Tripp

by Irish Winters

  Good thing he always carried this unique set of lock pick tools. Deadbolts were all designed with inner pins, but some with more difficult-to-pick spool pins. The trick was to get past the deadbolt’s inner workings, do it right, and do it fast. A deadbolt had to be picked counter-clockwise. Pick it clockwise and you were a fool. Game over. Go home and jerk off in the shower.

  First step: Concentrate. He slid a tiny tension wrench into the lock’s aperture. With his right hand, he maintained the right amount of tension, while he inserted one of his many rakes in his left hand, just over the wrench. Deftly, he manipulated the rake in and out, one-by-one pushing the inner pins to their up positions.

  Next step: Take a breath. Quick glance right. Quicker glance left. Make sure you’re still unseen. Keep working.

  His diamond pick came next. Then a lifter. He raked each pick with delicate precision, adjusting the tension wrench as needed. But slowly. Carefully. With every cautious breath, the universe narrowed down to the genius—him—and this one final game.

  He cocked his head to listen, both to the pins inside the lock, and for sounds of life on this floor. There were four apartments on each level. He now knew the one directly opposite Ashley Cox was vacant, but in need of new flooring in the bathroom. An older woman occupied the one up the hall, next to the vacant apartment.

  But imagine his surprise when he’d broken into the apartment next to Ashley Cox and discovered a photo of the gorilla, who he now knew was Former Army Ranger Tripp McClane. My, my, but his blonde smiling mother didn’t look old enough in that picture to have a son his age, nor a daughter as nasty as that slut he’d left behind the Chinquapin Park Rec Center.

  That had been a damned close call. He’d almost been caught and attacked himself. The murderous light in that old fart’s eyes and the way his wife had screamed when they’d seen him and what he’d done to the tramp, had nearly unnerved him. Like a novice, he’d panicked and run. The old bastard had a gun. Jesus, people these days!

  But now that he’d settled down, he wondered about the sheer coincidence of it all. The destiny. Brother? Sister? Mother? All caught in the same trap as Ashley Cox? How sweet this particular game was ending. Andrea McClane might just bear looking into… as soon as he was done playing with Ashley Cox.

  Maybe this wasn’t the endgame after all, but the match point to the more-deadly game with an Army Ranger. What would that sound like? The scream of a trained soldier when he found his girlfriend and his mother displayed on the gameboard of death? Without any way to tell what happened to them or who tortured them. All games ended in death. Surely a warrior understood that. If Tripp McClane didn’t now, he soon would.

  At last, all pins were up. Time to break the lock. Enter his specialized locksmith drill. Inserting the finely machined tip into the lock’s aperture, he squeezed the sensitive trigger. The keyway spun as surely and as quietly as planned. Mission accomplished. No deadbolt could keep him out. Once again, Ashley Cox was vulnerable. Accessible.

  Patiently, he stored the tools of his trade, lifted to his feet, and swept the flapping sides of his trench coat behind him. It was time to play—for keeps.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “What do we have?” Tripp called out, as he ducked under the streaming, yellow FBI tape surrounding the latest crime scene.

  Several police and city cars lined the opposite side of the street, where he’d parked. A dark gray EZ-up had been constructed over the scene. The ME had already removed the body, but white privacy sheeting still draped three sides of the pop-up tent. APD detectives and police officers were on-site, doing their thing. As were a few local reporters. No surprise there. Vultures always showed up when there was blood.

  Cocking his head, no doubt with the frequency of his ninja radar ears turned up extra-high this afternoon, Jameson already faced the direction Tripp had come from.

  “Here!” he called out, waving Tripp over. Jameson didn’t have a clue how to dress casually. Back at the hospital, he’d been in TEAM black like everyone else. This afternoon, he was ‘business professional’. Gray suit, matching gray tie, white shirt, thick-soled, blavck work shoes. No doubt he carried at least one pistol under that jacket. How the hell did a blind guy coordinate his wardrobe as well as this guy did? Jameson had to be as OCD as Alex. That actually made sense.

  Four heads turned at Tripp’s boisterous approach, three male agents, one very lovely, blonde female agent, all with FBI shields on their belts. Director Chase intercepted them the moment they’d headed toward Tripp. By then, Tripp was already with Jameson.

