Wild Fury
Page 17
"Where the hell have you been?" Styxx asked, almost in a panic. "We go on in 15 minutes!"
"We got a little delayed," JD said. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Shit, you had us worried, bro!" Dizzy said.
"Ain't nothing to worry about," JD assured.
The room was full of groupies—little hotties running around in extremely short shorts and stiletto heels. Tight tube tops restrained bountiful bosoms. Crash sat on the couch with a groupie's head in his lap. I don't think that was an ice cream cone she was licking.
He smiled at JD and flashed a peace sign.
"Ain't rock 'n' roll great?" JD muttered to me.
JD grabbed a couple beers from an ice chest and handed one to me. I twisted the top with a hiss and took a sip of the cool beverage. We hung out in the greenroom for a while, waiting for the opening band to finish. Styxx banged on the counter with his drumsticks, warming up. Dizzy noodled on his guitar through a small practice amp.
When the opening act finished, they poured into the greenroom, sweaty and stinky. They grabbed bottles of beer and high-fived each other and howled. A bunch of girls followed them into the room. The place got crowded quick.
The stage manager poked his head into the room and said, "You guys are on in five."
I wished JD luck and told him I would meet him backstage after the show. I left the greenroom and went to the front-of-house. I didn't think we were in any danger, but I planned to keep an eye out. We killed most of Vasily Kozlov's henchmen. He didn't have any assassins left to send. But I wasn't about to take any chances.
By the time Wild Fury took the stage, the place was so crowded you could hardly breathe. The venue was well over the fire code. The crowd erupted with cheers as Styxx took his place behind the drums. Crash shouldered his bass guitar, and the amp buzzed as Dizzy plugged in his guitar.
Word had traveled about the band, and expectations were high.
JD grabbed the mic and shouted, "Are you ready to rock this mother fucker!?"
Earsplitting cheers erupted from the ravenous crowd. They needed an infusion of metal, and they were about to get it.
Dizzy cranked out an opening riff, and Styxx kicked the bass drum in rhythm. He smashed the hi-hat, then Crash chimed in on bass. Colored lights swirled and fog billowed across the stage. Jack, or I should say, Thrash, belted out the first verse.
The crowd went crazy.
I had to grin watching the whole thing. It was surreal.
Jack screeched and howled like the rock star he was destined to become.
Girls threw bras on the stage and shook their bare breasts at Thrash.
The deafening wall of music washed over the crowd, saturating their eardrums with heavy metal bliss.
I got the feeling this was the beginning of a long and interesting adventure.
45
I can't really go into too much detail about what happened after the show, but the after party found its way to the Vivere. It went on until the wee hours of the morning, and there was heavy drinking involved, and lots of fishnet stockings ended up on the deck.
JD had warned the band that there were no drugs allowed on the boat, which was met by a lot of unhappy groans, but the copious amounts of alcohol seemed to placate the masses.
There were more than a few noise complaints from neighbors.
I felt like I had just gotten to sleep when Sheriff Daniels called.
The harsh sun burned through the portholes, and I grabbed the phone from the nightstand. I croaked, "What is it?"
"That phone you took from Gregor… The IT guys pulled several text messages from Vasily ordering the kidnapping and murder of Denise. Looks like he screwed up and contacted Gregor from a phone registered in his name. I've got a team together and we're serving a warrant in half an hour. I assume you want in on this?"
"Hell yes!"
"Grab numb-nuts and get down to the station. He’s not answering his phone. And I want that patrol car back. Hopefully it's still in one piece!"
I hung up the phone and crawled out of bed. I brushed my teeth, splashed hot water on my face, and ran my wet fingers through my hair, trying to tame my bed-head. It didn't really matter much. This wasn’t a fashion show.
I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my tactical gear, pressed checked my weapon, and loaded my vest with extra magazines. I moved down the companionway and banged on the hatch to JD's quarters.
"What do you want?" JD groaned.
I told him about the impending op, then headed up to the galley and put on a pot of coffee. I threw a couple frozen breakfast burritos into the microwave.
A few minutes later, JD staggered up the steps. He had pulled his hair back in a slick ponytail. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bags were pretty severe, but considering the night we had, he seemed surprisingly energetic. I handed him a breakfast burrito on a plate, and he scarfed it down.
The boat was a wreck.
There were empty beer cans and bottles everywhere. Someone was passed out on the deck, and Crash had passed out on the settee with a girl on top of him. Dizzy and Styxx had taken a few groupies into a guest stateroom.
