But it was damn hard making up crap for the engineering projects on which he, uh, consulted. It meant traveling to legitimate Smithson sites and bullshitting the project managers so he'd have some clue as to what was going on if asked.
Fortunately, none of the SG-5 operatives were ever asked. Equally fortunate was the fact that none of them truly involved themselves in the construction projects or everything Smithson built would be falling to the ground.
Once Tripp had the backup organized, he printed the expense spreadsheet, attached it, and tossed the envelope across his desk with other mail needing to go out. That left him staring down at the spot where he'd been working at the information he'd dug up on
Danh
Vuong
.
Turned out the kid was a high-ranking officer in the army of one Son Cam, a successful Vietnamese businessman with fingers in a lot of really rotten pies. His street thugs, run by kids like
Vuong
, handled the messier ingredients, the cleanup of the leftovers,
the
disposal of the trash.
Danh
had been part of Cam's organization for more than half of his twenty-two years; he was younger than Tripp had thought. He'd hitched an illegal ride on a cargo ship, trading in a life of hell for a hell of a life. And right now that life seemed to be all about running Cam's diamond trade.
Tripp rubbed a hand over his forehead,
then
pressed the heels of both palms to both eyes. He needed to get to this kid, get him off the street,
get
him for what he did to Glory before he did it to anyone else.
But right now he swore he wasn't going to be getting anything done if he didn't get some sleep. He'd been kept awake for all the right reasons, but the lack of quality shut-eye was still catching up.
With the crap that had gone down at Glory's, he'd lost the Spectra agent posing as Professor Shore. It had gone against every kernel of Tripp's grain to enlist the other man's help. The Faustian bargain meant weeks of surveillance down the drain and a continuing influx of conflict diamonds into Spectra's hands.
But it had also prevented innocent lives from being lost.
That, Tripp had to believe.
A hell of a weight, the choices a man made.
He shook off his exhaustion and swung his chair around, pulling up his database on Marian Diamonds. He glanced briefly at the feeds on his surveillance monitors . . .
Holy fucking crap!
He hadn't yet disconnected the Brighton feed—and a damn good thing, too. The picture of Glory's empty shop wasn't the problem; she'd told him she didn't expect her usual business today.
The static was the problem. He'd write that off to line noise if not for the fact that just then
Danh
Vuong
walked beneath the camera.
And that the static was pulsing in an SOS.
Where the hell was Glory?
Tripp bounded from his chair, snagged his cell and his
Glock
,
checked
his clip as the safety vestibule door closed behind him. He sprinted out of the reception area and down the floor's one hallway toward the service elevator.
The elevator opened into a maze of tunnel-like hallways connecting the garage with the Smithson building and the one out of which Brighton's operated. He
sprinted
the length of the corridor, shoved open the outside door at the end, turned and ran down the alley toward the sandwich shop's rear entrance.
He pressed his back against the wall, gun at the ready, and reached for the door handle.
Unlocked.
No resistance. He glanced around, grabbed up a sheet of newsprint that had blown between his feet, and wadded it into a ball. Then he eased the door open and slipped into the shop, wedging the paper to keep the door from latching completely.
Tamping down the adrenaline pumping through his body like a rush of meth, he made his way past the men's room toward the corner and the storeroom door. He listened . . . nothing. No Glory. No
Vuong
. He swore he'd stepped into a crypt.
His nostrils flared as one, two, three, he turned, pressed his torso tight to the wall, peered around, the corner. The vantage point gave him a clear view all the way to the store's glass front.
Vuong
stood to the side of one window, watching the street traffic through a slit in the blinds.
Tripp took one silent step toward the storeroom door, eyes and gun trained on
Vuong
. The handle turned; he sidestepped into the room, his gaze never leaving
Vuong
until the door was closed.
He sensed Glory long before he swiveled to meet her gaze. She was gorgeous, amazing, and her eyes were wide with fear. She stood in front of the security cabinet, the newly sliced coaxial cable in her hands.
God, he was crazy for this woman. This time when he mouthed,
I love you,
he meant it. And this time when she mouthed,
I love
you,
too,
he felt all the pieces of his life fall together.
