Wild Venom: A Coastal Caribbean Adventure (Tyson Wild Thriller Book 31)

by Tripp Ellis

  We hung out for a while, ordered in Chinese takeout, and took another cursory glance around to make sure he wasn't holding any other illicit substances.

  Part of me wanted to check Crash into rehab that night. But he could just walk out of there at any time. I knew from experience that nobody ever got clean who didn't want to. Everybody had to come to that moment of enlightenment themselves. The moment when you realize that continuing down the path is going to lead to an untimely demise. And unfortunately, it can take a long time to hit bottom and come to that realization.

  45

  The smell of Italian seasonings filled the air when I stepped aboard the Avventura. Buddy greeted me excitedly and then darted into the galley leading me to my visitor.

  Sophia was in the galley, cooking.

  "I didn't realize you were so domesticated,” I said.

  "There's a lot of things about me that you don't realize. I made you some lasagna.”

  I had to admit, it smelled good. "You’ve lost your mind if you think I'm going to eat anything you serve me."

  A lascivious smirk curled her plump lips. "Well, if you won’t eat my lasagna, there’s something else you can eat that won't kill you."

  I ignored her. “What are you doing here?"

  "Can’t a girl cook a man dinner every once in a while? Or is that against the rules?"

  "I didn't think you played by the rules."

  "I don't."

  "I want my tender back."

  "It's back. It's tied up a few slips down. I'll take a cab when I leave."

  "When are you leaving?"

  "Take a bite of my lasagna and tell me it's not the best you've ever had. Then I’ll leave.”

  I gave her a skeptical glance.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. "How many opportunities have I had to kill you or let you die? Do you really think I would have gone to the trouble of cooking lasagna, which took me several hours to do, if I wanted you dead?"

  She had a point.

  She put on oven mitts, pulled the pan out of the oven, and set it on a pad on the counter. She proceeded to carve up squares and transfer them onto plates and brought them to the dining nook. She poured two glasses of red wine and brought them to the table. She slid into the seat and lifted her glass. “Are you going to join me, or are you going to make me eat alone?”

  I reluctantly slid into the bench seat across from her.

  She lifted her glass to toast. "To killing Elias Fink.”

  That was something I could certainly toast to.

  We clinked glasses, and I sipped the wine. If she was going to kill me, she'd been rather inefficient about it as of late.

  She took a bite of her lasagna.

  I switched plates, taking hers.

  She rolled her eyes.

  I shoveled a bite into my mouth, and it was an explosion of garlic, onions, tomatoes, pasta, and cheesy goodness. The red sauce was zesty, tangy, and sweet. The ground beef was juicy.

  Sophia watched eagerly, awaiting my opinion. “Is it not the best?"

  I took another bite and let the delightful taste soak my buds. I washed it down with a sip of wine. “It’s not the worst.”

  She frowned at me. "Go ahead, say it. You know it's true."

  “Okay. It's pretty damn good."

  “Pretty good?”

  “Alright, it’s better than pretty good.”

  She groaned. “I guess I’ll settle for that.” She took another bite. "Have you heard back from Isabella?"

  "She's attempting to verify your intel."

  “I assure you, it's accurate and up-to-date. What did she say about me going along?”

  I hesitated. "She said it's my call."

  Sophia smiled. "And how are you going to call it?"

  "Well, after lasagna like this, how can I say no?”

  "Yay! We are a team."

  I ate the lasagna and drank the wine. By the time I scraped the last of it from my plate, I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to die. At least not from the lasagna.

  Sophia cleared the table, rinsed the dishes in the sink, and put them in the dishwasher. I gave her a hand cleaning up the galley.

  She grabbed the bottle of wine and refilled our glasses.

  "So, what do we do now?" she asked, her sultry eyes locked on mine.

  "The man you claim killed Quinn… Where is his body?"

  “Do you really want to know? Will that give you confidence in me?"

  "Isabella says he hasn't turned up on the circuit since Quinn's death."

  "And he won't."

  "So, where are the remains?"

  "Let's not talk business. Not now. Surely there are other things you'd rather do?" she asked with a lustful sparkle in her eyes, inching closer.

  She set her wine on the counter, dropped to her knees, and fumbled with the waistband of my shorts.

  Call me weak, but what was I supposed to do?

  46

  The lasagna was good, but the dessert was better.

  My God, could she give good dessert.

  We played around in the galley, whipping up a few more delights, then retired to my stateroom where we gave the mattress a workout. We definitely burned a few calories and ended up a sweaty mess.

  Best cardio routine ever.

  Afterward, she lay beside me, stroking my chest with her delicate fingers. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  She smacked me playfully. “And you’re still alive. I’d call that a win-win. Of course, you could go back to hating me, or we could go for another round.”

  It was tempting. I was about to take her up on the offer when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I almost ignored it, but I thought better of it. I grabbed the phone and looked at the screen—it was Isabella.

  "What have you got?" I asked.

  "Eyes on the target. We need to move ASAP."

  I sat up. “Really?"

  Sophia hung onto my every word.

  “There will be a Skymax King C350 XR waiting for you at the Coconut Key FBO in 30 minutes.”

