Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  Trapp pulled away from Chino and brought the shotgun up to waist height, pushing it out in offering. “Your choice.”

  39

  Trapp entered the safe house’s small second bedroom and surveyed the pitiful scene in front of him. He’d given up the master bedroom to Chino, and not given much thought to what would happen next. But now, laid low by stress and exhaustion, he cared little that his replacement was a stained single mattress on the floor.

  It might as well have been a four-poster bed.

  He pulled off his T-shirt, noticing as he did so that it was a little damp with sweat. Even though Marcel’s interrogation had not involved the use of physical violence – or even any exertion at all – the mental strain had nevertheless marked its toll on his body. Trapp let his chin drop down to his chest, closed his eyes, and began rolling his head from side to side. Slowly at first, in short, gentle movements. Then as the tensed, knotted mass of muscle began to loosen, in larger, sustained rotations.

  “You’re tough as a five-dollar steak,” he groaned to himself, the words slurred through sleep deprivation as he worked out a particularly troublesome knot buried deep in his left shoulder.

  The stretching helped, yet as he squatted down to the mattress, Trapp’s mind was still aflame, like a sparking fuse box, restless electricity searching for escape. He lay back against the filthy mattress, physically too exhausted to care about its filthy condition, and closed his eyes to block out the early morning sun that was streaming through the small room’s boxy window.

  One thought spun over and over in his mind.

  What the hell am I doing?

  The expression on Chino’s face when he’d aimed the shotgun at Marcel Hawkins had chilled Trapp to the bone. It was a searing, untrammeled anger that could so easily have resulted in an execution.

  No, not an execution. The law was the only institution that could justly sentence a man to death. If Chino had squeezed that trigger, it would instead have been a murder.

  And what does that make you?

  The thought stung, but Trapp could not deny its essential truth. He had no legal authority for the course he was set upon. He had killed three men and kidnapped another, all in the name of justice. But whose justice?

  Certainly not the state’s.

  The scene of destruction outside Chino’s house would no doubt get a few column inches in the local newspaper. But it would not be described as the conclusion of a long-running, hard-fought court battle that sadly, but justly, ended in the state taking a man’s life. Instead it would be memorialized as yet another gangland killing, remarkable only for the fact that – in Compton – the victims were drawn from all races. That, of course, had always been the intention. It was why Trapp had purchased his weapons from local criminals.

  Yet it posed an unpleasant question that he was ill prepared to answer: was there any justice in what he was doing? More than that – was it just?

  What would Shea think of you now?

  Shame began to burn inside Trapp then, as caustic and scalding as any acid. His eyes sprang open, wide and staring, pointed at the brown, water-stained ceiling but seeing nothing. They flickered left and right as he pictured her face in his mind. Was she even still alive? He remembered her how she had once been, not how she truly was.

  Maybe she would never walk again, or talk, or breathe without assistance. How was it that he was doing all this in her name, and yet without her permission?

  Should I stop?

  Can I?

  Trapp jerked himself upright and began to pace in the confines of the small bedroom. Four steps forward, four steps back. Over and over again, and all the while the same two questions echoed in his mind.

  Trapp had no doubt whatsoever that Odysseus was guilty. Guilty of murder, guilty of theft, guilty of a cover-up even more heinous than the crimes they had first committed. They had slain innocent Iraqis and murdered Chino’s fellow soldiers – all to advance their own agenda.

  All that was without doubt. But the only question that remained was whether he was the correct vessel to fight against their evil.

  He stopped dead, his left foot not even fully on the ground as he froze in place. He knew that it was entirely possible that he might go over these arguments again and again in his mind for the rest of time, never reaching a conclusion.

  There could be only one resolution. He grabbed the T-shirt from the floor, wincing as the smell of sweat and must filled his nostrils, and pulled it on before slipping his feet back into his boots and re-lacing them. He grabbed the keys to the Toyota, and just before leaving the bedroom pulled a slim black Nokia cell phone from a stack of boxes leaning against the far wall.

  Trapp drove for about half an hour before pulling over in the parking lot of a McDonald’s drive-through in downtown Anaheim. The fast food joint was already open and serving the breakfast trade. He scanned the exterior of the building and those around it for evidence of surveillance cameras, but the only ones he saw were pointed downward.

  If someone was looking for him, would they be able to trace this call? Probably, but only if they either knew the number he was calling from or had possession of the device he was placing a call to.

  The first was impossible—or at least so close as to make no difference. He’d never used this phone before, so unless someone was hunting him with a crack team of clairvoyants, it should be safe. The one on the other end, however…

  You’ll just have to trust them.

  He powered up the cell phone, and after a Nokia graphic played, the brown-hued screen displayed the time as 07:47, and indicated the network provider, as well as the fact that he currently enjoyed a full five bars of signal. He set the phone on the dashboard, placed his index finger right at the center, and spun it, using his thumb to build the momentum with every rotation, chewing his lip as he put off the moment of truth.

  Thrum-thrum.

  Thrum-thrum.

  Thrum-thrum.

  Finally, he opened his palm and slammed it down over the cell phone with the ferocity of a striking serpent and growled, “Just get it done.”

