Dark Hunt: A Ryan Weller Thriller

by Evan Graver

  When Emily got back to her office, the desk phone was ringing. She picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, this is Emily Hunt.”

  “Ms. Hunt, this is Marcie in reception. There’s a Mr. Lorenzo Spataro here, asking to speak to you. He says it’s about a claim he’s filed with us for one of his ships. He only wants to talk to you about it.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No, but he seems pretty adamant.”

  “Okay,” Emily said. “Send him up.”

  A few minutes later, a heavyset man with an olive complexion and wavy black hair knocked on her door. He wore a blue guayabera shirt, tan slacks, and brown loafers. He held a white Panama hat in his hand.

  Emily met him at the door and ushered him in. She introduced herself and extended her hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Lorenzo Spataro. I own Spataro Shipping in Miami.”

  He shook her hand before he produced a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead. “My ship has been stolen. I filed a claim, but I was told to come see you.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Spataro.”

  He sat across from her at the desk.

  She leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk blotter. “Who sent you to see me?”

  “Greg Olsen.”

  Emily cocked her head. “Why?”

  He dabbed at his forehead again. “Forgive me. I have a glandular condition. Several days ago, my freighter, Everglades Explorer, was stolen from Miragoâne, Haiti. A group of pirates boarded her and killed the crew. The captain barely survived and he’s in a hospital in Miami. The crew were good men who didn’t deserve to die. As the shipowner, it was my responsibility to make sure they were safe. I failed, and now I would like to get justice for them, and to get my ship back.”

  She nodded for him to continue, but she wondered why Greg had sent Spataro to her instead of his favorite troubleshooter who normally handled these kinds of situations. Maybe they were too busy with bidding on the port facility and salvaging their wrecked ship?

  “I want someone to look for her. Mr. Olsen said that you do this as part of your job.” Spataro dabbed his forehead again and, when Emily didn’t say anything, he continued. “He told me to talk to you because he believed the cost of finding her would be less than what your company would pay out in coverage and I would not be without a ship.”

  “Do you have anti-piracy coverage?” she asked.

  Lorenzo Spataro nodded. “I do. I would be a fool to sail in and out of Haiti without it.”

  “I’m sure the company will look at your claim and pay it out.”

  “I know, but I don’t want to lose my ship, and who will bring justice for my men?”

  “What do you think I can do, Mr. Spataro?”

  “Help me find her.”

  Emily leaned back in her chair. The Caribbean had many ports and even more hiding places. That was if the pirates even stayed in the Caribbean. If they changed the name of the vessel or changed her features in some way, she might never be found. “I think it would be best if you waited for your claim to come through and then bought another ship. Most likely, they’ve taken her to a breaking yard to sell her for scrap.”

  Lorenzo frowned and fidgeted with the handkerchief before wiping his forehead again. “The Explorer was the only ship my father and I ever bought together before he passed away, so it has some sentimental value.” He wrung the cloth in his hands. “I spoke to the Coast Guard and to U.S. Customs. They said there was nothing they could do. I called Mr. Olsen and he told me that you specialize in this for Ward and Young. I had no idea the company had such a division. You are my insurance agents. Please, there must be something you can do for my men.”

  “Can you wait here for a few minutes, Mr. Spataro?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  Emily strode down the long hall to her boss’s office on the other side of the building.

  His secretary, a young brunette, looked up from her computer and smiled. “Hi, Emily.”

  “Is Kyle available? I need to talk to him.”

  The secretary used the intercom to speak to their boss, and a moment later, Emily stepped into his office. Kyle stood by the window, a golf club resting on one shoulder while he talked into a speaker phone. He quickly wrapped up the call and asked what she needed.

  “We have a client who’s lost his ship to pirates.”

  “So, tell him to file a claim.” His tone was cold and indifferent as he planted his feet shoulder width apart and positioned himself over his club as if he were about to drive a ball straight through the window.

  Emily continued. “He’s asked me to help him look for it because he heard I do recovery for the company.”

  Kyle didn’t look up as he worked his feet into the carpet to find the perfect stance. “That’s your job.”

  “You’re right. I’m going to go look for a stolen freighter.”

  He looked up suddenly. “What?”

  “I said, ‘I’m going to look for a stolen freighter.’”

  “Okay.” He nodded and went back to working his hands on the club, swinging it back and forth a few inches at a time.

  Emily stepped out of the office and closed the door. She stopped by the secretary’s desk and asked her to make a note of the date and time and add it to Kyle’s calendar to indicate that he had agreed to her mission.

  The office door opened, and Kyle stuck his head out. “Are you going to Nicaragua?”

  Emily pondered the question. Bluefields was one of the largest shipbreakers in the Caribbean, and she could survey the damage to DWR’s ship while she was there. “Maybe.”

  Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “Come inside.”

  Emily returned to the office and closed the door behind her. Kyle took a few practice putts, and she waited for him to say what he had to say. She crossed to the window. He was right; she could see the Gulf of Mexico between the condos on the far beach.

