Wild Honor Read online

  Wild Honor

  Tyson Wild Book 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

  Author’s Note

  Tyson Wild

  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

  "What? I can't hear you," I said, shouting over the music, mashing the phone against my ear.

  Sheriff Daniels grumbled something.

  I couldn't make it out.

  I pushed into the salon, weaving through the horde of bikini-clad beauties. Pop music thumped. Pert assets jiggled in rhythm with the beat. Long necks dangled from svelte fingers. Tequila shots flowed freely. Girls licked salt and sucked limes. It was like spring break gone wild.

  JD was right about purchasing a luxury party boat...

  After spending more than I care to say, we were now host to an endless array of parties. Our clientele ranged from the uber-rich, to social media influencers, to celebrities—anyone who needed to charter a super-yacht for a weekend getaway, party, or fundraising event.

  The new boat was nothing short of bad ass.

  With a boat like this, it didn't take long to forget about the Wild Tide.

  I pushed into the en suite, pulled the hatch shut, reducing the music to a dull thump. I could finally hear Sheriff Daniels—not that I really wanted to. "Okay. Sorry. What did you say?"

  "I need you, and that wanna-be-reject-rockstar, to get over here as soon as possible."

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  "You'll see when you get here. 815 Seabreeze Drive. You’re going to be plenty pissed off."

  "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

  "Do I care?"

  "We're out on the water. I’ll get there as soon as I can."

  "Take your time. I don't think the dead guy will mind," Daniels said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  I grimaced. "I’ll see you soon."

  I hung up the phone, stepped out of the en suite, and weaved through the horde of revelers, looking for JD. I found him on the foredeck applying a shimmering sheen of tanning oil to a toned brunette with olive skin, dark hair, and oversized... sunglasses.

  "Party is over," I said. "Daniels needs us on shore."

  JD's face crinkled. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of a very important operation here. Without the proper application, this young woman could receive a terrible sunburn."

  The brunette, Sasha, giggled.

  "Homicide," I said.

  Sasha’s jaw dropped.

  JD frowned and grumbled under his breath. He finished rubbing the lotion on the girl’s silky skin. "I guess we'll just have to move the party back to the marina."

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  JD assured the girl that he would continue his duties in the near future. She made a pouty face, exaggeratedly turning out her bottom lip.

  Jack Donovan climbed to his feet, and I followed him to the helm.

  Jack wore board shorts, a Hawaiian shirt that flowed open in the breeze, and a pair of checkered Vans. Dark Ray Ban sun glasses covered his eyes. He had long hair that used to be blonde, but was losing the war against the gray. He looked like an ‘80s rock star, and was often mistaken for one. He had an uncanny resemblance, and Jack never turned down an opportunity to pretend to be famous.

  He cranked up the engines, spun the super-yacht around, and headed us back to the marina. People were too busy partying to really notice or care. JD made a quick announcement that we were changing locations. As long as the music kept pumping, and the drinks kept flowing, the party would continue—no matter where we were.

  Fortunately this wasn’t a paying charter. Jack had decided to throw an impromptu party and handed out flyers to every hot girl he saw on the island. He canvassed all the bars on Oyster Avenue. Of course, Jack considered it a marketing expense—a promotional opportunity to introduce people to the Vivere and the new services we offered.

  We both knew the amount going out for this new business venture would probably exceed the amount coming in. The super-yacht sounded like a good idea, but it was really just an excuse to buy a way too expensive boat. With some creative accounting, we were able to write off the majority of expenses. In theory, the majority of the ship was used for commercial services. I let the accountant handle the nitty-gritty. After selling the movie rights to Bree Taylor's story, I needed all the write-offs I could get—after the agency fee, legal fees, and taxes, the seven-figure payday got whittled down quickly.

  I told Jack I wanted to name the boat something classy, since we were going for a more upscale clientele. His first suggestion was Balls Deep, followed by Bottoms Up and Tequila Bumrise.

  There was a lot of back-and-forth, and I finally convinced him to name the Italian made boat Vivere, which means to live.

  It seemed fitting enough.

  At the marina, we tied off the boat and reconnected shore power and water. JD hustled the partiers off the boat, down the dock, and into Diver Down. Just a change of venue, Jack assured.

