Wild Rage

by Tripp Ellis

  Wild Rage

  Tyson Wild Book Twenty Three

  Tripp Ellis

  Contents

  Welcome

  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

  Author’s Note

  Tyson Wild

  Connect With Me

  Copyright © 2021 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Welcome

  Want more books like this?

  You’ll probably never hear about my new releases unless you join my newsletter.

  SIGN UP HERE

  1

  The acrid smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air. This was not the way I hoped to start off the New Year.

  Patrol cars lined the streets, and red and blue lights flashed. An ambulance chirped the siren and pulled away from the curb as we arrived.

  A small crowd of curious neighbors had gathered, gawking at the gruesome sight.

  Deputies kept them at a distance.

  First responders swarmed the area. A camera flashed as a crime scene photographer snapped photos.

  JD pulled to the curb and parked the Miami Blue Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet. He cut the engine, and the classic rock that pumped from the speakers vanished. We hopped out and rushed to the scene, weaving through the crowd of onlookers.

  It looked like a war zone.

  This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen in the Platinum Dunes Estates. It wasn't supposed to happen anywhere, but certainly not here. The upscale neighborhood was home to Coconut Key’s elite—wealthy business owners, politicians, athletes, and the occasional drug lord.

  Brenda, the medical examiner, looked over the remains. There would be no doubt about the cause of death this time.

  Bits of debris were scattered all across the yard. The blast had ripped the door from the hinges and splintered the wood. The glass sidelights had been shattered, and sparkling shards glimmered on the ground. Several of the front windows were blown out as well, and a few knife-like slivers of glass remained in the window frames, dangling like icicles. The blast had even damaged the brickwork around the main entrance. A few car windows on the street were cracked. Shrapnel and other debris had punched holes in a few quarter-panels. The thunderous boom from the explosion had set off multiple car alarms.

  They had mostly stopped buzzing now.

  It was a miracle there weren’t more casualties. But the casualties that had occurred were horrific.

  My eyes scanned the debris field, and I knew right away what we were dealing with. I had seen plenty of IEDs in my day, and I knew the remains of a pipe bomb when I saw one.

  The forensics guys combed the area, marking off bits of the bomb. It's a common misconception that the explosion destroys all the evidence. To the contrary, it just spreads it out. Every bomb maker has a signature and a style. And like a fingerprint, the remains of this bomb might help us identify its wicked creator.

  Brenda certainly had her work cut out for her. The blast had severed Judge Ed Perry’s torso from his lower body. The explosion had ripped off both his arms and one of his legs below the knee. There were pieces of the venerable judge inside and outside the house. Blood, bone, and bits of flesh splattered the brick near the front door and the walls of the entrance foyer.

  The grisly scene wasn't easy to stomach.

  We greeted Sheriff Daniels on the front lawn. His hard face was tight with anger. Sheriff Daniels usually went about his business with a stoic detachment from it all. He’d seen just about everything in his day. But this was different. His red cheeks and slick eyes gave away his rage and sorrow.

  “What do we know?” I asked.

  “Not much yet," the sheriff said. "Looks like Ed picked up a package on the porch, and it went off instantly.”

  “Mercury switch?” I suggested.

  Daniels shrugged. “Maybe. Dorothy was behind him in the foyer. She's been taken to the hospital in critical condition. She sustained several shrapnel wounds.”

  “Is she gonna make it?” I was almost hesitant to ask.

  “Hard to say.”

  "Were any threats made prior to the bombing?"

  "Not that I'm aware of,” Daniels said.

  "What do we know about the device?"

  “Too soon to tell. Looks like your standard pipe bomb. Packed a hell of a punch.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a grim frown.

  Daniels gave a nod of acknowledgment.

  I surveyed the bits of twisted metal in the yard. There were several large remnants of the pipe amid the thousands of tiny fragments. The device had been constructed using a pipe that could be found in any home improvement store. It looked like it had been spray-painted red. Among the remains were fragments of wires and a mangled 9V battery.

  Two men in suits flashed credentials as they pushed past deputies, strolling toward the debris field. They both had tight haircuts and wore aviator sunglasses.

  "I'm Special Agent Calhoun, and this is Special Agent Franklin,” he said, motioning to his shorter partner.

  They were both athletic guys. Fit, trim, and fresh out of the academy.

