contractor retreated to his corner.
“It’s a fact, Mr. Grose,” Landis affirmed.
Aaron was at a loss. He’d known Jim Kilroy for a lot of years but never suspected he was anything but a legit businessman. “Jim’s just an investor in my resort. I don’t know anything about the weapons trade, and I’m sure as hell not involved in it, so why am I here?”
Landis crossed his arms before speaking. “Number one: you haven’t paid U.S. taxes since you left the country, and you owe the U.S. government quite a chunk of change. Our figures indicate you owe about half a million dollars in back taxes, interest, and penalties. And all those are compounding daily. Every minute you waste sitting here, Aaron, is another dollar in fines.
Holding up two fingers, Landis continued. “And two: we think you know more than you’re letting on about Kilroy’s business. We were hoping you would give us information on his whereabouts and his movements. We also know you’re friendly with his wife, Karen. You’re the ideal person to press her for information.”
“This is blackmail!”
“This is you playing ball, Mr. Grose,” Landis said. “We want information on Jim Kilroy’s gunrunning operation, and you want to get your business out of hock with the IRS. We can work together, or we can do things the hard way.”
Aaron balled his hands into fists. His surging blood pounded in his temples. His vision blurred. He took a deep breath, knowing a fistfight in the confined office space would result in him being arrested. Two steadying breaths later, he said, “And if I play ball?”
Landis glanced at his contractor, then back to Aaron. The agent had a hint of a smile on his lips. “You give us actionable intelligence, and we’ll wipe the slate clean. Then you’ll need to start paying taxes on your future income.”
“What if I can’t get any actionable intelligence?” Aaron used his fingers to make air quotes around “actionable.”
“We want intelligence that will lead us to Kilroy’s network,” Ryan said. “We’re going to take him down.” He stepped forward and leaned down to face Aaron. “Your business partner arms gangs in El Salvador who rape and murder young children and Colombian cartels who manufacture cocaine. He sold weapons to the Mexican separatists responsible for the bombing campaign in the U.S. last month. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. Kilroy’s weapons can be found in every country in this hemisphere, Aaron.” He spoke the man’s name as though it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. “We’re going to send him to jail, and you’re going to help us.”
Landis glanced up sharply at Weller.
Aaron stared in disbelief. “Jim helped me start my resort. He’s a developer. I’ve worked with him for years. I would know if he was an arms dealer! He’s not—he’s just a resort developer.”
“Yeah, he’s a developer,” Weller said sarcastically. “He just uses his resorts to launder his dirty money. He’s probably using yours, too.” He stabbed an accusatory finger at Aaron. “He’s a criminal, and you’re his accomplice.”
“No, I’m not!” Aaron shouted. “I don’t have anything to do with guns! And I know about every penny that goes in and out of my place. I am not a criminal, and neither is Jim.”
Weller glared at Aaron and sipped his coffee. Aaron noticed that Landis was staring at the contractor. He tried to wrap his mind around the information the two men had dumped on him. The men seemed earnest, yet the only real fact Aaron could pin down was that he was up to his neck in IRS debt.
Aaron concentrated on what he knew about Jim Kilroy. The man had inherited several commercial properties in Florida, among them a world-class golf resort. He had used these as leverage to buy and develop more properties. He now owned hotels in New York City, Florida, Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, the Dominican Republic, and both the U.S. and the British Virgin Islands. He had once famously tried to build a resort on Jost Van Dyke but was quickly shut down by environmentalists and the local government.
Jim had always been good to him. He’d helped Aaron start his resort when he was just a young dive instructor looking for the next thrill in life. And if Aaron had a best friend, it would be Jim’s wife, Karen. Surely, she would have mentioned something about her husband dealing in illegal weapons. It wasn’t like her to keep secrets from him.
Scuffing the toe of his shoe on the bare concrete floor, Aaron decided to play ball. He wanted out of this room, out of this airport, and out of this trouble.
