Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  Would the men in that car dare to light him up in a wealthy neighborhood like this?

  Probably not. Probably…

  “Okay,” Ryan said tersely. “I just pulled over to take a look at the map. You can drop back. This road’s a dead end. No need to ride right up their asses.”

  Chino breathed out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Instead of tapping the brakes, since he figured that might look suspicious, he indicated into a nearby driveway and waited until Banks’ motorcade disappeared from sight.

  “Okay, nice n’ easy, Alex,” he muttered to himself, gripping the steering wheel hard. His leg ached. He hadn’t driven in what, a year before this week? You didn’t forget, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

  His fingers hesitated over the switch for a second as he glanced left and right up the street, checking for oncoming traffic, then he killed his running lights. The Corolla didn’t exactly disappear into the night, but it became a heck of a lot harder for a casual observer to detect. He was counting on Banks’ bodyguards relaxing their attention as they drew to the end of their night’s work.

  The Corolla crept quietly along Bel Air Rd., Chino’s foot cramping over the gas pedal as he fed the decrepit engine just enough fuel to keep the fire burning. His eyes danced left and right, searching for the two SUVs. He kept it close to the curb, ready to hit the brakes at any second, duck out of sight, and do his best parked car impression.

  He reached for the radio and brought it to his lips as his gaze passed over the number 1888, stenciled in gold leaf onto a majestic iron gateway. “Ryan, how many houses on this damn street?”

  “Looks like… last one’s 1931.”

  Chino inched around the next corner, stomping on the brakes the second the SUVs came into sight. “You have got to be kidding me…”

  49

  Trapp pulled his fingers through his hair, half suspecting they would emerge layered with a thick coat of grease. “I can’t remember the last time I showered,” he groaned.

  “Serves you right, Sleeping Beauty.” Ryan grinned. “What did you get, 12 hours? I didn’t want to wake you…”

  “Jackass,” Trapp replied, spinning a pancaked seat cushion in his friend’s direction, which Ryan batted aside with ease.

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the dining table, upon which was laid out a map of Los Angeles. The street layout was already imprinted on his mind, but he scanned it over one last time anyway. Both vehicles were already loaded with the weapons and equipment that would be needed for the night’s work. The guns had been dismantled, cleaned, and reassembled with a fresh coat of oil. Spare magazines lay ready, even though they shouldn’t be needed. The radios had fresh batteries and spares for the spares, just in case.

  Trapp shook his head, wondering if he was missing something.

  Wondering what I’m missing…

  “We all know our parts?”

  “Yeah, Jason.” Chino grinned, spinning his cane around the back of his hand like a practiced circus performer. “We cool. You go over it again, I might forget something really useful. Like the damn alphabet. Only so much space left in this noodle of mine.”

  Trapp glanced up. “Ryan?”

  His friend nodded. “You can only sharpen the tip of a spear so long before you rip it right off. We go over this much more, we risk losing our edge.”

  “Fuck,” Trapp hissed, gripping the side of the table almost hard enough to make his knuckles bleed as a wave of momentary doubt swept over him. “You sure we’re doing the right thing?”

  The last thing he expected to hear in reply was a laugh.

  “Hey, ese,” Chino said, still shaking his head with mirth. “You forget we got a dude tied up in the basement or something? We committed, whether you like it or not.”

  Trapp pushed himself back up. “No, this is different. Dawes isn’t just some mercenary punk. He’s an active-duty Army officer, and a senior one at that. We fuck this up, the authorities won’t ever stop hunting us. It’s a helluva Rubicon.”

  Ryan cleared his throat, catching Trapp’s attention. “I read his notes, Jason. The asshole’s guilty as sin. Believe me, I’ve got as much to lose as anyone here. But we can’t let this guy off. Not after what he’s done. We all understand the consequences.”

  Trapp dragged in a deep, energizing breath, held it for a few seconds, and then expelled it in one long stream of hot air. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

  Wilshire Boulevard was a funny place for a kidnapping. Bright lights, sparkling glass-fronted storefronts, and some of the most expensive real estate in the United States of America.

