by Evan Graver
“But I’m not, and you know it.” Aaron knew he sounded like a little kid. All he needed was to stamp his foot to complete the tantrum.
Landis stood up and walked to the door. He jerked it open and pointed outside.
In the hall, Aaron picked up his backpack and grabbed the handle on his luggage. “How the hell do I get out of here?”
Chapter Four
Ryan started to step through the closing door after Aaron. Landis placed a hand on his chest and shoved him backward before slamming the door shut. Ryan stumbled and felt himself driven into the chair Aaron had just occupied. He looked up at Landis and read the anger on the man’s face.
It echoed in his words. “What the hell was that? 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 DHS’s relationship with Dark Water Research—and specifically your involvement.”
It was the flippant answers given by a criminal and the fact that no one seemed to care if Jim Kilroy spread machines of death across the globe that had set Ryan off. Giving a little grief to Aaron Grose had been satisfying.
“I apologize, Floyd.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” Landis growled. No one called the DHS man by his first name. He made it quite clear he didn’t like people saying it, and he didn’t like being associated with a barber in Mayberry.
Ryan crossed his arms. “I’m trying to bring down an international gun dealer.”
Landis sat down 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 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 the chair. “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?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t care. I said I can’t do anything about it. Let’s go home and forget about this mess.”
Ryan looked the man in the eyes. “All right, Landis. You got it.”
Chapter Five
Dark Water Research president Greg Olsen picked up the ringing phone from his desk.
“Did you see the video?” Ryan Weller asked.
“Yeah, I saw it.” Greg had watched the real time interview of Aaron Grose from his office at DWR’s headquarters in Texas City, Texas. As a worldwide commercial diving conglomerate, DWR handled many of the U.S. government’s ship husbandry needs, infrastructure contracts, maintenance of submarine communications cables, and undersea 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 DHS had taken this one step further and asked DWR to perform investigations, and provided them with a permanent liaison, Floyd Landis.
“What did you think?” Ryan asked.
Greg pressed the speaker button on the phone and said, “I think there’s a few things this 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.
Mango leaned over the speakerphone. “He knows something, but he might not know that he knows. You know, bro.”
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.
“What are you, some city slicker?” Mango effected a Texas twang.
“No,” Ryan said, still laughing. “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 boarding Guerrero’s pirate vessel and finding out Jim Kilroy was supplying the cartel with weapons, Ryan had been fixated on finding the gun dealer and ending his operations. “Ryan, what’s going on?”
“I’m going to New York, just like I said.”
Greg let out a long sigh. This wasn’t the guy Greg had known in the Navy. Something had changed. While Ryan’s methodical planning and attention to details still shone through, he was becoming more rogue. Operating by the seat of his pants was going to get him killed.
Mango asked, “What happened to Aaron?”
“We put him on a flight to Salt Lake. Floyd told him I would visit his place in Belize in a week or so. Better pack your bag.”
Greg said, “As head of this operation, I think I need a little R&R myself.”
“The more, the merrier,” Ryan said. “Set it up.”
“I will. Talk to you later.” Greg hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together. “Company trip to Belize.”
Mango sat down on the other side of Greg’s desk, propping his left leg on another chair. He swung the 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 him, or why he’s so fixated on Kilroy.”
Mango nodded. “I can’t say that I blame him. Kilroy needs to be put out of business.”
“You support his vendetta?”
“I don’t know if it’s a vendetta, but he 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. That direction right now, bro, is Belize. Are we going to have Chuck fly us down?” Mango referred to Chuck Newland, DWR’s resident pilot.
“No, I think we need to take Dark Water.” Greg meant 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?”
“Yeah.”
Mango left the room as Greg busied himself with paperwork. In truth, he just wanted to be left alone. He did have 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. That plan had changed the day his father and mother were killed when a car bomb detonated at the Texas Governor’s Mansion. The attack had been part of Arturo Guerrero’s plot to pressure the United States into returning Aztlán.
Greg had accompanied his father and grandfather to many jobsites over the years and had begun working as a diver when he was eighteen. He’d worked for DWR during the summers while earning a bachelor’s degree in marine engineering at Texas A&M. After graduation, he had enlisted in the Navy, went through the training pipeline to become an EOD technician, then attended officer candidate school. While he enjoyed the Navy, he’d planned to return to DWR to take over the DHS operations. That plan had not come to fruition either.
