Ripcord's Rampage (Black Ops Brotherhood MC #9)

Chapter One

Ripcord needed fifteen thousand feet between himself and the ground.

The drive from Fayetteville to Blair-Hadley Airfield usually took forty minutes.

He made it in thirty, his Harley eating up the Carolina back roads like the bike understood urgency even when its rider refused to name it.

Three days since he'd jumped. Three days of Kyle's face in every quiet moment, the memory of watching his teammate spiral past him with a chute that wouldn't open.

Freefall was the only place the guilt went quiet. The wind too loud, the focus too absolute, no room for anything but the next second.

But when he rolled into the airfield's gravel lot, something was wrong.

The strip should have been busy—Saturday afternoon brought student pilots, weekend skydivers, the particular chaos of a small operation running at capacity.

Instead, the runway sat empty. The wind sock hung limp.

Kristin Blair's beat-up Ford was parked by the main hangar, but the Cessna that should have been prepped for his jump was still tied down on the apron.

And there were two men near the hangar who didn't belong.

Ripcord killed his engine and swung off the bike, every sense sharpening into the alert calm that ten years of Special Forces had burned into his bones.

The men weren't pilots—wrong build, wrong posture, wrong energy.

One was tall and rangy, moving with a bush pilot's weathered confidence.

The other was younger, nervous, watching the tree line like he expected trouble.

They were standing too close to the hangar's side door. Close enough to block it.

He approached with the easy stride of a man who'd survived worse than rural airfields. "Strip closed today?"

The rangy one turned. Hard eyes, sun-damaged skin, the particular arrogance of someone who'd gotten away with things. "Private business. Come back tomorrow."

"Got a jump scheduled." Ripcord kept walking. "Paid in advance."

"I said come back tomorrow."

But Ripcord was already past him, angling toward the hangar's main entrance, and what he saw through the gap in the sliding door made his blood run cold.

A woman—had to be Kristin Blair, the owner he'd only dealt with over the phone—was backed against the fuselage of her own plane.

Her baseball cap was on the ground, sun-streaked brown hair falling across a face that was angry and scared in equal measure.

A man had her cornered, one hand braced against the aircraft, his body blocking any escape route.

"I'm going to ask you one more time." The man's voice carried through the gap. "Where did Danny hide it?"

"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Your partner's dead because he got greedy. Don't make the same mistake."

Ripcord didn't ask questions.

He hit the sliding door at speed, the metal screaming on its tracks, and crossed the distance to the interrogator in three strides. The man spun, hand going for something at his belt, but Ripcord was faster—always faster when it mattered.

He caught the reaching wrist, twisted, and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus with the precision of someone who'd practiced the motion ten thousand times. The interrogator doubled over, and Ripcord helped him the rest of the way down with a knee to the face.

The man hit the concrete hard and didn't get up.

The two from outside were already coming through the main door. Ripcord turned to face them, positioning himself between the woman and the threat.

"You want to think real carefully about your next move."

The rangy one—clearly the leader of this little operation—assessed the situation with calculating eyes. His partner was groaning on the floor, bleeding from a broken nose. The woman they'd been interrogating was pressed against her aircraft, breathing hard but uninjured.

And standing between them was a stranger who'd just dismantled their interrogator in under three seconds.

"This isn't your business," the rangy one said.

"Made it my business when you closed my airstrip." Ripcord didn't move, didn't blink. "Walk away now and we call it even."

A long moment stretched between them. The younger one was shifting on his feet, ready to run. The rangy one was doing the math—three against one, but the one had already proved he was worth at least two of them.

"Mitch." The younger one's voice cracked. "Let's just go."

Mitch—the rangy one—held Ripcord's gaze for another heartbeat. Whatever he saw there made his decision for him.

"This isn't over." He jerked his head toward the door. "Get Paulie."

The younger one helped the groaning interrogator to his feet, and the three of them retreated toward a black truck parked behind the fuel tanks. Ripcord watched them go, didn't move until the engine fired and the vehicle disappeared down the access road.

Then he turned to the woman.

She was still pressed against the Cessna, her hands braced on the wing strut like she needed something solid to keep her upright.

Up close, she was younger than he'd expected—late twenties, with the lean build of someone who spent more time in cockpits than offices.

Calloused hands, practical clothes, no makeup.

The kind of woman who'd rather fix a plane than fly one that wasn't perfect.