  It was also no stranger to the attention of the police. LAPD cruisers constantly rolled up and down the street, not to stop crime, but to deter it from occurring in the first place. Whether it liked to admit it or not, America had a hierarchy of those who mattered and those who didn’t, and smartly-dressed people sat right at the top.

  Sure, the occasional pickpocket worked the neighborhood, but violent crime was completely unheard of.

  As the pickpockets had probably worked out, though, the police only ever stopped people who looked like they didn’t belong. And sitting in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire for the second time in two nights, Trapp fit the part. Another thousand bucks of his savings had gone on a smart navy suit and black oxfords of matching quality. He couldn’t afford many more nights like this one.

  A member of the hotel staff approached and gestured at the black suitcase by Trapp’s side. “Can I put that in the storeroom for you, sir? There’s no charge.”

  “I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind,” he replied, picturing the consequences if somehow the case’s clasps failed, and its incriminating contents toppled out.

  “No problem.”

  “Okay, Trapp,” Chino said quietly over the radio. “He’s exiting the strip club now. Looks half drunk.”

  Trapp didn’t transmit a reply, but he visibly straightened in his seat, itching with anticipation like a little child. Waiting was the worst part – and what no one ever told you was that the life of a soldier consisted of pretty much just that: hurry up and wait.

  Ryan walked past, his leather soles quietly tapping against the marble floor. Neither man so much as acknowledged each other, but Trapp followed his friend’s progress out of the corner of his eye. It was a similar ballet to the day before, only with a whole lot more on the line.

  Right on time.

  “Just turned onto Wilshire,” Chino reported tersely.

  Trapp pushed the small bar table away from him and shifted in his seat so that he was ready to move on a moment’s notice. Unconsciously, his left hand rose and loosened the tie around his neck.

  “He’s coming in now.”

  Trapp stood and sidled out from behind the table. He leaned down and pulled the travel suitcase’s handle free. His eyes found the mirrored surface behind the bar, and he watched as a man strode through the hotel’s glass doors, every muscle in his body tensing.

  False alarm.

  But he didn’t have to wait long. Just a couple of seconds later, the distinctive gleam of Dawes’ monk’s pate entered the Beverly Wilshire. Trapp waited for him to get halfway into the lobby before he turned, grabbing the handle of the suitcase and slowly walking after him.

  He fell in behind Dawes, concentrating on controlling his breathing. People have an innate sense for things that are out of place, especially in other human beings. Call it a survival instinct, a relic of the days before human civilization, Trapp knew it well. He didn’t take a drunk, aging lieutenant colonel, shunted out to the procurement department to serve out the remainder of his days in uniform, as much of a fighter. But he was still a man. And better than anyone, he would have a sense of his own self-preservation.

  “I’m up, Trapp,” Ryan said through his earpiece. “Moving the camera now.”

  Trapp kept an even pace as he followed his target out of the hotel’s main lobby and into a hallway that housed a bank of elevators. He watched as
Dawes leaned forward and pressed the call button and took up a position a few steps behind him, his breath now steady.

  “Okay,” Ryan reported. “You’re clear.”

  The elevator doors pinged open, the warning chime briefly elevating his heart rate. As the doors slid wide, Trapp realized that the upper half of its interior walls were mirrored. He quickly dropped his eyes so as not to catch his target’s attention. He followed Dawes in.

  The two men stood on opposite sides of the elevator, without recognizing each other’s existence, in that puritanical fashion of English-speaking people. Dawes selected his floor, but Trapp kept his own arms by his sides.

  “Heading the same way, huh?” Dawes asked, glancing over at Trapp – and breaking the unwritten rule of such places.

  “I guess so,” Trapp replied in a noncommittal tone. He held his breath, wondering if his target would recall their brief meeting the day before.

  The doors closed, and after a brief lull, the cable began hauling the chamber upward with a low mechanical hum. A sequence of red LEDs just above the elevator controls counted upward, slowing as they reached Dawes’ floor.

  “After you.” The colonel gestured to Trapp.

