Page 65 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

D r. Parker cleaned and debrided the wound, stitched him up, and gave him something for the searing pain. Tyson was admitted to the hospital overnight for observation. He’d gotten lucky with just a flesh wound. He’d likely be discharged in a day.

It was mid-morning by the time he got situated in a room in the trauma ward. Tyson wasn’t thrilled. He was ready to go home.

A monitor beside the bed displayed vitals and the peaks and valleys of his heartbeat. A bag of IV fluids dripped into his arm. He wore that silly green hospital gown with a snowflake pattern.

Tyson fiddled with his phone, texting one-handed.

“Just relax,” I said.

“I’m trying to ID the assailant, but my intel contact is not responding. I’m getting a little worried about her. This is unusual. ”

“I hope everything is okay.”

“Me too. I’m concerned.”

“I’ve got my people on it,” I said.

He gave me a curious look. “Your people?”

“I sent the images to Piper. I’m kind of interested to see what the little hacker can do.”

Tyson’s drowsy eyes were full of skepticism. They’d given him some pain pills.

“I know you don’t trust them.”

“I don’t trust anybody. And they’re operating in a gray area. Maybe not so gray.”

“Life isn’t always cut and dry. You know this.”

My phone buzzed with a text from Piper.

“Speak of the devil,” I muttered.

[Hey, that guy is Dorian Stoica. Romanian. Associated with several paramilitary groups. Worked as a freelance mercenary, then recruited by Ravenwerks, a known contractor for the CIA.]

[You’re sure about this?]

[Positive. This is what I do.]

I was a little stunned. [Any known connection to Alec Stratton?]

[No. This has covert op written all over it. I hate to tell you, but someone at the agency wants you dead.]

“That son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered .

[Thank you.]

[Anytime.]

I slipped the phone back into my pocket.

Tyson’s curious gaze begged for an answer.

A slew of images flashed in my head. The floodgates had opened.

Memories poured in—an overwhelming onslaught.

I thought my brain would fry. Random puzzle pieces of my past flickered.

Now, it was up to me to sort them out and put them all together.

The series of images ended with a vision of me putting a bullet into Ross’s brain.

Maybe these weren’t all memories.

"What is it?" Tyson asked.

I exhaled a sigh of relief and devastation—the truth had become evident, and it wasn't pretty. “Nothing. Just certain things are starting to make sense.” I didn’t want to get him riled up.

“Like what?”

“Don’t worry about it. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

His gaze persisted. He wasn’t going to let this go.

"Ross wants me dead," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I can expose him.” I paused. “This was never about Phaxelon. Stratton didn’t send those assassins.”

“How do you know? ”

“Because I recognized one of them.”

It was there the whole time. I just couldn't grasp it until now. It was still kind of hazy. I didn’t have all the answers yet, but I was getting closer.

"Want to tell me what's going on?" Tyson asked.

"Get some rest. I've got some things to sort through. Pieces to put together.”

"You can't leave me hanging like that."

I took his hand. “Trust me. It’s better if you don’t know.”

His face tightened. He didn't like it, but he understood. "What are you going to do?"

I smiled. “I’m not going to do anything. I’m going to stay here and take care of you. You stayed by my side when I was in the hospital. The least I can do is return the favor.”

His skeptical eyes surveyed me.

“Relax. I’m not looking for any more trouble right now. We’ll sort this out later.”

A nurse came in to check on him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be 100% in no time.”

She checked his vitals and replaced his IV.

I sat in the chair and kicked back.

The TV mounted to the wall droned.

Between the pain meds and the lack of sleep, it didn’t take Tyson long to doze off.

I took the opportunity to sneak out of the room.

I knew he would never let me go by myself.

He didn’t want any part of this. I knew what had to be done.

Ross wanted me dead, and he would never stop until the job was done.