  I let Buddy and Fluffy out of the VIP guest suite. The little Jack Russell wagged his tail and bounced around, ready to play. The snobby white cat darted into the hallway. I knelt down and petted Buddy and assured him we’d play later.

  I joined Jack at Diver Down. Dozens of inebriated partygoers swarmed the bar, and Madison was overwhelmed with drink orders.

  Extra business was nice, but she still gave me a dirty look.

  I smiled and told her we would be back soon—official business.

  Her dirty look didn't go away.

  We jogged through the parking lot to
Jack's new Porsche.

  It was a sight to behold.

  The lizard green 911 Speedster practically glowed in the dark. It had a sleek, aggressive profile and black satin rims. The flat six made 500 hp, and the car rocketed from 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds. The black leather interior had lizard green deviated stitching and aluminum accents. It was a beast.

  The smell of fresh leather filled my nostrils as I climbed into the car. The bucket seats hugged my form perfectly. The bolsters would keep me firmly in place while cornering at ridiculous speeds. Everything about the car was meticulously crafted to perfection. German engineering at its finest. It was built like a tank, and with the abuse JD would put it through, it needed to be.

  Jack twisted the ignition, and the rear engine howled. The car felt fast and powerful just standing still. The speedster had a cloth top—but a car like this deserved to be topless all the time.

  Jack let out the clutch, eased out of the parking lot like a jungle cat on the prowl, then floored it as we turned onto the highway. The acceleration pinned me against the seat, and the glorious sound of the exhaust swirled around the cabin. Wind rushed through my hair, and the beast devoured the highway.

  This was definitely faster, and nicer, than his last Porsche—and the car was no slouch.

  Red and blue lights flickered as we arrived at 815 Seabreeze Drive. A crowd of curious neighbors gathered around the home.

  JD parked the car, and we made our way through the horde of onlookers and across the yard. Two officers stood out front, keeping the neighbors at bay as the forensics team did their work inside. There was a mix of worried faces and wide eyes.

  Palm trees towered overhead. The home was a small mauve-colored concrete abode that backed up to a canal. You could walk out your back door, hop aboard your boat, and be out on the ocean within minutes.

  "What the hell took you so long?" Daniels asked with a scowl as we stepped inside.

  Brenda, the medical examiner hovered over the body that lay in the middle of the living room floor. Cameras flashed as a photographer documented the scene.

  By this point in time, I had seen just about everything. Almost nothing fazed me anymore. But this one punched me in the gut.

  Sheriff Daniels was right—this did piss me off.

  My blood boiled under my skin. I clenched my jaw, and my hands tightened into fists.

  Nothing like this should ever happen.

  2

  Warren Anthony Russell was 92 years old.

  There was a World War II era photograph of him on the wall in his Marine Corps dress blues. The image was colorized, and the dapper young man had sparkling blue eyes and a fresh face. He couldn't have been more than 17 or 18 at the time—a far cry from how he looked now.

  Warren had been beaten to a pulp, almost beyond recognition. The left side of his face had suffered multiple blows, fracturing the orbital bone and lacerating his thin skin.

  Despite his age, he looked rather fit, and had been a handsome man—before the attack.

  There was no doubt a beating like this would have caused brain trauma and probably left him with intracranial hemorrhaging. Brenda would give me a full report later, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the cause of death.

  The man was a Medal of Honor recipient. He had stormed the beaches at Normandy. Survived countless encounters with the enemy. Helped to liberate Europe and save America from tyranny. All so some ungrateful thug could beat him to death in his own home in his golden years.

  The thought of it made me sick.

  It didn't seem fair.

  A man like that deserved a peaceful exit, surrounded by family and loved ones—not alone, disrespected by some intruder.

  "What have we got?" I asked

  "No forced entry," Daniels said. "The back door was ajar and unlocked when we arrived."

  "Any witnesses?"

  "I've got deputies canvassing the area."

  "Motive?"

  Daniel shrugged. "Robbery? Mr. Russell could have come home and startled the intruder?"

  The place looked ransacked.

  I took a quick look around the home. Books had been pulled off of shelves. Drawers had been pulled out. Clothing had been tossed on the floor. Somebody was looking for something.

  When I returned to the living room I asked, "Is there anything missing?"

  "Hard to say," Daniels replied.

  "Do we have any fingerprints? Foot prints?"

  "We pulled prints from the door handle, the dresser drawers, various locations around the house," a forensics guy said. "We'll know more later."