  “Chase has been on my ass since I arrived,” Jameson murmured under his breath. “He’s antsy as shit about this murder.”

  Tripp shot the asshole in question a glare over his shoulder. “What’s his problem? Besides his big head?”

  “I get the impression he’s frustrated that his folks can’t peg our killer, that maybe we can.”

  “We can?” Tripp leaned in closer. “What do we know that Chase doesn’t?”

  “That there’s enough forensic material in that well-used body bag to nail this son of a bitch. We were first on the scene. Alex has the county ME on speed-dial. He signed off the evidence trail with the ME. That’s when Chase called FBI bullshit. Claims this is his crime scene, that he’s got total jurisdiction, not Alex.”

  “Then why’d he ask for a TEAM assist?”

  “Agent McClane! Hello, Agent McClane!” The blonde FBI agent called, as she approached with long, elegant strides on his six.

  “Here,” he answered, lifting one hand to acknowledge her.

  She was a looker. Long-legged and lean, dressed in black like her buddies, she made that suit look a hundred percent better. Long, golden curls ruffled in the breeze, creating a gentle wake behind her. And right behind that wake, another agent followed on her six. Sandy-haired and built like a brick shithouse, he had her beat by a good foot in height. Maybe a solid hundred pounds in weight. Straight spine. Erect as fuck. If he wasn’t former military, Tripp was a fairy godmother.

  Jameson commenced introductions while they were still in transit. “Tripp, FBI Special Agents Eden and Ky Winchester. Winchesters, my friend and teammate, Tripp McClane.”

  “Ma’am.” Tripp extended a hand to Eden when she was within reach.

  But damned if the male-half of the duo didn’t grab his hand first, a grin cracking his ugly face and his grip crunching Tripp’s fingers. “Tripp McClane! My God! How the hell are you? Never thought I’d see you again.” Ky laughed, his unmasked voice full of crystal-clear joy. “Though I’m pretty sure I didn’t see you last time we met, either. Man, you’re a sight!”

  Tripp cocked his head. “Do I know you?” he had to ask, as he manned up and gave that bone-cracking handshake his all. Whoa. Ky was no pushover, and those weren’t fluffy shoulder pads under that black FBI get-up. He was as strong as a fuckin’ ox. Plenty of upper body strength. Wide damned shoulders and a thick neck that looked like he power-lifted.

  By then his two buddies had also circumvented their boss and were headed his way. Chase stood there with his feet spread and his hands on his hips, glaring as his team walked away from him. Well, let him glare. There was no I in this TEAM. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “Probably not, but you’re one of the guys who rescued me and a couple other soldiers outside of that private prison south of Kabul,” Eden’s husband declared proudly. “I was on my way to the USMC morgue, but I made sure I got the names of everyone who was there that night. You helped save my life, man. I was blind and beat to shit, b-b-but, d-d-damn…” Ky’s amber eyes brimmed and his lips pinched. “Thank you so g-g-gawddamned much for being there,” he stuttered. “I’m so d-d-damned glad to meet you in person.”

  Tripp found himself pulled into a mighty, suffocating bro hug. He damned well recalled the barely alive Marine he and his team had found that ugly night outside Kabul. Army had never worked so well with the Corps as when both were on the
same search and rescue missions. Tripp just wished he’d been the one who’d ended the sadistic bastard who’d operated the shithole Ky had escaped from. But someone else had the privilege of killing the Taliban banker. Scuttlebutt was that guy was one of the Taliban’s own snipers. Interesting.

  “My husband was only on his way to the morgue until I convinced him to stay alive for me,” the pretty blonde added. Her arm looped through Ky’s cocked elbow. She patted the bulky biceps that stretched his black suit jacket sleeve to the max.

  He beamed down at her. “Yes, you did, Eden. Sorry. I should tell you,” he said to Tripp, “we’re the FBI’s one and only psychic team, but—”

  “But we can’t read shit off a gawddamned thing this bastard’s touched,” the behemoth who’d just joined Ky growled. “Agent Tate Higgins at your service. Ky’s told me a lot about that night. Good to finally meet you, McClane.” He reached a bear-sized hand forward, and Tripp expected another death match, the kind all former military exacted upon meeting members from a different service.

