by Tripp Ellis
Wild Venom
Tyson Wild Book Thirty One
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
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
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.
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1
"What's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?" she said, the gun still dangling from her hand, the suppressor attached to the threaded barrel.
The tangy scent of gunpowder lingered, and a slight haze filled the passageway.
I gave her a sharp look. "Are you sure you’ve got time for that? No doubt the neighbors heard the gunshots and called the police. They'll be here shortly."
"I won't stay long. And you're not going to let them arrest me, are you?" she said with a sassy smirk.
Sophia stood in the salon near the entryway to the port-side passage, a dead man oozing blood at her feet. She spun around, sauntered to the bar, and set her pistol on the counter. She moved around the bar, grabbed a glass and a bottle of premium whiskey, and poured herself a drink.
I walked down the hallway, stepped over the body, and entered the salon. Pale shafts of moonlight cut through the darkness, seeping in through the large windows, casting deep shadows.
"You want one?" she asked casually as if there was nothing unusual about having a drink with two dead bodies nearby.
Her demeanor didn't surprise me. I had gotten to know Sophia Breslin pretty well. She was a cold-blooded killer. Emotionless. No feeling. No remorse.
She had changed her look. The stunning vixen was now a platinum blonde—her hair sculpted into a severe, stylish bob. She wore a black fitted long-sleeve shirt, yoga pants, and black sneakers—reasonable attire when prancing around a superyacht in the middle of the night with intent to kill. The tight fabric hugged her petite form, leaving nothing to the imagination. The pants looked painted on, and every delightful curve magnified. Though, she blended in with the darkness.
Sophia was like a shadow herself.
She put the glass to her plump lips and let the smooth amber liquid slide down her throat, leaving a lipstick stain on the glass. She wasn't worried about DNA or fingerprints at this juncture. Her identity was no longer a secret.
She looked at me with a cocky grin, knowing I was interested in what she had to say.
I declined her offer for a drink. With two dead bodies aboard the Avventura, one of which was peppered with bullets from my gun, I thought it best not to talk to the sheriff with whiskey on my breath.
"Suit yourself," she said, taking another swig.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Where is who?"
"No games. You said you knew where Elias Fink was."
She smiled. "I do."
I waited for her to speak, but she didn't. "Are you going to tell me?"
"Maybe. If you play your cards right."
The muscles in my jaw flexed, and a frustrated breath escaped my nostrils.
"Don't get huffy with me. I just saved your ass. You’d have been dead, and Elias’s goons would have completed their mission."
I couldn't argue. She saved my ass. There were no two ways about it. "What were you doing creeping around my boat in the middle of the night?"
"Looking out for you."
I scoffed. "Ha. You’re my guardian angel now after you once tried to kill me?"
"That was then, this is now," she said with a casual shrug of the shoulder.
"Why the change of heart?"
"I told you. We’re on the same team now. Elias sent a hit squad after me. We have a mutual interest in seeing his demise. Am I right?"
Again, I couldn't argue.
"He's a petty, vindictive man," she continued.
"And a dangerous one."
"All the more reason we need to team up and take him down."
"You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to team up with you."
She rolled her eyes and frowned. "Grow up. Move on. What's in the past is in the past. Leave it there. It's water under the bridge."
I lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "Easy for you to say. You tried to kill me. You murdered Cobra Company operatives. You expect me to forget that?"
"It was just business."
"You have a target on your head. People aren’t going to forget what you did."
"I know Isabella is mad at me. But I figure if we take out Elias Fink, that wipes the slate clean."
I scoffed again. "I'm not sure the slate can ever be wiped clean."
She looked at me with a pouty face and pleading eyes. She spoke in a baby-doll voice. "What's the matter, Tyson? Don’t you believe in second chances? In redemption?"
2
I gave her a long look.
"I suppose you think I'm unredeemable. But you and I are not that different. You’ve killed your fair share. You've done questionable things. You’ve followed orders when you knew they might not be the right thing to do. We've all done things we regret."
“Everything I’ve done was in service to my country
.”
She rolled her eyes. “Justify it however you want. You’re still a killer.”
