by Tripp Ellis
Wild Secret
Tyson Wild Book Twenty Eight
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
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
JD’s eyes lit up. “There’s something down there.”
He stared at his phone’s display, excitement building on his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s something.” He had a sly grin.
The Avventura swayed gently on the swells. The brilliant sun hung high in the royal blue sky, glimmering across the teal water.
It was a perfect afternoon.
We had spent the better part of the day fishing and treasure hunting. I use the term loosely.
JD had programmed the sonar drone to search a pre-determined grid. The device relayed a 3-D image back to his cell phone. The state-of-the-art gadget was next-level technology. I'm not sure how much he paid for the damn thing, and I didn't want to ask.
We had found quite a few things on the seafloor in the course of our adventures, but never the elusive treasure of Jacques De La Fontaine.
It didn't matter. The journey was half the fun.
We lounged on the aft deck of the superyacht, fishing poles in hand, JD wearing his traditional Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. His long blond hair fluttered with the breeze. With his new discovery, he was up and out of his seat. "I say we go down and take a look."
I surveyed the screen. “I don't think that's what we're looking for."
It was just a small shape and certainly not the pattern of a sunken Spanish Galleon or pirate ship.
It was likely all that remained of the old ships were the cannons and the precious coins strewn about the seafloor. Everything else had rotted away—several hundred years of the ocean doing its magic to reclaim the fabled ships.
JD darted inside to grab the gear. Once he got his mind set on something there was no stopping him.
What the hell—it was worth taking a look.
I followed him into the salon and grabbed the scuba equipment. We had prepped the tanks before we set out for the day.
We recovered the drone. JD hosed it down and toweled it off. It looked like a Tomahawk missile with a propeller.
We did last-minute safety checks, donned our gear, raised the diver down flag, and plunged into the water from the swim platform.
It was an easy dive. It wasn't that deep in this particular location. I nosed down and finned toward the bottom, JD beside me.
The water was almost 80 degrees. The dull rumble of the ocean filled my ears. Bubbles roiled toward the surface, and rays of sunlight penetrated the water. The silhouette of the superyacht floated above as we plunged deeper.
A recent storm had blown through the area and had stirred up the seafloor. You never knew what a storm might uncover that had been hidden for centuries.
I was skeptical about what we’d find, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit thrilled at the possibility of discovering Spanish gold stolen by the infamous French pirate.
As we plunged deeper, it became clear this was not the gravesite of a Spanish Galleon or pirate ship. There was no clump of gold medallions buried in the soft sand.
Instead, the edge of a steel drum protruded from the sandy bottom. It looked like it had been there for quite some time—rusted and corroded.
I could see the disappointment on JD's face through his mask.
He shook his head and pointed to the surface.
We were down here already. I figured we might as well investigate further. All kinds of things end up at the bottom of the ocean. Things fall off shipping vessels all the time. People dump things they shouldn't.
I began scooping the sand away from the barrel, trying to reveal more of it. JD joined in, and clouds of sediment swirled around, creating a milky haze.
It didn't take long to reveal the toxic chemical sticker on the side of the barrel. It was barely legible at this point.
We uncovered about two-thirds of the barrel. It looked intact and still sealed. Together we tried to shift the barrel in the sand, but the damn thing was heavy.
We left it and decided to return to the surface. We broke through the water and climbed onto the swim platform. I spat the regulator from my mouth and took off my mask. I slipped the tank from my shoulders.
"What do you think?" JD asked.
"I say we call the Department of Environmental Protection and let them deal with it. Could be seeping toxic chemicals into the water."
I stood up, water dripping from my body, and lugged the tank up to the aft deck. I toweled off and made a few phone calls. I got transferred to several different departments. I sat on hold for 30 minutes, then finally talked to someone in the Office of Emergency Response. I spoke with a delightful young woman and told her about the situation.
I don’t think she listened to a word I said. In her defense, we were pretty far out, and the cell signal dropped occasionally.
"If you go to our website, you can see a list of independent contractors for removal,” she said. “Be aware that you will be responsible for all fees, and any potential fines.”
"I'm sorry, maybe I wasn't clear. I am a deputy with the Coconut County Sheriff's Department. We discovered a potential environmental hazard. This isn’t my barrel, and it didn't fall off my boat."