  “We’re going tonight?”

  “No time like the present. Unless you want me to find someone else.”

  “No. I’m all about it.”

  "Now for the bad news.”

  I cringed.

  “We have zero operational support on this one. If things go wrong, you're on your own. The three-letter agencies and the US government will deny any involvement. Is that clear?"

  "Isn't that always the way?"

  "For a host of reasons, they don’t want to touch this right now.”

  “Even though Fink may be plotting something,” I said in an incredulous tone.

  “The politics of it are above my pay grade. I was told to let sleeping dogs lie. But I’m not about to let that bastard get away because some politician is worried about re-election.”

  “You’d think taking out one of the most wanted terrorists in the world would be good for business.”

  “Remember, we live in crazy world where up is down and day is night. In the current climate, I don’t think anyone wants blood on their hands, especially if something goes wrong.”

  “Nothing is going to go wrong,” I said, full of optimism.

  “Just don't look for any outside assistance. There is no cavalry coming if the shit hits the fan.”

  "Understood.”

  "You and your team will make a HALO jump. You’ll hit the beach before dawn, storm the compound, and take out the target. Get proof of death and a DNA sample if you can."

  "Copy."

  "When you accomplish your mission objective, I’ll have a chopper take you to Trinidad & Tobago. From there I've arranged a flight back. You will be given weapons, clothing, and fake passports at the FBO before your departure. Like I said, if anything goes wrong, no one will claim you. This is all or nothing. Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "I suppose a drone strike is out of the question."

  "That’s a
can of worms. Besides, I know you want to get up close and personal, anyway."

  “Fink certainly has it coming."

  "Yes, he does.” Isabella paused. “And the other thing we discussed… You're on board, right?"

  I glanced at Sophia. "We are ready to do this."

  47

  I called Jack and told him Operation Deadly Venom was a go. He swung by the marina and picked us up. Sophia climbed into the back of the Porsche, and we zipped across the island to the FBO.

  We parked in the lot and hustled through the terminal. I left my weapons and ID on the Avventura. We weren’t going to take anything that could be tracked back to us. This was a black-op in every sense of the word.

  The matte gray SkyMax King sat on the tarmac, waiting for us. It was a multimission twin-engine aircraft with a wing span of 57 feet. It could hold 15 people and had a maximum takeoff weight of 17,000 pounds. With a cruising speed of 327 nautical miles an hour, and a range of nearly 3,000 miles, we could be over the drop site in as little as 4.5 hours.

  The beauty of the SkyMax was its altitude ceiling at 35,000 feet. I figured we’d make the HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) jump around 22,000’. It would simplify things to a degree. Though, there was nothing simple about a HALO jump. Of course, we’d need supplemental oxygen at that level and would pre-breathe 100% oxygen during the ascent to altitude to purge nitrogen. We planned on 22,000 feet, but wanted to be prepared if circumstances necessitated a higher approach. Without pure oxygen, a quick ascent to could result in the formation of nitrogen bubbles, giving you the bends in a similar fashion to divers that surface too fast. Not a good thing when jumping out of an airplane.

  Since the air was thinner, you fell faster and had a higher maximum terminal velocity until you reached denser air.

  It was a hell of a rush.

  We were greeted on the tarmac by a pilot, copilot, and physiology tech whose names I cannot mention. The tech would monitor us for impairment caused by the altitude prior to the jump.

  We boarded the plane and were issued our gear—all of it Russian-made. The jungle camo, the thermal knit underwear (it’s cold at 22,000 feet), the parachutes, the jump helmets, the goggles, the supplemental oxygen canisters, the folding stock 7.62mm AK-103s, and the sidearms. Our passports were Russian as well.

  If we got caught, the subterfuge wouldn't fool anybody. It was just an added bit of misdirection. Nobody would have to explain how a team of rogue assassins acquired US military issued weapons. The only items that weren’t Russian-made were the iPhones with satellite sleeves and bluetooth earbuds that would allow encrypted team communications via Cobra Company’s satellite, CobraNet™.

  The cargo area of the SkyMax was empty—just a few spartan jump-seats with canvas-webbed backing.

  The Pratt & Whitney engines rumbled to life, and the plane taxied to the runway.

  I suited up in my tactical gear, checked my AK and magazines, and examined the Starikov SRX-M2 semi-automatic pistol. It had an 18-round magazine and fired Russian-made body armor-piercing rounds. A favorite of Russian Spetsnaz and Special Forces. Extremely effective in close-quarter combat, but they’d lose their velocity quickly and had a limited range.

  The pistol felt good in my hand and had a nice balance. I pulled the slide and loaded a cartridge into the chamber with a satisfying clack, then holstered the weapon.

  The pilot throttled up, and the engines howled. The aircraft lumbered forward, gaining speed, the fuselage vibrating. With a pull of the controls, the craft nosed up and climbed into the night sky.

  I glanced through the circular window at the ground below, the lights of Coconut Key flickering.

  It was just after 11 PM.

  Sophia and JD examined their equipment.

  I did a safety check of my chute and supplemental oxygen. When I was satisfied that everything was in order, I connected to the onboard oxygen—the cabin wasn’t pressurized.

