Tripp Read online

  But red-hot rage still burned low in his gut, the same kind of rage that had propelled him out of Idaho and into the Army two years ago. The kind that would get him and his men killed if he acted on it today. It might’ve gotten him out of the mess his sister made of his family life, but here, in this godforsaken part of the world, it could get him court-martialed. Or dead.

  Like a USA robot with a script programmed into its perfectly manicured data banks, he repeated the official words he’d been instructed to say during the prisoner hand-off. Legal words he had to say. Thinning his lips, he bit out, “By the authority of the US Army, I relinquish care and responsibility for prisoner one-zero-one-two, Abdul Ikram, a fifteen-year-old child…” You son of a bitch! “…over to you…” You pig! “Major General Jalandar Ali of the Afghan National Army Commando Corps.” You worthless piece of shit!

  Would’ve meant more if Tripp had lowered his weapon before he’d said it. Close to fifty weapons now stared down at him and his squad. Dozens of the darkest black eyes promised retribution.

  Well, bring it on.

  Trickles of sweat rolled down Tripp’s temples, off his forehead and into his eyes, at what could very well happen next. His pulse hammered for his own brand of retribution. His finger, still on the trigger, begged to squeeze off a round, to empty his double-stack magazine into Ali’s smug face. All those yes-men might win this fight, but by hell, Ali wouldn’t.

  The big, brave man with brass on his chest, not in his pants, sneered. “You tell me that nonsense now? Are you a fool?”

  Yes, actually… I can be.

  Tripp’s lower lip curled over his bottom teeth. He breathed through his mouth, fighting for composure and that damned elusive thing called discretion. Nothing about this transfer had gone right. US Army Rangers had trained every last ANSF commando. Those commandos excelled at fighting the Taliban and ISIL, had in fact, never been beaten. There was no way these jerks were those same trained men.

  Spike hip-checked him again. “Take a step back, buddy. Sarge’ll have your ass if you screw this up.”

  Tripp stared Ali down, not going to blink, gawddamnit. “For what? For letting this shithead kill a kid in cold blood?”

  “Don’t forget, Ikram was a terrorist, and you know it, and… Atten-shun!” Spike snapped to.

  The rest of Tripp’s squad did as well. Not Tripp. Wolsey could wait his turn.

  Damned if his CO didn’t step directly into Tripp’s line of sight with an amicable, shit-eating, “Major General Ali. Staff Sergeant Wolsey here, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” With one hand now firmly braced over the top of Tripp’s pistol, Wolsey forced his aim to the tarmac instead of the asshole. “I trust everything is in order. That the transfer went well.”

  Was Wolsey blind? Had he missed the murdered kid at his feet?

  “It did,” Ali replied smoothly, his chin lifted while he petted his scrawny excuse for a mustache again. “It is too bad you arrived late. The prisoner tried to escape. I was forced to execute him. Tsk, tsk.”

  Tripp blew. “Escape, my ass! You son of a—!”

  Wolsey twisted Tripp’s wrist, a sure signal to shut up. “Well, sir, it’s war,” he told Ali without emotion. “Unfortunately, things like this happen. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us today, General. You’ve been a great help. We appreciate all you do for us.”

  All you do for us? Like murdering children?!

  “It is my pleasure,” the liar replied with the grace of every politician on the whole damned planet.

  Tripp wanted to throw up. The world turned red and hazy, but not because of the pretty sunrise pouring over the horizon. His head worked like that when he was about to lose his temper. When he’d been forced to witness atrocities and murder—and do nothing!

  “About face,” Wolsey barked, his hand still an iron manacle on Tripp’s wrist as he forced compliance Tripp didn’t want to give. But he was smart enough to follow orders. He kept his big mouth shut until he and his squad were almost to the OD green wall of US Army deuce-and-a-half trucks now parked at the edge of the runway. When had they arrived?

  Tripp glanced over his shoulder. General Ali was staring at him. Still preening. Gloating. “That bastard just killed a kid in cold blood, Sergeant Wolsey. I hadn’t even transferred military authority when he—”

  “What part of about face do you not understand, soldier?” Wolsey growled while speed-walking to the rear of those trucks. “I’m trying to save your dumb ass, McClane. Move it.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “It’s war, damn it. Forget Ikram. Kids play with bombs, they end up dead. End of fuckin’ story.”