"You okay?"

"No." Her voice was steadier than her hands. "But I'm better than I would have been if you hadn't shown up." She pushed off from the aircraft, squaring her shoulders like she was reminding herself how to stand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Kenny Thompson. Ripcord, to most people." He watched her eyes—saw recognition flicker when he used his road name. She'd heard of the club, then. Most people around Fayetteville had. "I've got a standing jump appointment here on Saturdays."

"The guy who likes the high-altitude work." Something shifted in her expression—not quite a smile, but close. "I've seen your name on the schedule. Danny always said you jumped higher than sense should allow."

"Danny was your partner?"

The almost-smile vanished. "Danny died three days ago. Mechanical failure, they said. His engine quit over the tobacco fields and he couldn't make it back to the strip." Her jaw tightened. "Except I checked the wreckage myself after the FAA finished with it. His fuel line was cut clean."

Ripcord felt the pieces start clicking into place. "And those men think you know where he hid something."

"They've been here twice now. Tearing through his office, searching the hangars, asking questions I can't answer because I don't know what Danny was into.

" Her hands had stopped shaking, replaced by a controlled fury that impressed him.

"I built this airfield with every dollar I had.

It's the only thing I own. And now someone's killed my partner and thinks I have whatever he took, and I don't even know what it is. "

She was tough. That was the first thing he noticed—not just brave in the moment, but tough in the way that came from surviving things that should have broken her. The kind of tough that pilots either developed or died without.

The kind of tough that reminded him of operators he'd trusted with his life.

"Those men are going to come back," he said. "Whatever Danny had, they want it bad enough to kill for it. You've got a problem that's bigger than a cancelled jump."

"I noticed." She crossed her arms over her chest, chin lifting. "What I don't have is a solution. The sheriff thinks I'm paranoid. The FAA says mechanical failure. And everyone who might know what Danny was really doing is either dead or threatening me."

Ripcord studied her for a long moment. He'd come here looking for fifteen thousand feet of freefall to quiet the ghosts. Instead, he'd found a woman caught up in something that smelled like organized crime, professional cleanup, the kind of operation that didn't stop with intimidation.

The smart move was to walk away. Make some calls, let the club know what he'd stumbled into, and let better men than him figure out whether this was brotherhood business.

But she was looking at him with those pilot's eyes—direct, assessing, waiting to see what kind of man he was. And something in his chest that had been cold for a long time felt like it was starting to thaw.

"You got somewhere to go tonight? Somewhere those guys don't know about?"

"I've been sleeping in my office." She gestured toward the small building attached to the main hangar. "Didn't seem safe to go home."

"It's not." He pulled out his phone. "And it's about to get less safe. I know some people who might be able to help—but I need to make a call first."

"People who can help with whatever this is?" Skepticism colored her voice. "What kind of people?"

"The kind who don't take kindly to drug operations in their territory." He met her eyes. "The kind who handle problems the way problems need to be handled."

She held his gaze for a long moment. He watched her weigh the options—trust a stranger who'd just beaten a man unconscious, or take her chances alone against people who'd already killed her partner.

"Make your call," she finally said. "I'll be in my office, trying to figure out what Danny was hiding."

She turned and walked toward the small building, her stride steady despite everything that had just happened. Ripcord watched her go, appreciating the backbone that kept her moving forward when most people would have collapsed.

Then he dialed Ghost's number and waited for the VP to pick up.

"Ripcord." Ghost's voice was flat, unreadable. "Thought you were jumping today."

"Change of plans." Ripcord kept his eyes on the tree line, watching for the black truck to return. "I've got a situation at Blair-Hadley Airfield. Dead pilot, scared woman, and muscle that smells like organized drug money."

A pause. "How scared?"

"Scared enough to take help from a stranger who just put one of their guys on the ground." He glanced toward the office, saw Kristin's silhouette moving past the window. "She's got something they want, Ghost. Or they think she does. Either way, they're not going to stop."

"Bring her in for a conversation. Legion will want to hear this."

"Copy that."

He hung up and looked at the airfield—the empty runway, the quiet hangars, the woman inside who'd just had her whole world torn apart. She'd built this place with everything she had, and now someone was trying to burn it down around her.

Ripcord had come here to escape his ghosts.

Instead, he'd found someone else's nightmare.

And for reasons he couldn't quite name, he wasn't willing to walk away from it.