Page 22 of Wild Temple (Tyson Wild Thriller #84)

R afi clutched his cheek, blood trickling down. "You can't blame a guy for trying. Did you have to hit me so hard? That fucking hurt. Still does.”

I gave him an incredulous look. "You swung a baseball bat at me.”

"You took me hostage. You destroyed my car! You got us in trouble with Caspian Vorn!” It just slipped out before he realized what he’d said.

"So that’s who’s behind the Black Opal?”

"You didn't hear that from me.”

My eyes scanned the living room. “You don’t have a family, do you?”

Rafi grimaced. "No.”

I didn’t believe anything that came out of this guy's mouth at the moment. I shouted into the house. "Is anybody home?"

There was no response .

The house was quiet—just the sound of the jungle filtering in through the open windows. A few bugs buzzed about, but that was part of the package. It came with living in this tropical paradise.

With my pistol still aimed at Rafi, I said, "Don't move. You move, I shoot.”

“I no move, boss.”

“You and I are gonna have a long talk about Caspian Vorn after I secure the area.”

I crept forward, stepping deeper into the living room.

A bullet snapped past me, rocketing across the room. It blasted into the concrete wall, scattering chips of debris.

A 9mm with a suppressor threaded to the barrel had emerged from the shadows of the kitchen.

I took aim and returned fire, blasting off several shots. The pistol hammered against my palm, and muzzleflash flickered. Smoke wafted from the barrel. My bullets drilled through the thin wall around the doorframe, pelting the shooter in the kitchen.

The assailant crumpled, and the pistol fell away.

I advanced into the kitchen, keeping my weapon aimed at the scumbag.

Rafi took the opportunity to spring to his feet and dart out the front door.

Unfortunately for him, he was met with more gunfire.

Bullets pelted his chest and his abdomen. He twitched and convulsed with each hit, then fell back and flopped onto the daybed, blood oozing from gaping wounds.

With the assailant in the kitchen dead or dying, I spun around and took aim at the front door as I shuffled toward the kitchen, then took cover behind the arm of a couch in the living room.

The air was still and silent. The scent of gunpowder and fresh blood drifted about.

A footstep on the veranda creaked the wooden planks.

My heart thumped, and adrenaline coursed through my veins.

I waited with my gun aimed at the window near the door, hoping the scumbag would be stupid enough to move in front of it.

A long moment of silence filled the night.

Crickets chirped.

After a moment, I crept back into the kitchen, moved around the fallen thug, taking his pistol, then slipped out a side door.

I made my way around the side of the house, trying to flank the dirtbag on the veranda. By the time I got there, he was either gone or inside the house.

I glanced down the steps that led to the road but didn't see anyone. I held up at the corner of the house, keeping an eye on both the front porch and the kitchen door I’d just stepped out of.

Dogs barked in the distance .

The gunshots had certainly woken the neighborhood. But this wasn't the kind of place where you investigated gunshots in the middle of the night. Neighbors would leave well enough alone, I suspected.

I crept onto the veranda and tried to avoid the creaky wooden planks. I crouched below the front window and moved to the doorframe. I held up, my back flat against the concrete. I took a deep breath. In a flash, I angled my pistol back into the house.

My barrel swept across the living room.

It was clear.

A twig snapped underfoot, just around the corner. The scumbag had circled around through the house and followed my footsteps.

I swung the barrel of my pistol at the corner, stepped into the house, and took cover behind the door frame. I felt the presence of the scumbag hovering just around the side of the house.

I dug into my pocket for a coin, then crouched low. I flicked the coin across the veranda. It bounced, making a racket against the planks.

The scumbag angled his pistol around the corner, aiming for the sound.

My finger pulled the trigger, blasting off two shots in his direction.

The bullets shredded his hand, and the pistol fell away.

Geysers of crimson spewed .

The scumbag groaned and staggered back.

I dashed across the veranda and held up at the corner, then swung my pistol around.

The dirtbag clutched his mangled hand, doubled over with pain, blood spurting.

He looked up at me with gritted teeth and angry eyes.

“Don’t move!”

He hesitated for a moment, then reached for a backup in his waistband.

Bad move.

Another double tap—one to the chest and one to the head—sent him tumbling away. He fell back and rolled down the hill into the underbrush.

I didn't think there was anyone else around, but I kept a cautious watch on my surroundings as I moved to Rafi on the daybed. My fingers felt for a pulse in his neck.

The funnyman was long gone.

I took the keys from his pocket, then darted into the house and took cautious steps across the living room to the kitchen. I knelt down beside the thug who had bled out on the hardwoods.

He didn't have a pulse either.

I fished through his pockets, taking his keys and looking for identification. He just had a little cash but no wallet.

An extra magazine from his back pocket might come in handy .

I crept out of the kitchen, then made my way up the narrow steps to the loft. The barrel of my pistol led the way.

The loft was empty.

The chaos had died down, and the gun smoke had drifted away.

A dog continued to bark in the distance.

I moved back through the house and collected my spent shell casings, just for good measure.

Rafi had a nice selection of liquor in the house. I grabbed a bottle of 151-proof rum and a pack of bar matches I found atop a counter.

Still wearing Rafi’s ball cap, I pulled the brim low, walked outside, and took the steps down to the walkway that led to the street. Shrouded in foliage, it offered a little cover.

I scanned the area.

There were no lights on in neighboring houses. I'm sure there were people peering out of windows, but nobody wanted to get involved.

I clicked the key fob on the keys I had taken from the assailant in the kitchen. Lights on a car parked down the block flashed, and the alarm chirped.

I hustled down the walkway to Rafi’s van and doused the interior with the high-proof rum I’d taken, then tossed in the pack of matches.

The flames spread slowly across the seat cushions as I walked away. The glow grew intense, soon engulfing the vehicle .

I hopped into the assailant’s silver four-door sedan, cranked up the engine, and pulled away. I banked a U-turn and headed back the way we came.

Rafi’s van flickered in the rearview, black smoke billowing into the sky. There would be no trace DNA left. Not that the investigators in this town would go to that length, but it never hurts to be paranoid.

I felt bad for Rafi. He was probably not a bad guy, apart from the fact that he was aiding and abetting sex traffickers. Okay, maybe I didn't feel that bad. He was a rotten sleaze bag like the rest of them, albeit with a somewhat affable demeanor.

I had shut my cell phone off during the drive to his house.

I didn’t want to turn it back on until I had returned to town and had dumped the car.

I didn't want anything connecting me to any of these incidents.

I had made a mental note of the route on the drive here.

I just hoped I remembered it on the way back.