Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
In the Company of Snipers
IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
An Unedited Preview of Damned
About the Author
Tripp
IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
Book 23
IRISH WINTERS
COPYRIGHT
Tripp; In the Company of Snipers, Book 23
Copyright ©2021 by Irish Winters
All rights reserved
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design: Kelli Ann Morgan, Inspire Creative Services
Cover image: Paul Henry Serres Photography, www.paulhenryserres.com
Interior book design: Bob Houston, eBook Formatting
Editor: Linda Clarkson, Black Opal Editing and Proofreading
ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-01-5
ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-02-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021906846
In the Company of Snipers
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IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
This series revolves around former Marine scout sniper, Alex Stewart, and his covert surveillance company, The TEAM, home-based out of Alexandria, Virginia. An obsessive patriot and workaholic, he created the company to give former military snipers like him, a chance at returning to civilian life with a decent job, security, and a future.
This is not a serial with each book ending at a cliffhanger. In the Company of Snipers is a collection of passionate love stories involving strong women and men who are tough enough to take on the world alone. Each is a stand-alone read, complete in itself.
Spoiler alert: Every story contains adult scenes including sexual situations (some explicit), language, and violence. I don’t write sweet romance, so be forewarned.
Book 1, ALEX, reveals how The TEAM came to be, as well as how Alex met Kelsey, how they fell in love and fought all odds to stay together. Each of the following books is a complete romance in itself, where, in the course of an active TEAM operation, one agent comes face to face with his or her demons. The men and women I write about are all patriots and warriors, dealing with what they’ve lived through or mistakes they’ve made.
It’s my hope that you will come to realize along with my heroes...
Love changes everything.
Prologue
US Army Corporal Tripp McClane jerked his cell phone out of one of his many tactical vest pockets and glared at the caller ID displayed on the cracked-to-shit screen. Trish again. Damn her. What now? That girl had more problems than anyone he’d ever known. Which was saying something, since he’d joined the Army, and now knew more people than just the locals back in Letha, Idaho. His hometown was a goodbye, good-riddance, speck of dust stuck between Caldwell, Idaho, and Ontario, Oregon. On the border to No-Damned-Where. The scenery might’ve been gorgeous, but the mess that had been his home life? Trish had made that as ugly as shit.
Which was why his mother had moved her to the East Coast after he’d deployed. It was Andrea McClane’s last-ditch effort to get her daughter away from the small-town mentality, where entertainment had everything to do with booze and drugs. She’d moved to show Trish a different, smarter way to live. To submerse her in a town filled with the diversity of military families, hard-charging professionals, and winners. But mostly, to get her away from her trashy, drinking, drug-addict friends.
“I’m working,” he clipped, instead of asking, “What now?” He didn’t want to know.
“Yeah, well, I’m working, too, you fuckin’ jerk!” she screeched. “You seen Mom today? I mean, you heard from Mom? God, it’s not like you ever Facetime or keep in touch, you ass.” With every word, the pitch of her voice turned more shrill and demanding. Which meant Trish was using again. My poor mother. “She’s not here. I don’t know where she is, and I need a ride to the effin’ bus stop, and I’m tired of—”
“I don’t have time for this,” he replied tersely. “Call me back later.”
“Listen to me, damn you!” Her voice vibrated as if she were stomping her feet or banging her head. A brother could only wish she’d knock some sense into the empty space between her ears. “For once! Can’t you focus on me instead of your fuckin’ job for once? Damn you! I’m important, too, and I need—”
Click.
I... I... I... Trish’s all-time favorite word in Webster’s dictionary. Make that her go-to letter.
Tripp hung up without listening to the rest of what would’ve been a drawn-out, tiresome rant mingled with more ugly words, dramatic tears, and vicious threats. Fraternal twins should’ve had more in common, but not him and Trish. The cell went into his pocket. His attention went back to Army business.
If Mom wasn’t home, she was probably next-door babysitting Benson’s three little girls, her usual schedule since Mr. Benson died of a heart attack during last fall’s Virginia deer hunt. Mom was compassionate. She actually thought of others, unlike Trish, who only ever thought of herself. Tripp flat didn’t have time for his sister’s tantrum this morning, not in the middle of the sensitive Afghan prisoner transfer he was handling.
Abdul Ikram, an Afghan youngster of fifteen years, had killed eleven civilians in yesterday’s bombing at a mosque in downtown Kabul. Out of sheer dumb l
uck, Tripp and his six-man squad had been patrolling a block away when the explosion rocked the city. They’d intercepted Ikram within minutes of the attack, thankfully, before he’d detonated the suicide vest intended to kill any first responders who would’ve gotten to him first.