  The rule was simple. Whoever blinked or whined first bought drinks for the house. Tripp had usually gotten drunk those times, but he wasn’t so sure about that outcome today. Tate was a big guy with large, work-roughened hands. Dark shaggy hair. Darkly tanned like most guys and gals who’d served too long in the Middle East. And a grip that wouldn’t quit.

  But neither would Tripp. He gave until Tate’s ugly face cracked into a toothy grin. “You’re all right,” Tate muttered when he gave up the win. “Almost as good as your buddy there.”

  Tripp had to glance at Jameson. “Him?”

  Jameson lifted a shoulder, as usual, and said, “Krav Maga. I never lose, remember?”

  Which made Tripp laugh. “Yeah, whatever.”

  By then, the fourth agent had joined the FBI psychic threesome. He stuck out a much more slender, elegant hand and announced, “Agent Isaiah Zaroyin at your service. Pleased to meet you, Agent McClane. It’s a privilege to be able to work with you.”

  So, this was that mad doctor’s son, huh? Tripp took hold of Zaroyin’s hand, surprised to find more physical strength in his grip than he’d expected. Zaroyin was the Christopher Reeves version of “Superman.” Tall, dark, and handsome. Slender, but strong in a better-looking package than Ky, Tate, or Tucker. And smart. Isaiah relinquished the handshake first and stepped back into line behind Ky and Eden. Guess he didn’t feel the need to prove he was bigger or better. But then, he’d never served in the military, either. Tripp could tell.

  “So, you guys are all, what? Mind readers?” he asked, half-expecting one of them to reach over and pull a coin out of his ear.

  Ky’s better-half smiled. “Some of us can read minds, yes,” Eden replied, her pretty green eyes twinkling with mischief. “But each of us came into the FBI with different psychic skills. Mine are more long distance, which is how I was able to reach out to Ky in Afghanistan from my home in Virginia. Tate has an affinity with most animals, and—”

  “All except alligators and crocodiles,” he piped up. “Bears, dogs, and everyone else. Even snakes and birds. Just nothing left over from ‘Jurassic Park.’”

  Interesting word-choice: Everyone else instead of anything else. Tate identified more closely with animals than people. Tripp liked him instantly.

  “Eden and Isaiah are the only Level Tens in the States,” Director Chase bragged, now that he’d caught up with his people. “Isaiah’s got skills not even he can explain.”

  Isaiah cleared his throat. “And Tucker’s skills are coming along just fine. He’s a fair mind reader and getting better every day.”

  Tripp ran an appraising eye over the guy with the biggest ego. Tucker? A mind reader? He’d have to see that to believe it. Call him skeptical, but yeah. Not falling for all this BS.

  He turned to Ky Winchester. “And what do you do?”

  Ky shrugged and pointed to Eden. “I’m married. What do you think? I do whatever she tells me to do.”

  That bought a few laughs and loosened the mood. Even Chase smiled.

  “He reads people,” Eden explained. “Not their minds, their auras. He can tell you things about yourself you might not even know.”

  I doubt that.

  Her lips turned up with a sunny, wide-open smile. “You’ll see. Let us hang around with you for a day, and you’ll see.”

  Tripp had to look twice at Eden. Did she just read my mind?

  She winked.

  She did! Tripp ran a hand over the back of his neck, disconcerted as fuck!

  “Boss, I know we’ve got a case to work,” she told Tucker. “But may I?” she asked Tripp, her small right hand already reached out for him to take.

  “Sure, why not?” He accepted her gracious handshake, expecting it to be brief and gentle. Instead, he got the ice-cold stare of a woman who could see right through him. Time stopped. Eden blinked in quick, jerky succession, like she was processing data he hadn’t meant to share. Hadn’t known how to share. Jesus. She was inside his head. He could feel her. Couldn’t stop her, though. Didn’t know how.

  “Stop,” Jameson commanded, his voice sharp and curt. “Eden, break the link. Now!”

  She blinked again, shook whatever had just happened off, and released Tripp’s hand, which by then, was sweaty as hell.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” she breathed, sinking to the ground. Ky slipped an arm around her waist before she hit the dirt.