  He picked it up and dialed a number from memory: the digits of the cell phone he’d mailed to the Grayson residence. His thumb hovered over the green call button for only an instant before he pushed it down. He had waited long enough to rip off this particular Band-Aid.

  The phone rang several times without answer. Every time it warbled again, Trapp sagged slightly with relief, as the moment of truth was put off for just a few seconds longer.

  “Hello?”

  The voice was more tired than Trapp remembered, and more uncertain, but nevertheless it unmistakably belonged to Sheriff Grayson.

  Trapp cringed as he spoke, embarrassed at the words coming out his mouth. Even in his head, they sounded self-serving. “Sir, I have to ask you a question: Is anyone aware that I sent you this phone?”

  There was a long pause before Ron Grayson replied. “No, Jason. Nobody outside this roof. You have my honor on that.”

  Trapp bowed his head with relief. Perhaps the sheriff would lie to him if he thought it was in his best interest, but even then he doubted it. He’d met men like Shea’s father before, and their word was unbreakable, at least to them.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” he croaked in response. “I appreciate that, truly I do. Please… How’s your daughter?”

  In that moment, Trapp felt as though he had no right even to speak Shea’s name. He was the reason she was lying in that hospital bed – if there she still was – and if, God forbid, something had happened to her, he would bear that responsibility also.

  The sheriff’s voice cracked as he replied, forcing the man to stop and return to the beginning. “You’re… you’re on speaker, Jason. Sarah’s right here by my side. And…”

  Trapp closed his eyes, an iron vise of guilt closing around his throat as he prayed.

  “The long and short of it is she’ll make it, son. It won’t be a quick recovery, nor an easy one either, but sh
e’ll make it. A few months of rehab, and probably a nasty scar. But this time next year, she’ll be right as rain.”

  The car’s horn blared a short but mournful tone as Trapp’s head sagged against it, a result of a momentary lapse of self-control as relief washed over him. Shea was alive. That was all that mattered.

  “So she’s awake?” Trapp blurted out as the car horn died away. “Thank God.”

  He started rocking back and forth, his left hand gripping tightly against his right bicep for support. A Latino lady with two kids in the back, probably on their way to school, shot him a curious, uneasy look from a car parked a couple of bays over, but he didn’t care how he looked.

  “Where are you, Jason?” came a second voice over the phone.

  Sarah Grayson sounded like she was sitting further away from the microphone, so her voice was muffled and distant, but the worry in it came through loud and clear. “You’re in no trouble. Not with my husband, nor anyone else. We just want to make sure you’re safe, that’s all.”

  Trapp paused for a moment to collect himself. The truth was that he wanted nothing more than to return to the little town of Goodmorning and apologize to her in person, even to throw himself on her mercy in the hope of returning things to how they had been before.

  But in his bones, Trapp knew that it wasn’t possible. Perhaps he had always understood that. But hearing her voice brought his new reality into stark contrast. He was no longer the boy he had been when he met Shea, and when Sarah brought him into her home. He was…if not a murderer, then at least a killer of men. Whatever the justness of his cause, he couldn’t simply shirk responsibility for that.

  “I’m sorry I left without telling you, ma’am. I –I just didn’t know what to say.”

  He closed his eyes again, grinding his teeth together until he found a level of control over the emotions roiling in his gut. “I just wanted to tell you that I know who hurt Shea. And I’m going to see that justice comes to them.”

  “That’s not your job, son,” the sheriff interjected sharply. “Leave it to law enforcement.”

  “I can’t do that, Sheriff,” Trapp replied. “Tell me, do you have any leads on the men who attacked Shea and me?”

  “You know I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation,” he replied without conviction.

  “Well, let me take a few wild guesses,” Trapp said, his eyes drifting across the clock on the car radio, which read 07:52. He needed to close this out, just in case someone was looking for him. “You found DNA from the blood in the truck, probably no fingerprints, and the DNA had no match anyway. The Cherokee got away clean, and no one’s seen it since. Everything else’s coming up dry.”

  “We found the Jeep,” the sheriff admitted. “Burned out a couple towns over. Listen, Jason, maybe my investigation might turn up something more fruitful if you came back and sat down for a statement. Like you promised.”

  “I don’t think so,” Trapp said, shaking his head with invisible emphasis. “Sir, do you remember the story I told you?”

  There was a short pause, and a rustling on the other end of the line. “I do.”

  “Well, the man who hurt Shea, he was there that night. Maybe even ordered the whole thing. I tried to do the right thing once, and no one listened. Worse, they came after me for it, and your daughter got caught in the crossfire. Well, I won’t allow that to happen again. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve made my decision, and I intend to stick to it.”

  Sarah spoke up, sounding as though she was on the verge of tears. “Jason, there’s someone else here who wants to speak to you.”

  Trapp froze. Could it be Shea? Wasn’t she supposed to be in the hospital still?

  But the voice when he heard it was as familiar as it was male and tinged with the slightest hint of ironic humor. “How you holding up, Hangman?”

  It was Ryan Price.

  The sound of his old friend’s voice pushed Trapp off balance. “How –?”