“What can you tell us about Kilroy’s boats?” Weller asked.
Aaron looked up. “He’s got a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-foot Alaska crab boat he converted into a luxury mothership for a Viking sportfisher and a couple of other small boats.”
Landis took a notepad out. “What’s the name of the mothership?”
“Northwest Passage.”
“What about Karen?” Ryan asked. “Can you press her for information?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Ryan asked.
“She went to New York City a few weeks ago,” Aaron explained. “She and Jim had a fight, so Karen went to see her mother. I haven’t spoken to her since she left.”
“Call her. Better yet, go see her,” Weller said.
“How would that work?” Aaron used his fingers to simulate a telephone and held them to his ear. “Hey, Karen, the U.S. government thinks your husband is an international arms dealer. Got anything to tell me so I can spill it to the feds?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Landis asked impatiently, “What else can you tell us about Jim Kilroy?”
“Nothing,” Aaron barked, clearly annoyed. “Look, I run a scuba diving resort on Caye Caulker. I see Jim maybe once every six months. Karen comes by more often. We go diving together. But like I said earlier, I haven’t seen her since she went to New York to visit her mother.”
“Okay, Mr. Grose, here’s what’s going to happen,” Landis said. “You’re going to walk out of here and go see your family. You’re going to get that sister of yours to hook you up with a good tax lawyer. Then you’re going to go back to Belize and run your resort.” Landis pointed his thumb at his companion. “In a few weeks, Ryan will come down to your resort and spend some time diving and taking in the sights. You’ll introduce him to Kilroy.”
Aaron looked over at Weller. “Do you dive?”
The contractor smirked.
“That boy is part fish,” Landis said stoically. “He was Navy EOD.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Aaron said, puzzled.
“It means he disarmed bombs underwater,” Landis said.
Explosive Ordnance Disposal was one of the Navy’s most rigorous programs: a grueling year-long course of diving, ordnance disposal training, parachuting, small unit tactics, and firearms training so the EOD techs could operate in the harshest of environments while disarming and disposing of explosive devices on both land and sea.
Aaron sat up straight, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Come on down, but I can’t guarantee Jim will be there.” He crossed his arms and stared at the former EOD tech. “Hope the government’s paying for your rooms because I’m not footing the bill.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Weller replied.
Aaron looked at his watch. “Are we done here? I’ve missed my connecting flight to Salt Lake City. I need to book another one, and apparently, I have to find a lawyer now.”
Landis pulled an airline ticket from his jacket pocket, set it on the desk, and tapped it with his finger. “You’re on the next flight out.”
“You never had any intention of sending me to Gitmo,” Aaron exclaimed.
“Oh, no, Aaron,” Weller said. “We have every intention of sending you to Gitmo because you’re complicit in the illegal arms trade by involving yourself with Kilroy.” He bent down so he could look Aaron in the eyes. His tone turned menacing as he said, “And I’m going to personally make sure you see the inside of a cell.”
“But I’m not helping Kilroy, and you know it.” Aaron blurted, his frustration bleeding through. He wanted to see his father, not sit there being threatened by government bullies.
And this treatment was detestable, and Aaron felt violated and was sure no government agent had the right to threaten him like Weller was now. The two men stared at each other. Weller’s hard green eyes never blinked.
“All right. Knock it off, Weller,” Landis ordered.
Weller didn’t move, his stare causing Aaron to lean further back in his chair, avoiding Weller’s coffee breath.
“I said that’s enough, Ryan,” Landis snapped.
Without a hint of a smile, Weller said, “I’ll see you soon, A-A-Ron.”
Turning, Weller went to the door. jerked it open and then motioned for Aaron to leave.
As Aaron stepped out of the tiny room, he knew the feds had him backed into a corner.
Aaron didn’t like it one bit, but what choice did he have?



