Tripp

by Irish Winters

  “She knows you love her,” Jameson whispered. “Focus on that. Think of the good times you two had together. That’s what’ll get you through the next couple days.”

  Tucker Chase was crouched beside them by then, his fingertips stuck into the ground for balance, the other hand flat against Tripp’s sweaty shoulder. “Your sister?” he asked kindly.

  “Yeah,” Tripp choked. His heart pounded so hard, he could barely cough the word out. “Trish McClane. My twin. She took off from Mom’s house a week ago. Maybe just five days. Mom and me looked everywhere for her. Talked to everyone who might’ve seen her, who might’ve known her. I’d just come back from Seattle and…” Tripp bowed his head at the tragedy in his life and let his tears fall. He had no pride. “My poor damned mom.”

  “I’ll go with you to tell her.” The gentleness in Jameson’s voice was heartbreaking.

  Tripp stared at the dew-laden carpet of green that stretched from beneath his knees all the way to the blood bath beneath Trish, wishing miracles were real. That she’d flip him the bird with that reptilian ringed finger. That she’d wake up cursing, calling him profane names, telling him to fuck-off, to mind his business. That she’d—

  God, that she’d just keep breathing.

  Out of nowhere, Alex Stewart was there kneeling with him. Jameson, Tucker, Mark and Beau were standing over him. Connor stood nearby with his wife Izza, both TEAM agents. Some other guys and gals Tripp didn’t yet know were there too, but he could tell they were former military. He was surrounded by a wall of warriors, not able to see his twin when the EMTs transferred Trish to their gurney. Nor when they loaded her in through the gate of the waiting ambulance, or when they roared away, lights flashing, siren screaming… just like his heart.

  “I’ll need information,” Tucker said quietly. “Whatever you can tell me about your sister and when you last saw her. Who she worked with. Her girlfriends. Her daddy. Her madam. Details like that. Anything you can think of. Whenever you’re ready, Tripp. Tomorrow morning’ll be fine.”

  “To be honest,” Tripp declared hoarsely, “I haven’t seen her in years. We had a falling out when I was deployed to Afghanistan. I was in the middle of a mission, and she… and she…” Was on an entirely different mission, one fueled by anger and self-hatred, one that just might’ve gotten her killed. Tripp stopped talking. That his sister had sold her body for drugs, juice, or fuck, whatever, said it all.

  “No worries,” Tucker said calmly. “You think of anything, give me a call.”

  The crime scene photographer had moved closer into the death scene, still taking pictures of what little was left. When he bent over and snapped a close-up of the sticky, bloody grass where Trish had lain, Tripp lost it. Breaking out of Jameson’s hold, he bounced off the ground and onto his feet, fighting mad that sacred ground could be violated so quickly, so gawddamned easily!

  “Get the hell out of here! You stinkin’ ghoul! She’s a human being. She deserves to be treated with respect and dignity!”

  The guy straightened, lowered his camera, and stared straight at Tripp. “You’re her brother?”

  “Yes, and I’ll kick your dumb ass if you—”

  “Right on!” some fool from the idiot gallery yelled over the top of Tripp. “You tell him, buddy! Kick that guy’s ass! Go on, you can do it! Punch him out. Break his gear! Bust him up!”

  Damned if the vapid audience gawking with that loud-mouthed asshat didn’t clap, whistle, boo, and cheer for a fight. A slew of other inane, boisterous arguments and opinions on the subject roared to life. God, people were dumb. Tripp had almost forgotten they were there.

  Another brave asshole shouted to the photographer, “Don’t just stand there and take it like a pussy. Fight back! She was a worthless whore! A slut! She deserved what she got!”

  Tripp’s pistol sprang to his hand. These disrespectful sons of bitches needed to be taught a lesson. But, just as quickly as he drew his weapon, he landed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, not a dozen feet from where Trish had lain. Jameson had taken him down with a full body slam, locked a forearm across his neck, this time with the intent to choke him.

