Dark Angel: A Ryan Weller Thriller Book 15 (EBOOK)

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CHAPTER 1
Harbour Towne Marina
Dania Beach, Florida

“Mail for you, Mister Weller.”
Ryan glanced over at the teenage girl standing not far from him in shorts and a polo shirt bearing the marina’s logo. The wind teased her brown hair, and she looped it behind her ear. She held out a small stack of white envelopes and what appeared to be two magazines.
Rolling his eyes, Ryan flicked off the orbital sander and pulled down his respirator mask. He placed the sander on the makeshift worktable beside him, constructed from a couple of sawhorses and half a sheet of plywood. His catamaran, a Fountaine Pajot Saba 50 named Huntress, was up on blocks in the marina while he sanded off the old antifouling paint so he could apply a fresh coat before he and his wife Emily set sail for the wild Pacific.
He took the mail from the girl and thanked her. With a quick flash of silver braces, she turned on her heels and headed for the marina office.
Ryan glanced at the mail. His personal correspondence went to his mother-in-law’s house in Hollywood, and he picked it up every couple of days. All the envelopes and magazines he now held in his hand were for some guy named Dennis McGuire.
“Not again,” Ryan moaned.
He’d been getting McGuire’s mail since moving Huntress from her mooring at Hollywood Marina a few weeks ago. No one in the Harbour Towne office had ever heard of McGuire, nor did they know why Ryan received his mail. Even the USPS seemed mystified when Ryan had taken the mail to the local post office to return it. The postal service was excellent at delivering the mail, but everything else about it seemed mired in bureaucratic madness. And despite his objections, the USPS kept delivering McGuire’s mail to Ryan at the marina.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a nearby rag and then shuffled through the stack of envelopes. There were credit card bills, offers to refinance a mortgage, a sailboat magazine, and another about motorcycles.
After retrieving a bottle of water from his cooler, Ryan sat in the shade of his boat hull and flipped through the sailing magazine. There was a nicely written article about the Cook Islands and another about inspecting and replacing standing rigging. After reading through it, Ryan tossed the magazine onto the makeshift workbench and grabbed the motorcycle rag. It contained a spread on Honda’s newest adventure machine, the XL750 Transalp.
Putting the magazine back on the workbench, he checked his watch and saw it was almost five p.m. He wasn’t in the mood to pick up the sander and go back to work. What he wanted was a cold beer and a thick steak. And while he wanted to share both with his wife, he couldn’t. Emily had gone to Tampa to do one last job as a freelance insurance investigator for Ward and Young.
He was really beginning to hate Kyle Ward and his damned company, but he couldn’t say anything to Emily about it because his job thrust him into danger with every turn. He consoled himself with the fact that she at least worked in an office.
Ryan was a freelance troubleshooter with ties to Dark Water Research, a commercial dive and salvage company with deep connections to the U.S. government’s many intelligence agencies. His job, when called upon, could entail anything from fixing deep water oil rigs to recovering top-secret military technology from the hands of foreign actors.
He hoped sailing away on their next voyage would change all of that. Tired of all the running and gunning, Ryan wanted to be a boat bum, spending his days sipping beers and chasing the wind.
Climbing the rickety wooden ladder tied to the stern of the catamaran, Ryan stripped off his clothes in the cockpit, which he’d enclosed with a series of cloth and plastic panels. He stepped into the salon and then descended the steps into the port hull.
The master stateroom was more spacious than any other sailboat Ryan had ever owned. He loved being able to spread out, and he loved the oversized shower with its glass door and posh five-star hotel feel.
He spun on the hot knob and waited for the instant water heater to provide scalding water with which to cleanse the sweat and dust from his body. While the heater worked its magic, Ryan found his cellphone and started to send a text message to Greg Olsen, one of his closest friends and his boss at DWR, asking if he wanted to get steaks and beer. Just before Ryan hit send, he remembered Greg was way out of town—thousands of miles away, in fact, working a salvage job near the island of Dominica.
There weren’t many people in the greater Fort Lauderdale area Ryan wanted to have dinner with. Since most of them were on board Dark Ocean with Greg, he settled for calling his mother-in-law, Melissa Hunt.
Once the call connected, Ryan asked if she wanted to join him for dinner at Tropical Acres Steakhouse. He liked the restaurant and its grill-fired steaks. The steakhouse was one of the oldest in South Florida, established in 1949 by Gene Harvey. At any given time, patrons could see anything from a Yugo to a Ferrari in the parking lot, while inside, happy diners enjoyed delicious, hand-prepared meals.
Melissa readily accepted his invitation and asked if she could extend it to her son, Paul, Emily’s younger brother, who was a computer programmer and still lived at home. Even though Ryan wasn’t a fan of Paul, he told her it was fine. They agreed to meet at the steakhouse at seven. Ryan called the restaurant, made a reservation, and hopped in the shower.
When he stepped out, he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. Wiping the mirror clean with his hand, Ryan stared at his reflection. Inside, he felt like he was still twenty years old, with the energy and stamina to match, but looking in the mirror, he could see the reality. He was closer to forty than twenty.
The sun and the wind had weathered his tanned skin, and his crow’s feet extended farther down his cheeks from his green eyes when he smiled. Even his brown hair was retreating, leaving him with a broader forehead. Suddenly, he felt exhausted, and he yawned deeply.
“You’re not a kid anymore,” he muttered to himself.
