A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3 Read online

  A Ryan Weller Box Set

  A Ryan Weller Thriller Series Books 1 - 3

  Evan Graver

  Contents

  Dark Water

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Dark Ship

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Dark Horse

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  WHY EOD?

  About the Author

  Books by Evan Graver:

  Dark Water

  © 2017, 2019 Evan Graver

  www.evangraver.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any forms or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic, or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover: Wicked Good Book Covers

  Editing: Larks and Katydids

  Proofreading: Gerald Shaw

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Third Reef Publishing, LLC

  Hollywood, Florida

  www.thirdreefpublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Mustafa Wahib Abdulla sat in the driver’s seat of the Toyota 4Runner. His finger rested on the detonator switch. He caressed it as he prayed. His lips moved as he stared straight ahead at the closed garage door of the old four bay auto repair shop. Abdulla rocked back and forth in rhythm with his holy pleadings. A smile played across his lips as he finished. He was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, be received into Paradise and rewarded for his zeal.

  “Mustafa, are you ready?”

  The Pakistani looked up at the American he knew only as “Professor” with his long, white pony tail. Abdulla tried to hide his disdain with a nod. This American had been instrumental in helping them infiltrate the United States, sheltered them in the city, and provided materials and support for their cause, yet he was not a believer. Abdulla thought again how this was a means to an end. The end of the Great Satan. Allah would forgive him for taking the aid of a nonbeliever to destroy more nonbelievers.

  Abdulla climbed from the SUV. As he closed the door, he could feel its extra weight. The door shut with a satisfying thunk. They’d molded one hundred pounds of Semtex into the hood, doors, and quarter panels of the Toyota. Then they poured quarter-inch steel ball bearings ⸻a deadly, flying hail⸻ on top of the plastic explosives. The switch Abdulla had caressed would arm the device when he was ready to ram his target. He’d connected it to the front-bumper airbag sensor. An impact strong enough to deploy the airbag would also trigger the bomb.

  “We will pray one final time,” he replied to Professor.

  Professor stroked his goatee as he watched Abdulla’s men kneeling on their prayer rugs. Swarthy men from the Afghan and Pakistani mountains and smooth-skinned Saudi Arabians, all clothed in black combat fatigues. Each carried an AK-47 and wore a chest rig packed with extra ammunition and grenades. The men had trained relentlessly on a mocked-up target in a Syrian training camp to perfect their timing and coordination.

  Abdul
la knew he and his men were only pawns in a larger game orchestrated by his leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, and the leader of the Mexican movement, who had brought them to the US. He hadn’t heard the name of the Mexican leader, nor dealt with anyone but Professor. Abdulla studied his contact again. He was of medium height with a slim build. Square glasses framed brown eyes above a wide nose and mustache. What Abdulla had found curious was the silver coin Professor wore around his neck on a matching silver chain. Professor had told Abdulla it was a symbol of his defiance of the Great Satan.

  Professor glanced at his watch, then said, “Hurry up.”

  The arrogance of the man angered Abdulla. He wanted to break his neck. He closed his eyes and willed himself to remain calm. Then he walked across the stained and scarred cement floor of the two-story concrete block building that had once housed an auto repair shop. The structure stank of used oil and burnt rubber. Outside, garbage cluttered the gutters, rusty car parts leaned against the chain-link fences, and graffiti covered the walls. Abdulla abhorred the filthy garage and the rotten stench filling his nostrils with every breath. This was America, the land of milk and honey, yet the neighborhood was no better than the slum he’d been raised in outside Islamabad. He was ready to leave this awful place, the hard cots and the electric hot plates that warmed their food. He was ready for Paradise.

  Abdulla knelt on his own prayer rug. In unison, he and his men bowed and prayed, consecrating themselves to the Prophet Muhammad and to Allah so their actions might bring glory and honor to their cause. When they were done, they rose and walked to where Professor waited.

  Abdulla said, “We are ready.”

  Professor nodded and motioned for them to proceed. The fighters loaded into a Ford Explorer and a Honda CR-V while Abdulla sat in the driver’s seat of the Toyota. He gripped the steering wheel at ten and two until his knuckles whitened. He’d prepared for this moment, yet he was still nervous. Abdulla muttered a prayer as he turned the ignition key. Ahead, the garage door slid open to reveal brilliant sunlight. It was a metaphor, Abdulla thought. They were about to step out of darkness and into the light. He would venture from this dreary world into a glorious Paradise.

  The Explorer exited the garage and Abdulla fell in line between it and the CR-V. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and turned onto the main road. He accelerated to keep up with the lead vehicle and he was thankful for the bomb’s kill switch. All around him, Americans went on, blissfully unaware of the danger near them. Knowing he was about to destroy a sacred landmark, kill and maim leaders of the cult of consumerism, made him smile. They would die a scorching death and burn forever in the fires of Hell.