  "What have you got so far?" Calhoun asked.

  The sheriff caught them up to speed. It didn't take long for them to flex. Calhoun casually said, “I guess we’ll be taking the lead on this."

  The sheriff’s face tightened.

  "No, you won't," a woman said as she approached. "We will."

  We all craned our necks to see an agent from the ATF holding out her badge. She wore a navy blue pantsuit and a white blouse—same sunglasses as the FBI guys.

  “Special Agent Blake,” she said in a cocksure tone.

  For some strange reason, I wondered what her pantsuit would look like bunched up on the floor. She had a nice figur
e. She had a nice face, too. One that was easy to look at. High cheekbones, full lips, smooth skin. Her dark brown hair just grazed her shoulders.

  Her partner was tall and skinny. Narrow face, short brown hair.

  "Special Agent Ross and I will be taking the lead, but I have no problems with a coordinated effort,” Agent Blake said.

  "This is clearly terroristic activity,” Calhoun replied. "That puts it on FBI turf."

  "The nature of the explosive device makes it ours,” Agent Blake said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And we have no reason to believe this is terror-related at this point.”

  “If putting a pipe bomb on someone’s porch isn’t terrorism, I don’t know what is,” Calhoun muttered.

  The two agencies had a history of skirmishes over control. There were many areas of overlap. Dating back to a memo from Ashcroft in 2004, after the ATF was merged under the DOJ, the FBI would lead the Joint Terrorism Task Force and control investigations in terror related situations. In the absence of terror, ATF would handle explosive related cases. The bombing attack on a prominent county judge was likely to draw national media attention, and it was easy to see why two blue-flamers out of Quantico would want a piece of the spotlight. I’m sure they figured it would be a quick solve.

  The veins in Daniels's neck looked like they were about to pop. His face was red, and his seething eyes flicked between the two groups of agents. In a thunderous growl that grabbed you by the spine, Daniels roared, "I don't give a good goddamn who takes the lead. That man in pieces across the lawn is my friend, Ed Perry. He's a county judge, and I've known him since college. I was at his wedding when he married Dorothy. I was there when his first daughter was born. Now I gotta tell his kids there won't be an open casket, and they’re never going to look upon their father's face again. So you can bicker back and forth about who's going to take the lead and who takes credit. But this is my county, and you work with me."

  The two FBI guys exchanged an awkward glance.

  I’d never seen Sheriff Daniels quite so emotional before.

  2

  Calhoun's eyes flicked to Daniels, and he raised his hands in surrender. "You know what, I think you’ve got the situation under control. Call us if you need us."

  Daniels’s stern gaze fell upon the two ATF agents.

  "You’ll get full cooperation and transparency from us,” Agent Blake said. “I understand the personal nature of the situation, and I want nothing more than to get the scumbag who did this before they can strike again. I don't care how that gets done, and I don't care who gets the credit."

  That seemed to relax Daniels a little bit.

  "Tell me what you know," she said.

  The sheriff caught her up to speed.

  "Did anyone see anything?" Agent Blake asked.

  “I’ve got deputies canvassing the neighborhood right now," Daniels said.

  "I would alert the other circuit court judges, and it might be a good idea to shut down the courthouse and sweep the premises,” Blake said. “My gut tells me that you don't go to the trouble of making a pipe bomb and leaving it on a judge’s porch if you’re not pretty pissed off about something.”

  “I’ll compile a list of all ex-cons whose cases went before Judge Perry,” I said. “We should pay special attention to anyone with a history of explosives.”

  "We'll collect the bomb fragments, send them to the lab, and see what we can find out,” Agent Payton Blake said. “I promise, I'll keep you in the loop."

  I exchanged a wary glance with Sheriff Daniels. Neither one of us wanted to get cut out of the investigation.

  Agent Blake handed me her card. I looked it over briefly, then stuck it into my pocket. She surveyed the debris area with her partner, strolling around the area, pointing at chunks of debris.

  JD and I huddled with Sheriff Daniels.

  "I want you two to work this case like you're the only ones on it, you got that?" Daniels muttered under his breath. “I don’t want this thing slipping away from us.”

  "You got it," I said.

  Mendoza approached after speaking with several neighbors. He frowned and shook his head. “Nobody remembers seeing anything unusual.”

