Dark Country: A Ryan Weller Thriller Book 12 (EBOOK)

Your ebook will be sent by email after checkout. You will receive a link in your email from Evan Graver and a second email from BookFunnel with a backup link.

You can read the ebooks on any ereader (Amazon, Kobo, Nook, your tablet, phone, computer, and/or the BookFunnel app.

CHAPTER 1 NF 11/18/2021
Three weeks ago
GOSPEL Compound
Jalousie, Haiti

The kidnappers came in the middle of the night.
Nina Ford felt a rough hand shaking her awake. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the business end of a rifle.
Her body stiffened under the blanket as her brain went into full panic mode. The mission team had been warned of this possibility, but Nina had always believed God would protect them. After all, a just and caring God would never let anything happen to His people, especially missionaries spreading the word of the Lord in Haiti, a country that, in Nina’s opinion, was in desperate need of salvation.
For a moment, she just blinked, praying it was all a dream, but reality set in as the man pressed the cool barrel of the gun to her lips. She tasted gun oil and spent powder as the metal clacked against her teeth.
Fluent in English and French, Nina was slowly learning the Creole the Haitians spoke. Even though she didn’t understand every word the man said, she clearly got the meaning behind his shouts, ordering her to get out of bed. Tears formed in her eyes as she pushed down the blanket. She wore running shorts and a T-shirt for modesty while she slept, but under any other circumstances, she would have slept naked to combat the stifling heat. It was a good thing she had decided against it; even in her chosen outfit, she felt the leering stare of the man.
The kidnapper grabbed her roughly by the hand and jerked her to her feet. Now that she wasn’t staring at the gun barrel, Nina had her first clear look at his face. The man was razor thin, wearing dirty jean shorts, a purple polo shirt, and no shoes. His high cheekbones set off dark, sunken eyes. When he spoke again, his white teeth flashed.
Nina’s legs trembled as she struggled to the door, then down the creaky wooden steps to where her fellow missionaries had already congregated.
The big common room had been integrated with a kitchen at the rear, consisting of a gas stove that only worked when they could find propane fuel, a charcoal grill they did most of their cooking on, and a sink with no running water. Previous missionaries had built a bathroom off the side of the house, which included a composting toilet.
Taking a seat beside Tammy Haddock, the team’s doctor, Nina leaned close and hugged her. The dull beam of the kidnapper’s flashlight reflected off Tammy’s tears as it swept over the faces of the captives. In the flashlight’s harsh glare, Nina counted five other Haitian men armed with rifles, either guarding the exits or ransacking the missionaries’ supplies. One of them lit several of the candles scattered around the room, providing flickering light for Nina to better appraise the situation.
“Pray with me, Nina,” Tammy begged in a harsh whisper, before she started to recite Matthew 5:44: “But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
The two women held hands and whispered their pleas to God, asking Him to deliver them from evil and for Him to open the hearts and eyes of their captors so they would accept salvation. Nina knew there were more verses in the Bible that dealt with praying for their enemies. She had studied them before heading to Haiti, but now she wasn’t so sure she could imitate Christ and love the men who held them at gunpoint. Silently, she prayed even harder for the strength to endure.
Pastor Rob Cramdon stood to address the leader of the kidnappers, who looked to Nina like the brother of the man who had escorted her down the stairs. He had the same thick nose and wide-set eyes, but above his left eyebrow was a thin white scar that hadn’t been properly stitched, leaving the end closest to his temple puckered. Clothed in brown slacks, leather sandals, and a white guayabera shirt, the man accentuated his look with a glossy black police duty belt holstering an even blacker pistol.
Pastor Rob spoke in Creole, but the other man stopped Rob with a wave of his hand.
“Your Creole is shit,” the leader said in English.
“Please, sir,” Rob said. “I ask you to spare our lives. We’re missionaries to your community. We provide medical care to the sick and wounded. I have seen you in town and know you are a good man. I know you have a family. Please let us return to ours.”
The man pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at Pastor Rob’s forehead. Rob just stood there, like a deer in the headlights. The Haitian laughed, then swung the gun barrel up and pulled the trigger. The semi-automatic belched fire and a thunderclap reverberated around the room as the bullet struck the ceiling. Small chunks of plaster fell like rain, and dust sifted down through the candlelight.
Nina clapped her hands over her ears, but the ringing had already started. She detested firearms, but she knew the reality of their host country. Everyone in Haiti seemed to have a gun. It was a necessary evil to protect oneself from men like these.
“Sit down!” the leader ordered.
When Pastor Rob turned around, Nina saw a dark stain across the front of his trousers. Obediently, Rob took a seat by his wife, Beth, who put her arms around his shaking shoulders.
