Wild Justice Read online

  Wild Justice

  Tyson Wild Book Two

  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

  Author’s Note

  Max Mars

  Connect With Me

  Copyright © 2019 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

  "I need you to get down here, ASAP,” a gruff voice said, crackling through the tiny speaker in my cell phone.

  I had barely managed to find the phone and answer it before it stopped ringing. Not many people have this number, so I figured it was worth answering. My eyes weren’t even open yet, and it took me a moment to process what I was hearing. I was having one of those crazy dreams that didn’t make any sense. In the dream, I was a Formula One race car driver, and I had just gotten a $100 million dollar contract from Ferrari. But we weren’t racing on a track. We were speeding through the desert. Needless to say, the car was having trouble trying to get over the sand dunes. Like I said, it made no sense. It made coming back to reality that much harder.

  ”Sheriff?" my voice scratched out.

  “When do you think you can be here?"

  "Where is here?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes, trying to force them awake.

  “Pearl Beach."

  "Yeah," I grumbled. "Give me 20 minutes."

  "Make it 10!”

  He hung up the phone before I could ask him what this was about.

  It was pitch dark in my stateroom.

  My eyes squinted as I looked at the display on my phone, not yet used to the brightness. After a moment, I was able to focus.

  4:22 AM.

  What the hell did Sheriff Wayne Daniels want at 4:22 AM?

  I delicately grabbed the sultry brunette’s arm that was wrapped around me and moved it aside. Aria was out like a rock. We had just gone to sleep a few hours earlier, and she wasn't much of a morning person, anyway.

  I pulled the covers aside and slid out of bed, trying not to wake her. I hated to leave her. She lay like an angel, her pert ass beckoning a second glance. I knew I was going to miss out on our morning ritual together, which I had grown quite accustomed to.

  I fumbled for my boxers that I wore the night before. They were in a ball on the deck next to Aria’s panties. I pulled them on and followed the trail of clothes, like breadcrumbs, that led into the salon. We had started pulling each other’s clothes off the minute we entered the hatch. We’d been together for a few weeks now, and I couldn’t get enough.

  I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, slipped on some shoes, and grabbed my Köenig-Haas MMX 9mm. I press-checked the weapon and slipped the holster inside my waistband for an appendix carry. Then I grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and pushed through the hatch into the cockpit.

  Fresh air filled my lungs as I breathed deep and stretched. The marina was quiet, and gentle waves lapped against the hull of the boat. It was calm and peaceful.

  I was still living on JD’s 45 foot sport fishing boat. The rent was free as long as I helped him out with charters here and there. It was a sweet gig, and I didn’t plan on changing my residence anytime soon.

  I headed down the dock toward Diver Down, and had an Uber pick me up in the parking lot.

  I figured if I was in some kind of trouble, Sheriff Daniels would have showed up and arrested me, personally. Maybe he was too lazy and wanted me to come to him?

  It took five minutes for the Uber to show up, and another five to get over to Pearl Beach. Coconut Key was a small island, and at this time of the morning there was no traffic. Not like there was much traffic during rush hour, anyway.

  I arrived on the scene 16 minutes after I spoke with the sheriff, and that seemed to be good enough for him. He had bigger fish to fry.

  The area was sectioned off with yellow police tape, and the medical examiner poked at the body. Forensics investigators snapped photographs, brilliant flashes reflecting against the water.

  The sand shifted under my feet as I marched toward the crime scene. The gentle crashing waves on the beach were soothing, in stark contrast to the corpse that lay against the white sand.

  Gulls picked at its pale flesh. Crabs and other scavengers tried to abscond with tiny morsels. It was a gruesome sight that made me cringe.

  But I had seen plenty of dead bodies in my day.

  There were a few chunks of flesh missing where a shark had taken a nibble. But that’s not what caused this man’s death. You don’t go swimming in slacks and a dress shirt. Of course, he could have fallen overboard from a yacht, but something told me there were more sinister forces at play.

  "I didn't do it, I swear," I said, raising my hands innocently.

  Sheriff Daniels scowled at me. Perhaps it was too early for my demented sense of humor?

  2

  JD strolled down the beach like he owned the place. His long blonde hair flowed with the breeze. Or should I say, mostly gray hair? He wore his usual attire—cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and a pair of dark sunglasses—even though it was pitch black outside. He looked like an aging rock star, and he was quite proud of the fact.