  Chapter Two

  Rueben Morales, the man known as Professor, stepped out of his SUV in the parking lot on Lavaca Street at the rear of the Texas Governor’s Mansion. He closed the door of the Dodge Journey, a vehicle made in Toluca, Mexico, and part of the reason he’d purchased it. Mexican hands had built the Journey for an Italian company that sold it to Americans who believed they were helping the Detroit economy by buying from the Big Three. He chuckled at the irony as he walked to the right rear passenger door and opened it. Morales leaned across the seat and turned on the video camera. Aiming it through the already open window, he turned it on and then positioned it for maximum exposure.

  A ghost of a breeze wafted over him as he moved to the front of the Journey and leaned against the hood. They had chosen this day with care. The governor was hosting a luncheon for election campaign donors. They would mingle with the Republican state senators, representatives, and the governor’s family. Morales had also heard a rumor that a sitting U.S. senator would attend. He smiled, hoping it were true. He watched the tall sycamore, pecan, and cottonwood trees around the white Greek Revival mansion sway with the breeze. A wind would help fan the flames. His gaze fell on the two vehicle entrance gates set in a white, concrete block fence topped with black wrought-iron spikes. Texas State Troopers patrolled the sidewalk.

  “Let la Revolución begin!” Morales muttered. The peace these white mercenaries believed they held over their ill-gotten gains was about to be shattered. They’d stolen the Southwest from Mexico with their concepts of manifest destiny and by waging unjust wars on the Mexican people. It was time to take back Aztlán.

  Morales’s attention snapped back to the present as a Ford Explorer careened onto Lavaca and came to a screeching halt alongside the gates. Three men jumped from the vehicle. Two immediately shot the uniformed troopers and placed explosives to blow the gates open. The third ran to the guard booth where he shoved a grenade through the window before racing toward the patrol car sitting at the corner of Lavaca and West Tenth Street. He rolled a grenade under the car. Behind him, the detonation blew out the sides of the guard house and threw chunks of concrete twenty feet into the air. The second grenade blast lifted the trooper’s Ford Crown Victoria off its wheels. Fire blew out from underneath, and when the gas tank exploded, it sent the trunk lid somersaulting through the air. Morales howled with delight.

  Abdulla’s modified Toyota 4Runner swept in from Tenth Street. He curved wide into the oncoming traffic lane and then shot through the now open gates of the vehicle entrance. Morales knew a carload of Abdulla’s men would commence as assault at the front of the mansion, blowing up the patrol car on Colorado Street, breaking through the wrought-iron gates, and killing everyone they could find.

  The 4Runner disappeared behind the wall. Morales blew out his breath and covered his ears. He could see the steps leading to the rear entrance under the porte-cochère. The Toyota reappeared and charged up the steps at full throttle. The massive tires bounced as they hit the first step, hung in the air for a moment, and fell back in slow motion. Then the four-wheel drive powered the vehicle up the steps. White light burst from the car as it exploded.

  Morales felt the heat and shock wave roll over him. His mind couldn’t take in all the details of what happened in those seconds after detonation. Later, he would play back the video frame by frame and see the ball bearings blast from the car, punching, tearing, ripping, and gouging anything in their path. The porte-cochère disappeared and the back of the mansion disintegrated. Fire spread from the Toyota’s gasoline tank to the wooden siding and framing. A secondary explosion rocked the grounds as natural gas, spilling from a ruptured line, ignited in a scorching fireball.

  Debris pelted the roadway more than a full block away. Morales ducked as wood splinters and ball bearings rained down all around him. Pride swelled inside him as he turned to run for cover behind a brick building. He discovered he was laughing.

  Chapter Three

  Greg Olsen had never known his grandfather to show much emotion. The old man held his white cowboy hat by the brim and slowly turned it in circles. Clifford Olsen’s cheeks shone with a trail of tears as he stared out the window at the docks holding Dark Water Research’s collection of boats, barges, and ships necessary for commercial diving. He still had a full head of black hair, making Greg hope his own would look as good when he was seventy-five, and he wore his usual black slacks, a tan Western shirt with pearl snaps, and alligator hide cowboy boots.

  Their feelings were still raw six days after the funeral for Allen and Denise Olsen. They had died in what the news had deemed a terrorist attack on the Texas Governor’s Mansion. The sense of loss weighed heavily on each man, Greg for the loss of his parents and Cliff for losing his only son.

  The two faced each other in the office that had once been Allen’s. Responsibility for running what they all referred to as DWR now fell on Greg’s shoulders, whether or not he wanted it. Time didn’t stop because his parents were dead. It marched on. Bills needed paid, contracts negotiated and fulfilled, and the phone calls never ceased. Greg wasn’t sure how much he could take. His own wounds were still fresh from the battlefields of Afghanistan. But he was a warrior. He would do what sailors always did⸻hitch up their dungarees, square their white caps, and order another beer.