Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  Trapp closed his eyes.

  The sound died too, like the curtain coming down on a Broadway show. Maybe his mind was sparing him from the pain of what was to come. Maybe things were just moving too fast for it to process.

  A second passed.

  Then another.

  You’re alive.

  He opened his eyes, his neck twisting, eyes already craning round in search for the pigs now crashing through the brush on the side of the road before leaping with surprising grace over a low ditch into the empty field beyond.

  Trapp let out a howl of exaltation that practically ripped the flesh from his throat. He didn’t stop screaming until his lungs were empty of air, and then some.

  Eyes front, soldier.

  The warning came from somewhere deep in his brain that had just realized that another threat was lurking, and one that was potentially just as deadly. In setting such a hard course away from the boars, past Jason had set a trap for his present incarnation to tangle with.

  In short, he was now heading straight for the exact same ditch that the pigs had just soared over.

  Which was a problem.

  Yeah, wiseass, he thought. So what the hell are you planning on doing about it?

  He kept his speed right where it was, instinctively understanding that he needed the grip on the road that it imparted, even as the other side of the same poisoned chalice was the fact that every single increment on the odometer was contributing to his hurtling toward an almost certain death for the second time in as many, well, seconds.

  Trapp’s fingers closed like an iron vise over the throttle, coaxing a few more gasps of power out of the overheating engine, and in the same instant leaned hard to his right, turning the steering in the same direction.

  He didn’t close his eyes this time.

  He prayed.

  It took every ounce of strength available to his lean, considerably muscular frame to remain one with the forged steel machine beneath him, let alone its leather seat. He stole a glance down and instantly wished he hadn’t. The dusty concrete beneath him was a blur, but it was a blur that was only a hair’s breadth from his right thigh.

  Less.

  He was treading a fine line. If he turned the steering just an inch to the left, the bike would catch the edge of the road, and that would be it for him. An inch to the right, and his leg would be shredded with the ease of pine tree in a wood chipper.

  But it had to be done.

  The only blessing was the fact that his position in relation to the bike rendered everything to his left impossible to see. He didn’t know how close he was to the edge. He was turning, he knew that much just from the strength of the G forces acting on his body.

  But was he turning fast enough?

  That was the $400,000 question. Not that the Army would pay out his death duties now he was off the books, anyway, but the thought amused him in a black kind of way.

  The bike’s front wheel chewed up gravel. One of the stones hit the template plastic of the front visor of his helmet with such force that had he not been wearing it, it would’ve chewed up his skull as effectively as any fifty cal round ever could. It left a mark, a deep chip in the plastic, and a single crack that spidered across its entire front.

  The speed that was holding him to the ground now flip-flopped in value to him a second time. The shale underneath his wheels fizzed and cracked underneath him like corn popping in an overeager microwave, stoking up thick clouds of choking dust that momentarily fouled his lungs before the bike jumped forward another couple of feet, and then the whole process started all over again.

  And then, just like that, it was over.

  The bike’s jarring, jarring journey over uneven ground ended, and the tires met the firm, flat surface of the road once more. Trapp’s sweat-soaked, exhausted fingers pulled back on the throttle, and the howl of the engine began to fade.

  He didn’t hit the brakes for a little while longer, his mind still preoccupied with his brush with the afterlife. Droplets of sweat coursed down his cheeks, evaporating underneath the fierce heat of the Texas summer, only to fog up his cracked visor. His diminishing view of the road ahead reminded him – as if it was necessary – of the fate he’d almost suffered, and at long last, he tapped the brakes.

  Trapp finally brought the bike to a dead stop, panting hard, his lungs gasping for every mouthful of the hard, dusty air. He was soaked with sweat.

  It was only then he realized how fast his heart was beating. Since his discharge, he hadn’t done very much of anything at all. Just moped around the country, him and his bike, searching for wide roads without too many cops. Sure, there had been a couple of bar fights here and there, enough to raise the adrenaline a little bit.

  But never enough to spark him out of whatever funk had him in its clutches. And certainly not for long.

  This, though, tasted like life used to taste. Before the war, and the things he’d seen, and even the things he’d done. He felt alive for the first time in weeks. Like a greasy film had been scraped from his eyes, rendering his sight crystal-clear.

  The world sounded almost painfully quiet now, the ache in his eardrums growing as the howl of the jet engine beneath him faded. At least, if it wasn’t actually a million-dollar Rolls-Royce turbine, it sure as hell sounded that way.

  “You’re one lucky bastard, you know that, Jason?” he murmured.

  But he could hear, which meant he was alive, and that was good enough for him. He kept his head backward, the rear of the helmet resting on the top of his jacket, and he began to laugh, shaking his head from side to side in sheer amazement at it all.

  He sat there on the empty road, his bike chugging quietly beneath him for a few seconds longer. They stretched into minutes as the adrenaline faded from his system, and not a single vehicle passed. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had passed by the outskirts of Amarillo that morning, about 60 miles into the rearview, Trapp could easily have believed he was the last man left alive.