Now that she thought about it, Nina was surprised Tammy wasn’t by Beth’s side. The two women had formed a clique as soon as they’d met, and Nina had always felt excluded from their club. Both were petite brunettes with bouncy cheerleader attitudes. They often worked together, as Beth was a nurse and assisted Tammy with the medical outreach. Returning from the field, they would both be bubbling with energy from the successful work they’d accomplished while Nina had been slaving away in the compound, carrying water, cleaning up trash, emptying the toilet waste, tending the garden, and managing the mountain of paperwork that kept the mission running. But that was what she had signed on for because Nina was neither doctor nor nurse nor clergy. What she had was a heart for God and a belief He had called her to Haiti for a reason. So, she tolerated the perceived slights of the other women and performed her work for the glory of God, although she always thought a pat on the back from a human would be nice.
As the administrator for the contingent of six missionaries working in and around Haiti’s capital city, Nina spent more time coordinating relief supplies and pushing paperwork behind a desk than out in the field spreading the Good Word. Their small compound sat in the center of Jalousie, one of the country’s largest slums. On the hill above Jalousie was the neighborhood of Pétion-Ville, a wealthy enclave where the majority of the tourist trade took place and was home to diplomats, foreign businessmen, and wealthy Haitian citizens. In fact, if Nina walked half a block up the street, she could see the rooftop of the home of the late President Jovenel Moïse.
Despite the affluence in Pétion-Ville, there was a distinct lack of administrative enforcement, and the shanty town with its crudely built homes had cropped up on the steep slopes of Morne de l’Hôpital mountain.
In 2013, the government of Haiti had commissioned a project called “Jalousie in Colors” as homage to Préfète Duffaut, a Haitian artist who often filled his vernacular-style paintings with colorful hillside homes. For six million dollars, the people of Jalousie had received a makeover. More than three thousand homes had been painted red, green, blue, and pink to hide the stain of the slums, and the soccer stadium received new stands and synthetic turf. The caveat was that only the homes that could be seen from the windows of the homes in Pétion-Ville received a slap dash of color.
It was, Nina had thought when viewing pictures of the slum for the first time, like trying to paint a turd. Or, as her daddy liked to say, “Makeup can hide a lot of crazy.” Paint couldn’t cover the danger, the filth, the poverty, or the constant struggles of life the Haitian people experienced every day while, just above them, the rich dined in style.
Jalousie had no running water, electricity, or sanitation services, and to compound the difficulties, rubble from crumbled walls caused by earthquakes and landslides choked the narrow alleys and stairways of the almost vertical neighborhood. Like the other residents, the missionaries had to haul their water in five-gallon buckets from one of six water kiosks that served the shantytown. They paid thirty-five cents to fill the buckets. It was one of the jobs Nina hated, but the weight of the buckets and the climb up the steep hill had strengthened her muscles.
Even that simple chore had become increasingly dangerous for them since the assassination of Moïse on July 7, 2021. The president’s murder had thrown the country into disarray, rendering Haiti a lawless state where gangs ruled the streets. Criminals cordoned off sections of the city before burning buildings, closing businesses, terrorizing citizens, and kidnapping foreigners, especially Americans, because Haitians believed every American was rich and that their families would pay the ransom.
And they were rich, Nina had mused more than once. The poor in America received food stamps, cable television, and subsidized apartments. Yes, homelessness still existed, but even those living on America’s streets were better off than anyone she’d met in Haiti’s slums.
Sitting to Nina’s left in the big common room was Johnny Dinozzo, a kid in his late teens who’d decided to spend time in the mission field before going to college, if he went at all. He and Nina often worked side by side to complete the daily chores. Dinozzo’s quick wit and wide smile, combined with an eagerness to serve, made him a pleasure to be around. During their frequent talks, Nina had learned all about his family in Chicago and how his wealthy girlfriend had dumped him when he’d told her he wasn’t pursuing a college degree.
The last member of the mission team was Sean Kelly, who was the next person to speak to the kidnappers. He sat against the far wall with his knees pulled up and his outstretched arms resting on them. He was six feet tall and ruggedly handsome, with a strong jaw and rich, brown hair that Nina longed to run her fingers through. Those blue eyes could pierce right to her soul.
As usual, Sean wore cargo shorts, running shoes, and a T-shirt. Rumor had it that he’d served in the U.S. Army during the Global War on Terror, but he never talked about it.
And Nina had a crush on him.
“What do you want from us?” Sean asked the leader.
The gang leader surveyed the missionaries. “You’re being held for ransom. In the morning, I will contact your people in the States, and they will pay me handsomely to get you back.”
“How much?” Sean asked.