  “Any idea how long the package was on the porch?” I asked.

  “No. A neighbor remembers seeing a World Parcel Express truck in the neighborhood around 4 PM.”

  “Let’s check the shipping records and see if a package was delivered to this address,” I said. “But if it had a mercury switch, it had to be hand-delivered.”

  JD’s face crinkled. “You mean to tell me in a neighborhood like this, no one has a video doorbell?”

  “The house two doors down on the same side has one,” Mendoza said. “But you can’t see Judge Perry’s home from the angle.”

  “Get a copy of the footage just in case,” Daniels said. “Maybe we can catch a glimpse of the bomber coming or going.”

  “Will do.”

  A news van pulled up, and Paris Delaney hopped out with a cameraman. He slung a heavy broadcast camera onto his shoulder and followed Paris as she scurried to the scene. The ambitious blonde jumped in front of the lens, and the cameraman pulled focus.

  “Rolling,” he said, then counted off, “In three... two...”

  Paris started her segment. “I’m live at the scene of a vicious bombing...”

  I groaned. Wherever there was death and destruction, Paris soon followed. I’d had a little history with the blonde—some of it good, some of it not so good.

  After the scene was photographed and documented, the medical examiner collected and removed Judge Perry’s remains. The ATF collected the bomb debris for further analysis. They would comb the area for hours, pulling debris from the grass, the flower beds, nearby cars, the street, and even neighboring yards.

  Paris accosted me as we left the ATF at the scene. “Deputy Wild, what can you tell us about this terrible tragedy?”

  She angled the microphone toward me, and I raised my hands, innocently. “I’m not in charge of this investigation.” I pointed to Payton, squatting in the grass, examining a shredded piece of the bomb. “Talk to Special Agent Blake.”

  Paris gave me a sour look, expecting more.

  JD and I climbed into the Porsche and headed to the hospital. Wind swirled around the cabin, and the Florida sun beamed down. The mood was somber, and the music wasn’t quite as loud. The wind tousled JD’s long, blond hair. He wore his typical Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, and the sun glimmered off his mirrored shades.

  I called Denise and asked her to compile a list of all the cases that had gone through Judge Perry's court.

  Denise was gutted by the news. Coconut Key was a small community, and we all knew each other. "Any word on Dorothy?"

  "Not yet."

  "Please tell me you guys have something to go on?"

  I sighed. "It's out of our hands to a degree."

  "What do you mean?"

  I filled her in on the situation.

  "I'm sure they'll share information."

  "I'm not holding my breath."

  “I’ll let you know what I find out. Please give Dorothy my condolences if you see her.”

  “I will,” I said before hanging up.

  We pulled into the emergency room parking lot and rushed inside. There wasn’t much of a crowd this time of day—a few people that looked battered and bruised. A couple of people were sniffling and sneezing. An old woman hunched in a chair with a nasal cannula in her nostrils that snaked its way to a green portable oxygen tank at her side. There was a kid playing with building blocks at the kiddie table. The pale green fluorescent lights that flickered overhead made everyone look ill. A security guard sat at a small booth near the entrance to the patient area. The flatscreen TV on the wall played the news—Paris was still live at the scene and bantered back and forth with an anchor at the station.

  I flashed my badge at the reception desk. “What can you tell me about the status of Dorothy Perry?”

  “Trauma victim
, right? She was just brought in.” The receptionist’s fingers clacked against the keyboard as she pulled up Dorothy’s information. “She’s in emergency surgery right now.”

  “What’s the outlook?”

  “You’ll have to speak with one of the doctors.”

  I gave her my card. “Can you have the doctor call me as soon as she’s out of surgery? We need to speak with her when she’s able.”

  The receptionist nodded.

  We left the emergency room and headed back to Diver Down. Jack whipped the car into the parking lot, and we made our way to the bar. The flatscreen TV behind the bar displayed the breaking news. It was on every channel.

  Teagan greeted us with a concerned face. “Guys, I had this terrible feeling all day that something bad was going to happen.” She frowned. “They’re saying this was some kind of terrorist attack.”

  I shook my head. “We don’t know who’s responsible yet.”

  “That’s not what they’re saying on the news.”

  I arched a curious eyebrow.

  “The TV station just received an anonymous call from a group taking responsibility for the bombing.”

  I exchanged a glance with JD.

  3