THE SECOND ACTION-PACKED NOVEL IN THE WYATT STORME SERIES To help a desperate friend, ex-footballer Wyatt Storme and his hard-charging buddy Chick Easton ride shotgun on an illegal gun shipment. Things go very wrong, putting Wyatt in the crosshairs of corrupt politicians, homicidal mobsters, and rogue CIA agents. The ever-widening, deadly conspiracy soon endangers Wyatt’s newswoman girlfriend…forcing him to unleash a Storme Front of justice that rocks the entire state of Colorado. W.L. Ripley is the author of two critically acclaimed mystery series, one featuring Wyatt Storme, an Ex-NFL star and atavistic cowboy, and the other featuring Cole Springer, an enigmatic ex-secret service agent. Ripley is a native Missourian who has been a sportswriter, a successful high school and college basketball coach, and well-respected educator. He enjoys watching football and playing golf, spending time with friends and family, and enjoying a good cigar when his wife, Penny, allows it. He's a father, grandfather, and unapologetic Schnauzer lover. Ripley writes daily from his Western Missouri home. His fourth Wyatt Storme thriller, Storme Warning, will be published in 2015 by Brash Books, along with the three previous books in the series. He's also busy crafting a new Cole Springer novel and developing another series of books with two new heroes. Storme Front A Wyatt Storme Thriller By W. L. Ripley Brash Books, LLC Copyright © 2015 W. L. Ripley All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-941298-81-7 CHAPTER 1 I wasn't happy to see Jackie Burlingame. Hadn't asked him to come. I don't like drop-in company much. Besides, I don't like nervous people and Jackie was nervous. And I don't like Jackie. But I don't turn people away, though I like my privacy, which is why I live away from what passes for civilization and particularly away from the city and its concrete canyons and gray towers and antiseptic lifestyle. Some people call me reclusive, a hermit. Mostly, I'm just private. So I let him in. He stood there, surveying my mountain home with quick, furtive glances, as if he was in an alien environment, which he was. Stone fireplace, huge area rug, hardwood floor, large window wall that looks down on the Little Silver River as it cuts through the Colorado Rockies. Walnut gun cabinet, comfort-worn furniture. Country simplicity. Nothing Jackie B. would be familiar with. He tugged at his wispy hair and chain-smoked Pall Malls. His eyes were raw and watery. Not used to being awake before lunch. "You got anything to drink?" he asked, squinting through cigarette smoke. "Coffee," I said, sipping mine and watching him over the rim of the cup. "Any hard stuff?" "Coffee's what I got." I sat on a barstool by the counter. "You're not much of a host." "Wouldn't have you as a guest. What do you want, Burlingame?" "Hire you to help me with a little ... a ... errand, I'd guess you'd call it." I smiled. "Like I'd do you a favor." "I'll pay." "I don't need the money." "Everybody needs the money." He said it as if it were a philosophical certainty. "Buy yourself some new furniture." His brow wrinkled in thought, then he asked, "What is it you do anyway?" Wasn't an original question. "Little of this, little of that." "You getting rich?" "I'm not starving," I said. "Can't see money's done anything special for you." He laughed a short, staccato burst. "You never change, do you?" "Not much," I said. "What do you want?" "I need you to help me. All you gotta do is come with me on a delivery." "Why me?" "You're big enough to make people think twice about messing with me while I deliver something." "I'm not for hire. Call Rent-a-Thug. I don't like drugs and I don't like you." "It ain't drugs." "Bet it isn't Muppet Babies, either." He scratched his throat, a raspy sound. He had a three-day growth of stubble. "The smart shit ever stop around here?" "I don't get many visitors." "It's not that good a show." "I'm giving you my early morning performance. I save it for wasted pukes." He swallowed, dryly, and wet his lips. "I need a drink." "This isn't the Holiday Inn," I said, standing. "I'll get you some coffee. You tell me what you have in mind. Then you leave. And I don't want the abridged version. Shoot me straight or I'll toss you. Which, incidentally, I'll enjoy." "I get a drink or not?" "Telling the truth make you nervous?" He glared at me. He was wearing a leather jacket over a hand-stitched silk shirt. Diamond ring, heavy gold chain around his throat. European boots. Ransomed from the weak-willed and the soul-sick. "Think you're bad, don'tcha?" I shrugged. "Big shot ex-pro. Big playboy. You ain't shit. Thought I had something for you, but I was wrong. Too big-time for you." "I say something offends you, Jackie?" "I got more important things to do than sit around talking to has-beens. See you around, hotshot —" I saw it coming way ahead of it actually happening. Partly because I expected it from a weasel like Jackie. Partly because he wasn't any g