  Does he suspect something?

  Trapp’s nerves were like piano wire ratcheted to within an inch of rupturing as he stepped out of the elevator with a muted word of thanks.

  Their positions were supposed to be reversed: Dawes ahead and him behind. That way the man would have no inkling of what was about to happen to him. Unless he knew. Perhaps they had underestimated him after all.

  But then, no plan survived first contact with the enemy, did it?

  Dawes’ hotel room was ten doors up on the left, a do not disturb card hanging from the handle. Trapp recalibrated quickly. He pulled his suitcase behind him, passing the first five doors without slowing his pace. Dawes’ footsteps, cushioned by the lush hallway carpet, were nevertheless audible. He hadn’t picked up pace.

  Trapp halted himself outside the ninth door, swiveling his suitcase parallel with it. He looked over his shoulder and said amiably, “Have a good night.”

  “You too,” Dawes said after the slightest of pauses. He started patting his pockets, searching for his key card. He cursed, causing the blood to pump in Trapp’s ears.

  What now?

  Trapp vamped to fill time, leaning over with his back angled away from his target just in case the pistol slipped out. He unzipped a compartment on the front at random, trusting the man’s brain to fill in the rest. The human mind was funny like that: it abhors a vacuum, and in the absence of certainty tends to manufacture it instead.

  “Lost your key?” Trapp asked.

  “No,” Dawes grunted without turning round. “Found it.”

  Trapp waited until he heard the snick of the key card entering its slot. He straightened, unable now to hide the quickening of his breath, then reached for his concealed pistol.

  I hope you picked the right floor, Ryan, he thought dryly. Or this is all on candid camera.

  He spun and closed the few spare feet between him and Dawes, jamming the barrel of the pistol into the man’s kidneys. “Open the fucking door,” he hissed, his lips almost brushing the officer’s ear.

  “What the hell are –?”

  “Shut your damn mouth and open the door,” Trapp repeated. “You say another fucking word and I’ll put a bullet through your liver, you understand? There are a lot of ways to go, but believe me, that’s a bad one.”

  He rammed the pistol hard into Dawes’ spine to reinforce the point. “Nod your head if you understand.”

  A slight, terrified bobbing of his gleaming scalp confirmed it. “I’ll do –”

  “I said quiet,” Trapp growled, his voice low and rough. “Open the door, nice and easy.”

  With trembling fingers, Dawes did exactly as ordered, pushing down on the door handle and letting it swing open under its own weight. He took a step forward.

  “Did I say move?” Trapp said angrily. Before he could get a reply, he barked a set of orders. “Take five steps, then lie down on your front with your hands on the back of your head. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” the man moaned, seemingly on the verge of wetting his pants.

  “Good. Do it. Take the key out of the slot when you’re done. Now go.”

  Trapp watched as the man followed his instructions to the letter. With a rush of adrenaline, he realized that he was holding the pistol in the middle of the hallway, in full view of anyone who stepped out of either the elevator or a hotel room. At least with the former, he would get a warning.

  But the second Joe Public entered the equation, the whole operation was burned. There was no way Trapp would countenance using force – even threatening it – on an innocent bystander. Which meant the only option was to run, and even with Chino manning a hot set of wheels, he didn’t suspect they would make it far before law enforcement caught up.

  He took a step backward, grabbed the handle of his suitcase, and dragged it inside the hotel room, kicking the heel of his leather shoe behind him and jamming the door closed.

  “Who are you?” Dawes whimpered. “I swear, you got the wrong guy. I don’t have anything.”

  “Shut up,” Trapp said brusquely. “Stay where you are. Move a fucking muscle, and I promise you, I’ll do exactly what I said I would.”

  The man’s head thudded against the room’s carpeted floor, but he did as he was told. For a few long seconds, all that could be heard was the air whistling in and out of his lungs, seemingly almost on the verge of hyperventilating.

  Trapp reached for the radio first, keeping the pistol aimed steady at Dawes’ torso and not even allowing himself to blink. “Okay, I’m in.”