“Doesn’t the county have a dive team that can remove the barrel?"
"Hazardous waste disposal isn’t our area," I said.
> She huffed. "Where is the location of this barrel?"
I gave her the coordinates.
"Okay, I'll have our department deal with it.”
"How long will that take?"
"I don't know. It depends on how backlogged they are."
I gave her my number and asked her to follow up with me. I doubted I would ever hear from her again, but I planned on pestering them until the toxic barrel was removed.
The afternoon had evaporated, and we needed to get back to Coconut Key. There was an event we couldn’t miss. We weighed anchor and JD manned the helm, cruising us back to the island.
2
“To one more shift,” Chuck said with a smile, raising his glass.
We all clinked glasses, cheered, and sipped the whiskey. Half the department was in Flanagan’s for Chuck’s retirement party. It was probably the ideal time to commit a crime—somewhere else.
Erickson, Faulkner, Mendoza, Robinson, and Sheriff Daniels were all there. So were Denise and Brenda, the medical examiner. It was Denise’s day off, and the luscious red-head pranced around in shorts and a tight tank top—always a pleasant sight.
Chuck was in his mid-60s and had spent the past 30 years on the force. He was a good cop and a likable guy. He had a round face and a rounder belly. His dark hair was peppered with more gray than he'd like, and his bad knees from old football injuries were catching up with him.
It was time.
He'd written enough tickets and chased down enough bad guys. He'd been in a patrol unit almost the entire time. He’d been shot twice and gotten lucky both times. Still, he liked being out on the street and interacting with people. Somehow, after 30 years in a patrol car, seeing the worst that people had to offer, he still had faith in humanity—not something every cop could say.
Flanagan’s was your typical Irish pub and a favorite among deputies. It had that old-school vibe—dark mahogany woodwork, paneled walls on one side of the establishment, exposed brick on the other. There were plenty of cozy booths, and black and white pictures hung on the walls.
The venue was narrow, like a shotgun shack—booths and tables upfront, the bar in the middle, and the restrooms and an office area in the back. There was a quarter pool table and a dartboard. The drinks were cheap, and the bartender, Rick, had a heavy hand. There was a good variety of beer and ale. The jukebox played mostly old-school rock 'n' roll. This wasn’t the kind of place where you'd hear candy-coated pop rock or droning EDM music. Rick knew everyone's name and what they drank—well, the regulars, at least.
For some reason, the bar had been growing in popularity among the younger crowd. It had suddenly become hip and trendy. It was probably a fad that would last for a few months before the crowd moved on to the next cool place. A lot of people would come in and pregame at Flanagan’s because of the cheap drinks before hitting the more expensive bars on the strip. A block off of Oyster Avenue, Flanagan’s was close to the action but didn't get as many tourists.
“So what the hell are you gonna do with yourself now?" JD asked.
"Besides drive Ellie crazy? I'm not sure.” He paused. “I know what I want to do.”
"What's that?" I asked.
"You’re gonna think I'm crazy," Chuck said.
"We already think that," JD snarked.
“I’ve got my eye on a piece of property in Montana—300 acres of riverfront property. Got a nice little ranch house and a stable for horses. I figure I'd raise some cattle, hunt, fish, and enjoy the rugged outdoors."
"How does Ellie feel about that?" I asked.
"She's not sold on the concept."
"You realize they have actual winters up there," JD said. "And there's no ocean."
"I've been in Coconut Key for the majority of my life. I think it's time for a change. Plus, if I stay here, I don't think I'll be able to let the job go. I'll be trying to pull over people on a daily basis. I love this place, don't get me wrong, but I know too much about the shady side.”
“Every place has a shady side,” JD said.
"Yeah, but maybe if I go somewhere else, I could pretend it doesn't exist.” He sighed and frowned. "Which reminds me, I need to talk to you boys about something," he said.
We were all ears.
"Not here. Let’s save it for later. No shop talk tonight."
We smiled and clinked glasses again.
A scowl twisted Chuck’s face as a drunk guy stumbled by with his girlfriend. He was probably 21. He had a thin build with blond hair and blue eyes, which were glassy and bloodshot.
His blonde girlfriend was smoking hot—tanned skin, shorts, tight bikini top.