  So you may as well take advantage of it…

  Trapp realized that the excitement had stoked a fire in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time now. The adrenaline had a metallic taste at the back of his tongue that overpowered even the scratching, desiccating effects of the dust in the back of his mouth.

  But he wanted more.

  He needed more.

  He fed a little gas into the engine without putting the bike into gear, exulting in the roar it produced. He gave it a little more, then engaged the clutch, kicked off his standing foot, and let momentum take over.

  Never mind that he’d nearly just died. All it had revealed was the fact that he was alive. And he intended to make the most of it.

  And so he did.

  Sixty.

  Seventy.

  Ninety.

  A hundred miles per hour.

  He noticed the blue and red lights flashing out of the corner of his eye before he saw the car underneath them. It had been tucked just out of sight, behind a copse of hardy and surprisingly green trees that must have lucked out by growing from seed in the only place for ten miles in any direction with a natural source of water.

  He glanced at the bike’s odometer.

  No bueno.

  He was pushing 120 miles an hour, and still climbing. So fast that the howl of the siren was only audible for a couple of seconds before he was long gone. He twisted his neck, looked back over his shoulder, and saw the cop car spinning out onto the road and building up speed. The gap between them was already near a hundred yards.

  At the speed he was going, on a bike as powerful as this one, and from a rolling start, he could toast whoever was driving that thing. They didn’t stand a chance.

  For a moment, he was tempted to do it. Throw caution to the wind and race the cop. What was the worst that could happen – a chase? Could be fun. Either he’d win, or he’d die, and either option would put him out of his misery.

  Although admittedly, one ending was a little more permanent than the
other.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, Trapp knew he could never go through with it. He was a soldier, and they were cops, and that wasn’t really so different when you put it like that.

  He hit the brakes and let out a low, frustrated moan that grew louder as the bike slowed beneath him. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  5

  As the cop took his time to exit the car now pulled up about ten yards behind his bike, Trapp wondered whether he should have floored it after all.

  It’s not really “flooring it” on a bike though, is it?

  While the cop dawdled, he unclipped his helmet and set it down on the leather just in front of his crotch. He ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. When they came away, they had the acidic stink of adrenaline. He shook his head for a second time, or maybe a third. He really could have killed himself.

  Wasn’t that a thing?

  “Where you headed, son?” the cop asked, his boots scraping against the dusty ground before he came to a stop to the left of the bike. He was older but held an easy stance, like he’d seen this all before. His hands were by his sides.

  “Nowhere fast,” Trapp said before cutting himself off. He dug his fingers into his palm, irritated by his careless choice of words. “Just looking for a town to bed down in for the night.”

  “You been drinking?”

  “No sir.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Never touched them,” Trapp replied with a forcefulness that smacked of honesty. It was a very different sound from a junkie’s wheedling insistence, though he couldn’t possibly have known that.

  “You carrying anything I need to be worried about?”

  “Just a knife,” Trapp said, his tone measured. He was careful to keep his fingers twisted around the bike’s handlebars. He sure as hell didn’t need some trigger-happy yokel granddad blowing his brains out. Not after the day he’d had, and not now he was just remembering he was alive. “You don’t need to worry none, I’m sitting on it.”

  The cop’s fingers tapped against his own weapon. He didn’t make a move for it; he just wanted Trapp to know it was there. Not exactly subtle, but effective enough.

  “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? My wife has my dinner waiting for me on the table.”

  Acting first and thinking later was kind of Trapp’s MO, but this sure wasn’t a situation that called for heroics. Best case, he’d get away with a speeding ticket. A sizeable one, to be sure. Worst case he’d spend the night in whatever passed for the local jail, having to explain why he was riding around the state with a pistol and close to thirty thousand dollars in sequential bills.

  And what’s your answer, Jason?

  “I won’t, Officer. You have my word on it.”

  “It’s Sheriff, son,” the cop said in a kindly, gruff tone of voice. “You know how fast you were going?”

  Trapp squashed the smart-ass reply brewing in his throat and spoke instead with a hint of contrition. “A little too quick, huh?”

  Of course you had to pick the damn sheriff.

  “A hundred. And then some,” the man said, in a tone that wasn’t so much angry as reproving. It was almost fatherly, which fit with the sheriff’s Santa Claus image – mid-sixties, maybe, with a neatly trimmed beard whose pepper phase was barely visible in the rearview, and a belly that jutted out over his gun belt and spoke to a lifetime of good eating.

  “Sounds about right,” Trapp murmured amiably.

  He knew he was probably in for a ticket, and a ticket was more or less what he deserved. No sense getting angry. He was so deep into the wrong he didn’t have a leg to stand on. “Listen, Sheriff – I’m sorry, all right? I nearly hit a herd of boars a ways back, and it shook me up. I guess I was letting off a bit of steam. It’s not an excuse. I know that.”

  “A pack.”

  Trapp squinted. “Huh?”

  “A herd of boar is called a pack. Or a cluster, I think, depending on where you’re from.”

  “How about that?” Trapp murmured in reply. The sheriff wasn’t acting the way cops were supposed to. Least, not the way the MPs used to after a night hitting the town. The whole encounter was pushing him a little off balance.