CHAPTER 4

Ryan Weller started to step through the closing door after Aaron Grose, but Landis placed a hand on his chest and shoved him backward before slamming the door shut. Ryan stumbled and felt Landis driving him into the chair Aaron had just occupied.
The DHS agent’s anger echoed in his words. “What the hell was that, Ryan? You’re a liaison, not a one-man wrecking crew! I agreed to go down this rabbit hole with you, but you’re out of line. Your behavior is making me seriously reconsider the relationship that Dark Water Research enjoys with the DHS—specifically, your involvement.”
What had set Ryan off was Aaron Grose’s flippant answers and the fact that no one seemed to care about Jim Kilroy distributing machines of death across the globe. Giving the man a little grief had been satisfying.
“I apologize, Floyd.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” Landis growled. No one called the DHS agent by his first name if they wanted to stay on his good side. He’d made it quite clear he didn’t like people saying it, and he didn’t like being associated with a barber on The Andy Griffith Show.
Ryan crossed his arms. “I’m trying to bring down an international arms dealer.”
Landis sat in the other chair. He leaned forward and rested a forearm on the scarred top of the desk. “Look, you’re a good guy, Ryan. You were a standout sailor, an excellent EOD tech, and you did this country a real service by taking out Arturo Guerrero, but you’re getting into something way above your pay grade. Kilroy has government contracts, and that gives him some protection. If he screws the pooch, we can nail him to the wall. Until then …” He trailed off and leaned back in his seat. “This whole thing makes me feel dirty. I don’t care about a guy who doesn’t pay his taxes—there are worse criminals out there—and we both know he isn’t helping Kilroy sell guns.”
“You don’t care about Kilroy do you?” Ryan accused.
“I didn’t say I didn’t care. I said I can’t do anything about it. Kilroy is protected. If you want to skin this cat, then you’re gonna have to be patient and wait for the tide to turn. When the spooks don’t need him anymore, he’ll be fair game. Let’s go home and forget about this mess.”
Ryan looked the man in the eyes and lied. “All right, Landis. You got it.”
It was a bald-faced lie. Ryan had no intention of going home. He was going after Kilroy with everything he had.


CHAPTER 5
Dark Water Research Headquarters
Texas City, Texas

When DWR president Greg Olsen answered the phone in his second-floor office of the now state-of-the-art airplane hangar, it was the voice of his own DHS liaison, Ryan Weller, who asked, “Did you watch the video?”
Ten years ago, the commercial dive and salvage conglomerate Dark Water Research had purchased an old airplane hangar from the U.S. Navy base in Corpus Christi, tore it down, and reassembled it on the southern bank of Industrial Canal outside of Texas City, Texas, in the heart of the U.S. oil industry.
As part of its expanding operations, DWR handled many of the U.S. government’s ship husbandry needs, infrastructure contracts, maintenance of subsea communications cables, and underwater pipelines.
With DWR’s wide presence above and below the ocean, several of the alphabet agencies had asked them to observe and report if they came across any maritime security issues. The Department of Homeland Security took this one step further and requested that DWR conduct off-books investigations.
“Yeah, I saw it,” Greg replied, having watched the interview with Aaron Grose on his computer in real-time.
“What did you think?” Ryan asked.
Greg pressed a button on his desk phone to put it on speaker and said, “I think there’s a few things the guy isn’t telling us.”
“Probably,” Ryan replied. “Is Mango there with you?”
“Yeah, he’s here. We’re on speaker.” Greg looked over at Mango Hulsey, a former member of the Coast Guard’s Maritime Security Response Team, a direct-action unit specializing in counterterrorism and law enforcement.
When Greg had asked Ryan to work with Homeland Security, he’d told Ryan to find someone to be his swim buddy. Ryan had met Mango while investigating the theft of sailboats by gunrunning pirates in the Gulf of Mexico—the same ones supplied by Kilroy. Mango had the skill set that Ryan needed to offset his and had asked Mango to join him at DWR.