We inhaled the coffee, then left the Vivere and jogged down the dock to the parking lot. We hopped into the patrol car and sped down to the station where we joined the tactical team. We hopped into the van and rode with Erickson, Faulkner, Wilford, and Henley.
The matte black tactical van had sharp angular features and big, knobby tires. It looked like something out of a Batman movie. It was a de-militarized version of the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle. It weighed upwards of 10,000 pounds, was 20 feet long, and 8.2 feet wide. It had a 6.6L diesel engine that produced 340 hp. The six-speed automatic could barrel down the highway at 70 miles an hour. Not bad for a big, bulky vehicle that could withstand a blast from a small IED.
The security guard at the gate to the Coconut Key Country Club looked astonished as we rolled to a stop. His wide eyes surveyed the big armored monster. He opened the gate before the driver even had to ask. The gate swung wide, and the diesel engine growled as we rumbled down the entryway—the big, fat, knobby tires whirring along the asphalt.
We cruised past the clubhouse, past the putting greens and the café, rolling down to the marina. Luxury yachts and blue-water sailboats swayed gently in their slips. We spilled out of the armored vehicle and advanced down the dock to the Liquidity.
We announced ourselves, then stormed onto the super-yacht. It was a 163-foot Ninotti with three decks. One of which was dedicated to gaming—it had a blackjack table, craps table, and roulette wheel. We spilled onto the aft deck and shattered the sliding glass door to the salon with a battering ram. Shards of glass clattered to the deck, and we spilled into the salon, crunching over the glass, clearing the area.
A deckhand in the galley raised his hands in the air, staring at us with terrified eyes.
"On the deck! Now!" Erickson shouted.
The deckhand complied.
Erickson cuffed him.
Wilford and Henley advanced to the staircase and spiraled up to the fly-deck.
JD and I took the stairs below deck.
Erickson and Faulkner followed.
I swung the barrel of my pistol around the corner, clearing the companionway. I advanced forward while Erickson and Faulkner headed aft.
There were two guest suites on either side of the companionway. The full beam master lay ahead.
JD and I huddled by the starboard hatch. I gave a silent count, and JD pushed open the hatch to the stateroom.
I swung my pistol into the compartment and cleared the area.
It was empty, except for two single berths in the compartment.
We repeated the process for the stateroom on the port side.
Again it was empty.
There was a distinct possibility Vasily wasn't even aboard the ship.
We crept down the passageway toward the master stateroom.
My heart thudded in my chest.
I flattened my back again
st the port bulkhead by the door, narrowing my profile. I gave a nod to JD, who flattened himself against the starboard bulkhead. I reached a hand out and tugged on the door handle.
It was locked.
KABOOM!
A shotgun blast from within the compartment vaporized the hatch. Debris and birdshot scattered down the companionway, leaving a gaping hole in the hatch.
It was a good thing I was leaning against the bulkhead.
The unmistakable clack of the shotgun racking another round into the chamber echoed from within the stateroom.
I tossed a flash-bang grenade into the compartment and plugged my ears.
BANG!
A deafening blast rattled the bulkheads.
I angled my pistol through the hole in the hatch. Through the thick, soupy haze I saw Vasily shoulder his shotgun, preparing to defend himself. The blast had disoriented him for a moment.
Before he squeezed off a round, I put two bullets into his chest. He fell back against the queen bed, and the shotgun clattered to the deck. Blood stained the sheets, seeping from his wounds. His body twitched and convulsed for a moment before going limp.
I pried the hatch open and stormed into the compartment. My fingertips pressed against the carotid artery in Vasily's neck, confirming he didn't have a pulse.
The smell of gunpowder, mixed with the tinny metallic scent of blood, filled my nostrils. As I hovered over Vasily's body, I couldn't help but feel like he got off easy.
46
After we wrapped up at the country club and filled out all the paperwork at the station, I had one thing on my mind that needed to be done. It took a little persuasion, but Sheriff Daniels agreed to lend me and JD the patrol car for one more errand.
We drove to the warehouse district and pulled up to Vasily's warehouse. It was likely that nobody was coming back to take care of Punisher, and I couldn't allow that dog to go neglected.
JD had the doggy treats ready when Punisher came running. He lifted on his hind legs, pressing his paws against the chain-link fence while JD gave him a treat. We moved around the side of the fence where we had snipped the wire, and we let him out. I took hold of his collar and leashed him up, then escorted him into the back of the patrol car.
He sat in the backseat with an eager expression on his face as we drove across the island to the Coconut Key Animal Welfare Center. I hated to give Punisher to the shelter, but I couldn't take on another animal. And JD could barely take care of himself.