“Thirty million dollars. Five million for each of you.”
Nina and the others gasped. Sean snorted.
“You think that’s funny?” the leader asked, aiming his pistol at Sean.
“What’s your name?” Sean asked. “I’d like to properly address the man holding me captive.”
“My name is Michel Hypolite, leader of Militia Jalousie.” He pronounced militia in Creole: milice.
Nina had first heard the common Haitian surname when she’d arrived in-country, and it had sounded strange to her. She had researched the origins of the Hypolite name. It was French, derived from the Greek name Hippolytus. Nina had also learned that in 1794, when the French government had abolished slavery in its empire, it had taken a census of Haiti’s people. Most Haitians at the time only had a first name, and when recorded, the French wanted to avoid giving the Haitians French names, so they issued the populace with deviations of their first names—for example, Nina had met several people named Joseph Joseph. Nina thought naming the children in this way now was a reflection on the unoriginality of the parents. Evidently, the French hadn’t been able to completely eliminate their cultural influence on Haiti after withdrawing from the territory, with Haitians continuing to use the Hypolite surname.
The missionaries fell silent as they huddled together in their little clusters. Only Sean sat alone, looking bored, like he’d been through this scenario before. Nina tried to take comfort in his stoicism, but as the night lingered, she dreaded the phone call Hypolite would make to their parent organization, GOSPEL—God’s People Spreading Peace and Everlasting Life—and its founder, Jamison Winters.
Nina was all too aware of GOSPEL’s finances. Before joining the team in Haiti, she had spent three years working at GOSPEL’s headquarters in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, from which they dispatched missionaries throughout the Caribbean and Central and South America. She had joined the organization right out of college, with a degree in business management from Kentucky Christian University in Grayson, Kentucky. After growing up in Louisville and then spending four years in Grayson, she wanted to live somewhere with year-round warmth, and her wish had been granted. It was hot as Hades in Haiti.
GOSPEL’s management team had put Nina to work running their front office, so Nina had a solid knowledge of the nonprofit’s books, and she knew GOSPEL operated on a shoestring budget. She doubted they’d raised even a million dollars in the ten years they’d been in operation.
She wondered what would happen when Hypolite learned GOSPEL couldn’t pay the ransom. Nina imagined the worst. First, the kidnappers would torture them for information about their families back in the States. When their families failed to pay the ransoms, Nina figured Hypolite would order the male missionaries to be shot and then she, Tammy, and Beth would be raped until the kidnappers lost interest. Finally, all their bodies would be tumbled into unmarked graves and left to rot.
Nina ran a hand through her stringy blonde hair and rubbed her tired brown eyes, which were set a little too wide above what she called her “fat” nose. By American standards, Nina had never considered herself anything but plain. She was five-six, with a bit of extra weight on her hips she’d been self-consciously trying to lose for years, and she’d never liked to wear anything other than baggy pants and hoodies until her move to Florida, where the heat had necessitated a change in wardrobe.
She wondered how she looked to the terrorists and prayed they would think she was too ugly to molest.

*
At dawn, Michel Hypolite roused Pastor Rob and demanded he fix them a meal. Nina almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of Pastor Rob bumbling his way around the kitchen. The pastor could preach a fiery sermon, but he sure couldn’t light a stove.
Rising, Nina informed the Militia Jalousie leader that she was the chief cook for the group. He motioned for her to make breakfast for his men.
Nina cooked scrambled eggs and fried plantains. She had been saving the eggs for several days, after finding a hen roosting amongst the rubble on the way to the water kiosk. Normally, the missionaries ate a mixture of oatmeal and corn mush for breakfast. For lunch and dinner, she made rice and beans, the staple of their diet when not supplemented by fresh greens from their garden or meat from a local butcher.
The militia members ate like rabid fiends. Nina doubted they’d had a decent meal in days. Taking the missionaries hostage was a twofold boon for Hypolite: he would get a steady stream of meals as long as the food supply held out and the possibility of a ransom payment in the near future.
After the gang had finished devouring their food, Nina started making a second batch to feed herself and her colleagues. Hypolite stopped her and ordered her to sit down, telling the group, “You will only eat once per day. The evening meal.”
“What about water and cooking charcoal?” Sean asked. “We get those daily.”
“Then you just volunteered to help the woman get them,” Hypolite said. “Now.”
Sean stood and brushed off the seat of his cargo shorts. He smiled at Nina. “Let’s make these gentlemen comfortable.”
Hypolite turned to the man in the purple shirt who had roused Nina from her bed. “Junior, go with them. Make them behave.”
Nina led the way to the shed where they kept two five-gallon buckets beside a cement cistern. She handed one to Sean.