Now, Mango leaned over the speakerphone. “Grose knows something, bro, but he might not know that he knows.”
Ryan laughed. “Really?”
“Are you headed back?” Greg asked.
“No. I’m going to New York City.”
“New York City!” Greg and Mango both echoed.
“I want to talk to Karen Kilroy. Is there anything DWR needs me to handle while I’m up there?”
“Not that I know of,” Greg said. “If there is, I’ll give you a call. Is Landis going with you?”
“No. He has other things to do.”
Greg shook his head and rubbed his temples. Since learning that Jim Kilroy was supplying weapons to the Aztlán Cartel, Ryan had fixated on ending the gun dealer’s operations.
“Ryan, what’s going on?” Mango asked.
“I’m going to New York, just like I said.”
Greg let out a long sigh. This wasn’t the same guy Greg had known in the Navy. Something had changed in him. While Ryan’s methodical planning and attention to detail still shone through, he was becoming more of a rogue operator, and flying by the seat of his pants was going to get him killed.
“What happened to Grose?” Mango asked.
“We put him on a flight to Salt Lake. Landis told him I would visit his place in Belize. I’d like to do it next week, so you’d better pack your bags, Mango.”
“As head of this operation,” Greg said, “I think I need a little R&R myself.”
“The more, the merrier,” Ryan replied. “Set it up.”
“I will. Talk to you later.” Greg hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together. “A company trip to Belize, just what we need.”
Mango sat down on the other side of Greg’s desk, propping his left leg on another chair. He swung his right up, crossing his prosthesis over his left ankle. He’d lost the leg about six inches below the knee during a ship-boarding incident in the Persian Gulf. “Are you going for the fun of it or because Ryan needs a minder?”
“That’s what I hired you for. But to answer your question, both. I’m not sure what’s going on with Ryan or why he’s so fixated on Kilroy.”
Mango nodded. “I can’t say that I blame him. Someone needs to put Kilroy out of business.”
“You support his vendetta?”
“I don’t know if that’s what it is. But Ryan believes he’s doing what you hired him for.”
Greg shook his head. “I hired him to work with Landis.”
“Landis points him in a direction, and that direction right now, bro, is Belize. Are we going to have Chuck fly us down?” Mango asked, meaning Chuck Newland, DWR’s resident pilot.
“No. I think we need to take Dark Water,” Greg said, referring to DWR’s Hatteras GT63 sportfishing yacht. “It would be nice to have our own base of operations. If Kilroy escapes by boat, we’ll be able to give chase.”
“I agree,” Mango replied.
“I’ve got some work to do. Can you start preparing Dark Water?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Mango replied as he stood.
After Mango left the room, Greg busied himself with paperwork.
In truth, he just wanted to be left alone. Greg had plenty to do, but he felt overwhelmed by running the business. He’d hoped to ease into operations and learn things from the bottom up, but that plan had changed after a car bomb at the Texas Governor’s Mansion had killed his parents. The attack had been part of Arturo Guerrero’s plot to pressure the United States into returning Aztlán to the sovereignty of Mexico.
Greg’s history with the company, in his own words, was complicated. He had accompanied his father and grandfather to many job sites over the years, beginning work as a diver when he was just sixteen. He’d worked for DWR during the summers through high school, and then while earning a bachelor’s degree in marine engineering at Texas A&M.
After graduation, Greg had enlisted in the Navy, gone through the training pipeline to become an EOD technician, then attended officer candidate school. While he’d enjoyed the Navy, Greg had always planned to return to DWR to take over the DHS operations run by his father. But that plan hadn’t come to fruition, either.
An ambush in Afghanistan had left him a paraplegic, and Greg was still struggling to come to terms with his new “situation.” He pushed his wheelchair to a window overlooking DWR’s marina. Floating at the docks were many of the company’s work vessels as well as Dark Water and Mango’s Amazon 44 sailboat, Alamo.