  “Copy, Hangman,” Ryan replied quickly, using a nickname that he’d given Trapp almost the first time they met. “Good job. I’m on my way.”

  “Copy.”

  Trapp wasted no time, pushing the suitcase back until it toppled to the floor and quickly locating the zipper. He dragged it the whole way around, then opened the suitcase like a book.

  “What are you doing?” Dawes gasped.

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached inside the case for a cable tie. He grabbed it, tossing a roll of duct tape toward Dawes’ legs as he did so. As it rolled toward him, the quivering officer flinched, clearly anticipating a blow.

  “Relax,” Trapp muttered, still not taking his eyes off the man. “If you do exactly as I tell you, we’ll get along just fine, and nobody gets hurt. Now I’m going to secure your arms, okay?”

  “Why? What have I –?”

  “I wasn’t asking permission,” Trapp said curtly. He placed his knee on the center of Dawes’ lower back, trusting in the laws of physics now that his considerable advantage in body mass would keep the man pinned to the ground.

  He shoved his weapon back inside his waistband, reaching roughly for Dawes’ wrists the second his hand was free. He yanked them back hard enough to elicit a whimper of pain, then ratcheted the cable tie tightly shut. Without bothering with a running update, he bit off a section of duct tape and placed it over Dawes’ lips.

  “Okay, asshole,” Trapp grunted, momentarily struggling for breath as he looped his arm behind his captive’s shoulders and yanked him upward. “It’s time you and me had a talk.”

  50

  When Ryan Price entered Dawes’ hotel room, as planned, the captive had a pillowcase over his head to obscure his vision. He was seated on the office chair that ordinarily sat behind the room’s small writing desk. The camcorder was already set up on a tripod in front of him, though the recording light was presently dark.

  Trapp immediately handed his friend a balaclava, cut from olive green cloth. Ryan pulled it over his face, and Trapp shot him a thumbs-up of approval. He looked like a real scary motherfucker, Trapp thought. That was the only way to put it. Sure as hell not the kind of guy you wanted to see in a nightmare, let alone real life.

  The two men embraced silently over a jo
b well done, but both knew that it was far from over.

  Trapp jerked his head toward the prisoner, and Ryan nodded. He walked over and yanked the pillowcase off Dawes’ head, tossing it to one side. Still, he did not speak.

  “Okay,” Trapp murmured softly, staring directly into Dawes’ eyes to reinforce the point. “Here’s how things are going to go. Like I told you earlier, if you play ball, you’ll get out of here alive. Hell, I’ll even throw in all your limbs, no extra charge.”

  He hid a smile at the comic book villain style of dialogue. Still, the words seemed to do the trick. Dawes moaned softly, shaking his head, and tears trickled from the corner of each eye. The eyes themselves flickered back and forth between Trapp and the terrifying man in the olive balaclava.

  “Uh-uh,” Trapp chided, shaking his head with disapproval. “Don’t look at him. Keep your eyes on me. If you’re a good boy, you won’t have to meet my friend here. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, okay? I want you to know I’m on your side.”

  The corollary, of course, was that Ryan was not. But Trapp left that bit unsaid.

  His suit jacket was now hanging on the back of the chair Dawes was posed upon, which left the pistol in his waistband in easy reach. He twisted his arm around his body, grasped the grip, and aimed it directly between his prisoner’s eyes.

  “Now,” he said, still speaking so softly the man would be forced to strain his hearing to make out each word, as he languidly half-ripped the gray duct tape free of the colonel’s mouth. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  Dawes nodded vigorously, the tears now streaming from his eyes, forming into tiny beads on the back of the tape. “I’m an army officer,” he gasped. “You’re making a –”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Charles Dawes, have you heard of a company called Odysseus Private Security?” Trapp questioned.

  The man instantly froze, understanding for the first time that this was no crime of convenience.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Trapp grinned. “You see, Charlie, a couple of nights ago I killed three mercenaries working for your friend Jeffrey. They were looking for a friend of mine, and I take that kind of thing real fucking serious, you understand?”