  I studied the satellite photos of the compound that Isabella had sent me. Afterward, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

  48

  There was a lot of hurry up and wait in the military. You learned to sleep on command, grabbing moments when and where you could. The four hours of sleep during the flight was much needed.

  JD nudged me awake. “We’re getting close.”

  I peeled open my eyes, did a final check of the gear, and prepared myself for the adventure. The PT checked our cognitive function when we were at altitude. Hypoxia can cause all kinds of problems.

  I put the noise-canceling wireless earbuds into my ear. They allowed normal speech frequencies through but attenuated high decibel sounds, offering hearing protection in combat environments. The earbuds were already paired to the phones and ready to go. Isabella had set us up well.

  We all launched a networking app on the phones and joined a private password-protected chat group Isabella had created for us. She would be able to hear and monitor our comms, and we could communicate directly with her in real-time. It was a blend of consumer and military tech with high-end encryption and security. Modern warfare.

  Technology was changing the face of special ops. Smart glasses and contact lenses were on the horizon that could identify and track everything within the visual field. Together with biometric sensors, tactical operations centers could monitor the status of troops, identify friends and foes, and get a real-time view of ground-level operations. There were so many new and interesting ways to kill people.

  I designated myself as Bravo 1, JD as Bravo 2, and Sophia as Bravo 3.

  “I don’t want to be Bravo 3. I want to be X-ray.”

  “Why?”

  “It sounds cooler.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. You’re X-ray.”

  “I want to be Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” JD said.

  “You’re Bravo 2,” I said.

  He frowned at me.

  “Radio check, over,” Sophia said.

  “Check,” JD replied.

  “Check,” I said.

  “Hello, my lovelies,” Isabella said, her voice crackling in my ear. “It’s your Guardian Angel speaking.”

  “And you do sound angelic, if I do say so myself,” JD said, ever the smooth talker.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, Bravo 2.”

  “Isabella, I don’t believe you’ve met Sophia Breslin,” I said.

  “Not in person, but her reputation precedes her.”

  “I’m working toward revamping my image,” Sophia said.

  “Impress me,” Isabella said.

  “I’m working on that.”

  We sat back and waited for the moment to arrive.

  HALO jumps were not for the faint of heart. Between 2011 and 2016, 11 Special Operators died during HALO training jumps. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. The added gear could destabilize your descent. Chutes could open improperly or not at all. Your oxygen mask could get ripped off during the jump. The last thing you wanted was to suffer hypoxia. Nothing worse than losing consciousness during a jump and being unable to open your parachute. Jumps at 28,000 to 30,000 feet were common and required more caution. More time at altitude, and more to go wrong. We weren’t crazy high at 22,000 feet, but high enough. The air at 22,000 feet is roughly -28˚ Celsius. Not a pleasant temperature. If you don’t want frostbite, gloves and polypropylene knit undergarments are a must.

  I donned my helmet, gloves, and goggles, then switched from the onboard oxygen to the supplemental.

  JD slid open the jump door as we streaked through the clouds. We hovered in position near the exit until the pilot gave us the thumbs up. When he did, I gave a last look to Sophia and JD, then jumped out of a perfectly good aircraft.

  I plummeted through the thin air, wind whistling around my helmet. I was on top of the world, literally. I felt like I could reach up and touch the stars.

  JD and Sophia followed after me.

  My heart pounded, and adrenaline pumped through my veins. This was better than any cup of coffee.
r />   My fellow comrades joined me on the way down.

  A slight smirk curled my lips. It was hard not to enjoy this part of the adventure. This was the fun and games part. The part where you were along for the ride. There was no getting back in the plane now. Win, lose, or draw, Operation Deadly Venom was in motion.

  The flickering lights of Porlamar grew closer. What started as a tiny speck below grew in size.

  The world certainly looked different from up here. Detached and removed. Despite blazing toward the ground at a lethal speed, I had a Zen-like calmness about me. All of the politics and chaos of the world vanished for a moment. I was just a guy flying through the heavens, and the world below me was just a rock hurtling through space.

  The Earth was both vast and small at the same time. All of the man-made conflict seemed trivial. A view like this reminded me just how small and insignificant I was in the scheme of the Universe. How inconsequential all the power struggles could be on the larger timeline.

  The giant orb below me was a swirl of blue, green, and brown. It had been in existence for 6 billion years and had another 6 billion to go. In the scheme of things, does anything we do really matter?

  I was oddly philosophical as I free-fell toward the ground, preparing to kill a man.

  A bad, bad man.

  We cut it close to the wire and deployed our chutes at sub-2000 feet. The fabric unfurled, abruptly slowing my descent, yanking me against the harness.

  That was the first hurdle—chute successfully opened. Score bonus points.

  And that’s where philosophy ended, and danger began.

  49

  We glided down through the black sky. The waves crashed against the shore a thousand feet below my boots. I watched the ground rush to greet me as I touched down in the soft sand. I instantly released my harness.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" JD howled as he landed beside me an instant later.

  He tumbled to the ground and released his harness. He clutched his ankle. His face tensed, the veins in his temple bulging. His skin reddened as he held in the pain.