  "Does he have any immediate family? Wife, kids?" I asked.

  "According to our records, his wife is deceased,” Daniels said. "She died in ‘97. He's got a daughter, but she's listed as deceased as well. His granddaughter in Miami got worried when she didn't hear from him. She called the station and asked us to do a wellness check. That's when the deputies found him."

  I squatted down beside the body and took a closer look at the man's face. His skin was so thin that it tore easily from the massive blows. There were several bloody impressions around the left cheek and eye. "The assailant was right handed."

  “You figure that out all by yourself?" Brenda snarked.

  I scowled at her, playfully. "Time of death?"

  "Judging by the condition of the body, maybe 9 o'clock last night."

  "What are these indentions?" I asked, pointing to Warren's mangled cheek.

  "I'm not sure," Brenda said. "The attacker may have been wearing a ring. I'll know more when I take a closer look at the lab."

  "See what you can find out," Daniels said. "Somebody had to see something. I want you to get this son-of-a-bitch and nail his ass to the wall."

  "With pleasure," I said.

  A deputy approached as JD and I stepped outside the home. "I've got a neighbor that lives across the street. She didn't see anything specifically, but she says she was friends with the victim and she thinks she knows who's responsible."

  The deputy introduced us to Mrs. Grant. She was an older woman in her late 70s. She was spry and kept herself fit. She wasn't about to let any gray hair show—it was dyed a deep auburn color.

  "I'll tell you exactly who you need to be looking for," Mrs. Grant said.

  "I'm all ears," I said.

  "Warren was such a nice man. Very kind. Too kind. If you ask me, people were taking advantage of him."

  "Who?"

  "I can't recall her name. Britney, Brandi? Something like that. He was always giving her money, helping her out of tight spots. She's trash, if you want my personal opinion."

  "What was the nature of their relationship?" I asked. "Sexual?"

  Mrs. Grant gasped and clutched her hand against her chest. "Oh, God no. She's 24, maybe 25? Warren preferred a more sophisticated type of woman."

  There was a little sparkle in Mrs. Grant's eyes. I got the impression that, perhaps, she had a fling with Warren—or at least wanted to.

  "Did you have a relationship with Warren?" I asked.

  Mrs. Grant batted her eyelashes and played coy. "I don't kiss and tell, Deputy Wild."

  "Just as a matter of record," I said, urging her to come clean.

  "Warren was a real charmer," Mrs. Grant said. "He got along with all the ladies. He was smart, funny, good looking, and he could still perform, if you know what I mean. Unassisted. He didn't need any pharmaceuticals."

  JD and I exchanged a glance.

  "So, I'll note that you had a casual relationship," I said.

  "We were friends with benefits, you could say. Isn't that what the young kids call it?”

  "I'm guessing Warren had a lot of friends?" I asked.

  "I would assume so, but I didn't really keep tabs on him."

  "This Britany, or Brandi, or whoever… What was her story?" I asked.

  A disgusted look twisted on her face. "She always had some sort of crisis going on. She couldn't afford her car note. She couldn't pay her rent. She had
outstanding tickets. Personally, I think she just spent the money on drugs and booze. She looked like the type. I think she reminded Warren of his daughter, and he had a soft spot for her. He was always trying to help her get on her feet."

  "Is there anyone else you can think of that might have wanted to do Warren harm?"

  Her face crinkled like it was the most preposterous thing she'd ever heard. "Warren was a sweetheart. Everybody liked him. He always had a smile, and he was quick to help anyone who asked. If he saw me unloading groceries, he'd always give me a hand. He volunteered as a crossing guard at the middle school. He was always at the nursing home, visiting with residents, trying to keep their spirits up. It's such a downright shame that this would happen to such a nice man!"

  Mrs. Grant frowned, and her eyes misted. It had finally hit her that her friend was gone. She casually wiped the tears away. "Warren always joked that he couldn't buy green bananas. At 92, he always said he could go at any minute. He tried to make every moment count."

  "When was the last time you saw Britany, or Brandi?" I asked.

  Mrs. Grant thought for a moment. "Maybe last week? And it's Brandi. It's definitely Brandi. Brandi Lynn something."

  “Any idea about her last name?”

  “Sorry. Don’t have a clue.”

  "And you haven't seen anyone else coming or going besides Warren?"