A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Under the Mexican Federal Highway 80 bridge, Mango beached the boat and both men jumped out. Ryan tied the bow line to a bridge pier to keep the boat out of sight.

  Above, traffic rumbled across the bridge. Ryan grabbed the packs and pulled out his pistol. He cocked his head to the side, so he could hear better, while staring up at the undercarriage of the bridge. A car had slammed on its brakes.

  “What is it?” Mango whispered. He crouched beside Ryan and pulled his Glock from his waistband.

  Two car doors slammed, one after another.

  Ryan held a finger to his lips and pointed to the far bank of the creek then held up two fingers.

  Mango gave him a puzzled look by squinting his left eye and curling up the same side of his upper lip. He moved his gaze to the bridge abutments as a conversation in Spanish between two men grew louder.

  “Get behind the boat console,” Ryan whispered before shoving the boat’s stern across the creek to form a bridge. He ran across the boat and jumped the last few feet over the water. He landed on his feet but slipped to his hands and knees. Scrambling to the far side of the bridge, he hid behind the concrete abutment. He wiped the stinky mud off his hands onto some grass. A little mud was better than wading through crotch-deep water and having wet blue jeans and sewage caked to his skin.

  Two men dressed in black combat fatigues and skull facemasks came down the embankment. Silk-screened white jaws and teeth stood out on the black fabric, giving them a menacing look. The men cursed about having to check the mud and reeds at the water’s edge.

  Mango whistled, and the two men stopped to look at him, one man standing behind the other. They brought their weapons up and screamed at him in Spanish. Mango held his hands up. A red dot appeared on the second man’s forehead and he crumpled to the ground. The first narco whipped the muzzle of his gun toward the sound of the silenced gunshot. Ryan’s next burst of fire caught the sicario in the chest.

  Ryan poked his head above the bridge, looking for more bad guys. A dark-green Nissan Xterra idled at the entrance to an IHOP parking lot. He walked over to the gunmen lying in the mud under the bridge and ripped off the least bloody mask. After wiping it off on the dead man’s shirt tails, Ryan slipped it on his face.

  Properly disguised, he climbed the embankment and walked toward the car. Staying in the driver’s blind spot, he circled the SUV and opened the driver’s door. A skinny black man with yellow, decaying teeth looked up in surprise. Ryan shot him twice in the chest. Ryan whistled for his partner to let him know he was alive and pulled the guy from the car before the dead man could bleed all over the seats.

  Mango jogged up behind Ryan. He’d tied a bandana around his face. “Wish we had time for pancakes,” he muttered.

  “Me too.” Instead of eating pancakes and eggs, they rolled the dead guy down the embankment to join his compatriots.

  Back at the SUV, they took a second to scan the surrounding area to see if anyone had observed them. If they had, no one seemed to care they’d just dumped a dead guy in a ditch. Maybe the populace was used to such occurrences?

  Ryan sat in the blood-splattered driver’s seat. The man had been a bleeder. Two to the chest will cause that, Ryan thought as he backed the Xterra around and stopped to wait for some oncoming traffic.

  A white four-door Toyota Hilux pickup truck slowed and turned into the parking lot. It pulled up beside the Nissan. Men with guns jammed the truck’s seats. In the truck bed, two men with AKs slung on their backs held onto a roll bar. Bolted to the bed was an M60 machine gun. The Hilux stopped beside Ryan’s open window.

  “Hey amigos, has visto a estos pendejos yanqui?” Hey, friends, have you seen these Yankee assholes?

  Mango didn’t speak Spanish, but he could understand a few curse words and asked, “Did he just call us assholes?”

  “No, he called us friends,” Ryan corrected. “He asked if we’d seen any assholes.”

  “I think we’re surrounded by them,” Mango muttered.

  “Hold on.” Ryan cranked the wheel to the left and Mango braced himself. Ryan stomped on the gas and the Xterra leaped out of the parking lot.

  “Wrong way,” Mango shouted as two cars came at them on the access road.