  “Say, son,” the sheriff said casually. “How fast were you going when you dodged them there pigs?”

  Trapp raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

  “I thought so. Listen, I’m going to have to write you up.”

  “Guessed as much.” Trapp grinned, showing he didn’t hold a grudge. “You mind me asking what you’re doing riding around in a patrol car looking for trouble, Sheriff? Don’t you have deputies for the grunt work?”

  The sheriff chuckled, keeping one hand clasped around his gun belt for support, but unconsciously dropping his right hand away from his service weapon. “Son, you think I need to go lookin’ for trouble when you rocket past me like that like a bat out of hell?”

  Trapp’s cheeks had the good grace to color with embarrassment. “I guess not.”

  He decided to shut his lips from then on out. The sheriff seemed like a good guy, a straight-up straight shooter, and he suspected that as long as he avoided talking himself into any more trouble, the man would treat him fairly.

  “You got any ID I can take a look at, son?”

  “Name’s Jason, sir,” Trapp replied, straightening himself so that he could dig out his wallet. He reached inside, fished for his driver’s license, and handed it over.

  “Trapp, huh?” the sheriff murmured, studying the small peach and green card. “It’s a long drive from Georgia.”

  “Not if you’re taking your time,” Trapp replied.

  “I guess that’s so,” he agreed. He took a half step back, studying Trapp’s bike, but showed no obvious signs of alarm. “You mind tossing me your keys, son?”

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Not yet.” The sheriff grinned. “I just need to run your plates is all. I’m not going to find anything if I do, am I?”

  “If you do, it’s news to the both of us,” Trapp said honestly, twisting the Harley’s keys with a little jangle of metal and handing them over.

  The sheriff nodded. “Thanks, Ace. I’ll be right back.”

  Trapp glanced at the little circular side mirror and watched the sheriff walk back along the hard-baked dirt to the side of the deserted road, kicking up little clouds of dust with every footstep. He was a little nervous, though there was no good reason why. He hadn’t lied when he said he had nothing to hide.

  The car door clicked open and clamped shut behind him, and Trapp quit watching. Either the cop would find something or he wouldn’t, and keeping a beady eye on the old man wouldn’t help a damn either way.

  The process didn’t take long. A couple of minutes passed before he heard the sound of footsteps again, during which Trapp’s nerves dissipated, and his thirst grew.

  Should have packed a bottle, Jason, he chided himself. You never know when you might need it.

  A good NCO would have noticed the infraction, Trapp mused, and punished him for it. A few laps around Fort Benning’s parade field in full webbing and a fifty-pound pack would have drilled the lesson into his head, and no forgetting.

  But those days were over.

  No reason to let your standards slip.

  But the truth was, his standards had been slipping. Hell, they were long gone. He’d spent most of the last few months drinking and moping and driving nowhere in particular, and not caring too much what the hell happened to him. The guys probably wouldn’t recognize him when he got there.

  Those that were left, anyway.

  The sheriff crunched his way back to Trapp’s bike as he wallowed in shame. The late afternoon sun beat down on his jacket, squeezing his sweat glands like a washerwoman with a rag. He needed a damn drink.

  How about you stick to water for once, eh?

  Trapp turned and shielded his eyes from the sun as the sheriff pulled back up alongside. “Everything okay,
Sheriff?”

  “For me, sure.” The old man grinned, stretching out his arm and handing over a folded square of paper along with Trapp’s driver’s license. “My girl’s got a nice hot pot of something waiting for me on the stove back at home. For you… not so much.”

  Trapp shrugged as he accepted the ticket without looking at the damage. “No more than I deserve, I guess.”

  “That’s about right,” the sheriff agreed.

  Trapp opened his wallet back up, tucked the ticket into the empty centerfold, and jammed his license into one of the empty credit card slots.

  “Say, you a vet, son?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Now I know to look, I guess it is,” the sheriff said.

  Trapp’s forehead scrunched up, at least until he saw where the man’s eyes were pointed – the blue card that marked him out as US military, retired.

  “I’m guessing it doesn’t get me outta the ticket?” he joked.

  The sheriff spread his arms with a matching, if contemplated, smile. “Rules are rules.”

  “Can’t say fairer than that,” Trapp agreed, flipping his wallet shut and pocketing it.

  “I’m guessing you just got back?”

  Trapp really didn’t want to talk about it. Not after last night. No matter how cheery this old guy was. He said the words again, harder this time. “Is it that obvious?”

  The sheriff paused a beat. “Now I know to look, yeah, it is. You know I served too, Jason. Vietnam. 1969.”

  “How about that,” Trapp murmured.

  Why was it that old veterans always wanted to retrace their past glories? Maybe they preferred to remember their younger selves than the present ones, and he figured that was understandable enough. Fewer aches and a whole lot more glory. More disconcertingly, he realized a heartbeat later, he would probably be the same one day.

  “Listen, son, the speed I clocked you at, I’d be well within my rights to lock you up for a night. You got that?”

  “Yes sir,” Trapp replied, trying to decide whether his chances of getting away with just a speeding ticket were growing or shrinking.