Wild Captive Read online

  Wild Captive

  Tyson Wild Book Six

  Tripp Ellis

  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.

  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

  Author’s Note

  Tyson Wild

  Max Mars

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  1

  Bullets streaked across the water, impacting the hull of the Wild Tide.

  It was the start to a beautiful morning.

  My phone kept buzzing in my pocket, but I didn’t have time to answer it. Not now. I figured whoever it was could wait. I had more important things to deal with.

  I ducked behind the bulkhead as the bullets impacted the fiberglass, sending splinters of debris in all directions. The boat bounced across the waves, spraying mist into the air, leaving a wake of frothy white water. My quads burned as I tried to steady myself against the tumultuous deck.

  “Get closer!” I shouted into the salon.

  “If you haven’t noticed, they’re shooting at us,” JD yelled back over the roar of the engines.

  He crouched low at the helm, the front windows already webbed with cracks from bullets.

  The sky was clear, the sea was calm, and the morning sun glimmered across the water. A perfect day for chasing down bad guys.

  Buddy barked below deck. I had put him in a compartment to keep him out of harm’s way. The little Jack Russell Terrier knew something was up.

  The Wild Tide inched closer to the 45 foot motoryacht. It was a luxurious SunRunner™ with sleek lines and elegant curves. It had a spacious cockpit, a large salon, and a skybridge with an aft sundeck.

  I didn’t know what was under the hood, but it couldn’t keep up with the Wild Tide.

  We carved through the waves, the salty mist dousing me with each undulation.

  Muzzle flash flickered as a shadowy figure fired from within the salon of the SunRunner.

  At this distance, with the rocking of the boat, I wasn’t concerned about the thug’s accuracy. But there was no discounting bad luck. A stray bullet could do just as much damage as a well-intentioned one.

  I was hesitant to shoot back.

  I didn’t want to hit any of the hostages.

  My hand gripped my 9mm tight, waiting for an opportunity.

  We had seen the whole thing go down. Right place at the wrong time. It was supposed to have been a leisurely day on the water, drinking beer, fishing, and using an advanced sonar drone to search for sunken treasure. We had been hunting for the lost gold of a Spanish Galleon for weeks now.

  Jack had been pouring over the memoirs of the notorious French pirate Jacques De La Fontaine. His obsession with the legend had all but consumed him.

  But this wasn’t about sunken treasure.

  By my count, there were three bikini-clad girls aboard the SunRunner, as well as two men with rippled abs, wearing board shorts and ball caps. The two thugs aboard, wearing balaclavas that covered everything but their eyes, were uninvited guests.

  It started when the thugs had pulled alongside the SunRunner in a Go Fast boat. Two thugs leapt over the gunwale and stormed the vessel, weapons drawn.

  Chaos ensued.

  Cracks of gunfire echoed across the water as the goons peppered the two frat boys. Crimson blood splattered, and their bodies flopped to the deck.

  The girls screamed and howled. Their faces twisted with fear.

  The thugs marched the girls into the salon. I’m not sure what happened after that.

  That’s when JD and I gave chase.

  The driver of the Go Fast boat sped across the water, disappearing on the horizon.

  I don’t think the thugs that boarded the SunRunner were counting on us.

  Rage boiled in my veins. The whole scenario reminded me of my parents’ murder. They had been killed on the water, and their boat stolen.

  There were all kinds of bad actors on the water, and not near enough law enforcement to combat all the drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, and theft.

  JD kept the throttle full as we raced toward the stolen boat. I crouched low, hiding beneath the gunwale as we pulled alongside the SunRunner.

  The driver of the yacht veered into us, slamming into the hull.

  Fiberglass cracked, and the boat quaked.

  More gunshots blasted at me as we played bumper boats.

  JD grumbled about the damage to his boat. The poor guy couldn't catch a break. Just about every time we took the 70 foot Valkyrie Sportfish on the water we ran into trouble.

  The Wild Tide was a helluva boat. She had two upgraded MTU 16V 2000 series engines, was tournament rigged, and had just about every factory option.

  It was my current residence.