  Someone else wrestled the weapon out of Tripp’s hand. Shit. That was Alex. Tripp never had a chance to aim, much less shoot one of those sons of bitches. Not that he would’ve. But he wanted to. Despite everything she’d done, Trish deserved someone in her corner here at the end, and that person was him, gawddamnit! She could like him or not, he was her brother, by hell, and he would defend her to the death.

  “Focus, Tripp. Think, damn it,” Jameson growled down at him, those dark glasses somehow still in place. “A brother’s first job is not to waste time on losers with big mouths and little brains, which is precisely what those people are. A brother’s first and only job is to track his sister’s killer. Hold it together. Trish is this bastard’s first mistake. She survived. She’s going to live. Nothing helps a murder investigation better than a credible witness.”

  “Are you sure she’s gonna live? Did you see her?” Shit, Tripp kept talking like Jameson had eyes that worked. How the fuck could he know anything?!

  “No, I can’t see her, but you can. You saw. She’s in the best possible hands, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but… It’s just that…” Trish had been hurt so horribly. There was so much blood.

  Tripp choked, glaring up at the smart guy behind those dark, round lenses. Jameson looked a lot meaner up close. “Are you sure? She’s gonna live?”

  “With a brother like you in her corner, hell yeah.”

  God, he needed Jameson to be right. To really know more than he did right then. “But someone needs to pay,” Tripp told his new friend through the tears welled in his eyes. “You have to help me. I have to make sure the guy who did this dies.”

  “I get that, buddy. Let’s make sure the right bastard pays, though. Everything else here is just noise. It’s hot air and a sickening sign of our times. Let it go. The only one who matters from here on out is your sister and us finding the chicken shit that tried to kill her. Tried, Tripp. Tried and failed. Copy that?”

  “Yeah, yeah…” God, he was glad Jameson was there. Tripp grabbed hold of his buddy’s wrist. “I get it. I do. Copy.”

  “Then let’s get your mother. She needs to be with her daughter. She needs you too, man.”

  “Yeah. Mom. My mom. Damn…” Tripp turned back to the crime scene, blinking hard, hating himself for not being there when Trish needed him most. Him, one of the Army’s best snipers. Alexandria’s gawddamned vigilante!

  “Do we know where they took her?” Jameson asked Alex.

  “Alexandria Surgical Center. It’s not far from here. I’ll drive.”

  “Need to swing by Tripp’s mother’s place first. She’ll need a ride.”

  “Copy that. Let’s go.”

  Tripp blinked, wishing he could’ve seen Trish before the medics took her away, wishing he could see her now. But it was too hard to see through his tears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ashley was on her way home. Why not? She knew Alexandria like the back of her hand, and Tripp was right. Their apartment complex wasn’t far from his office at all. In fact, it was just a few blocks to the north, maybe ten at the most, and the evening was perfect for walking. What did she have to lose?

  From the metro station in the west to the Potomac toward the east, King Street was a lovely tourist area, one of her favorite haunts during the day. Crossing Diagonal Road to King Street Gardens Park, she inhaled a deep breath of the fresh evening air. She’d almost forgotten how autumn in Virginia brought warm, sunny days that ended in crisp, cool nights. It was a jacket weather kind of night. There were clouds hovering low in the sky.

  The chance of an early snow spiked excitement in her blood. A good, short walk would keep her warm. There were plenty of people on King Street. She hurried out of the shadows of the quaint little park to join them. There was nothing to worry about. Not any
more.

  Heading east took her past the Hyatt Hotel on her left, Hampton Inn on her right. Then a wealth of bookstores, antique shops, and the ever-constant big box stores that had slowly encroached on Alexandria’s quaint persona. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. People were friendly here, and the street was always filled with the lovely aromas of Indian curry, Spanish cumin, the cold Potomac River, and seafood—all her favorites.

  As she passed a string of professional offices, a hair salon, and another antique shop, Ashley set a measured but quick pace for herself. Fall used to be her favorite time of year, and she’d always enjoyed walking, catching glimpses of other people’s lives and celebrations through their front room picture windows. Thanksgiving and Christmas were the best times to take long strolls. People had families over then, and sometimes, an observant walker might catch a glimpse of turkey dinners and festive tables covered with feasts, or of Christmas trees and happy kids. She loved spying from the sidewalks of her travels, on families who obviously loved each other. Those homes had always seemed to glow more golden at those times of year. For the last couple years, she’d missed these walks and that glow. It was time to get her life back to normal.