  “But someone else forced him to bomb that mosque. I damned well know it, and so do you. Wanna bet that someone was Ali?”

  There was no sense arguing. Wolsey’s pearly whites were set and his square jaw was clenched like the bulldog he was. All Tripp could do was follow orders. His was not to question why. His was just to do and die. And… “Bullshit! These ROEs suck! They’re wrong! He was just a skinny kid. We’re better than that. I could’ve gotten him to talk. I know I could’ve!”

  “Get your ass in the truck. We need to be gone.”

  Tripp’s guys had already boarded. Spike was waving for him to climb in. Tripp had one foot on the tailgate, ready to jump up when he noticed all the tailgates on these trucks were down. A couple dozen fully-armed, geared-up, badassed soldiers were waiting inside each deuce-and-a-half. Wolsey knew something Tripp didn’t.

  “Ali?” Tripp asked, even as he hung suspended by one arm from the canvas soft top.

  “That bastard’s not Ali, damn it,” Wolsey declared vehemently, “and those men with him are not ANSF commandos. That’s Ali’s son of a bitchin’ brother, Anwar Khan, the Crimson Sword of Allah. He’s a terrorist, and he’s here to kill his brother, then takeover this facility. We need to be gone before hell breaks loose.”

  Right on cue, the lethal rumble of America’s finest guardian angel of the skies eased its silver wings over the far end of the tarmac. An A-10, aka the famed Warthog, every US service member’s best friend, was headed straight for Khan’s little army. Now there was a sight a man could believe in.

  Tripp’s jaw dropped. “But he looks just like Ali.”

  “Well, he’s not. Ali’s the one who notified us that Khan and his men were headed here. It’s Ali who asked for air support.”

  “Khan’s got inside help if he’s made it this far with this many armed men.”

  “You think?” Wolsey groused as the first A-10’s magnificent barrage shook the Earth.

  “That’s why he killed Ikram. Khan sent him into that mosque, didn’t he?”

  The ground vibrated and bucked beneath Tripp’s boots, as the A-10’s thirty-millimeter GAU Avenger cannons began hitting their marks. Man, he loved the blistering sound of payback. He dropped back to the ground to watch.

  The A-10 was commonly called ‘a gun with an airplane attached,’ and for good reason. That Gatling-style Avenger delivered powerful, precise destruction that was, right then, raining hell on the ass who’d killed Abdul Ikram. It took Tripp’s breath watching the killer bedecked with phony medals, run for his life, only to disappear in a gray plume of pulverized concrete.

  After one pass, the coup was over. Nothing remained of Khan’s attempted take-over, nothing except smoking carcasses, ash, and a runway that needed repair. For the most part, Morehead Commando Training Center was safe. The A-10’s pilot dipped his wings in a brotherly salute as he flew over the rumbling line of deuce-and-a-halfs. Talk about righteous kills. This take-down was the perfect revenge for the death of a frightened, hungry, Afghan boy.

  “I fuckin’ love America!” Tripp declared as he hoisted himself aboard. “Let’s go home, guys.”

  Chapter One

  Three Years Later

  Junior Agent Tripp McClane stood in the shadows near the entry gate to the Winkler Botanical Preserve in weste
rn Alexandria, Virginia. Dusk came early in autumn. This was his second night back on the streets since he’d returned to the East Coast. He was anxious, ready to continue the late-night masquerade he’d begun in Seattle. Here, within spitting distance of the nation’s capital.

  Like last night and those before, he’d camo-painted his face and purposefully darkened the skin around his eyes for his graveyard shift. Dressed in midnight black, from his leather jacket to his steel-toed work boots, he was one with the shadows. No one who knew him during the day would recognize him now. He intended to keep it that way.

  This was his mission, his purpose in life. Protect the weak. Destroy those who would harm or do them wrong. It had begun at the stroke of one damp, chilly midnight in Seattle, the emerald gem of the great Pacific Northwest, and the site of Tripp’s last job. All he’d wanted was a cup of Seattle’s famous coffee. Instead, he’d come across two stout morons assaulting a five-foot-nothing blonde who shouldn’t have been on Pike Street so late nor so alone. They’d cornered her in an alley, between a delivery truck and a red-brick building. They’d already slapped and pushed her around. Her winter coat was on the ground at her feet and her hair was undone. She’d been crying, pleading with them to take her briefcase. To just let her live.