As they exited the shed, Junior placed the barrel of his rifle under Sean’s chin and grinned lasciviously at Nina. Focusing his eyes on Sean’s, Junior issued a warning. “If you try anything, I will rape your woman. If she tries anything, I will chop off your dick.”
Chastened, the two missionaries walked down the hill to the kiosk. Once filled, the buckets weighed forty-two pounds, and Nina kept shifting the bucket from one hand to the other as she always did while making the long trek back up the narrow alleys between cement-block homes roofed with mismatched sheets of tin, cardboard huts, and lean-tos made from cut brush.
Accompanied by Junior, the two missionaries walked in silence. Back in the shed, Sean leaned close to Nina and whispered, “Stay strong. We’ll get out of this.”
Nina took solace in his words and coupled them with Bible verses she had memorized over the years. God would see them through this test of faith.
They made the trip to the water kiosk twice, filling the cistern before treating the water with chlorine tablets.
With the water topped off, they walked to one of the many small markets dotting the slum and purchased charcoal. The production of charcoal was Haiti’s largest industry and was consequently leading to the rapid deforestation of the country. Nina had met several industrious foreigners who were trying to get the Haitians to use other products for fuel, but so far, the natural resource was one the Haitians had yet to give up on, to their own detriment.
Sean carried the large sack on his shoulder like it was a feather pillow, while Nina normally towed it behind her in a wheeled cart. She had tried to use the cart for the water buckets as well, but the road was too bumpy, and she had spilled the buckets on several occasions. Their minder, Junior, walked two paces behind them, the muzzle of his rifle prodding them along each time they slowed.
When they returned to the mission house, they found Hypolite’s men had constructed a barricade at the entryway through the six-foot high concrete wall that ringed the property. The wall’s rear section extended upward fifteen feet and acted as a retaining wall for the houses built above the missionaries’ compound.
Nina and Sean stepped into the living room. Tammy and Beth were both crying softly. Pastor Rob sat with his arms on his knees and his head between them. To Nina, the pastor appeared to have shrunk a bit, no longer the commanding leader, but an embarrassed man who still smelled like urine.
“What happened?” Nina asked.
Pastor Rob looked up from the floor, his face streaked with tears. “Hypolite called GOSPEL. They told him they don’t have the money to pay the ransom.”
It wasn’t a surprise, but it was disappointing. “What else did GOSPEL say?” Nina asked.
Pastor Rob shook his head. “I don’t know.” He choked back a sob. “Hypolite took the phone right after I got through to Jamison.”
“It’s okay,” Sean said, taking a seat beside the pastor. “If GOSPEL can’t raise the money, they’ll send someone for us.”
Nina jerked her head up at his words, wondering who on earth GOSPEL would send to save them since they firmly believed in their anti-violence policy. It was part of the “love thy neighbor, turn the other cheek” philosophy of their founder, Jamison Winters, and in line with the teachings of the Big Guy upstairs.
Before they could discuss it further, Hypolite stepped into the room. “Which one of you is Nina Ford?”
Feeling her legs tremble as she rose, Nina announced, “I am.”
“Step outside with me.”
Fear rippled through her body. As she passed Sean, he reached out and squeezed her hand, mouthing, “Stay strong.”
Her heart leapt at his touch and his actions, and while Nina knew she should lean on the Lord for strength, Sean’s touch had done more for her sense of courage than all the prayers she’d said in the past twenty-four hours. She wondered if God was answering them through Sean.
Kidnapper and captive stood in the middle of the courtyard, the sun beating down on them. Nina could smell the unbearable ripeness of the garbage polluting the streets and ditches of the slum.
“What do you need?” Nina asked, surprised at the gentleness in her voice.
“Whenever I ask for something to be done, your fellow missionaries tell me to ask you,” Hypolite stated. “I’m placing you in charge. If someone steps out of line, I will punish you. If they do not send the money, I will punish you.”
Nina felt her eyes go wide. This terrorist—no, forgive me, Lord, it’s not my place to judge—this man was placing her in charge. She would be held accountable for everything that happened from here on out.
She took a deep breath.
“Have you nothing to say?” Hypolite demanded.
“Uh—sorry, you caught me off guard. We’ll do what you ask, but please know, I spent three years at GOSPEL’s headquarters. They don’t have the money to pay the ransom you’re asking for. I beg you to let us go.”
Hypolite smirked, twisting his features into a version of evil so vile Nina felt she was staring into the face of the Devil himself. Without warning, he backhanded her across the cheek.
The slap sounded like a thunderclap in Nina’s ear. Her face stung, and blood pooled in her mouth from where she’d bitten her tongue.
“You will pay,” Hypolite said ominously. “One way or the other, you will all pay.”