Later that night, Tripp lay on his back in Ashley’s bed, exhausted and sated, with her tucked under his arm, and her left hand splayed over his bare chest. Every time the ring on her finger caught the tiniest ray of light from somewhere in the darkened room, it sparkled, and he smiled.
He was a changed man. The anger he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long was gone. He had Alex to thank for that. Because of Alex, Trish was also a different person. The darkness in her seemed to have disappeared, and Andy was happy as a lark.
Tripp had more responsibility, the kind that allowed him to continue his night job by doing it more efficiently. Hopefully, more effectively. Who would’ve thought someone like him would be responsible for The TEAM’s new Civilian Anti-Terrorism Unit? That Alex had faith in him told Tripp plenty. But more than anything, he had Ashley. Funny how things changed the moment he’d cradled her in his arms that desperate Friday night. He hadn’t been the same since.
And those fuck-me-blue heels? Best. Shoes. Ever!
The End
Thank you for reading Tripp and Ashley’s story!
You are the key to this book’s success.
Please tell other readers why you liked Tripp by leaving an honest review at the retail site where you purchased it.
Recommend him to your friends. Lend him. Most of all, enjoy him!
Other Irish Winters’ best-selling series:
In the Company of Snipers
Alex
Mark
Zack
Harley
Connor
Rory
Taylor
Gabe
Maverick
Cassidy
Adam
Lee
Ky
Hunter
Eric
Jake
Seth
Beau
Renner
Beckam
Walker
Jameson
Deuces Wild
King of Hearts
Joker Joker
One-Eyed Jack
Ace
Hearts and Ashes
Smoke
Ash
SOBs Novels
Angel
Assassin
Vaquero
Coming soon:
Kruze Sinclair’s story
To keep up with my new releases, giveaways, and actionable intel, sign up for my spam-free newsletter at IrishWinters.com.
Keep reading for another tasty tidbit!
An Unedited Preview of
Damned
SOBs Novel, #3
Kruze Sinclair wasn’t supposed to be there. The plan to leave Istanbul, Turkey, had been straight forward. All Senator Sullivan’s black ops exfils were well-planned and scheduled ahead of time, vetted through whichever other spec ops teams were in the same country, and expedited accordingly. If the US Air Force couldn’t accommodate getting an occasional unnamed hitchhiker out of Turkish airspace, the Navy always had resources available on the sly. Since civil unrest became the norm for this third world country, all US military departments operated more as distant, socially unwanted relatives instead of the besties they’d been during the decades of solid Turkey/American relations.
But like the shifting political landscape below, where Kruze found himself late this afternoon, things had changed between Turkey and America. Unfortunately, Istanbul, his way home, now lay on the exact opposite side of this godforsaken land. Early this morning, Sullivan had tasked Kruze, since he was ‘in the neighborhood,’ to pick up some high and mighty journalist who’d gotten herself lost and captured by a rebel faction, in the edge of the Eastern Anatolia Region. Bordered by Georgia to the north, Iraq to the south, Iran, Azerbaijan, and Armenia to the east, Eastern Anatolia was once again, the glow-in-the-dark hotspot of Eurasia.
The mountainous region was home to the often-disparaged Kurds. It was what some talking heads called their last holdout. Their Alamo. Kruze knew the history. After the first World War, thanks to then USA president Woodrow Wilson, Kurdish nationalists were guaranteed the eventual establishment of their own country, Kurdistan. But, like the treaties made with American Indians, it never happened. In 1920, the Treaty of Sevres between the Allies and the sultan of the Ottoman Empire recognized Kurdistan’s autonomy. But the treaty was never ratified, due to a rising military star in Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the country’s first president. Lack of that ratification left the ancient country of Kurdistan geographically spread across large portions of eastern Turkey, northern Iraq, and western Iran, as well as smaller portions within Syria and Armenia. Iran and Iraq were the only countries to officially recognize the autonomous portions of Kurdistan within their borders.
Which also explained the conflict between Turkey and Armenia. Back in the early 1900s, Eastern Anatolia Region had seen the demise, as in the outright genocide, of its Armenian population, by Turkey. The campaign against Armenians had been so ugly that, even today, it was forbidden to even speak the word ‘Armenia’ in Turkey. The powers that ruled Turkey were still changing the written history of that war to suit their whitewashed spin on the war crimes they’d committed against a population of well over a million innocent men, women, and children.
Which must be why Brianna What’s-Her-Pain-in-the-Ass-Name, oh yeah, Banks, was here. She’d probably decided to write her own spin on the historical nightmare. Guess Mizz Banks hadn’t received the royal treatment she’d expected, though. A rebel faction took her captive. The Turkish military now vigorously hunted for her with no intention of taking her, or her captors, alive. She’d had a death wish coming the moment she’d ventured into this mountainous warzone. Turkey intended to grant that wish, had even put a million US dollar bounty on her hard head. Kruze’s job now was to find the prima donna and extract her pretentious ass without causing an international incident. Lucky him.
From the bottom of his former Navy SEAL heart, he detested journalists and reporters. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. That hatred stemmed from the fabricated untruths and fiction about his older brother’s final foray into South America, the one that had nearly gotten Chance killed. Yes, those ugly stories. Because of them, Kruze carried one helluva grudge against the entire, star-studded, celebrity news reporting community. In his estimation, they were nothing but gold-digging liars, easily bought by whichever politically-driven megalomaniac offered the most pieces of silver. But that was another story and another grudge Kruze carried. Like he didn’t have enough.
He lay perfectly still on a narrow granite outcropping, his binocs trained on the caravan of rusty jeeps, half-assed, ancient pickups, overburdened donkeys, and the
