Tripp

you…” You pig! “Major General Jalandar Ali of the Afghan National Army Commando Corps.” You worthless piece of shit!
Would’ve meant more if Tripp had lowered his weapon before he’d said it. Close to fifty weapons now stared down at him and his squad. Dozens of the darkest black eyes promised retribution.
Well, bring it on.
Trickles of sweat rolled down Tripp’s temples, off his forehead and into his eyes, at what could very well happen next. His pulse hammered for his own brand of retribution. His finger, still on the trigger, begged to squeeze off a round, to empty his double-stack magazine into Ali’s smug face. All those yes-men might win this fight, but by hell, Ali wouldn’t.
The big, brave man with brass on his chest, not in his pants, sneered. “You tell me that nonsense now? Are you a fool?”
Yes, actually… I can be.
Tripp’s lower lip curled over his bottom teeth. He breathed through his mouth, fighting for composure and that damned elusive thing called discretion. Nothing about this transfer had gone right. US Army Rangers had trained every last ANSF commando. Those commandos excelled at fighting the Taliban and ISIL, had in fact, never been beaten. There was no way these jerks were those same trained men.
Spike hip-checked him again. “Take a step back, buddy. Sarge’ll have your ass if you screw this up.”
Tripp stared Ali down, not going to blink, gawddamnit. “For what? For letting this shithead kill a kid in cold blood?”
“Don’t forget, Ikram was a terrorist, and you know it, and… Atten-shun!” Spike snapped to.
The rest of Tripp’s squad did as well. Not Tripp. Wolsey could wait his turn.
Damned if his CO didn’t step directly into Tripp’s line of sight with an amicable, shit-eating, “Major General Ali. Staff Sergeant Wolsey here, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” With one hand now firmly braced over the top of Tripp’s pistol, Wolsey forced his aim to the tarmac instead of the asshole. “I trust everything is in order. That the transfer went well.”
Was Wolsey blind? Had he missed the murdered kid at his feet?
“It did,” Ali replied smoothly, his chin lifted while he petted his scrawny excuse for a mustache again. “It is too bad you arrived late. The prisoner tried to escape. I was forced to execute him. Tsk, tsk.”
Tripp blew. “Escape, my ass! You son of a—!”
Wolsey twisted Tripp’s wrist, a sure signal to shut up. “Well, sir, it’s war,” he told Ali without emotion. “Unfortunately, things like this happen. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us today, General. You’ve been a great help. We appreciate all you do for us.”
All you do for us? Like murdering children?!
“It is my pleasure,” the liar replied with the grace of every politician on the whole damned planet.
Tripp wanted to throw up. The world turned red and hazy, but not because of the pretty sunrise pouring over the horizon. His head worked like that when he was about to lose his temper. When he’d been forced to witness atrocities and murder—and do nothing!
“About face,” Wolsey barked, his hand still an iron manacle on Tripp’s wrist as he forced compliance Tripp didn’t want to give. But he was smart enough to follow orders. He kept his big mouth shut until he and his squad were almost to the OD green wall of US Army deuce-and-a-half trucks now parked at the edge of the runway. When had they arrived?
Tripp glanced over his shoulder. General Ali was staring at him. Still preening. Gloating. “That bastard just killed a kid in cold blood, Sergeant Wolsey. I hadn’t even transferred military authority when he—”
“What part of about face do you not understand, soldier?” Wolsey growled while speed-walking to the rear of those trucks. “I’m trying to save your dumb ass, McClane. Move it.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“It’s war, damn it. Forget Ikram. Kids play with bombs, they end up dead. End of fuckin’ story.”
“But someone else forced him to bomb that mosque. I damned well know it, and so do you. Wanna bet that someone was Ali?”
There was no sense arguing. Wolsey’s pearly whites were set and his square jaw was clenched like the bulldog he was. All Tripp could do was follow orders. His was not to question why. His was just to do and die. And… “Bullshit! These ROEs suck! They’re wrong! He was just a skinny kid. We’re better than that. I could’ve gotten him to talk. I know I could’ve!”
“Get your ass in the truck. We need to be gone.”
Tripp’s guys had already boarded. Spike was waving for him to climb in. Tripp had one foot on the tailgate, ready to jump up when he noticed all the tailgates on these trucks were down. A couple dozen fully-armed, geared-up, badassed soldiers were waiting inside each deuce-and-a-half. Wolsey knew something Tripp didn’t.
“Ali?” Tripp asked, even as he hung suspended by one arm from the canvas soft top.
“That bastard’s not Ali, damn it,” Wolsey declared vehemently, “and those men with him are not ANSF commandos. That’s Ali’s son of a bitchin’ brother, Anwar Khan, the Crimson Sword of Allah. He’s a terrorist, and he’s here to kill his brother, then takeover this facility. We need to be gone before hell breaks loose.”
Right on cue, the lethal rumble of America’s finest guardian angel of the skies eased its silver wings over the far end of the tarmac. An A-10, aka the famed Warthog, every US service member’s best friend, was headed straight for Khan’s little army. Now there was a sight a man could believe in.
Tripp’s jaw dropped. “But he looks just like Ali.”
“Well, he’s not. Ali’s the one who notified us that Khan and his men were headed here. It’s Ali who asked for air support.”
“Khan’s got inside help if he’s made it this far with this many armed men.”
“You think?” Wolsey groused as the first A-10’s magnificent barrage shook the Earth.
“That’s why he killed Ikram. Khan sent him into that mosque, didn’t he?”
The ground vibrated and bucked beneath Tripp’s boots,