Under the window was a low cabinet where a .338 Lapua Barrett 98B bolt action rifle topped with a Nightforce NXS scope rested on its bipod and the point of its butt stock.
Greg ran a finger along the stock to wipe away a speck of dust. He’d begun training with the gun for sport, enjoying the thrill of precision shooting. Punching holes in paper at long distances was all about control, and it was one of the few things in life he felt he could control.
Greg locked his fingers behind his head and stared out the window.
With his father dead, Greg had recruited Ryan to handle the DHS operations. Greg was more than willing to take on the task, but his paralysis limited what role he could play in those activities. He had enjoyed piloting Dark Water across the Gulf of Mexico to rescue Ryan and providing support for the Tampico operation, and he wanted to do more of it.
But more than anything, his injuries depressed him. During the ambush, an IED had exploded under his Humvee, and shrapnel had severed Greg’s spinal column at the T-10 level, just below his belly button. He hated being limited by the loss of his legs. While there were many things he could do, he tended to focus more on the things he could not. Walking was a superhuman power.
But, despite the self-deprecation born from his injury, Greg had to admit helping Ryan was better than being stuck in an office.
Greg let out a deep sigh and picked up his phone to call his grandfather.
Cliff Olsen answered on the first ring.
“Can you come to the office?” Greg asked.
“What’s the matter?”
“I need to speak with you.”
“Can do, son,” Cliff huffed. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Greg then called Shelly Hughes, DWR’s Chief Operating Officer, and his current girlfriend. When she answered, he told her to join him in his office in sixty minutes. She agreed and hung up.
Greg set the cell phone down beside the rifle and continued to stare out the window. Beyond the small harbor was Industrial Canal, leading into Galveston Bay. An oil tanker crept along the Texas City Dike, roiling the muddy brown waters of the Texas City Channel. He knew boaters, swimmers, and fishermen would be packed along the dike, utilizing what locals called “the world’s longest man-made fishing pier.”
Cliff was the first to arrive. He was in his seventies, and the sun had turned his creased skin into leather. He wore his standard uniform: a white cowboy hat, black jeans, a Western-style snap shirt, and alligator-skin cowboy boots.
“How are you, son?”
“Good, Grandpa.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Let’s wait until Shelly gets here.”
Cliff sat down and fished a cigarette from the pack in the left breast pocket of his shirt and lit it. Greg pressed a button to start the small exhaust fan to channel the fumes outdoors.
Shelly arrived ten minutes later and dropped wearily into a seat beside Cliff as Greg finished filling the septuagenarian in on the latest DWR news. She gave him a go-ahead motion with her hand to get the meeting started.
The paraplegic took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be president anymore.”
Cliff snorted. “I can’t say it’s a surprise.”
“What are you going to do?” Shelly asked.
Greg shrugged.
The old man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and looked Greg in the eyes. “You can’t be an operator forever.”
Greg rolled a pencil between his fingers and scratched at a chip in the paint with a thumbnail. “I don’t want to be stuck in this office, either.”
“I’ve known you long enough to know that you’ve got something else in mind,” Shelly said. “What is it?”
Shelly and Greg had met during their freshman year at Texas A&M. They’d quickly become study partners and had been in an on-off relationship ever since. They’d been “on” since Greg’s injury.
Greg watched her run a hand through her light brown hair, then said, “I want to continue working, just in a different role.”
Cliff exhaled smoke through a yellow-toothed smile. “Just say you want to be Ryan’s driver and get it over with. I understand, son. It’s the allure of the action.”
Greg knew his grandfather would understand better than anyone. Cliff had run operations for a Navy UDT—Underwater Demolitions Team—in the last months of the Korean War and later became one of the first SEALs deployed to Vietnam. He’d then run several covert operations for the CIA during his tenure as head of DWR.
“I want to help Ryan,” Greg said. “But if I’m helping him, I can’t give my job the attention it deserves. When we got back from the last op, things were chaotic. There’s another op brewing, and I want to be part of it, and I don’t want the business to suffer.”