  And Tripp had seen red. Gawddamnit. No woman should have to plead for anything, least of all to be allowed to live. The breeze off Elliot Bay was brisk and bitter that night. As was Tripp’s response. Without thought or strategy, he’d tossed his coffee and roared to her rescue. Knocked both men down and out before they knew what they were up against. He’d saved that woman’s life, possibly her virtue. Maybe her mind. All those things he hadn’t been able to do for a skinny Afghan teenager on the other side of the world.

  When all was said and done, Tripp had called the police, then begged off into the shadows once their blues and reds flashed onto the scene. With her safely in good hands, Tripp stepped away from what could have been notoriety and applause. Instead, he opted for anonymity and the reward of knowing that a man could still do good in the world, more if he kept his identity hidden.

  A vigilante was born that night. Well, not born. Make that revived. Tripp had always had an overprotective, zealous streak. After saving that one woman, he became more of the same. A man in the shadows. A punisher and a savior. A warrior.

  Did that make him a lawbreaker? Absolutely. Did he care what his new boss would say if he found out? Nope. Tripp might work for Mr. OCD, aka Alex Stewart, during the day. But he worked for the blind Lady Justice after dark. The scales of truth in her right hand had proven faulty for too long. Too many bleeding hearts over the years had set enough scumbags, perverts, and murderers free, and, in the process, allowed more innocent deaths. Tripp meant to change those dynamics. He was the sword of vengeance in Lady Justice’s left hand, the swift, final end of the road for all who got in his way.

  He paid—visits—to local miscreants and bastards. He dealt brutal, if not healthy, doses of comeuppance, but only to those who had it coming. Back in Seattle, he’d prevented two assaults of women in dark parking lots. He’d thwarted a bank job in progress, the looting of a street side ATM, and a bloody home burglary. Tonight’s work was cut out for a guy like him. He pulled a pair of black gloves over his already tender knuckles. It was time to get down and dirty.

  The two college-aged young men he’d been following, had just skirted the CLOSED sign to the Preserve. They should’ve known better than to enter the shadow-filled park after dark. Yet Tripp understood. Young people were full of angst and raging hormones, and that combination made them stupid.

  That anyone believed these two should hide their feelings, pretend to be like everyone else, or spend their lives lying to themselves just to get along, annoyed the shit out of Tripp. Which was why he’d been following them since they’d left their adjoining apartments on Seminary Road, just north of the Preserve. All because of a convo he’d overheard in a local biker bar last night. A plan to torture and kill this specific couple. To make an example of ‘those people’. To remind the world what the Bible said about ‘them’ and the self-righteous ‘us.’ As if the bastards hunting these two tonight had ever read the Bible.

  But when the leather-clad, gin-guzzling, big-mouthed biker named names to go with his despicable plan, well, that cinched Tripp’s plans for the evening. He’d located these two young men and found out they were just nineteen-year-old freshmen at the nearby community college.

  Tonight wasn’t about trespassing. Tripp wasn’t here to prevent misdemeanors. But he did care that tonight, these quiet trails and shadowy hideaways were haunted by dangerous bigots. That these two gullible kids only had eyes for each other. That they had no concept of situational awareness or self-defense.

  His nostrils flared with disdain for bullies who thought themselves above the law, and for terrorists who used the good books for their evil machinations the whole world over. Even in America.

  Slapping one gloved hand to the top bar of the gate, he vaulted his six-foot, five-inch frame over the weak excuse of a barrier and landed quietly on the other side. His job was clear. Protect the innocent. Engage the aggressors. End their reign of terror before another innocent died. Do it all over again tomorrow night. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  Established back in the 1980s, the Preserve had once been a pig farm. Although located in the middle of a busy metropolitan area now, it still boasted thickly forested trails, a good-sized pond full of ducks, a quaint wooden bridge, and man-made waterfalls that fed the pond. But tonight, it boasted trouble.