“I've changed."
"And so have I," she said in an insincere tone.
"I find that hard to believe."
"We all have our moments of self-reflection.” With a sultry gaze, she leaned against the bar counter. “Tell me, what was your moment? Was it almost dying in Mexico?"
My eyes narrowed at her.
"I know more about you than you think."
"A killer should know the target inside and out."
"You are not my target anymore.”
We were silent for a moment. The boat rocked gently, and mooring lines creaked.
Sophia continued, "I heard you were technically dead, and they brought you back. Did you see the other side?"
I said nothing.
"I guess that would change a person. But it's not like you eased up on the body count since then, so don't give me any grief."
"I only—"
She cut me off, "Kill people who deserve it?"
"Something like that."
I still gripped my pistol in my hand. I wasn’t beyond killing her if she posed a credible threat.
Sophia grabbed her pistol from the bar counter, and my grip tightened.
She unscrewed the suppressor, holstered the subcompact weapon around her angle, then slipped the suppressor into a pouch on a fanny pack.
"You should be nice to me,” Sophia said. “I know where the most wanted terrorist in the world is right now. A guy your government has been trying to find for the last 10 years."
"And how did you find him?"
She shrugged again. "I have my ways. You’re not the only one with contacts."
"Where is he?"
"He's in Caracas. There's an extradition treaty with Venezuela, but good luck getting any cooperation. I hear Elias is tight with Maduro."
"I want proof."
"How about we go down and kill him, and that will be all the proof you need?”
I shook my head. "I want actionable intel from qualified sources."
"Contact your people. Have them verify it."
The sound of distant sirens warbled, drawing closer.
"I guess that's my cue," Sophia said. "If I get you actionable intel, are you in?"
"Why don't you just take care of Elias yourself?"
"It's always good to have backup. A buddy."
"I'm not your buddy."
"Once we kill Elias Fink, you will be. You’ll love me for bringing him to you. You won't have to worry about his hit squads anymore, and neither will I. We’ll have done the nation a service. We’ll have taken down the most wanted terrorist since bin Laden. They’ll write books about us. Make movies. We'll be famous."
"I don't want to be famous."
She laughed. "You, sort of, already are."
Sophia moved from behind the bar and headed toward the sliding glass door of the salon. "I'll get you your proof. Then we’ll go down and do the job. Deal?"
"I want my tender back," I said, redirecting. She'd stolen it the last time she was on the Avventura and used it as a getaway vehicle.
"I'll give it back. But not today." She slid open the door and hustled across the aft deck to the passerelle, the sound of sirens growing closer. "I'll be in touch,” she yelled over her shoulder as she scampered to the dock and trotted to a nearby slip where she'd tied up my tender.
She cast off the lines, hopped on board, and cranked up the engine. Sophia cruised out of the marina just as patrol units pulled into the parking lot. Red and blue lights flickered across the boats.
I watched from the aft deck as the deputies sprang from their vehicles and hustled down the dock toward the Avventura.
3
“Who the hell are these ass-clowns, and why are they dead on your boat?” Sheriff Daniels asked.
His annoyed eyes glared at me. The sheriff wasn't a fan of getting pulled out of bed in the wee hours of the morning.
A camera flashed, spilling out of the port-side passageway as a forensic photographer documented the scene. Brenda hovered over the body, wearing pink nitrile gloves. Deputies milled about.
I gave Daniels the story. Most of it, anyway. "I don't have IDs on the thugs. I'm working on that, but it's safe to say this was a hit squad sent by you know who."
I’d sent images of the goons to Isabella for identification. She was my handler at Cobra Company—the premiere clandestine agency that did contract work for the CIA.
The sheriff's eyes narrowed at me. "And you let a known fugitive walk out of here?"
I shrugged sheepishly. "She had a gun. What was I going to do?"
Daniels rolled his eyes. "Tell me again why is it that she saved your ass?"
I shrugged, then deadpanned, "She's clearly infatuated with me.”
That earned another eye roll. "She's crazier than you are, Wild."