Ryan pulled on a white button-down shirt, dark blue slacks, and a matching blue blazer from Brooks Brothers. It was the only suit he owned. Ryan called it his “marry-them-and-bury-them” suit, as it seemed he only wore it on those occasions, but for some reason, he wanted to dress up for dinner tonight.
He didn’t have a Ferrari, but he did have Emily’s four-door Jeep Wrangler. He pocketed his wallet, phone, and car keys, ready to head out the door.
With time to kill, Ryan grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch in the salon. He texted Emily to tell her he was having dinner with her mother and brother. Within seconds, she texted back, telling him she’d already heard and that she loved him for taking the time out of his day to have dinner with her family.
You owe me one, he texted back, then added a winking emoji followed by an eggplant, which was as close as Ryan came to sexting. Emily replied with a laughing emoji, meaning he wasn’t getting laid anytime soon.
Ryan climbed down the ladder and surveyed the boatyard. The military had drummed situational awareness into him since his first day of boot camp, and it had become deeply ingrained after years of working as one of the U.S. Navy’s elite explosive ordnance disposal technicians and then as a freelance troubleshooter. Ryan scanned the other boats sitting on the hard in cradles that made them look ungainly and hideous. Land was not where these fiberglass creatures roamed free.
The yard was rectangular, surrounded by a high chain-link fence on three sides. Blue mesh fabric had been interwoven into the metal strands to offer a sense of privacy. On the fourth side of the marina was a boat ramp that led into a canal, connecting the yard to the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic beyond. Marina workers had arranged the yachts in a semi-circle in the small yard. Some had been wrapped with blue or white shrink wrap, while two motor yachts underwent extensive mechanical retrofits and interior remodeling. Only Huntress and a Beneteau Oceanis 40 were owned by guys who liked to work on their own vessels. Conrad Shultis waved from his lawn chair under his Beneteau as Ryan headed for the Jeep.
Ryan walked past the check-in shack, cutting across the manicured lawn toward the parking lot. Just as he clicked the unlock button on the Jeep’s door remote, a black Chevy Tahoe came screaming into the lot and slammed to a stop, blocking the Jeep from leaving.
Two men in suits dismounted the vehicle—one from the front passenger seat and one from the rear while the driver remained behind the wheel. Typical for the State of Florida, there was no license plate on the front of the Tahoe, but Ryan didn’t need to read the plate to know these minions worked for the government. They reeked of bureaucracy, from their cheap suits to their aviator shades.
The FBI must have a tailor at Quantico.
“What the hell, guys?” Ryan asked as the two suits formed up around him.
“Mister McGuire?” the front passenger asked. He wore a tan suit coat to go with his blue slacks.
“No,” Ryan replied firmly.
“You need to come with us right now, Mister McGuire,” Black Coat from the back seat said forcefully.
“How about you guys get your facts straight?” Ryan countered. “I am not, nor will I ever be, Dennis McGuire. Now, move your vehicle. You’re trespassing on private property.”
He glanced around to see if anyone was watching the confrontation.
It was after regular business hours for the marina, and most of the employees, yard workers, and salesmen had already gone home for the evening. A breeze rustled the palm fronds above their heads as the setting sun cast long shadows on the pavement.
Tan Coat produced a pair of handcuffs from behind his back. “Let’s go, McGuire. We’re not asking.”
“Well, I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy,” Ryan insisted. “McGuire’s mail gets delivered to my boat, but I’m not Dennis McGuire. Here, let me show you.”
He reached for his wallet in his back pocket. Black Coat stepped back and jerked his pistol from its holster on his belt.
Ryan threw his arms out, wallet in hand. “I’m getting my ID, asshole.”
“I don’t care if you claim to be Bigfoot, you’re getting in the vehicle, Mister McGuire,” Tan Coat said. “Now.”
Ryan opened his wallet. “My driver’s license is from North Carolina. It says ‘Ryan Weller.’ Now, leave me alone!”
“Get in the Tahoe,” Tan Coat said, enunciating each word as if it were its own sentence.
When Ryan made no move to enter the SUV, the driver got out and came around the front of the sports utility vehicle. It wasn’t just that he was a giant of a Black man with a shiny bald head and shoulders as broad as a yardstick that made Ryan nervous. It was the black HK416 battle rifle with a suppressor, EOTech optics, and a collapsible stock that he carried—a much more persuasive method to convince Ryan to get into the vehicle.
“Get in, Mac,” the driver ordered. “I hate paperwork, but I don’t mind perforating your ass with some five-five-six.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” Ryan asked, keeping his hands up.
“Get in!” Black Coat held the rear passenger door open.
Before Ryan entered, Tan Coat held out his hand and ordered, “Cell phone and car keys.”
Reluctantly, Ryan handed them over, knowing he had no choice. Tan Coat opened the door to the Jeep and tossed the phone and keys onto the driver’s side floorboard, then locked the Jeep and slammed the door. By the time he finished, Ryan was in the back seat of the Tahoe beside Black Coat, and the driver had the SUV in reverse. Once Tan Coat was inside, they headed out of the parking lot.
Ryan glanced over at the boatyard, catching sight of Huntress’s mast rising into the sky. He was being forced to leave at a time when disappearing could bring an end to his already fragile marriage. Not so long ago, he had taken an op without telling his wife, and it had led to some severe trust issues. Being swept up by these goons and disappeared by them would only make matters worse.
The driver navigated through the maze of residential streets to U.S. 1. Ryan was glad they hadn’t blindfolded him.
Hazarding a chance, Ryan asked, “Can I borrow one of your phones? If you all are kidnapping me, I need to call my wife with your ransom demands.”