First on-site, Tripp had simply manhandled the kid to the ground and defused the vest. It turned out to be an oddly sophisticated item for a poor kid dressed in rags. From there, the US Army took the scrawny teenager into custody. Ikram spent the night inside Camp Eggers detention facility. There, he was allowed to shower and eat, then dress in clean clothes, an orange jumpsuit with EGGERS stenciled on its back.
After Tripp watched the kid snarf the simple meal of canned turkey hash over brown rice, with a side of green beans, he knew damned well the kid had been starving. That detail and the vest told Tripp plenty. Ikram wasn’t the mastermind behind the attack, but hungry kids did the damnedest things to survive. Tripp had no authority to question or interrogate the boy, so he kept his interaction friendly, hoping to get him to talk, to tell him who’d set him up. No go. For the entire night, Ikram was wide-eyed, frightened, but mute. After Tripp’s efforts failed, the kid curled onto the narrow cot in his solitary cell, faced the wall, pulled the OD green blanket over his head, and effectively shut the US Army out.
But USA rules of engagement prevailed. Any and all Afghan prisoners had to be turned over to Afghan National Security Forces (ANSF) as quickly as possible after apprehension. Since Tripp and his guys did the catching, their CO, Staff Sergeant Wolsey, assigned them the ‘privilege’ of escorting Ikram to the rendezvous point. And since Major General Jalandar Ali of the Afghan National Army Commando Corps wanted to meet the man who’d taken Ikram down—without getting himself blown up—the meeting should’ve taken place at the Morehead Commando Training Center, six miles south of Kabul, at zero-five-thirty this morning.
Should have. Didn’t. Still might if Major General Ali ever showed. He was two hours late, and Tripp was tired of waiting. He rolled his shoulder as the first orange-pink fingers of a beautiful sunrise stretched across the eastern horizon and promised another hot-as-hell day.
By now, Tripp was antsy as hell, glancing over his shoulder, and tired of the delay. His squad was just as wired. Ikram stood in the middle of them, still wearing orange, with his hands cuffed in front of him, and still not talking. Tripp didn’t blame him. He didn’t want the attention this meeting with one of Afghanistan’s top dogs would garner, either. Nothing good ever came from the dubious distinction of tackling an armed but skinny-as-hell teenager, who had no sense in his empty head, to the ground. It was luck that Tripp hadn’t killed the kid. Tripp almost had. Might’ve been a righteous hit, considering the body count in that mosque, but hurting children was out of Tripp’s comfort zone.
The tackle itself was automatic, a jock skill left over from high school. As the middle linebacker for the Letha Leopards, he knew damned well how to intercept, tackle, and hang on tight to a pigskin. That ability alone was the reason he and his team were alive today. That and the fact that Ikram was small for his age. Tackling the dumbass had felt more like tackling a bag of sticks than an offensive lineman. But that was Afghanistan. Nothing and no one was what or who they seemed.
At last! Major General Ali’s military jet touched down on Morehead’s private runway. It was now zero-seven-thirty. Guess he thought he was more important than the US Army, which he’d kept waiting. The ass.
Tripp’s cell phone rang again. Without checking caller ID, he reached into his vest pocket and thumbed the power off. Not now, Trish.
Major General Ali’s military entourage cleared the jet’s stairway. To look at the pomp and fuss over this guy’s arrival, you’d think the medal-bedecked, tan-uniformed, asshat strutting toward Tripp was divine instead of mortal. There had to be twenty armed ANSF commandos accompanying him, not to mention the stone-faced civilians in light tan suits who’d met him on the tarmac, or the soldiers in the convoy of camouflaged military vehicles driving alongside his royal highness. For hell’s sake, US presidents didn’t travel with this much security.
Was that the Afghan equivalent of Secret Service? Tripp didn’t know and didn’t care. He wasn’t anyone special and had just done what any other American soldier would’ve done—his job. This shitshow needed to be over. He had work to do.
Because it was a shitshow. Every last one of those commandos marching with Ali could’ve passed for an American GI. They wore damned near the same style of US Army uniforms, from their camouflage patrol caps down to their tan combat boots. Hell, even their weapons were probably paid for by the red, white, and blue, only via the black market. These guys looked like USA wannabes, trying to look tough. Tripp was damned sick and tired of being Big Brother. The USA needed to wrap this country up in a shitty brown bow, give it back to the warlords, and bring America’s men and women home.
As the sun cleared the wall of mountains to the east, the morning turned into another scorcher. The tall, slender Afghan soldier walking alongside Major General Ali tipped his head into Ali’s brimmed field officer cap and pointed at Tripp. Ali nodded. His index finger traced the thin mustache over his top lip. His dark black eyes went cold and flat, as he aimed for Tripp.