The dead thugs were loaded into body bags, zipped up, and rolled out on a gurney. When the swarm of investigators cleared out, I swabbed the deck, mopping up the bloodstains. It was something I had to do aboard the boat all too often.
I was up, and there was no going back to sleep. I put on a pot of coffee and fixed breakfast. I took my plate up to the sky-deck and ate as the sun crested the horizon. There was a nice morning breeze, and the amber rays sparkled the teal water. I sat there and tried to enjoy the morning, letting the adrenaline of the attack fade.
Teagan stopped by before her shift and dropped off Buddy and Fluffy. She'd been feeling a little uneasy at her apartment alone and wanted to keep the furballs for a night.
With mesmerizing teal eyes, brown hair, and a petite little figure, Teagan drew more than her fair share of attention. Some of it unwanted. After starring in the music video for Wild Fury’s All I Need, the occasional fan would turn up unannounced at her apartment, having tracked her down. They were mostly harmless, but it unsettled her. It only takes one psycho.
"They're fed and watered," she said. "I'm happy to take them anytime."
I smiled, knelt down, and petted Buddy. The little Jack Russell was eager to see me. He wagged his tail and licked my face. Fluffy rushed inside, completely ignoring me. She leaped onto the settee and took her usual position as Queen of the Avventura. The aloof white cat surveyed her domain for a moment, then began to groom herself.
My phone buzzed with a call. I pulled the device from my pocket as Teagan backed away from the salon door.
"Talk to you later," she said as she spun around and sauntered down the passerelle to the dock. She hustled to Diver Down.
She had a nice hustle.
I didn't recognize the call, and I wasn't too fond of answering unknown numbers. I swiped the screen, anyway. "This is Tyson Wild."
"Mr. Wild, my name is Nolan Orton. Tony Scarpetti gave me your number, said you might be able to help me."
Tony Scarpetti was an old Mafia guy who ran a high-stakes poker game at the Seven Seas. Despite his dubious past, Tony was a good guy. I’d done a few favors for him, and he’d done a few favors for me. As far as I knew, he was clean now. He had a couple of restaurants on the island, and in my book, there was no better pizza on the planet.
I recognized Nolan's name right away. "The Nolan Orton?"
He chuckled. "Yes, that Nolan Orton."
My brow crinkled with curiosity. “What can I do for you?"
"Tony informed me that you were the best when it came to handling certain matters. And that you could do so discreetly."
"It depends on what we’re talking about."
"I have a dire situation, and I need your expertise. Money is no object, so you can name your price. A positive outcome is my only concern."
My curiosity was piqued. "Cut to the chase. What do you need?"
"I think it's better we discuss this in person. I'll send you my address. Can you be here within a half hour? It's of the utmost importance."
"I'll be there."
"Thank you. I look forward to meeting you
."
4
JD swung by the marina in his Miami Blue Porsche and picked me up.
I jogged down the dock and hopped into the passenger seat. The top was down, and the music blasted. I buckled my safety belt and sat back in the chalk leather seats as we cruised across the island to the posh neighborhood of Stingray Bay. Wind swirled around the cabin, blowing JD’s long blond hair. The turbo engine growled.
Jack wore mirrored aviator shades and his typical uniform, which consisted of a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and checkered Vans.
"What do you think he wants?"
I shrugged. "Sounded urgent."
“That guy is loaded. I mean, loaded, loaded." He paused. "He doesn't want us to do something illegal, does he?"
"He didn't say. But I'm sure he's aware we’re deputies, and I have a feeling he's a pretty smart guy. You don't get to be in his position if you’re a dumbass.”
"Never underestimate luck. Being in the right place at the right time beats bad timing and intelligence."
We twisted through the streets of the upscale neighborhood, cruising past perfectly manicured yards and trimmed hedgerows. Luxury cars and SUVs were parked in circular driveways. Crews of lawn care professionals blew leaves, edged driveways and sidewalks, and tended to the landscaping. Palm trees swayed overhead, and canals snaked their way behind the homes. They were filled with luxury yachts, sailboats, speedboats, and other expensive watercraft.