Penelope, the director of operations, assured us that she would find a good home for Punisher. I told her to call me if there were any issues and she couldn't find a forever home.
We left the shelter, and I dropped JD off at his house, then headed back to the station and took a cab to Diver Down. By the time I got back to the Vivere, I was more than ready for a nap. I was suffering from a serious adrenaline crash. The boat was still littered with bandmates and groupies, none of them stirring. They were creatures of the night, and it wasn't even noon yet. I’d deal with the mess and the guests later. I crawled into my bed in the master suite and closed my eyes for a few hours. Just enough to take the edge off.
It was early afternoon when I emerged from my hibernation and made my way up to the galley. Styxx hovered over the grill, frying bacon and cooking an omelette. He had put a fresh pot of coffee on. "I hope you don't mind, bro. I'm starving."
"Make yourself at home," I said.
"Dude, that was one hell of a party, man. You guys rock! And this boat... So righteous!"
Something told me this wasn't the last time Wild Fury would be partying aboard the Vivere.
The last of the revelers left by sundown. The night awaited them. It was almost time to start partying again.
I had the boat to myself and cleaned up the place. I took the next few days to unwind. I had a few things still hanging over my head, and I wasn't sure I would be able to make good on my promise to Madison. I just had to have faith that the universe would provide somehow.
It always had before.
I got a call from Colt Steel. He'd been released from prison, and he thanked me for my efforts. We met for a beer at Diver Down, and I knew right away that he was a good guy. I could sense it in my gut. He'd gotten a raw deal, convicted for a crime he didn't commit. With the terms of his release, he had to accept a manslaughter charge with time served. It was better than rotting away for the rest of his life in a prison cell, but it would make the road forward difficult for him.
Colt was about my age—a little younger. 6 feet tall, athletic build, square jaw, blonde hair, blue eyes. An all-American kid. He'd been in the Teams and served with honor. Despite six years in prison, the experience hadn’t broken him.
"I really can't thank you enough," Colt said. "You gave me a second chance at life."
"I know what second chances are all about. Make the most out of it."
"I will,” he said. “If there's ever anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask. I got your back."
"Careful. I may take you up on that."
He chuckled.
"What are your plans now?" I asked.
"Somehow I have to put my life back together. Move forward. I need to find out who really killed my wife, and why."
I knew where he was coming from. I could relate to the need for answers. I had searched them out regarding the death of my parents.
I didn't like what I found.
Maybe I would have been better off not knowing? "Don't let that consume you. It's not always healthy, and you may not like where it leads."
"It's not something I can let go," Colt said.
I recognized the look in his eyes. I had it too, at one point in time. There was no talking him out of it, so I didn't bother trying.
We shared a laugh and a beer, and I wished him well.
Daniels informed me that Dean Malone was willing to turn state's evidence and rat out his cocaine supplier. Though, when he came clean that Serpent Syndicate had fronted them product, he didn’t have much leverage. I guess he figured now that Vasily Kozlov was dead, there would be no retribution. Needless to say, he didn't get a deal.
Jack finally picked up his car from the shop. They did a pretty good job on the bodywork. I couldn't see where it had been keyed. Jack claimed to be able to, but I think he was just bitching. We took it easy for a while. Cruised the boat out on multiple excursions for fun in the sun. Hit the bars on Oyster Avenue and pretended like we didn't have any responsibilities. Jack stuck to his regular rehearsal schedule with the band. They had another gig coming up in two weeks.
JD was convinced that the treasure found on Angelfish Island by the college kids wasn't that of Jacques De La Fontaine. He was adamant the real treasure was still out there. He’d pick a location to search, and we would take the automated sonar drone out and let it run a search grid. It was mainly an excuse to drink beer and fish.
Despite the looming situation with Diver Down, life was good. Things were calm on the island. I was planning to visit Chloe on one of her tour dates. I was happy and content. Until Daniels called with bad news. "We've got another floater. I think the Seaside Stalker is back."
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Author’s Note
Thanks for all the great reviews!
I’ve got more adventures for Tyson and JD. Stay tuned.
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Thanks for reading!
—Tripp
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Wild Rivera
Wild Tide
Wild Rain
Wild Captive
Wild Killer
Wild Honor
Wild Gold
Wild Case
Wild Crown
Wild Break
Wild Fury
Wild Surge
Wild…
The Orion Conspiracy
Blade of Vengeance
The Zero Code
Edge of the Abyss
Siege on Star Cruise 239
Phantom Corps
The Auriga Incident
Devastator
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