  The boys had just crossed the bridge when a sinister voice rumbled from the shadows, “Hey, hey, hey. Look what we got here. A couple of light-footed fairies.”

  Five hefty, leather-jacketed adult males stepped out of the dark, boxing the two college kids in. The taller kid spread his feet as if prepared to fight back—or run. The shorter, stockier kid, turned to the bridge, his palms forward, ready to placate the aggressors blocking his way. Which was the worst possible tactic when faced with bullies. Placation never commanded respect, not unless it was delivered with force. At which point, it ceased being passive.

  Strike hard. Strike fast. Never give a fuckin’ inch. That was how you placated a bully. Not with chit-chat or good manners. Never with compromise.

  Kids these days. They had no idea how ugly the world really was. It would’ve been smart if these two had brought something to defend themselves. But Tripp doubted it. When the back-and-forth convo deteriorated into pleading, more name-calling, and five baseball-bat, tire-iron, chain-wielding asshats against two unarmed college kids, he stepped into the weak glow of the lamp, still on the wrong side of the bridge.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he ordered.

  That worked on the college boys. By then, they were back-to-back, and knew they were in serious shit. But the bullies threatening them took Tripp’s command as if he were the grand marshal at the Daytona 500, and had declared, “Drivers, start your engines!”

  One stomped back over the bridge like a troll, power-posing and swinging a Louisville slugger. The idiot behind him looked like a fool straight out of Rhinestone Cowboy, Inc. His shiny leather jacket bedazzled, all right. Those big boy pants had more glittery zippers up the sides than a zipper factory. He looked like a sparkling fool, whirling that heavy tow chain over his head like a lasso. Tripp had seen children in other parts of the world with less clothes who were ten times scarier.

  He charged before Mr. Baseball crossed the bridge. With a quick, hard chop to the jerk’s windpipe, the game was over. Mr. B collapsed in the middle of the bridge, bug-eyed and gasping on all fours. His bully club rolled into the stream.

  Rushing Rhinestone Cowboy next, Tripp grabbed both railings, drew his knees in, and delivered a swift, well-aimed kick to the center of the guy’s glittering chest. Gasping, Cowboy stumbled back. Tripp followed through with a solid right cross to Cowboy’s chin. A solid left jab left the tough guy on his knees, drooling, and cros
s-eyed. He hadn’t taken a single swing, but he was down.

  Chaos took over. The tall kid took a punch to his face, his assailant the beefy boss who’d called this ambush. The shorter kid was already on his side on the ground, crying, and getting his ass whipped by the other two thugs.

  Tripp went after the boss of this shit show. With a flying leap over the two morons thrashing the shorter kid, he caught Mr. Boss-man with both boots, square in the center of his thick, barrel chest. Knocked the bastard off the skinny kid and off his feet. Down Tripp rolled into a carpet of Virginia creeper with the guy, groping after the knife that had flashed at him as they’d gone down.

  Not willing to play hide-and-seek with a blade he didn’t need and possibly couldn’t retrieve, Tripp bounced to his feet, ready to end this pathetic battle. Eager to keep the kids safe. The adrenaline in his blood surged like pure fire, its flames licking at him to do more. It all came back to that other young man who’d died on the other side of the planet. Ikram. That was why Tripp was here tonight and would serve America as one of its few vigilantes. To take down men like these jerks. To somehow, make amends for letting that other mother’s son die.

  Tripp didn’t hold back, and he never offered quarter. It wasn’t in him. Not during these late night come-to-Jesus meetings. Just attacked with all of his pent-up fury, threw straight punches and inside hooks until the big guy dropped to his knees. Did Tripp care when the lead jerk whined like a pussy? Did he stop administering justice or punishment? Hell, no. Cupping his fists, he clubbed the bastard senseless. Then, with sweat stinging his eyes, he turned to the last two asshats standing.

  Side-by-side, they’d stopped beating the kid crying at their feet. Too little, too late. Tripp stalked forward like the badass he was, gawddamnit. His fists curled into iron. Snorting a plume of frosty vapor through his flared nostrils, he told the fools who still thought they were mean enough to take him, “You should run.”

  “Who are you?” the wimpier, skinnier of the two asked.