by Evan Graver
After being abused by James, she’d nailed her heart shut to prevent more pain. Ryan had pried it loose. Or she had allowed it. She wasn’t sure which.
Emily cursed herself for falling down this rabbit hole again. Since the two men had burst into her apartment, she’d had to force herself to stop playing the what-if and the should-have game multiple times a day. They were the laments of fools. She knew she wasn’t a fool, but here she was pining for a man who was clearly not good for her.
A sharp knock on the door quickened her heartbeat. Before she could ask who was there, the door opened, and Jim Kilroy stepped into the room. When he saw her sitting on the floor, he asked, “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes.” She nodded, wanting to scream, “No, asshole, you kidnapped me.”
He stepped over to her and extended his hand. “Come outside, the sunshine will make you feel better.”
Emily did not grasp his hand. Instead, she placed hers against the wall, using them to push up and unfold her long body. In bare feet, she stood five-feet-ten inches, two inches taller than Kilroy. She wondered if he felt inferior. In hindsight, it was a problem James had dealt with and one of the many reasons he had for abusing her. Her natural height intimidated shorter men.
Kilroy smiled up at her. “This will soon be over. Your boyfriend will recover my gold.”
Rather than continue to correct him on the point that Ryan was not her boyfriend, Emily gave him a patronizing smile.
“Come, join us outside.” Kilroy walked to the door and stopped. He turned to face her. “We’ll have a toast to celebrate our good fortune. Me, for becoming richer, and you for regaining your freedom.”
“A bit premature isn’t it?” she asked, following him onto the main deck.
“There’s nothing wrong with a celebration.”
“I find it is better to celebrate after achieving one’s goals.”
Kilroy smiled. “A wise decision. Tonight, then, we’ll celebrate our good fortune to be alive.”
A shiver coursed through Emily’s body despite the warmth of the sunshine. Good fortune to be alive?
“Mista Kilroy,” Damian shouted from the bridge. “Dar’s a boat comin’.”
Kilroy bounded up the stairs to the bridge, taking them two at a time, hands gripping the railing for support. Emily followed at a slower pace, turning halfway up to see the boat.
“It’s the same center console they used to change the guards,” Kilroy said, watching the boat approach from the south. It slowed as it came alongside one of the guard boats.
Emily couldn’t see what they were doing. She glanced up at Kilroy, who watched intently through binoculars. She turned back to the boat when its engine revved and it sped toward the second guard boat. Idly, she pondered how Kilroy planned to evade the Haiti warlord, and how friendly Ryan was with her.
“It’s nothing.” Kilroy handed the binoculars back to Damian. “Come, Emily, let’s have that drink.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ryan Weller lay in the bottom of the center console speeding away from the larger cabin cruiser being used by Joulie’s men as a picket boat. He glanced around at the boat’s interior. What had once been white fiberglass was now cracked, yellowed, and stained. He could smell old fish guts, rotten chum, and the ripe body odor of men who’d spent all day in the hot equatorial sun.
He’d slipped over the side of Peggy Lynn, with his rebreather on, and swam a plotted course to the nearest guard boat. After reaching it, he’d clung to the side of the cruiser until the center console had arrived with the night shift. Blocked from the view of Northwest Passage, he’d clambered into the arriving boat while the other men transferred back and forth. He’d taken his gear off once he was in the center console.
“You can get up now, Mista Ryan,” the driver called over the noise of the rushing wind created by the boat’s thirty-knot speed.
Thankfully, Ryan climbed to his feet and let the wind blow away the stench. He held onto the aluminum tubing supporting the small cover over the console. Behind them, the cluster of boats was no longer visible. To the right, the sun set in a splendid array of yellows, oranges, and reds.
A sailor’s delight, Ryan thought.