He pushed his wheelchair to a window overlooking DWR’s marina, which contained 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. A Barrett 98B bolt action sniper rifle chambered in .388 Lapua with a NightForce NXS scope sat on the cabinet beneath the window. The gun rested on the two legs of
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 shooting the gun for sport, enjoying the thrill of precision shooting from long range. Punching holes in paper at long distance was 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, he had been forced to recruit a new employee to handle the DHS operations. Greg was more than willing to take on the task, but his paralysis limited what role he would play in those activates. He had enjoyed piloting Dark Water across the Gulf of Mexico to rescue Ryan and providing support for the Tampico operation. He wanted to do more of it, but as president of DWR, he needed to focus on running the business, not chasing bad guys.
More than anything, he was depressed by his injuries. Helping Ryan was better than being stuck in an office. He hated being limited by the loss of his legs. There were many things he could do, but he had a tendency to focus more on the things he could not. Walking was a superhuman power.
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.”
“Fine,” Cliff huffed. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Greg called DWR’s Chief Operating Officer, Shelly Hughes. 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 Texas City Channel. He knew the dike would be packed with boaters, swimmers, and fishermen 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 normal uniform: a white cowboy hat, black jeans, a Western-style snap shirt, and alligator-skinned cowboy boots. His fingers were stained yellow from decades of smoking.
“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 his cigarettes from the left breast pocket of his shirt. He stuck one between his lips but did not light it.
While they waited for Shelly, Greg filled the octogenarian in on the latest DWR news.
Shelly arrived ten minutes later and dropped wearily into a seat beside Cliff.
Cliff took his cigarette out of his mouth and raised his eyebrows.
Greg looked from one to the other.
Shelly gave him a go-ahead motion with her hand. “Well?”
Greg 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.
Cliff lit his cigarette. Greg flipped on a ventilation fan to draw the smoke from the room.
Cliff 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.”
Shelly said, “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’ve got something in mind.”
The two had met during their freshman year at Texas A&M. They quickly became study partners and had been in an on-off relationship since. They’d been “on” since Greg’s injury. He watched her run a hand through her light brown hair, then said, “I want to continue working, just in a different role.”
Clifford 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 as a Navy UDT in the last months of the Korean War and later became one of the first SEALs into Vietnam. He then ran several covert operations for the CIA during his tenure as head of DWR.
“I want to help Ryan,” Greg said. “If I’m helping him, I can’t give my full attention to my job here. When we got back from the last op, things were chaotic. There’s another op brewing. 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 ass. You have to be more careful.”
“I know. I know.” Greg held up his hands in defense.
Clifford ashed his cigarette in a small tray on Greg’s desk. “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.”
“Who’s going to take your place?” Shelly demanded.
“I’ve invited Kip Chatel to interview,” Greg replied.
Cliff took a final draw from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the tray.
Shelly said, “Do you mean Admiral Kip Chatel from Boeing?”
“Yes.”
Cliff whistled. “Shooting for the stars, son.”
“He’s coming tomorrow. I want you guys to show him around.”
Chapter Six
Ryan Weller watched the front door of a five-story brownstone facing West Ninety-Seventh Street on New York City’s Upper West Side. He’d flown to the Big Apple from Atlanta, rented a car, and was now on the trail of Karen Kilroy.
Jim Kilroy’s development company had a boutique hotel just steps away from the New York Stock Exchange, and Ryan had hung out in the lobby or on the street for two days before the doorman threatened to call the police.
Now he was outside her mother’s house. He’d sighted the trophy wife when she pulled the curtain back 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, he studied her social media pages and the information Landis had reluctantly given him. Karen had attended Columbia University. She’d left with a bachelor’s in advanced clinical social work, with a concentration in international social welfare. Part of her student loans had been forgiven when Karen volunteered for the Peace Corps. They’d sent her to Costa Rica to teach English. She had met her future husband while visiting his resort outside of Playa Hermosa. Not long after, she left her position with the Peace Corps and moved in with Jim.
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.”
This 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 be a Fed with all the rules and laws and bullshit that entailed. He didn’t want to work for the government again.
Deciding not to prolong his stakeout, 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 pop out 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 th
e 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, to knock on the apartment door.
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. 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 room appeared to be a time capsule from the day the brownstone 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 don’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 deals in 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?”
“Mother.” Karen’s tone was patronizing. “Don’t believe everything you hear.” 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 on a small round table, beside a flower-filled vase and a set of keys. Karen looked at the card and then at him with a hint of amusement in her eyes.