  As bad-ass as it was, JD already had his eye on something bigger.

  Isn’t that always the way?

  I popped up over the gunwale and angled my weapon toward the SunRunner’s salon.

  The thug poked through the hatch and angled his weapon toward me.

  I blasted two quick shots, one of which clipped the man in the shoulder. Blood spattered against the bulkhead, and the impact twisted him around. He fell, and his weapon clattered to the deck in the cockpit.

  The two boats veered toward each other again.

  I stepped onto the gunwale
and leapt into the air, attempting to board the SunRunner.

  Attempting.

  The chasm of blue water beneath me widened as the two boats pulled apart. As I hovered in the air, I hoped I wouldn’t smack the SunRunner’s gunwale and break a few ribs.

  There was always the possibility of cracking my jaw on the ledge and breaking a few teeth from the impact. Worse, I could miss, get sucked under the boat, and chopped up by the propeller.

  2

  My feet barely cleared the gunwale, landing in the cockpit of the stolen yacht. I tumbled and rolled, then sprang to a kneeling, firing position.

  The bodies of two dead frat boys lay beside me in a pool of blood, staining the teak deck.

  The thug I had shot writhed in agony on the deck by the hatch to the salon. He screeched in pain.

  I decided to put an end to his misery with two more shots to the chest as he reached for his pistol.

  His companion at the helm twisted around and fired another flurry of shots at me.

  Bullets whizzed through the air.

  I advanced toward the salon and took cover behind the bulkhead. Bullets pummeled the fiberglass by the hatch, exploding inches from my face.

  I angled my weapon around the hatch and fired.

  My bullet hit the goon in the chest, knocking him back against the helm. Crimson blood painted the instruments as he slid to the deck, clutching his gaping wound and gasping for breath. His limp arm lifted his pistol as he tried to get another shot off, but I nipped that in the bud with another squeeze of my trigger.

  With the two thugs dispatched, I advanced through the salon to the helm and cut the engines.

  The yacht drifted through the water.

  I made my way to a stairwell and descended below deck. The muffled shrieks of the girls filtered down the companionway from the master suite.

  I pushed down the corridor and shouted through the hatch, "Sheriff's Department!"

  I figured it was best to announce myself before opening the hatch—I didn't want them attacking me when I entered.

  Huddled in the compartment, the three girls trembled with terrified faces. Their eyes were puffy and red from crying. Tears streaked their mascara.

  I tried to assure them that they were safe now, but this was a traumatic experience that would haunt them the rest of their lives.

  Things could have been so much worse.

  It was something that nobody liked to talk about in Coconut Key, but this wasn’t the first time a boat had been hijacked on the high seas. Sometimes the occupants were forced to abandon ship, left in the ocean with life preservers. Often they were killed, and the boats were retitled and sold with new HINs (Hull Identification Numbers). Occasionally, the passengers were kidnapped and held for ransom. Pretty girls were sold to sex traffickers.

  I called Sheriff Daniels, and it wasn’t long before he met us in his patrol boat. I gave him the details. Brenda, the medical examiner, inspected the bodies. Crime scene photographers documented the carnage.

  After we wrapped up, I piloted the SunRunner back to the station and tied off at the dock. The boat belonged to the father of one of the boys that had been killed. I didn't want to be the one that had to contact the family and give them the bad news.

  I gave a full statement, along with the girls. Another shooting meant another administrative investigation. Another period of administrative leave. Hell, at this point I was ready for a vacation.

  I spent hours under the buzzing green fluorescent lights in the conference room, filling out paperwork at the mahogany table. When I worked as a clandestine operative for Cobra Company, I never filled out this much paperwork. A shadow organization that operated outside the bounds of congressional oversight didn’t like to leave a paper trail.

  Denise kept our coffee cups full as JD and I scribbled out our version of the events.

  “All I know is the county better reimburse me for damages to the Wild Tide,” JD said.

  “Good luck with that,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

  JD liked to grumble. I had a sneaking suspicion that he had more than enough tucked away somewhere to cover the repairs, and then some. He was never short on cash, but he sure liked to gripe about it.