  She paused at the corner of King and Patrick. Murphy’s Grand Irish Pub lay three blocks east. They had the best cinnamon bread pudding in the world. She would know. That and their Irish coffee were a treat she’d given herself after work. But only during daylight hours when it was safe. Which was why she was out walking by herself after her narrow escape Friday. There were still plenty of people around.

  Days were getting quite a bit shorter now, and the sun had set. Still, it was a beautiful night, and her apartment was a mere seven blocks North, then three East. She could do this. Easy.

  Without the cumbersome messenger bag flapping against her thigh, she turned northward, feeling lighter. Freer, if that was even a word. Her heart started skipping, and she was a girl again, carefree, with a boyfriend. Well, at least with a very handsome neighbor. A few blocks farther down, she hugged herself and spun a silly circle in the middle of the leaf-strewn sidewalk.

  Ashley laughed. Out loud. The thick, gnarled branches of the giant maple tree in the yard she was passing, had spread a magic carpet of burnished red, orange, and yellow leaves for her. On nights like this, it was easy to believe the world was safe and perfect and good.

  She wondered about that meeting she’d almost had with Tripp and Jameson. What was it about? They’d all but dragged her into that conference room. She’d reconnect with Tripp first thing tomorrow morning, after she checked on Mrs. Harrison. It seemed more respectful addressing her formally instead of calling her Barbara. But darn, it’d been such a busy day, she hadn’t thought to ask for Tripp’s cell number. Come to think of it, she hadn’t given her numbers to Mrs. Harrison, either.

  A tiny breath of autumn’s chill breathed over the bare skin on the front of her neck. She brushed it off, not going to let anything ruin this walk home. She’d left her bag at Tripp’s place. No matter. He’d bring it over once he finished today. Unfortunately, her cell phone was also in that bag. Her mace. That thought wiped the smile off her face. She had no way to phone for help or protect herself. Not like that mace had helped Friday night, but that vulnerability rattled her best intentions. Maybe it was time to step up the pace and do a little speed-walking.

  Fortunately, her keycard and her apartment key were safe in her rear pocket. All she had to do when she got to the complex, was bump her butt to the scanner, which would scan her keycard, and she’d be inside and safe, almost home-free. Not that she was worried. She wasn’t. It was just time to get off the street.

  As if the universe conspired against her, a breeze kicked up more leaves as it whined through the bare branches overhead. The friendly night turned spooky. It started to sprinkle. Then rain. Then downpour. The hoody Tripp offered sure would’ve come in handy.

  Shivering, Ashley hurried. If she’d really been smart, she would’ve also kept a credit card in her rear pocket; she could’ve called a taxi then. Not that she would have, not with her phobia about men. Unknown men. Dangerous men. But she could have, and that was all the positive reinforcement she needed to lengthen her stride.

  In minutes, the rain turned Ashley’s hair into slick, wet ribbons that clung to her back and forehead. Her clothes were soaked and she was cold. Ashley swiped her dripping bangs out of her eyes.

  The street was darker the farther she walked from the bright business lights of King Street, through more residential porch and street lamps. Her imagination turned paranoid. Every passing car could hold a potential kidnapper. Worse, a murderer. Each house turned into a drug hang-out. Each barking dog, a vicious Rottweiler, or a crazed, slathering Pitbull, all champing at the end of their tire chains to take her down. To drag her into the bushes. To hurt her…

  Like he had.

  The flashback blew through Ashley’s thin veil of confidence like a tornado whipped through clothes on the line.

  Two years ago. Almost to the day. He’d come to install a new thermostat, or so he’d said. She’d been in her second year at the local community college, a single woman living alone in a refurbished home-turned-apartment.

