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 cross-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