He held up a halting hand. She nodded, mouthed, /
know
. Stay put.
He took a deep breath, positioned his weapon, slowly pulled open the door—and found himself looking down the barrel of
Vuong's
gun.
Fuckin
' shit on a stick.
Vuong
cocked his head to one side, that weird shock of dark hair tumbling onto his forehead. "Mr.
Shaughnessey
. Why am I not surprised to find you here?"
Tripp sensed Glory moving to stand out of sight beside the shelving unit. "Because you know I'm on your ass like white on rice."
Vuong
blinked, frowned, held out his free hand. "Give me your gun."
"I don't think so," Tripp said, mentally scrambling. No one knew where he was. There'd be no backup, no camouflaged cavalry.
Vuong
pushed forward into the room, fired off a round above Tripp's shoulder. He flinched, Glory whimpered, but the sound was so soft he was certain
Vuong
hadn't heard. Was certain the only reason he had was because she was his.
"Give me the gun, Mr.
Shaughnessey
."
"Not this time,
Vuong
." A flash of silver glinted in Tripp's peripheral vision.
"Then I'm afraid I have no choice but to kill you."
"You have every choice in the world," Tripp said, sweat running between his shoulder blades. "You're taking the easy way out."
"Easy? You think killing is easy?"
Vuong's
response was not what Tripp expected, but was a hot button he would now push because nothing would convince him this man had a conscience. "Sure it is. All you have to do is squeeze the trigger."
Vuong
laughed, a dangerously manic sound that echoed like shards of glass falling on the concrete floor. "If you think there is nothing more to killing, then you're not the man I thought you were."
"And if you think there is, then neither
are
you."
The two men stood face-to-face, guns aimed at one another's chests, chests that rose and fell with their audible breathing. The vein in
Vuong's
temple looked ready to explode. Time was running out. Tripp felt the spinning second hand in his gut winding down.
All it would take would be one bullet.
One twitch of his trigger finger.
One decision made in the blink of an eye. He could do it one more time, kill one more man. This was what he'd been trained to do. What he'd done in the jungles of Colombia so many times, he'd lost count.
He saw Glory raise the knife before he could think of the words to stop her. She lunged, hands clasped overhead, swinging down in an arc, burying the blade to the hilt in the slope of
Vuong's
shoulder.
His eyes shot wide, he twisted. Tripp brought his wrist down on
Vuong's
gun hand, his knee up on the elbow.
Crack!
Vuong
went down in writhing silence. The gun spun across the room, hit the far wall, and went off. Glory screamed and ducked. Tripp jumped back, his pulse exploding, staring down at the gaping chasm where the kid's neck had been.
Jesus!
Blood pooled on the floor,
Vuong's
expression an agonizing death mask that softened into an eerie childlike face.
Tripp stepped over the downed man and did the only thing that mattered right now. He took Glory in his arms and squeezed until even he wasn't able to breathe, guiding her from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
He didn't stop until they were standing embraced in the center of the shop. He'd call the cops in a minute.
Or two.
Or three.
When he could think to explain what had happened.
When he could think beyond the fact that Glory was safe.
"Amazing, amazing, amazing."
It was all he could
say,
his voice hoarse and ragged, his throat closing around a ball of emotion the likes of which he swore he would never survive.
"Did you mean it this time?" she whispered into his shirt, tears wetting him, her heartbeat synced with his. "About loving me?"
"Oh, goddamn yes, I meant it. I am out of my mind over you." There. He'd said it. And he'd gotten it out around that damn frog squatting in his throat.
"Oh, Tripp."
Her arms tightened further where she'd wrapped up his waist. "I couldn't stay put. I just
couldn't."
"
Shh
, sweetheart.
You did
good
. You did just fine."
She sniffed. "For a girl without super powers, you mean?"
"Oh, Glory." He tucked her head beneath his chin, cupped the back of her head and held her. He couldn't manage another word. He could barely breathe. He stared at the clock on the wall, at the second hand ticking its way the length of the pickle and back.
"You don't need super powers. You have me." Then he closed his eyes and mind to everything but Glory. "And I have you."