Shelly shook her head. “You need to take better care of yourself. Last time, you were sick for a week after you got back. You were dehydrated and had the start of a pressure sore on your butt. You have to be more careful.”
“I know. I know.” Greg held up his hands in defense.
Cliff stubbed out his cigarette in a small ashtray on Greg’s desk. “Are you sure we can’t change your mind?”
“Ryan and Mango are going to Belize when Ryan gets back from New York. I’m going to drive them down in Dark Water.”
“Since you’ve already decided to step down, who’s going to take your place?” Shelly demanded.
“I’ve invited Kip Chatel to interview for the job,” Greg replied.
Shelly said, “Do you mean retired Rear-Admiral Kip Chatel, the current CFO of Boeing?”
“Yes.”
Cliff whistled. “Shooting for the stars, son.”
“He’s coming tomorrow. I want you to show him around, Shelly. In the meantime, I need to help Mango get Dark Water prepped to leave next week. I’m ready for some more action.”
Greg thought he was chasing action. What he’d find was something else entirely.

CHAPTER 6
New York City, New York

Watching the front door of a five-story brownstone facing West Ninety-Seventh Street on New York City’s Upper West Side, Ryan felt like a street cop, casing a suspect from the curb.
Jim Kilroy’s development company owned a boutique hotel just steps away from the New York Stock Exchange, and Ryan had hung out in the lobby or on the street just outside for two days before the doorman had threatened to call the police. He’d then used the state auditor’s website to search for other properties owned by Jim Kilroy. When that came to a dead end, he’d searched for Karen’s mother and discovered the elderly woman’s address.
Now, he was outside Karen’s mother’s home, and he’d gotten excited that his digging had paid off when he’d sighted Kilroy’s trophy wife pulling back the curtain to look down on the street. Ryan had waved at her and motioned for her to come out.
She hadn’t looked out the window since.
While he waited in the rental car, Ryan studied his target’s social media pages, and the information Landis had reluctantly given him about her. Karen had attended Columbia University, graduating with a degree in Advanced Clinical Social Work, concentrating on International Social Welfare.
Part of her student loans had been waived by the U.S. government when Karen had volunteered for the Peace Corps. They’d sent her to Costa Rica to teach English. There, she’d met her future husband while visiting his resort outside of Playa Hermosa. Not long after, she left her position with the Peace Corps to move in with him.
Ryan scanned the street, watching vehicles, bicyclists, and pedestrians move up and down the narrow corridor. “Man, I stick out like a sore thumb here,” he muttered. “She probably thinks I’m a cop.”
He reasoned this stakeout might have been easier if he had taken the Homeland Security badge Landis had tried to give him. Ryan had rejected it several times. He didn’t want to have to deal with all the rules and laws that carrying a badge entailed.
And he didn’t want to work for the government again.
Deciding not to prolong his surveillance, Ryan swung the door open and levered himself out of the car. He didn’t like sitting around, waiting for the action to develop.
The late August heat reflecting off the pavement and buildings caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead. A kid on a skateboard zipped past. Ryan continued across the street and up the steps of the row house, where he pressed the Call button for the apartment.
An elderly female voice came through the intercom speaker. “May I help you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Thorpe. My name’s Ryan Weller. I need to speak with your daughter, Karen.”
There was a long pause before the voice came back. “She’s not here.”
“Mrs. Thorpe, please open the door. I’m tired of waiting for her to come out, and she knows I’m here.”
The door buzzed, and he pulled it open, taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor, then knocking on the apartment door when he was standing on the landing.
Karen Kilroy, a platinum blonde with artificially enhanced breasts and a deep tan, held the door open and swept her hand out in a gesture of invitation. Ryan stepped into the foyer and waited for her to close the door. She locked the deadbolt before leading him into the living room.