Tripp never blinked, just stared the man down like he would any other belligerent. Generals put their pants on the same way grunts did. Ali wanted a power struggle? He’d get it. Signed, sealed, and delivered, courtesy of US Army Corporal McClane. Tripp didn’t back down from anyone which was why he’d never aspired to OTS, Officer Training School. What did it matter if he pissed off this jerk?
General Ali marched right up to him, the bright sun glinting off all the shiny crap pinned to his chest. Not much glinted off Tripp’s chest. Tactical vests didn’t shine.
“You,” Ali bit out. He’d taken one step too many and was now inside Tripp’s personal space. “You are the American soldier responsible for apprehending this pig?”
So much for courteous introductions.
As if to make a point, the general turned and spat at the already cringing teenage terrorist. “Kneel! You will kneel to me, or I will have you caged and burned alive. Here! Now!”
Cowering, Ikram fell to his knees and hid his face behind his cuffed hands. The poor damned kid. He didn’t stand a chance against this bully. Something dark and feral inside Tripp lifted its head and bared its fangs. He hadn’t yet officially transferred his prisoner over to this pompous ANSF prick. Didn’t know if he would now. Despite the agreed-upon ROEs between the USA and Afghanistan, Ikram was technically still in Tripp’s care. True, terrorists didn’t deserve much respect. They didn’t get it in America; they got less in this country. But Ikram was just a stupid kid, and nobody deserved the treatment Ali was dishing out.
“Yes, sir, I’m Corporal McClane,” Tripp answered respectfully, keeping his tone neutral, even as his blood began a slow boil. “My team and I intercepted Abdul Ikram one block east of—”
“But you,” Ali snapped, one side of his upper lip lifted in a snarl. He stabbed a finger into Tripp’s chest, pissing him off. “It was you. You are the one. It was you who stopped him from completing his assignment.”
Calling what Ikram did an assignment made it sound as if he had a boss, which he probably did. How else would the kid have acquired that many explosives, a suicide vest, and a push-button detonator? But Ali also made it sound like an accusation, instead of something Tripp should’ve been proud of. Nothing he’d done yesterday, except preventing more deaths and taking Ikram under his wing, felt right.
“We did, yes, sir,” Tripp replied. “My team and—”
“Not we. There was no we. Your men did not bring this… this…” Ali muttered some curse Tripp couldn’t interpret quickly enough. “You alone took this piece of camel shit down. You alone took the detonator from him and ended his fatwa. You!”
Tripp couldn’t decide if the man wanted agreement or confession. He refused to give either. There was
no I in his team, damn it. Again, he quietly replied, “My team and I ended this young man’s attack before more civilians were killed, sir. We were lucky. We were in the right place at the right time. It happens.” Get over your effin’ self.
Ali’s head bobbed once. He grunted, but not as if he’d conceded the power struggle. More like he’d accepted a challenge. Without another word, he jerked the Russian-made pistol out of the holster on his belt and fired. The poor, unsuspecting kid folded back onto his skinny legs like a deflated, punctured accordion. The top of his head was gone, splattered against the pants of the American soldiers standing behind him.
Automatically, Tripp’s pistol sprang to his gloved hand. His six-man squad followed suit, and it was showdown in Dodge City, with really bad odds.
“You son of a bitch!” he hissed at the glowering bastard standing so close that Tripp could’ve strangled him with his bare hands. “He was just a kid!”
General Ali turned magnanimous. Holstering his pistol with a swaggering head bob, he put one palm forward, as if placating a stupid American. As if he hadn’t just murdered a child. A sinister smile curled the corners of his thin lips. “My country and I thank you for your service, Corporal McClane,” he announced loud enough for all to hear. “That is your name, is it not? You are United States Army Corporal Tripp McClane, right? Or is my intelligence incorrect?”
Tripp was done being nice. He didn’t answer this pompous dickwad, and he didn’t lower his weapon. Couldn’t. Could barely think straight. Willed his nostrils not to inhale the sickening scent of Ikram’s blood and brains cooking on the sizzling tarmac. Focused solely on the wrinkles lining the forehead of the asshat who had cold-bloodedly murdered a fifteen-year-old boy.
“Come on, Tripp. Don’t make waves,” Spike, his best buddy, muttered as he hip-checked Tripp. “Sergeant Wolsey just drove up. We gotta go.”
“Yeah,” Tripp growled out of the side of his mouth, his mind numb at the awful turn of events. “Yeah. We do.”
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