Wild Deep (Tyson Wild Thriller #94)

Chapter 1

Jack did something unfathomable.

I never thought I’d see the day, but I guess he wanted a change of pace.

Our car situation left a little to be desired.

The Devastator was in the impound lot in Pineapple Bay as part of a case.

The Porsche was in the shop getting paint and body work.

Not to mention driving a coupe in the Florida sunshine was starting to make Jack feel claustrophobic.

It was almost illegal to drive anything other than a convertible in Coconut Key.

So he bought a Lamborghini.

A lime green Huracan EVO Spyder—640 hp of naturally aspirated goodness from a symphonic V-10. The last of its kind. The pure-bred engine propelled the car from zero to 60 in around three seconds.

The sound.

Oh my God, the sound.

A race car with a rocket strapped on the back. Stomp the gas, and the acceleration will peel your face off.

It was a completely different animal than the Porsche. Not better, not worse, just a different experience.

With its aggressive stance, sharp, angular lines, fat tires, and a cockpit that could make a fighter jet look outdated, this thing was otherworldly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the designers had access to alien technology.

The pre-loved car was in great shape, and Jack got a helluva a deal on it—though exotic Italian sports cars, and bang for the buck, don't really belong in the same sentence.

Jack pulled out of the dealer's lot with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. He beamed with joy like a kid on Christmas morning—the top down, the Florida sun beaming bright, that glorious exhaust singing.

That sensation of bliss lasted about 30 seconds, then…

BAM!

Metal crumpled and crinkled. Taillights shattered. The impact jolted us forward.

A stream of obscenities flew from Jack's mouth.

I didn't blame him.

We were both dazed for a second, trying to figure out what the hell happened.

"You alright?" I asked.

Jack nodded with a scowl on his face.

He climbed out of the car, rubbing his neck.

I followed.

Bits of carbon fiber littered the asphalt. The decklid, bumper, taillights, parking sensors, exhaust tips, and rear diffuser were all toast.

The white sedan that had plowed into the back of the Lamborghini was in terrible shape—headlights smashed, the hood buckled. Steam billowed from a cracked radiator.

The bumper on the Lambo cost more than the car that hit us.

I noticed something odd.

The windshield was speckled with blood, and a bullet had cratered the glass.

A panicked girl exited from the driver’s seat. Tears streamed down her twisted face as she glanced at the chaos. Then she craned her neck behind her, and her blonde hair twirled.

A black SUV screeched around the corner, and a thug hopped from the passenger seat with a Mac 10 in hand.

Muzzle flash flickered, and bullets flew.

JD and I drew our weapons and took cover behind the white sedan.

The girl crouched below the vehicle. It was at a slight angle—just enough to offer a little protection.

My pistol hammered my palm, and smoke wafted from the barrel as I returned fire.

Bullets crisscrossed the boulevard, pelting body panels and shattering glass.

I don't think the thug was expecting return fire. After a short volley, he hopped back into the SUV. The driver put it into gear, stomped the gas, and squealed the tires. It whipped around and continued through the intersection. The SUV had temp plates, and I didn’t get a good look at them.

With veins full of adrenaline and my heart pounding, I looked at Jack.

He gave me a nod.

I moved to the girl. "Are you okay?”

Frazzled, she nodded her head. "They started chasing me.”

“Who?”

"I don't know. I picked up a fare. Then all of a sudden, they were behind me and started shooting. They killed my passenger.”

I looked her over. The side of her face and hair were speckled with blood, but it wasn’t hers. She didn’t show any signs of injury.

I moved to the backseat and opened the door. A man in his mid-40s lay slumped over. He’d taken a bullet to the back of the skull. It had exited through his face.

Not a pretty sight.

The interior was painted with crimson.

I fished the passenger’s wallet from his pocket, along with a cell phone, while Jack called dispatch.

In his current condition, facial recognition was a no-go for accessing the device. There wasn’t a fingerprint scanner on the phone either.

I returned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Paisley.”

I introduced myself and JD.

“You don’t have any enemies, do you?”

“Not like that.”

“You didn’t cut those guys off or anything?” I muttered in jest.

“No.”

I didn’t think this was a road rage incident.

Paisley was cute. Early 20s, soft features, blue eyes, trim figure. Girl next door vibes. I couldn’t imagine these guys would be after her. Most likely her passenger.

I asked Paisley, “Where’d you pick him up?”

“The airport.”

“He have any baggage?”

“In the trunk.”

I asked her to pop the trunk, then I moved around. She did, and the lid lifted.

The sounds of sirens drew near.

Traffic crawled by, people gawking and taking pictures and video.

I snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, unzipped the small roller case, and rummaged through it, looking for anything unusual.

It contained clothes and toiletries.

Patrol units screeched to the scene, lights flashing. The patter of rotor blades filled the sky as Tango One circled overhead. Paris Delaney and her news crew weren’t too far behind the squad cars.

The sheriff arrived, followed by the medical examiner and EMTs. Brenda and her crew went to work, examining the body.

The sheriff approached with an annoyed face. “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

We stepped away from Paisley, and I gave him an overview.

“Who’s the passenger?”

“ID in his wallet says Steve Davidson. He just got into town, according to her,” I said, nodding to Paisley.

“He sure got a warm welcome.” The sheriff frowned.

“This looks like a hit, but I’m not sure why they kept going after the girl.”

Forensic investigators went over the car, documenting bullet holes and slugs.

The EMTs evaluated Paisley. She was traumatized, but unharmed. I waved her over and introduced her to the sheriff.

I asked, “Had you ever met the passenger before?”

“No.”

“No connection whatsoever?”

She shook her head.

“Did he have any other baggage besides the suitcase in the trunk?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t do anything to antagonize these people?”

Her brow knitted. “No! I’m just trying to pay my rent, and this crap happens.”

“How long have you been driving?”

“Just a few months. And just during the day. I don’t like picking up people at night.” Then she muttered, “I don’t like picking up people during the day, either.”

“Maybe you should find another job.”

“After today, count on it.” She looked at the Lambo and cringed. “Sorry about your car.”

“You got insurance?” JD asked.

Paisley nodded.

By that time, the guy who had sold Jack the car made it to the scene. He looked at the Lambo with a tortured face. “Man, that’s a shame.”

JD said, “I don’t suppose you’ll take it back?”

The salesman laughed. It was all Jack’s now.

Brenda and her crew bagged the body, transferred it to a gurney, and loaded the remains into the ME’s van.

We wrapped up at the scene. Paisley grabbed her purse and a metal briefcase from the front passenger seat. A patrol unit took her to the station to fill out a report and make a statement.

JD and I followed in the Huracán. It was drivable but had certainly lost some of its mojo. It clunked and popped going around corners. There might have been suspension damage.

I logged Steve Davidson’s phone and wallet in as evidence. We filled out reports, then Jack drove the car to Sparky for an evaluation. He was currently getting the Porsche back into shape. If Sparky couldn’t do it, he would know who could. Dealers typically sub the work out anyway.

I caught up with Paisley after she made her statement. "You need a ride home?"

"That would be great.”

I borrowed a squad car and drove her back toward her apartment. It wasn't long before I noticed we picked up a tail—a silver sedan.

Daniels had put a BOLO out on the assassin’s vehicle, but I suspected the black SUV was off the road by now. Probably in a warehouse or garage with the plates swapped. Maybe it had been stolen.

I made a few quick twists and turns to confirm my suspicion. Sure enough, the silver sedan hung with us, several car lengths back.

A spike of adrenaline surged. At this point, anything could happen.