The guy caught sight of Chuck and smiled. "Don't worry, Deputy Atwood. I'm not driving."
He lifted his glass, sipped his drink, and staggered away with the hot blonde.
"Friend of yours?" JD asked.
"That's Nick Hartsell's kid, Cameron. Popped him for DUI not long ago. His dad worked some kind of deal, paid the fine, and the kid got off scot-free."
"By the looks of things, it won't be long till he gets arrested again," JD said.
"I guess that's not really my problem anymore," Chuck said. "I'll leave it up to you guys to carry the torch of justice."
"You're gonna miss this," JD said.
"I know. But I ain't gonna miss it that much."
We laughed and ordered another round. Chuck wasn’t paying for a thing tonight.
Cameron staggered out with his girlfriend and ambled down the sidewalk, heading toward Oyster Avenue.
A few minutes later, two guys burst in wearing ski masks, wielding shotguns. One of them racked a black sawed-off with a pistol grip and shouted, “If you haven't figured it out, this is a robbery. Do as you're told, and nobody gets hurt. Now is not the time to be a hero."
These guys were, perhaps, the dumbest criminals on the island. Robbing a cop bar was certainly up there on the list of stupid things to do. Clearly, they hadn’t done their homework. Half the people in Flanagan's were packing.
"My friend is gonna go around with a bag,” Mr. Shotgun said. “Throw in your wallet, jewelry, and cell phones."
The thug’s accomplice moved around, holding a black duffel bag as patrons began to toss in their valuables.
"Boys, you're making a big mistake," Sheriff Daniels said. “Now, how about you put the weapon down and surrender before this thing gets out of hand.”
The thug swung the shotgun toward the sheriff, the big angry barrel staring him down. "Shut the hell up! Do as you're told!”
Daniels sighed. “You realize you're standing amid half the department. Some in uniform, some in plainclothes."
The thug’s wide eyes glanced around, fully realizing the gravity of the situation. In their haste to knock off the joint, they hadn't really noticed who occupied the bar. But it was slowly sinking in.
The thug swallowed hard but stood firm.
3
You could almost smell the fear oozing from the thug. Sweat soaked his armpits. His wide eyes beamed through his ski mask.
Denise happened to be standing behind him. He had disregarded her as a threat.
Big mistake.
Never underestimate a red-head.
Denise snatched a subcompact that was holstered in her waistband and aimed it at Mr. Shotgun.
He never saw it coming.
"Drop the weapon, now!” she shouted in a voice that was not to be trifled with. “Or you're going to have a really big hole in your head."
The thug tightened.
The air was tense.
The Bag Boy caught sight of the situation, dropped the duffel bag, pulled a gun from his waistband, and aimed it at Denise.
My heart leaped into my throat. The situation had the potential to go downhill quickly.
It all happened in slow motion.
My hand had been resting on the grip of my pistol, holstered in my waistband, waiting for the right time.
Now was just about that time.
Within a fraction of a secon
d, every deputy had their weapon drawn and aimed at one of the two scumbags.
“It would be a good idea for you guys to give yourselves up," Daniels said.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Shotgun raised his hands in the air.
Mendoza snatched the shotgun from his grasp. "On the ground, now!"
The thug’s accomplice held his silver semi-automatic pistol aimed at Denise. His hand trembled slightly, and his wide eyes flicked about, glancing at all the armed deputies and the barrels of their pistols.
He hesitated a moment, then sprinted toward the door.
Mendoza pounced on Mr. Shotgun and slapped the cuffs around his wrists.
Bag Boy pushed through the door and took off running down the sidewalk.
With Denise out of harm's way, the lump in my throat vanished. I gave chase, racing across the bar, sprinting out the door.
Bag Boy’s sneakers slapped against the sidewalk as he sprinted toward the corner.
My legs drove me forward, and my heart pounded as I chased after him. Pedestrians shrieked and parted as the masked thug barreled past them.
He turned at the intersection, hauling ass down a narrow one-way lane that ran behind the bars.
I rounded the corner, chasing after the scumbag.
We raced down the narrow passage past dumpsters and the back end of all the establishments that faced Oyster Avenue. It was a long stretch with nowhere else to go. There were a few mopeds parked out back and bikes chained to racks.