  White painted arrows showed both lanes of traffic flowed against them. Ryan straightened the wheel and the Xterra ricocheted off another curb and into more oncoming traffic. Mashing the accelerator, he went careening between two palm trees in the median before he got the truck going in the direction he wanted. As he sped away, the M60 chattered its death song.

  Both men ducked as the side windows shattered. The big slugs slammed into the vehicle’s metal skin. It felt like they were taking punches from a heavyweight boxer as the vehicle shuddered with each hit. The further they got away from the gun, the less of a target they became.

  Mango twisted sideways in the seat to watch their pursuers. “They’re backing out of the IHOP.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Horns blared as the Toyota Hilux cut off traffic and bounced over the curbs to follow the Xterra north on Avenue Miguel Hidalgo, Tampico’s name for Mex 80 through the city. Ryan wanted to call Greg and make arrangements for him to pick them up, but if they didn’t shake the Toyota, there would be no rendezvous. Plus, there was no time to formulate an escape plan. Ryan hunched over the wheel, feeling like a racecar driver as he wove through traffic.

  “We gotta ditch this truck and get rid of the Xterra,” Mango said. “Those guys are going to call everyone they know to come get us.”

  “Do we have anything in the car to stop these guys?” Ryan half-shouted over the wind pouring in through the shattered windows.

  Mango climbed into the backseat and rummaged in the storage area. “Couple AKs and grenades.”

  “If I can draw them up close, maybe you can roll a grenade under their chassis.”

  “Copy that, bro.”

  Ryan’s eyes shifted from the rearview mirror to the road ahead numerous times to gauge distances and look for escape routes. This time, when he looked forward, he had to slow for bunched-up traffic. He saw Mango pick up one of the AK-74s, a smaller caliber gun than its big brother, the 47.

  The technical closed quickly, and the M60 began to fire again. Mango triggered a short burst from his AK and sent brass spinning around the inside of the SUV’s cab. A scalding, hot casing hit Ryan’s neck and slid down his shirt. He wiggled around, trying to get the burning brass out of his shirt, and swerved across both lanes of traffic. Horn blasts accompanied his maneuvering, and the rear window of a red Hyundai ahead of them shattered into pieces as the technical continued to fire. The Hyundai spun to the left, leaped over the median, and hit a car in the oncoming lane.

  Ryan pumped the brakes to avoid a collision as a car in front of him locked up its brakes. Mango fired another stream of lead out the rear window. Ryan stomped on the gas. Centrifugal force drove Mango against the rear seat. The action caused him to fire a burst into the floor of the SUV.

  Ryan smelled gasoline. “You hit the gas tank!”

  Mango yelled back, “Hit the brakes now.”

  Ryan did and watched in the mirror as Mango lobbed two grenades through the broken rear window.

  “Hit it,” Mango shouted.

  Ryan mashed the gas pedal to the floor board and cranked the wheel to the left. They bounced up on the median and drove around four cars before dropping back into the roadway. Behind them, the technical exploded in a ball of flames.

  “Hell yeah, bro.” Mango gave a fist pump and sat down in the seat.

  Just as Mango got settled, Ryan looked in the driver’s-side mirror and saw flames licking up the side of the SUV.

  “Grab our gear and get ready to bail. We’re on fire!” Ryan sounded like a little girl when he shouted fire.

  Mango stuck his head out the window to look at the flames and then grabbed the packs. Ryan looked for a place to park the SUV. If there was more ordnance in the back and it caught fire, he didn’t want it to do a lot of
collateral damage when it detonated. They passed car dealers, tire stores, strip malls, and houses. Traffic became more congested. He was getting desperate. He’d seen people trapped in burning vehicles and it wasn’t a pretty sight or smell.

  Ryan spied an empty parking lot between a restaurant and an office building. He jerked the wheel and the Xterra jumped over the curb separating Mex 80 from the access road. Little flames fell off the vehicle, and fire licked at the gasoline trail they left on the pavement.

  The engine sputtered as Ryan cut in front of a semi. The driver blasted his horn in warning, and the big tractor-trailer barely missed the Xterra’s rear bumper. On its last gasp of fumes, the SUV’s engine caught and powered into the parking lot.