  Sheriff Daniels must have called him as well. Why the hell did he want us here?

  Jack Donovan took his time walking down the beach. When he arrived at the scene, he said, "I see he recruited you too?"

  "Yeah, but I'm not sure why?” I said.

  "Who's the floater?" JD asked, nodding to the body.

  Sheriff Daniels’ eyes narrowed at Jack. "Have a little more respect for the dead, JD. After all, it is one of your friends."

  JD arched a concerned brow and pulled down his sunglasses to get a better look at the corpse.

  We stood about 15 feet away from the body. The medical exam
iner, Brenda Sparks, hovered over the remains. She scowled at JD when she saw him and looked away, abruptly.

  "Whoops," I said, knowing the two had hooked up before. At least, I assumed they did.

  Brenda was cute-ish… If you'd been stranded on a desert island for a year.

  "Trouble in paradise?" I asked.

  JD glared at me. "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I jumped on the grenade so—“ he stopped mid-sentence, realizing he probably shouldn't say out loud that he slept with her just to get information about our last case.

  Sheriff Daniels shook his head. "I can't believe I'm going to do this."

  "Do what?" I asked.

  "That's Scott Kingston.”

  JD's face dropped. “Ah, shit!”

  My face twisted, perplexed, not recognizing the name.

  "Local boat dealer,” Daniels said. "He's known for high-end yachts and go-fast boats, upscale sport-fishing boats. Pretty elite clientele. Along with some real scumbags. Sold JD his boat, if I'm not mistaken,” the sheriff said, making a subtle jab.

  "Our transaction was aboveboard," JD protested.

  "I didn't say it wasn't," Daniels replied.

  The two exchanged a suspicious glance.

  "That's a damn shame,” JD said. “He threw some great parties. There was this one time…"

  "Not now, JD," the Sheriff barked

  “What have you got so far?” I asked.

  "Looks like a professional hit. Two to the back of the head. Small caliber." Brenda is trying to ascertain the time of death."

  "He's been in the water for a while," JD said, surveying the remains.

  "Who found the body?" I asked.

  "Couple of tourists. They came down to the beach for a little romp when Scott put a damper on things."

  "Did you talk to them already?" I asked.

  "I took their statements. They’re from Iowa. It's pretty clear they didn’t have anything to do with this. She's a schoolteacher, and he works in construction."

  JD and I exchanged a curious glance.

  “So, why are we here?" I asked.

  The sheriff let out a distressed sigh. "Like I said, I'm going to regret this." He cleared his throat. “Deputy Perkins resigned. He's going back to Oklahoma. That leaves me short-staffed. Considering your backgrounds, and your help on the last case—and since I know you two can’t keep your noses out of anything—I’m deputizing you both.”

  JD's eyes brightened, and a grin tugged on his lips.

  "I don't know about this,” I said.

  "What's not to know?" JD asked. "We'll have a badge and a gun and we can shoot people!”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. "You can't shoot people."

  "Hell, I can shoot people with or without your badge," JD said. "I've been doing it my whole life."

  "I can change my mind at any time," the sheriff said

  “No need. We’ll make great deputies," JD said. His eyes flicked to mine. "Won't we?"

  "I appreciate the gesture, Sheriff. But honestly, I came down here to get away from all this."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, because I think you would be a huge asset to the department." He pleaded his case. “I’m just a small-town cop in over his head. I'm trying to keep this whole thing together, without enough money and too little resources. The last thing I need are tourists finding dead bodies washed up on shore. And that's starting to become a regular thing." He paused for a moment, then he swung for the fence. "And, I figured with your personal background, what with your parents and all, you'd be all over this."

  He had to pull out my parents. He knew there was no way I could turn this down.

  “You’d have access to all the department’s resources, including the files regarding your parents’ murders,” he said, putting a cherry on top.

  "Okay. Fine,” I said. “I’ll help out."

  "It's just temporary," Daniels said. He dug into his pocket and handed us both shiny gold badges that said Coconut County Sheriff's Deputy on them.

  "Who was the last person to see Scott Kingston alive?"

  Sheriff Daniels shrugged. "That's what I just hired you boys to find out."

  3

  “Special Agent Archer, FBI,” a woman said as she approached the crime scene.