Forty minutes later, Ryan stepped onto the dock at Billy Parker’s small marina. He was busy grabbing gear being handed to him by the young boat driver when he felt a hand on his back, gently pushing him toward the water. He pivoted on his right foot, keeping his weight centered on the boards. His hand shot out and grabbed the wrist of the person who had been pushing him. Instinctively, he jerked backward to throw his assailant into the water. He’d anticipated using his inertia to gain an advantage on the other man, but his movement met with resistance and he found himself hanging precariously over the edge of the dock. He teetered on the balls of his feet, one arm spinning in circles to keep his balance and the other hand still clamped around Greg’s wrist.
“Should I let him go?” Greg asked.
“Dump him, bro,” Mango said.
Ryan saw his friend was clinging to one of the piers with his other hand, preventing Ryan from catapulting him into the water.
The pressure on Greg’s wrist increased as Ryan fought to keep from falling into the water. Boisterous laughter filled the air as the men on the center console watched Ryan flail his loose arm. Greg pulled back in a bicep curl. Ryan’s body eased forward and he regained his balance. Greg shoved his arm back straight, and Ryan desperately grabbed for Greg’s wrist with his free hand to keep himself from falling into the water. Everyone was laughing now. Greg jerked him back upright.
“You should have dumped him,” Rick said.
Ryan let go of Greg’s wrist after regaining his balance. “You could have gone in the water.”
Greg chuckled. “But I didn’t. You’re the one who almost went swimming.”
“Your gear, Mista Ryan,” the boat driver said, still laughing and shaking his head as he set the final items on the dock.
Ignoring the continued chuckles, Ryan told the driver, “Be back here after dark.” He wasn’t looking forward to the boat ride or the swim back to the Peggy Lynn. Weariness had already set in from the long day.
“Wi.” The boat driver tossed off the lines and drove away.
“You’re going back out tonight?” Greg asked.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I want to dive early.” He stepped around Greg and gave a hug to Mango and to Jennifer. He shook Rick’s hand before squatting by his gear.
“Your friend is waiting in the office,” Greg said.
Ryan glanced up from wrapping his mask and fins in the harness of the rebreather and saw the blue Toyota RAV4 beside the nondescript marina office building. “I suppose Mango already took her out for drinks.” Ryan grinned up at Mango and then glanced at Jennifer.
Jennifer furrowed her brow and crossed her arms. “Is there something you want to tell me, Mango?”
“No, baby,” he said, holding up his hands, palms out in defense. “She needed a shoulder to lean on in the Bahamas. Since Ryan was raving drunk, she talked to me. I told you this already.”
Jennifer cocked her head a little further and continued giving her husband the evil eye.
Greg said, “Mango was a perfect gentleman. He only has eyes for you.”
“He better,” she said.
After Ryan stowed his gear in a locker in Dark Water’s cockpit, they walked as a group to the small office. Billy Parker held the door open while they filed in. He held up a stack of entrance forms, which Greg had already filled out. “Boy, you sure are filling the government’s coffers with all these comin’s and goin’s.”
With seven people in the small office, it was crowded. Joulie said, “We need some privacy, Billy.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He waved her off and shuffled over to a small glass front refrigerator. He plucked a bottle of Prestige from it and then went out the front door. “I’ll stand guard,” he muttered as the door swung closed. They could hear him grumbling to
himself as he walked off.
“What’s the plan?” Greg asked.
Ryan maneuvered to the fridge and passed out beers to the others before opening his own. He found himself standing beside Joulie. “Our fearless warlord, here, has appropriated half of the gold for herself. If she will graciously allow me to use both strong boxes to negotiate for the release of Miss Hunt, I would be eternally grateful, and I promise to fulfill the requirements of our prearranged agreement.”
Joulie Lafitte was a master at manipulating her features. Ryan had witnessed the full range of her skills. She could look at a man with such a genuine desire that he would be forever smitten, and she could make a man want to commit murder for her with a single glance. Even with her mastery of emotional disguise, she was unable to hide the widening of her eyes when Ryan asked to use her gold to rescue Emily.
She stared into Ryan’s eyes and said, “You may use my gold to rescue your girlfriend. If you double-cross me, the bounty the Mexicans have on you will look like a pittance compared to what I offer.”