  Without waiting for Ryan, Mango kicked open a door and tossed packs and guns out before following them. The SUV coasted on its own momentum. Ryan shoved open his door and jumped. He landed on his feet, tucked his chin to his chest, and covered his head with his arms. His body rolled forward in an awkward heap. The rough blacktop tore at his clothes and scraped his elbows. Using the momentum of the roll, he popped to his feet. His elbows stung and his ribs screamed, causing him to double over in pain and stagger forward. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

  Holding his ribs, Ryan staggered over to where Mango was sitting on the pavement. Each step jarred Ryan’s aching body and sent fresh waves of pain to his brain.

  Mango was readjusting his fake leg. Ryan gathered the packs and guns, and when he looked back at the SUV, he saw it had come to rest against a chain-link fence.

  Ryan helped Mango get to his feet. They slipped the H&K MP5s into the packs and shouldered the bags.

  “What now, jefe?”

  “Let’s walk over there.” Ryan gestured with his head toward the back of the restaurant, afraid if he raised his arms he would cry out in pain. Fire burned brightly in the Xterra’s rear seat and storage compartment. Black smoke poured out the windows, carrying the stench of burning plastic.

  Ryan and Mango walked around the back of what could pass for a steakhouse in the States. Ryan turned to his friend. “Do you suppose Mexicans go out for Mexican food, or do they just call it ‘getting food?’”

  Mango gave him the stink eye. “What the freak, bro? We’re getting chased by Mexican drug gangs, because you killed their leader, and you’re thinking about what Mexicans call food in Mexico?”

  “It’s a valid question. Do Chinese call it Chinese?”

  Mango shook his head.

  They crossed another parking lot and turned up a side street into a residential neighborhood. The homes were more upscale. Ryan watched the vehicles as they walked. They were either in locked garages or behind bars in small courtyards.

  In the distance, they heard AK rounds exploding in the back of the Xterra. The Nissan’s metal skeleton would contain the projectiles. Without the chamber and barrel of a gun to focus the pressure of the expanding propellant, the bullets merely popped out as their casing shattered from internal pressure. It still made a lot of racket.

  “I’m waiting for the grenades to cook off.”

  Mango held up his pack and grinned. “There were only two left, so I kept them. They might come in handy.”

  “Nice.”

  An ancient Datsun pickup truck chugged up the hill beside them. They moved over to the edge of the road and watched as the dusty and dented pickup with a metal ladder rack stopped at a construction site of a new home. The driver was a heavyset Mexican with greasy hair, cowboy boots, dirty jeans, and a black T-shirt with a company logo on the left breast. He left the driver’s door open and the engine running when he climbed out and walked into the framed walls of the two-story building.

  Mango and Ryan ran to the truck. Ryan slipped his pack off as he rounded the driver’s side. He slid into the driver’s seat as Mango jerked open the passenger door and climbed in. Ryan jammed the stick shift into gear and sped away before the doors were closed. Behind them, the driver half-ran, half-waddled out into the street, shouting for the thieves to stop.

  Ryan turned left at the bottom of the hill and had to make a sharp right because the road dead-ended into a concrete wall. He gunned it up another hill and coasted down the backside. At the bottom was a cross street. If he continued straight, they would run into a house. To the left of the house was a gravel track leading up the hill into a stand of trees. To Ryan, it looked like an alley or a shortcut for drivers who didn’t want to circle the block. He turned into it and shot gravel from his tires as they charged up the lane. He was right. The lane ended at a street, but it exited onto pavement between a concrete post and a utility pole, a gap too small for the truck to fit through. He hauled the wheel left around a big tree and squeezed the Datsun between a smaller tree and a post. The truck bounced onto Avenue Faja de Oro.

  Ryan asked Mango to bring up Google Maps on his smart phone. Mango pulled the phone out of Ryan’s pack and turned it on. Ryan explained that he thought the narcos would patrol the main roads and they should try to avoid them. Neither man was sure how Mexicans reported stolen vehicles. Today, Ryan figured every incident would receive intense scrutiny as a possible lead to Guerrero’s killers. Their truck would be on the list of suspected vehicles.