  She flashed a badge, then slipped it back into her pocket. She looked like a typical Fed—navy blazer, white blouse, navy slacks, aviator sunglasses.

  It didn’t take much investigating to see that she had some hidden talent underneath that pantsuit. JD nudged an elbow into my ribs, letting me know that he had discovered the same thing.

  She was hot as hell.

  Wavy, sandy-blonde hair, blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and pouty lips that could start wars.

  Sheriff Daniels adjusted his duty belt, defensively. A beautiful woman was always welcome, but no local law enforcement liked the Feds stepping on their toes.

  Agent Archer picked up on his posture. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking to interfere. I’d just like to share information. We had Kingston under surveillance.”

  “Obviously the surveillance was not that close,” I said, dryly.

  Her blue eyes threw daggers. “We can’t be everywhere all the time.”

  “What was he under surveillance for?” Sheriff Daniels asked.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t divulge that information.”

  “I’m not exactly sure how you expect to exchange information if you aren’t willing to share,” Daniels said.

  “The investigation is ongoing,” Archer said. “Divulging any specifics may compromise our agents in the field.”

  Wayne forced a smile. In the most insincere tone he could muster, he said, “Well, since you put it that way. I’ll be sure to let you know the minute we have any information.”

  She dug into her pocket and handed him a card. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Archer whirled around and sauntered away. JD and I couldn’t help but fixate on her luscious assets.

  “Now why did you have to go run her off?” JD said, half joking.

  Sheriff Daniels frowned at JD. "I'm not running a dating service here. Don't you two have a murder to solve?"

  "Since we're officially on the job, does that mean we have an expense account?" JD asked

  "I don't even have an expense account. I'm regretting this already. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

  "Come on," I said. Let's go grab some breakfast. Discuss the case."

  I followed JD to his red Porsche parked in one of the public lots near the beach. I climbed into the passenger side of the convertible Carrera, and JD brought the engine to life with a roar. He dropped it into gear, and the tires spit gravel as we peeled out of the parking lot.

  Wind rustled through my hair, and the flat six screamed as the sun crested the horizon. JD kept the stereo at an earsplitting level, pounding my eardrums with hits from the 80s.

  JD had two speeds. Fast, and faster.

  The bucket seat hugged my form as we twisted around corners, testing the limits of the car’s grip on the road. A few moments later, we pulled into the parking lot of Wilford's Waffle House. A cute little hostess escorted us to a booth, and we slid into the green vinyl seats.

  The place was already full with seniors looking to catch the morning special. It had an old-school diner vibe. Checkered tile floor. Jukebox. It served breakfast 24 hours a day. It was popular with the late night drunk crowd.

  "Your waitress will be with you in a few minutes," the hostess said as she handed us laminated menus.

  I had been here many times before, and had my eye on a fat stack of blueberry pancakes, slathered with butter and maple syrup.

  When the waitress arrived, JD ordered a ham and cheese omelette and some crispy bacon. The waitress poured us some coffee and sent our ticket back to the cook.

  The light murmur of chatter filled the air along with the clink of forks against plates. I usually didn't get out much for breakfast. I’d roll out of bed and whip somet
hing together in the galley of the Slick’n Salty.

  "How well did you know Kingston?" I asked.

  JD shrugged. “I bought the boat from him. He threw regular parties and invited his clients. The guy was always surrounded by hotties. He certainly worked hard at customer retention. Once he sold you a boat, you were in his extended family, so to speak. He didn't ever want you to buy another boat anywhere else. He could get anything you needed at decent prices. He was the go to guy. Celebrities, drug dealers, tech giants—didn't matter. They'd all mingle together at his parties like it was no big deal."

  "Can you think of anybody who would want him dead?"

  "I think we should probably start with the basics. Talk to his girlfriend. See if there's anybody he owed money to."

  "Maybe one of his clients got pissed off? Found a better deal somewhere else?"

  "The kind of people Kingston dealt with weren't really price sensitive. These are cats with money to burn."

  I looked up from the menu and saw Special Agent Archer lingering at the hostess stand. She surveyed the restaurant, like any good field agent would, and her eyes met mine.

  I tried not to frown and muttered, "Look who just showed up."

  JD craned his neck over his shoulder. "Well, would you look at that?”

  Archer whispered something to the hostess, and a fraction of a second later they were both headed in our direction.