  “I got worried about you, buddy, after you rang a few days ago. Found an old Texas phonebook in the library, and now here we are.”

  Trapp’s gaze drifted across the clock to discover that another minute had passed. Blast from the past notwithstanding, it was time to roll this up. His questions could wait.

  “I need to end this call, Ryan. I think you know why.”

  “Jason –”

  “If you want to talk, let’s do it in person. Noon tomorrow. I’ll text you a location, but you better get moving. I hear California’s lovely this time of year. Don’t try this number again. Once I end the call, I’m tossing it in a trashcan.”

  He glanced out the window and watched the Latino mother twist in her seat and hand a napkin to one of the kids sitting in the back. “Sheriff, Sarah, I’m truly sorry for what happened to Shea. If I could take back what happened to her, I would. And when this is all over, I’ll come apologize to you in person. Sheriff, if you need to, you can arrest me then. I won’t fight you. But this is goodbye.”

  40

  “You didn’t sleep, huh?”

  “Didn’t much feel like it,” Trapp lied, setting down a cardboard coffee cup holder alongside a brown paper bag from McDonald’s – though from one significantly closer than Anaheim. “Figured you might be hungry.”

  “I didn’t sleep either,” Chino admitted, reaching for one of the coffee cups and shooting an appreciative look in Trapp’s direction. He shuddered. “Couldn’t, not after… what I nearly did.”

  “The important thing is you got control of yourself, man. I’ve seen men, good men, lose themselves in a situation like that. You didn’t.”

  “I guess,” Chino muttered, lifting the lid from the coffee cup and checking what was inside. He closed it back and took a long gulp. “But I won’t forget it fast. I sure didn’t feel in control, not when I had that shotgun in my hands. Shit, man, I coulda killed him.”

  “You’re supposed to feel like a prick,” Trapp said, reaching for the bag of food. “That’s how the lesson sticks, okay? That’s how you know you’re a good guy, deep down.”

  Are you talking to him or yourself?

  “So what now?” Chino asked, setting the coffee cup down on the tablecloth and closing his fingers around it.

  Trapp paused for a second to consider the question. They had blown through the guard rails of their initial plan a long time earlier. It was always going to be that way, he knew: it was only after a successful reconnaissance that you could truly generate a winning strategy.

  “So we’ve got three persons of interest, right?” He ticked them off on his now greasy fingers. “Number one, Jeffrey Banks. Number two, Eric Finch. And number three, this official at the DOD.”

  “I can get his name,” Chino said confidently, his mouth half-wrapped around an Egg McMuffin. “It’ll be in the contract documents. If the same name comes up over and over, we can be pretty sure we have our guy.”

  Trapp nodded his approval. It was good having Chino around. The guy thrived on hunting down a tough lead – a line of work which he himself hated. They made a good team.

  He pushed an empty wrapper aside and wiped his fingers using a stack of white napkins. He took a swig of lukewarm coffee to wash down the sausage and egg monstrosity. “So Jeffrey Banks. He’s the brains. Eric Finch is the brawn. And Mr. DOD is running cover for the pair of them. I’m guessing he gets kickbacks for guiding contracts in Odysseus’ direction.”

  “So let’s say you’re right.” Chino shrugged. “Mr. DOD is in on it. Where does that leave him?”

  Trapp bit down on a greasy belch, though a little escaped. He shot Chino an apologetic look. “You’re asking if we should kill him?”

  Chino looked as though he was about to deny that statement, but visibly caught himself. He settled back in his chair. “Seems to me like a guy who sells out American soldiers deserves to die, don’t you think?”

  Put like that, Trapp couldn’t help but agree. Even so, he felt a little uneasy. “First off, I guess we’ve got what you could call
a coordination problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve got three targets, and only one of me. Banks will have a security team, and Finch might as well. Even if he doesn’t, he sounds like a real dangerous kind of guy. Then there’s Mr. DOD. If we go after him, that brings the full weight of the federal government down on our asses.”

  He extended a finger and scratched the side of his nose. “Here’s the thing. The second we make a move on any of them, that alerts the other two. Once that happens, we’re screwed. They’ll retreat into a bubble we don’t have any chance of breaching. We might already have blown our cover by taking our friend Marcel downstairs and killing his friends. But I’m guessing they won’t get really scared until they realize we’re coming for them directly. They can write off a loss like last night as an op gone wrong.”

  The table jumped as Chino brought his fist down onto it hard. “Then what? You’re telling me we’ve done all this just to catch one rat, and let two more slip away free?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Trapp replied, keeping his voice low and reasonable. “We just have to play this smart, that’s all. They’ll be waiting for something to happen. Probably expecting a hit on the CEO, or at least, their security people will be paranoid about that. That’s fine by me. Let him cower in fear. But I’ve got to tell you about something else first.”

  Chino rolled his eyes. “So mysterious… Go on then, shoot.”

  “I called about Shea earlier.”

  The Latino’s eyes opened wide, but with genuine concern about the welfare of a woman he’d never met, not fear of the consequences. “How is she?”

  “Alive. She’ll get better.” Trapp grimaced.