  “You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”

  She turned to face him. “Mr. Spataro from Spataro Shipping is in my office right now, Kyle. His freighter has been stolen, and the pirates killed the crew. I’m going to help him find it.”

  Kyle gave her a look that said he wasn’t stupid and shouldered the club.

  Emily knew why he had concerns. Maybe helping Spataro was a ploy to help her get to Nicaragua. She did have a history with Ryan, and, even though she had tried to put it behind her, it haunted her every day.

  It haunted her because, in truth, she was still in love with him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Galina Jovovich

  Compass Reef, Nicaragua

  The Galina Jovovich had been the pinnacle of Soviet luxury at the time they had built her, and the exterior doors were made of oak and leaded glass, set into steel bulkheads that had grown cancerous with rust.

  “The Russkies sure didn’t care about watertight integrity on this boat,” Gary Bartwell said.

  “They had to make it pretty for the passengers,” Ryan replied.

  The three men pushed through the heavy doors and stepped onto the bridge. All the electronics, radios, and navigation gear were still in their proper places. Everything had metal labels with Cyrillic writing on them, and someone had used a label maker to create English translations, sticking the blue-and-white stickers under the original tags.

  Ryan walked to the bank of windows across the front of the bridge, above the console containing the navigation equipment, letting his Vector dangle from its sling across his chest. He looked down at the foredeck below, where two fixed cradles remained, empty of their motor launches. A crane had its center post near the bow, and its boom tip rested in a frame on the port side of the ship. He surmised that the crew had used it to launch the smaller boats and to load supplies.

  “Geez-o-Pete,” Travis shouted.

  Ryan and Gary both spun on their heels, bringing their weapons to bear.

  Travis pointed to a corner where a rat sat on its haunches, staring at
them.

  “It’s a freaking rat, Yooper,” Gary said, using the nickname for someone from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

  Travis’s voice shook with fear. “There was a herd, or pack, or whatever the hell you want to call them.”

  “It’s a pack,” Gary said.

  “This is a cruise ship,” Ryan said. “Maybe they booked Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis, Junior for the after-dinner show.”

  “Very funny, Weller,” Travis barked. “There’s a whole rat pack on this turd boat.”

  “You mean Dean Martin and Joey Bishop are here, too?” Ryan asked. “Maybe they’ll show Cannonball Run Two for the evening movie.”

  “Why do you have to be such a wiseass?” Travis asked. “It really gets on my nerves.”

  Ryan grinned. “Since I’m getting on your nerves, I’ll tell you one more fun fact: a group of rats is called a mischief.”

  “And how the hell would you know that?” Gary demanded.

  Ryan shrugged. “Something I picked up along the way.”

  “Freakin’ Encyclopedia Britannica,” Travis mumbled.

  “Nah, he’s more like Google,” Gary said. “He thinks he knows it all.”

  “Well, excuse me for being a fount of knowledge,” Ryan said sarcastically, moving past the two men and heading for the stairs to the deck below. He paused to study the ship’s deck plans, which hung in a wooden frame screwed to the bulkhead. Again, there were both Russian and English versions.

  With a wicked grin, Ryan said, “Do you suppose they call these ‘stairs’ and not ‘ladders’ on a cruise ship?”

  “They are civilians,” Gary said. “We can’t expect them to speak in Navy lingo.”

  “Would you Department of the Navy assholes shut the hell up?” Travis muttered.

  “I’m with the men’s department,” Gary smirked.

  That joke made Ryan mad every time he heard it. He hated that the Marines had claimed that mantle. “Travis, did you know the Marines invented sex, and sailors introduced it to women?”

  “I heard it was the other way around,” Gary said.

  “I don’t care which one of you guys invented what,” Travis said, glancing nervously around.

  “Look at that giant rat!” Gary pointed behind Travis, and the Yooper spun, bringing his pistol to bear.

  Ryan and Gary burst out laughing.

  “Shut up!” Travis shouted when he saw there wasn’t a rat. “It’s not funny. I hate rats.”

  Still chuckling, Ryan said, “We know.”

  They made their way down to the captain’s deck, cleared the six staterooms there, along with the chief engineer’s and captain’s quarters. Again, they found nothing of interest, other than the ship looked like it had just set sail, minus its passengers and crew.

  A circular staircase delivered them to what the plans called the upper deck. They worked their way through all the rooms, including an auditorium where the rats had destroyed most of the seat cushions, a ship’s store, an office, a library complete with moldy old books and green sofas, an exercise room, five staterooms, and a lounge with a full bar.

  Gary pointed to the half-empty bottles of liquor. “I’ve found where I’m spending the rest of this dreary duty.”

  “I agree,” Ryan said. “We should bring our bags up here after we tour the rest of the ship.”

  The last unexplored area on the deck was a spacious dining area filled with rectangular tables and a long buffet station on the port side. After they cleared it, they descended the stairs to the main deck, moved through the kitchen and the crew and passenger berthing areas, and continued to the lower deck, where they found more berthing. The air in the passageway was hot and stank of rat feces, mold, and waterlogged carpet. They used their flashlights to illuminate the dark passages, the only other light came through the tiny portholes.