  “What the fuck was that?” Tripp hissed, shaking his fingers to get them to stop humming. Felt like Eden had just electrocuted him. Even his head buzzed.

  “Sorry, Agent McClane. It happens,” Ky answered calmly, as he turned his attention to his wife. “You okay, hon?”

  Her head bobbed forward, and all those blonde spirals fell over her face. She was shaking, and Tripp was damned well-shaken. Sorry didn’t cut it. “What the fuck just happened?”

  Isaiah stepped between the Winchesters and Tripp. “It’s called transference, Agent McClane. Apparently, you have, for lack of a better word, some intense shit going on in your life right now.” Isaiah cocked his head in that same curious way Jameson was prone to do. “Sometimes that shit is too much for one person to hold, much less hold back. It transfers, automatically, to the nearest receptor, which this morning…” He nodded at Eden, whose rose-colored blush had been replaced by gray pallor. “…is the first FBI psychic ever, Eden Winchester.”

  “She read my mind?” That sounded a lot like invasion of privacy.

  “No. Actually, your overloaded mind reached out and dumped itself into Eden. She can read minds, yes, but that’s not what happened this time. She’s not able to block spontaneous transference yet. We’re all learning how to handle our talents, but we’ve still got a long way to go.”

  “How do you even know what happened to me?”

  “He’s our psychic over-watch,” Tate answered, his hefty arms crossed over his chest. “He keeps track of the rest of us. All the time. He always knows where we are.”

  “What is he, God?” Tripp snapped out.

  “Let it go,” Jameson breathed. “The same thing happened when I shook her hand. Guess I’ve got unresolved anger issues related to my loss of sight. Like that’s a shocker.”

  “You do?” Tripp asked, damned surprised that this suave, cool, collected guy wasn’t as perfect as he appeared.

  “To clarify…” Isaiah held a hand up for attention. “The same thing has happened with nearly everyone from your TEAM, Agent McClane. Eden shook their hands. Their minds threw everything down, like yours just did. You’re all open books, which is why we want to work with you. We can read you, so we trust you. That, and each of you brings a different skillset to the job at hand.”

  “Skills we just don’t have,” Ky added, his arm still securely around his wife.

  “So what did my mind tell you?” Tripp studied Eden. “If we’re all transparent, why can’t you read the killer’s mind?”

  She was
leaning into Ky for support, and he had that whole protective, male vibe humming. Tripp didn’t need to be psychic to see that. Eden’s lashes fluttered. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She looked as bad as Tripp felt.

  Ky met Tripp’s question head-on. “Mind dumps are confidential, Agent McClane. Come see us at our office sometime, and she’ll tell you everything. But as far as our killer’s concerned, some people have natural mental blocks we don’t yet understand how to get through. Psychic ability is not a one-size-fits-all scenario. Tate’s the one who taught the rest of us how to block psychic babble. He grew up knowing how to do that. It came natural to him. Now we’re figuring out how to get through natural mental blocks. Do you know how?”

  “Err, me?” Tripp shook his head. “I’m not psychic.” Or crazy.

  “It’s not crazy, Agent McClane,” Isaiah said.

  “Stop reading my mind, damn it.”

  A knowing smile curled the corners of Isaiah’s big mouth. “Sorry. It’s a lot like learning to walk. Once you start, it’s hard to slow down. Next thing, you’re running.”

  “Try,” Tripp ordered dryly.

  Isaiah nodded, but the guy grinned, as if this was all a game for him. “Imagine waking up one day, and suddenly, you’re able to hear what’s going on in every person’s mind within a ten-mile radius of your bedroom. That’s when my psychic gift manifested. I was a teenager, and thought I was crazy, a freak. It wasn’t until I met Tate a couple years ago, that I learned how to filter the excess noise out of my head.”

  “It’s called tuning,” Tate added with a shrug of his big shoulders. “No big deal. I grew up knowing how to tune down the noise and zero in on what’s important. It’s easy once you know how.”

  “But none of you can read the perp’s mind?” Jameson asked.

  Ky shook his head. “Correct. Which is why Tucker’s fit to be tied. Eden’s able to pick up psychic impressions off people’s clothing, sometimes from an item that meant a lot to them.”