Adella Thorpe sat in a white wingback chair. She was thin and frail, with short white hair. Age and sickness had wrinkled her skin, and liver spots dotted her arms and hands.
“What can I do for you?” Karen asked.
“I’d like to speak to you about your husband,” Ryan said.
“What about him?”
“Can we speak privately?” Ryan glanced over at Mrs. Thorpe.
“You may say what you wish right here.” Karen sat but did not invite Ryan to do so.
Ryan looked around the ornately furnished room. Nothing appeared newer than the Victorian Age. The brownstone seemed like a time capsule dating back to the day it had been built. He suspected much of the furniture was custom-made. All of it was in immaculate condition and smelled like mothballs and hand sanitizer.
“Okay.” Ryan cleared his throat. “Jim is involved in the illegal weapons trade.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill of someone’s husband.” Adella Thorpe’s voice was soft and hoarse.
“I’m not speaking ill of him, Mrs. Thorpe. I know he traffics illegal weapons. He sold weapons to the Mexican separatists who bombed the buildings in Austin, Phoenix, and Los Angeles last month.”
“Is this true, Karen?” her mother asked.
Karen’s tone was patronizing and soothing at the same time. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Mother.” She stood and pointed at the door. In a firmer voice, she said, “Please leave.” She walked past Ryan to the foyer and opened the front door.
Ryan laid a business card beside a flower-filled vase on a small round table. Karen looked at the card, then at him with a hint of amusement in her eyes.
The door slammed behind Ryan as he stepped out. He went to the car. The hot leather attempted to burn his skin through his thin dress pants. Feeling boiled alive by the steamy interior dampened his mood further after accomplishing nothing during his confrontation with Karen. The heavily congested streets didn’t bolster Ryan’s disposition as he drove back to the hotel.
Deep in the hotel’s concrete parking structure, the heat wasn’t as bad. The coolness was almost a relief, but the humidity remained.
As he walked toward the elevator, Ryan noticed a dark SUV gliding up the entrance ramp and turning toward him.
Automatically, he moved closer to the row of parked cars. He heard the vehicle’s engine roar as it accelerated, and then headlights snapped on, aimed right at him.
He dove onto the hood of a red Hyundai and jerked his feet up as the silver Ford Explorer brushed past. Using his momentum, Ryan brought his legs up over his head and somersaulted off the car.
Hoping to land on his feet, he dropped off the edge of the vehicle, but his feet slid out from under him. Ryan fell hard on his side, grimacing as pain shot through the ribs that he’d bruised during his Mexican incursion to kill Arturo Guerrero.
The pain didn’t distract Ryan for long. He glanced up to see the SUV reversing toward him. The passenger had his window down with a long, black suppressor aimed at Ryan. He rolled under a high-clearance Ford pickup, then, instead of rolling all the way to the other side, Ryan stopped halfway and rolled back out the side where he’d started. The Explorer continued backward, passing him as he’d planned.
Gaining his feet, Ryan wished he was wearing something other than his slick-soled Oxfords. He kept low and ran between the cars, angling for the stairwell. As Ryan passed a thick support column, he tripped over a man’s foot when the man stuck his leg out from behind the post.
Instinctively, Ryan thrust his hands out in front of him to catch himself. His right hand hit first, and the wrist gave as it took the full weight of his body. He slammed down on his right shoulder and continued the roll to his right.
The man leaped from behind the column and landed on Ryan, pinning him on his back. Ryan recognized the two small wooden handles and the thin metal wire of a garrote in his assailant’s hands and brought his left wrist up to stop the wire from tightening around his neck. Ryan jerked his knee hard into the man’s crotch and, at the same time, delivered an open-handed heel strike to the man’s face. The man deflected the blow and kept trying to wrap the garrote around Ryan’s neck.
The wire dug deep into the skin of his wrist and sawed through to raw flesh. Blood flowed freely down his arm.