He decided her answer was a retort for feeling slighted. Why wouldn’t she, he thought. She thinks she’s in competition with Emily.
“You bartered away your gold?” Greg asked.
Not taking his eyes off Joulie, Ryan said, “It had to be done.”
“You’re going to turn over the gold to Kilroy, and then what?” Mango asked.
Ryan sat on the edge of Billy Parker’s desk. He took a swallow of beer to ease the lump in his throat. It was like a pill he couldn’t get to go down. His throat had been sore since he’d seen Emily sitting at the table beside Jim Kilroy. “When Mango and I were on the Santo Domingo, I built two EFPs to sink it.”
Jennifer tapped Mango on his shoulder and asked, “What’s an EFP?”
Despite her whisper, everyone in the room heard her.
Ryan said, “It’s a bomb.”
“Oh,” she said, her mouth forming a little circle.
“On our last dive, I pulled one of the EFPs out of the wreck,” Ryan said. “I’m going to put it on Northwest Passage.”
“How?” Rick asked.
“That’s the tricky part. I need to convince Kilroy to move his ship to another location. I want us to be in shallow water when we do the transfer. I also need to attach the EFP before we make the swap for Emily.”
Greg crossed his arms as he asked, “Did you figure out a way to attach the EFP?”
“I had Don build electromagnets using microwave oven coils and a motorcycle battery. The magnets should be strong enough to hold the EFP in place long enough for the C-4 to shove the penetrator through the hull.”
Rick asked, “Would the explosion rip the canister off before the penetrator can form?”
“Maybe,” Ryan said. “Even if it does, the steam void should break the hull and sink the ship.”
Greg nodded in agreement.
Jennifer again whispered to Mango, “What’s a steam void?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered back, not wanting to miss any of the conversation.
Joulie asked, “My gold will be on Kilroy’s ship when it goes down?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Ryan said. “That’s why I want to do the transfer in shallow water. We can use scuba gear to recover the strong boxes and not have to worry about long deco stops.”
“How are you going to detonate the EFP?” Rick asked.
“Speed sensor?” Ryan said it more like a question.
Greg shook his head and snorted. “No.”
“I don’t suppose you have an acoustical detonator in your pocket,” Ryan asked, half joking.
Greg grinned. “After we talked about this on the phone, I had one flown in from San Juan.”
“Good, I’ll take it with me back to Peggy Lynn. Tomorrow, you’re my ride from Peggy Lynn to Northwest Passage.”
“How am I supposed to do that? We’ll alert Kilroy that you have help.”
“We’ll use a scooter and rebreathers.”
“Mother trucker,” Rick said with a shake of his head. “I always knew you squids were crazy, but why not just take your own scooter down?”
“Number one,” Ryan explained, “I don’t have one, and two, I don’t want Kilroy to get suspicious because we’ve not used them during other dives.”
“Then what, I drop you off at Peggy Lynn and go back to Dark Water?” Greg asked.
Ryan nodded. “Mango can use a spotter.” Changing the subject, he said to Rick, “I understand you can fly a helicopter.”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Rick shot back.
“Joulie,” Ryan asked, “do you still have Toussaint’s helicopter?”
She nodded.
Ryan said, “It’s a civilian Huey, the Bell 212.”
“I know what it is,” Rick replied. “I’m rated for it.”
“I have an excellent pilot, David Pinchina,” Joulie said. “He flew for the Gardes-Côtes.” Her statement drew blank stares. “Forgive me, he was a pilot in the Coast Guard.”
“You comfortable being a shooter, Rick?” Ryan asked. “Even you Army boys should be able to hop and pop.”
“I’d rather be flying the bird.”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t care. You have a shooter, Joulie?”
Joulie folded her arms. “David will fly the helicopter.”
“You’re the shooter, Rick. Mango, you’re going to be overwatch from Dark Water. Jennifer, you drive the boat while Greg is gone.”