  As they retraced their steps to retrieve their gear bags and move them to the lounge, they heard voices. Gary and Ryan rushed up the stairs, with Travis trailing behind. Ryan guessed he didn’t want to get into a confrontation or use a firearm to defend himself, and he accepted that Travis knew his limits.

  When they strode onto the open aft observation deck, they saw four men dressed in ragged shorts and T-shirts, standing beside the door. On the water alongside the Galina, another man sat in a long wooden panga equipped with a high horsepower outboard, waiting for his companions.

  “Alto,” Ryan said. Stop.

  The men turned his way, surprise registering on their faces at being confronted by white men with guns. They put their hands in the air.

  “What are you doing here?” Gary demanded.

  A man stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Eddy. We are Miskitos and live nearby.” He was tall and skinny, wearing only cutoff jeans. “We look for things we can use.”

  Ryan lowered his weapon and shook Eddy’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ryan.”

  “What are you doing here?” the native asked.

  “We’ve secured salvage rights. A tug is on its way to pull her off the reef and take her to a breaking yard in Bluefields.”

  “Good. She is damaging the reef.”

  “There’s a machine shop with plenty of tools still onboard. Are you interested in them?” Ryan asked.

  Eddy spoke in Creole to the other men, who nodded their heads.

  Ryan led the men to the shop. Eddy and his compatriots entered the room and began filling sacks with tools and spare parts.

  “Why are you letting them do that?” Gary whispered.

  “It’s good relations. Besides, we’ve got no use for that stuff. Let them have it.”

  Eddy came out of the room with a heavily laden sack slung over his shoulder. “How long you stay?”

  “The tug should be here in five days.”

  “You like fresh fish?”

  “Sí, señor,” Ryan said.

  Eddy pointed at Ryan and grinned. “I bring you some.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “You like cold beer?” Eddy asked.

  “Absolutely,” Gary chimed in.

  “I bring you cold beer and fresh fish. We work together.”

  Ryan smiled at Gary. His plan had worked.

  The Miskitos made several trips to empty the tool room, loaded it all in the panga, and raced across the water toward a distant island. Eddy brought them fresh fish and cold beer on their return.

  Ryan, Travis, and Gary sipped the beer while Eddy’s crew pillaged the cruise ship, taking books, chairs, silverware, pots, pans, and anything else they thought they might use. Then they helped the Miskitos load their loot into the panga.

  As the Miskitos shoved off for the last time, Eddy said, “I’ll come back tomorrow. Bring more fish and beer.”

  With a salute, Gary called, “We look forward to it.”

  “Let’s light the stove and grill some fish,” Ryan said.

  They trooped to the bar, only to discover a mischief of rats had attacked the fish.

  Gary brought his Remington up. “Cover your ears, grunts.”

  The booming blast echoed through the lounge, and the rats disintegrated into a pink mist.

  “Let’s move to a cabin with a door so we can keep the rats out,” Ryan suggested.

  They settled on a stateroom on the starboard side, carried their gear inside, and closed the door before trooping to the foredeck, where they lit the camping stove and heated three cans of beef stew. The divers washed their meal down with more of Eddy’s cold beer, frequently shooing away the rats that were attracted to the smell of their food.

  Gary threw his empty can across the deck, and a mischief immediately converged on the bouncing can as if being called by a dinner bell. He raised the shotgun and sent a wave of buckshot through the mobbing horde. The blood pouring from the rats brought even more, and they began cannibalizing the dead.

  Travis turned away from the frightening scene, his face turning green and his throat constricting as he fought to hold his food down.


  “Holy shit,” Gary said. “I think we need to find a watertight compartment to sleep in or the rats might eat us.”

  “I can’t do this,” Travis moaned.

  “Suck it up, buttercup,” Gary said. “We’re getting paid big bucks for salvaging this ship. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a Lloyd’s Open Form for saving the environment from this piece of shit.”

  They carried their rat-gnawed gear bags to the tool room. Ryan shut the door, but the room quickly grew stuffy with three bodies in it, and there was nowhere comfortable for them to lie down.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Gary said, pushing his bulk up from his seat on the floor. Before he’d joined the Marines, he’d played tight end for the Appalachian State Mountaineers and had been part of the team that had beaten the Michigan Wolverines in 2007. After that, he’d done several tours in Iraq as a combat engineer, earning the rank of captain before getting out to pursue another career. His degree in quantitative geoscience led him to a commercial dive school in Houston, where he popped up on Greg Olsen’s radar. Greg and his company made a habit of hiring former military, and after Gary earned his hat—moving from tender to full-fledged diver—Greg had sent him to work for Travis.

  “Sonofabitch!” Travis shrieked and snapped on his flashlight. A rat skidded to a stop and glanced back at them before jumping across the workbench and scrambling its little feet on the bulkhead as it escaped through a ventilation shaft.

  “Watertight, but not rat-proof,” Ryan said. “Let’s head up to the observation deck. One of us can keep watch while the others sleep.”