With his right hand, Ryan delivered repeated blows to the man’s face. The wire was forcing his wrist tighter against his neck, and the pressure was slowly crushing his windpipe.
His attacker planted his knee on the inside of Ryan’s right thigh, effectively immobilizing his leg. Garrote slammed his other knee into Ryan’s groin. The blow lacked power, but it still took Ryan’s breath away.
Somewhere close by, tires screeched. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw the Explorer come to a stop on the other side of the row of parked cars. From his vantage point, all he could see was a set of combat boots stepping out of the SUV.
Garrote drew his leg back to hammer Ryan’s groin again, forcing Ryan to shift his attention back to the more imminent threat.
The pain of the wire biting through his left wrist was excruciating. Ryan extended the fingers of his right hand, forming a slight cup. With all his might, he smacked Garrote on the ear in a thunderclap strike. Garrote immediately dropped his weapon and grasped the side of his head. Ryan knew the strike could rupture an eardrum, rendering an attacker temporarily deaf and disoriented.
Garrote moaned as he sat up straight, and Ryan punched him in the windpipe. His assailant let go of his ear to clutch his throat.
The strike was hard enough to crush the throat, and as Ryan rolled away, he knew he’d killed the man. It was only a matter of time before he suffocated to death, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. More men were coming for the dying man, and Ryan’s actions had been in total self-defense.
Ryan came up in a crouch behind the closest car. The guy in combat boots was approaching, a suppressed pistol clasped in both hands. He stopped at the grotesque sight of Garrote’s purple face and bulging eyes. Combat Boots swung the pistol to the left, his eyes tracking with the sights.
Ryan fired his body straight up, shoving the heel of his hand between Combat Boots’ outstretched arms and slamming it into his jaw.
The man’s teeth shattered as they crashed together. Combat Boots’ head snapped back, and his knees gave out.
As his assailant crumpled to the ground, Ryan dashed for the stairwell door.
The door bounced off its stops as Ryan tore through it and up the first flight of stairs. He heard rubber shriek on pavement in the parking garage as a vehicle Ryan assumed was the silver Ford Explorer accelerated. He waited on the landing for the next attack, hands on knees, sucking in as much air as possible into his lungs and shaking from the adrenaline.
He’d just killed a man and badly injured another—and he had no idea why they’d decided to target him.
After ten minutes of silence, Ryan crept to the door and peered through the small window. He couldn’t see anything out of place, so he eased the door open and crept back into the garage.
There was no one around—no man sucking his dying breaths through a crushed throat, no shattered teeth, no discarded pistol. Nothing. The only sign that an assault had taken place was the blood dripping from Ryan’s wrist.
He checked the wound. The wire had bitten deep into the top of his wrist in a thin, straight line. If he held his hand out and flexed his wrist downward, Ryan thought he could see bone. His stomach lurched, and he quickly pulled his wrist up into hyperflexion to close the wound.
Jerking his tie from the coat pocket of his blazer, Ryan wrapped it around the cut and did his best to tie it off using his right hand and his teeth. Done with his makeshift triage, he punched the elevator button and stood with his back to the wall until the doors opened and he could step inside. He kept his hand in his coat pocket to keep other hotel guests from asking questions.
Once in his room, Ryan went straight to the bathroom and ran water over the cut. “What was that all about?” he asked the empty room while wrapping his wrist in a hand towel. He needed stitches to fix the deep cut.
Ryan changed into cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and his favorite pair of worn boat shoes. He hurriedly packed his suitcase, then used the automated checkout function on the television to close his room account before carrying his suitcase downstairs. He climbed into the rental car and headed for an urgent care center.
It was late by the time Ryan left the clinic. He sported twenty stitches and a tightly wrapped white bandage to close his wound. The doctor had signed a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers with instructions to return to the clinic the next week for a follow-up exam. He had no intention of returning to the clinic. By this time next week, he’d be in Belize.
For now, all Ryan wanted was a cold beer—and to know who was trying to kill him.