“How are we combining all of these elements?” Greg asked.
Ryan looked around the room and took a deep breath. “Here’s how I have it sketched out.” For the next hour, they worked through the plan, solidifying it into a plausible scenario.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ryan made the final dive to the wreck of the Santo Domingo. The ocean was beautiful, with shafts of sunlight stabbing through the water. There was little current and no waves, perfect for his plans.
He’d ordered Kilroy to move closer to shore to better facilitate the transfer of goods. He had no plans to make another dive to three hundred and fifty feet and spend the long hours of deco inside the chamber. If the transfer got messy, and the gold spilled, he wanted to recover it from shallow water.
His first job was to attach the broken strong box to the crane hook. He stood back and watched eight-and-a-half million dollars rise from the seafloor. The total haul was twenty-two million instead of twenty-five. While the crew reeled in their prize, Ryan moved the spare bailout tanks from the back of the Humvee to the strong box. By the time he had the last one moved, the crane hook was back. He attached the second box and the tanks to the hook before watching it go up.
When he turned around, he saw a school of black drum hovering near the bridge. He had the sudden memory of standing on the bridge wing with Captain Santiago Guzmán, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. The aged Dominican had skin like creased leather and a warm smile for those he liked. Ryan had offered Guzmán a job at DWR, but Guzmán had turned him down. Ryan also remembered how the man’s crumpled body looked on the ship’s deck, blood pooling beneath him after he’d been gunned down by the attacking Haitians.
Guzmán had made his living on the sea, and he’d been buried by the sea. Ryan brought his hand to his helmet and saluted the old man. The crane cable returned, and he attached it to the LARS basket before stepping in with his bomb.
“Ready to go up.”
The basket began its smooth ascent. At one seventy-five, it stopped, just like always. Ryan was usually bored during the decompression stops. This time he had something to do. When he’d come down, he’d brought the custom fabricated housing Don had welded for the EFP. He stripped off his gloves and put them in a bag hanging from the LARS frame. With the tactile use of his fingers, he was able to screw down the clamps that held the pipe into the frame. Then he bolted on the electromagnets, one on each side of the round cage where it would fasten to the hull and then the battery box. Originally, Don had built a
speed sensor capable of triggering the bomb when Northwest Passage reached four knots. This would ensure Ryan and Emily were out of harm’s way when the bomb detonated. If they were in the water at the time of the explosion, they would die from overexpansion injuries. The underwater explosion, or UNDEX, would produce a pressure wave, which was magnified by the density of the water. The wave would pass through the solid parts of their bodies, but when it hit the air-filled organs, the gas in them would be compressed, rupturing lungs, tearing apart internal organs, and hemorrhaging the brain.
This wasn’t the movies, where the hero climbed out of the water after being caught in an explosion. Ryan wanted to be as far away from the UNDEX as possible. The detonator Greg had provided would allow him to remotely trigger the blast at a more opportune time and place. He wired it into the EFP’s detonator circuit, using the electromagnet’s battery to provide it with power. He tested the circuit by switching on the receiver. The tiny LED glowed red. He turned it off, unplugged the wire connecting the transducer to the explosive, and taped it out of the way to prevent an accidental explosion.
There was nothing to do now but wait. He closed his eyes and focused on the mission they’d planned. He relaxed his body and slowed his heart rate with breathing exercises.
With an hour left on his decompression timetable, a dark silhouette emerged from the haze. Greg Olsen, wearing a Dive Rite O2ptima rebreather, drove a motorized scooter up to the LARS and shut it off. He put his arms out to stabilize his body, slipping fingers into the small bungee straps of his swimmer's paddles. He hovered just outside the basket, the scooter dangling from a strap clipped to his BCD.
Ryan extended his thumb and pinkie finger from the closed fist of his right hand in a hang-loose wiggle. Greg returned the gesture before grabbing the LARS basket. He set the scooter on the floor of the LARS. He gave Ryan a hurry-up gesture.