  Mango showed Ryan the screen with Google’s satellite view enabled on the map application. They were at the south end of Tampico International Airport, and if he kept working north and east on side streets, they would eventually run into Manta-Tampico Road which joined Mex 80, the fastest and most direct route out of town. If the cartel shut the road down and began a vehicle search, they would back traffic up for miles. Ryan suspected the narcos would set up roving patrols on Mex 80 to look for the two gringos.

  They decided to continue down Faja de Oro and get back on Mex 80. After he turned onto the main route, Ryan pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store. He backed into a spot under a tree, and they watched the road and lot. Neither saw anything suspicious.

  Ryan got on Google Maps and looked for a place to extract from while Mango kept watch. He located a spot at the end of Aldama-Barra del Tordo Road. On the map the little port town did not have a name, so he assumed it was Barra del Tordo because Aldama was at the other end of the road. Multiple docks projected into the Carrizal River for Greg to bring the Hatteras alongside.

  Mango pulled a screwdriver from the glove box. Ryan watched as he swapped license plates with another truck. When he was back, Ryan showed him the map and told him to call Greg. He shoved the transmission in gear and headed north.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Greg Olsen chewed on a fingernail while staring at the dazzling surface of the deep blue Gulf of Mexico. It was a nervous habit he’d developed since his accident. He’d chewed off all his nails and spit the clippings over the side of the boat. DiMarco climbed the bridge ladder and found him drumming on the console, one hand within easy reach of the satellite phone.

  “No word?”

  Greg drew a deep breath before answering. “No.”

  DiMarco handed Greg a glass of sweet tea and stretched out on a padded bench.

  Greg remained silent, staring at the now calm water. It always amazed him how quickly the ocean changed. One minute the water was placid and the next, a raging torrent. He took a swallow of tea. Waiting for word from Ryan was agonizing. Glancing at his watch for the third time in the last minute, he realized there was nothing he could do, and he felt powerless. Two years ago, he would have jumped up, grabbed a gun, and led Ryan into battle. Now, his injuries regulated him to the sidelines like some useless fobbit.

  “I hate this,” he grumbled.

  “You should be used to it.” DiMarco lay with his hat pulled down over his eyes and his hands folded on his chest. “Hurry up and wait. The military motto and the motto of government ops.”

  Greg knew DiMarco was a solid operator and a valued employee of DWR, but the man grated on him and he couldn’t explain why. He turned his thoughts inward and recounted their actions since dropping off
Ryan and Mango.

  He’d continued up Cut Channel and found a fuel dock. With a full load of fuel on board, DiMarco had gone through the steps of checking engine oil levels, thru-hull fittings, and pumps. He’d also drained the water from the fuel/water separators and checked the oil filters.

  Chores done, they motored back into the Gulf to await news from his employees. Greg didn’t want to be sitting at the dock if the city went on lockdown. It was better to be at sea than under lock and key.

  Ryan and Mango had planned to be in the city for several days, exploring the area and watching Guerrero’s compound. Greg hadn’t expected them to call. Still, he would have liked a progress update.

  Greg jumped when the satellite phone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

  “Change of plans on the exfil,” Mango said. “We’re headed north out of the city. We’ll meet you up the coast.”

  “Where?”

  “Pull up Google Maps.”

  Greg powered up the computer tablet built into the Hatteras’s console and opened the map application. “I’ve got it.”

  “Scroll north, up the coast. There’s an unmarked town at the end of the Aldama-Barra del Tordo Road.”

  “Okay, I found it.” Greg felt DiMarco come up beside him.

  “There should be a marina there. If not, we’ll meet you at the end of a dock.”

  “We’re on the way.”

  “Greg.” He heard Ryan yell his name. “Keep your head down, I shot Guerrero. There are police and cartel technicals everywhere.”

  “Will do.” Greg hung up and looked toward the Mexican coast where he could see the twin one-hundred-and-eighty-foot towers of the Tampico Bridge. The massive arch bridge linked the states of Tamaulipas to the north and Veracruz on the south bank of the Pánuco River. The towers were beacons for incoming ships.