  It was the affordability of the small, older home, and attractiveness of the clay-tiled roof and creamy stucco walls, that had cinched the deal for her. The house itself was immaculate; boasted two up, two down. Her studio apartment had been at the rear of the second level, overlooking the back lawn turned into a parking lot. She could’ve seen the college dorms from her bedroom window, if she’d stood on a stool. Her only other window had faced the side of the neighboring house. Not much to see there.

  She’d been between roommates. Her first mistake…

  She’d known the instant he’d shut the door behind him and stood staring at her without saying anything that he’d lied. It was in the way he’d spread his legs and crossed his arms over his narrow chest, blocking her exit. The way his bag of tools dropped to the floor, like he’d never needed them. Because he didn’t. They were just props. His way in.

  He wasn’t bad-looking, but neither was he particularly good-looking. Ordinary. Nondescript. Short. Light-brown hair combed straight back. No facial hair, acne, piercings, scars, glasses, or visible tattoos. Khaki shirt and matching pants. Nothing in his appearance labeled him cruel or frightening. If anything, he was the definition of bland, two short sticks on a chunk of walking oatmeal.

  His eyes were what she remembered. They were the lightest gray, almost bluish silver, like two puffs of frozen breath in winter. Like cigarette smoke, the promise of death when inhaled. Lethal, if it touched you.

  Ashley had run to her kitchen and grabbed her one and only steak knife from the dish strainer beside the sink. He was on her by then, had one hard arm crooked around her neck and a fist full of her hair. He’d jerked her back against his front and slapped the knife out of her hand. She’d sucked in a panicked breath to scream. But he’d clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth, rubbed his nose into her cheek, and asked the words that haunted her, “Wanna play, little girl?”

  “No!” she told her nightmare, fighting to keep him out of her head. “I didn’t want to play then. I don’t want to play now.” Out of habit, her right hand skimmed her thigh, missing her messenger bag. Swallowing hard, she began to run. Her simple black walking shoes slipped on the soggy, wet leaves that, just moments ago, had made the night beautiful. She nearly fell but spread her arms in time and righted herself.

  The memory rolled on.

  He’d shoved her to the floor and punched her when she’d cried out. He’d caged her under his smelly, unwashed body, locked between his knees, on the floor beside her daybed. He’d just sliced the buttons off her shirt and used her knife to do that. He’d straddled her hips, had spread her shirt open, drooling down on her like a pig. She’d been hysterical and crying, staring up into those ghostly, unfeeling eyes, her arms trapped at her sides. He’d licked his lips. Then
reached behind his back and produced a long thin blade. A fillet knife.

  Ashley had freaked. She’d managed one short squawk before her intruder slammed his dirty, sweaty hand over her mouth again. He forced her chin up and pressed the knife into the soft skin under her jaw. “Bet you wanna play with me now,” he’d told her, his pupils bigger and blacker. “But you’re like the others, dirty and proud of it. Skanks who think you can rule the world.”

  That was when Mac, the real maintenance man, had pounded at her front door and called out, “Hey, Ashley! It’s me, Mac. I’m here to replace your thermostat like we planned. Just finished old man Toone’s. You’re gonna like it. It’s easy to program. Even I can do it, and it comes with a remote.”

  Her attacker had glanced over his shoulder at the door, momentarily distracted. Desperately, carefully, she’d snaked one arm up from her side.

  The creep turned back to her and hissed, “Mac likes you and you like him. You’ll play with him, but not me.”

  She’d blinked hard then, trying to recall if she’d ever seen this guy before. Had they ever met?

  Mac knocked again. Louder. “Open up, young lady. Time’s a-wasting!”

  Her killer was antsy by then. “Make one sound and I’ll kill your fuck buddy!”

  Frightened out of her mind, Ashley had grabbed his free hand and bit his thumb. Hard! As long as she could stand the dirty thing inside her mouth. Until he’d slammed his other fist into her forehead, and she’d thought her brain exploded.

  “You can’t get away from me,” he’d hissed. Like the sick dog he was, he’d trapped her arm again, then dropped his nose into the corner of her neck where it joined her shoulder. He’d stuck the flat of his nasty tongue on her skin and licked a long, wet trail up her neck, onto her cheek, and into her hair.