  After the girls had finished giving their statements, they stepped into the conference room. They all had a dazed look in their eyes. They had seen the horrors the world had to offer, and their views on life would be forever changed.

  A cute blonde, Amanda, said, “Thanks again for what you did.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said with a solemn expression. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

  She gave me a grim nod, then glanced to JD. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his features. A hint of recognition flashed in her baby blues. “Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look like—”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” JD said, cutting her off. He’d been mistaken for an aging ‘80s rockstar on more than one occasion. It was not beyond him to sign the occasional autograph or accept a free drink from a drunken fan. JD typically milked it for all it was worth.

  His long, blonde hair made a desperate attempt to fight off the gray. I rarely saw JD wearing anything other than a loud Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. Jack Donovan lived life on his own terms, that was for sure.

  Amanda tried to smile before leaving. “Well, thanks again.”

  After we finished the paperwork, and the mandatory interview with Sherriff Daniels, we left the station and climbed aboard the Wild Tide.

  JD surveyed the damage. A frown twisted on his face. “Doesn’t look that bad.”

  There were several bullet holes in the bulkheads, and the hull had been scuffed from the impact.

  “A little fiberglass resin and some paint, and she’s as good as new,” I said, trying to remain optimistic.

  JD flashed me a sour look.

  “Hey, it could’ve been worse.”

  He’d already lost one boat to my shenanigans. I was treading on thin ice.

  JD moved to the helm and cranked up the engines. I cast off the lines, and we left the station behind. Gulls squawked overhead, and the afternoon sun beat down on my face.

  The day had evaporated.

  “Should we resume where we left off?” Jack asked. “Or should we just catch happy hour somewhere?”

  “Happy hour.”

  Did he even need to ask?

  Jack idled the Wild Tide out of the harbor, and we headed back toward the marina at Diver Down.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID displayed on the screen. I had several missed calls from the same number. In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the calls.

  My face twisted with confusion. I wondered what the hell a Mafia guy was doing calling me?

  3

  Scarpetti was an old school New York Mafia guy. How he ended up in Coconut Key was another story. He ran a high-stakes poker game that was a Who’s Who of the island. Politicians, celebrities, musicians. Anybody with means could buy into the game.

  The game was held at the Seven Seas Hotel on a regular basis. He rented a posh suite, decked it out with a Vegas style poker table, dealer, stocked bar, and gorgeous models to serve drinks and cigars.

  I had won my fair share on multiple occasions.

  As long as he didn’t take a rake, it technically wasn’t illegal. But it was customary to tip out the house a percentage of earnings. Everyone wanted to keep the show going, and if you didn’t tip out, you might not gain admission the next time you wanted to play.

  And nobody wanted to be banned from Scarpetti’s game.

  I had to admit, I liked the guy. He had a way about him. But you wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. He was a big man, late 40s, dark hair, hard face. He had a few scars around his eyebrows from street fights.

  Rumor had it he was an enforcer for the mob in his early days and worked his way up the food chain. You can never really leave the Mafia, but sometimes even the hardest of men need
an easier lifestyle. Coconut Key could be a very easy lifestyle for some. Despite the seedy underbelly, it was a playground for the rich and famous. If you had money, the island was a paradise. You could get anything you wanted. There was sun, fun, and sin.

  I was sure that Scarpetti was kicking a percentage of his earnings back up to the mob bosses in New York to keep them happy. But I got the impression that he wanted to stay away from anything that could land him in a federal prison.

  Still, cross the man, and you were a phone call away from an untimely demise.

  His friends called him Spaghetti, or Meatballs, or Big Tony, or sometimes Scarface. I considered us casual acquaintances. I frequented his poker game. He was forthcoming with information when needed. But I wouldn’t go so far as to call us friends.

  I certainly wouldn’t want to be this man’s enemy. The guy commanded respect wherever he went.

  A call to my personal phone surprised me.

  “Mr. Scarpetti, to what do I owe the honor?”

  “Cut the Mr. Scarpetti crap. We’re friends aren’t we?” he said in a New York accent that had faded slightly over the years in the Keys.