by Jack Slater
Dawes didn’t move. He didn’t moan. He didn’t do anything, in fact, except keep his eyes locked directly on Trapp’s own.
“I didn’t kill all of them, though.” Trapp shrugged, as if the deaths of those men meant nothing to him. “I left one alive. And he told me about you, Charlie. He told me about the very special relationship you have with your friend Jeffrey. And that, you see, is why I am here.”
Trapp reached forward, stroked the side of his captive’s face, and then viciously ripped the tape from the man’s lips. Perhaps he should have been ashamed to feel pleasure in the squelched yelp that followed, but he did not. This man was nothing to him. He was less than nothing. He was part of the same vicious, heartless machine that had put Shea in the hospital and left countless more dead.
Perhaps just a tiny cog, for sure, but a cog nonetheless.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Trapp said.
Dawes looked up at him, eyes bulging out of his skull like a wild animal at the end of a long chase, his chest heaving in just the same way.
After a few seconds, long enough to realize that their prisoner did not know whether he could talk, Trapp gestured at him to do so. “Go on. I don’t bite.”
“Who are you?”
“Wrong question,” Trapp replied, aiming his pistol straight down. “All that matters is why we are here. Perhaps you know that instead, Colonel Dawes?”
“I swear, I swear,” the man moaned, shaking his head from side to side in despair. He was an abject, disheveled wreck. “I have no idea.”
Trapp meaningfully exchanged a long glance with his friend before turning back to their captive. “You’re making a habit of disappointing me, Colonel. So let me give you a little background, and then we can start this conversation from a position of equality. I’d hate for you to feel in the dark about what happens next.”
He handed the weapon to Ryan, who instinctively checked that it was safe before relaxing. Trapp sat down on the edge of the bed facing Dawes. “I’ll be straight with you, Charlie. There are only three ways this ends for you. Want to know what they are?”
He paused, but the only response was a large bead of sweat that formed on the tip of the man’s nose, dangling into space before finally, languidly falling down to his crotch.
“I can’t hear you…”
Dawes’ eyes flicked to the gun in Ryan’s hands, then back to Trapp. He visibly gulped before a reply left his lips in a strangled hiss of breath. “Yes.”
“Better.” Trapp smiled. “You’re a smart man, or at least not a stupid one. I’ll give you that much. So you must’ve worked out that I’m not here because of a mistake. I know exactly who you are and what you have done. If you accept that, things will go a lot easier for you. If you try and lie to me, I’ll make it so that you never walk again. We on the same page so far?”
Dawes nodded jerkily.
“So here’s how this goes, Charlie. Either I put a bullet through your forehead or I turn you in to CID and you spend the rest of your life rotting in Fort Leavenworth.” He paused just long enough to allow a grin of pure malevolence to stretch across his lips. “And believe me, you do not want to end up in a place like that. Not once the rumor goes around that you sold out your own brothers to pad out your retirement account. There’s a hierarchy behind bars, you see. And people like you come in just below pedophiles…”
Trapp stopped to allow the idea of spending the rest of his pitiful life hiding from the violent ministrations of hundreds of convicted servicemen to marinate in Dawes’ mind. When he sensed that the man’s resolve was on the verge of crumbling, he said, “Anything you want to ask me, Charlie?”
“You –” Dawes coughed. “You said there were three options…”
“I did,” he replied.
Instead of furnishing the response with any additional information, Trapp held out his hand and said, “Give me the gun.”
“No,” Dawes whimpered. “You didn’t even tell me what it was!”
Trapp ratcheted back the pistol’s slide and let the chambered round fall into his open palm. He held it up to the light between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, letting Dawes’ attention become fixated on the gleaming arrow of brass. After several uninterrupted seconds, he spun it so that the flat end was facing out and jammed it between the man’s teeth.
Stepping back, he said, “I’m going to count down from five, Charlie. You see, option three is that you tell me everything you know, and I let you live out the rest of your pitiful existence.”
He readied the weapon again, raised his arm, and leveled it between Dawes’ eyes. “Five.”
Dawes’ explanation was mumbled, but just about intelligible over the lump of metal between his lips. “Wait –!”
Trapp left the weapon aimed exactly where it was, and only raised his eyebrow in response. “Something you want to get off your chest, Charlie?”
“Let’s,” he started, a thin strand of drool emanating from the corner of his mouth, “let’s make a deal.”
“Four,” Trapp replied simply.
“Kill me,” Dawes yelled, loud enough that Trapp started to worry whether he might be heard through the hotel room’s thick walls. “Just get it over with.”
“Three.”
Trapp started to hope that he’d read the man right. This kind of threat was a bridge you only got to cross once. Once you failed to carry it out, your credibility was shot. And as much as he wanted to pull the trigger, he knew he couldn’t. The knowledge in the man’s head was too valuable to throw away in a fit of homicidal pique.
No matter how good it would feel. The real problem was that breaking into the man’s hotel room was one thing. Child’s play, even. Spiriting him out without detection, that was quite another.
“Two.”
Dawes was now reduced to a whimpering wreck. Trapp wasn’t sure where the tears streaming from his eyes stopped and the sweat began. His shirt was soaked either way, clinging to his body like an invalid’s hospital gown.
“Last chance, Charlie…” he warned.
Trapp could feel the tension radiating off Ryan just as much as the fear that was coming off Dawes in waves. He could tell his friend wasn’t sure whether or not he was prepared to pull the trigger, and thus if he needed to intervene.
Hell, I don’t know either.
“One.”
He spat the word out like a judgment, hard and unyielding, meeting Dawes’ terrified gaze and not breaking away. And in that moment, the man understood that he really was on the brink of death.
“Okay,” he groaned, his breath collapsing into a series of tight, strangled pants as his chin dropped with relief to his chest. “Please, please, just don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Trapp knew that he needed to strike while the iron was hot. He shot a look of relief at his friend, seeing only blue pools glistening from inside the green fabric of Ryan’s mask, then clicked his fingers to indicate it was time to turn the camera on. He stepped out of the view of the lens.
“Good choice,” he said softly. “You know, Charlie, I really don’t want to have to kill you.”
But I will, unless you tell me exactly what I want to know.
Instead, he said, “Please state your name and rank for the camera.”
“Lieut. Col. Charles Dawes, Army Contracting Command,” came the muttered response. Trapp half wondered if he would reel out his Social Security number, too.
“Thank you.”
“Please, let me go,” Dawes said, his voice now dull, drained of energy expended through his fear of death. “I swear I won’t tell anyone about this. I swear it.”
Trapp glanced at the Sony camcorder to check that the red light indicated that it was recording. Satisfied that it was, he said, “I know you won’t, Lieutenant Colonel, because you’re a criminal. You sold out American soldiers in return for bribes, didn’t you?”
Dawes shook his head hopelessly, and Trapp gritted his teeth together to hold
back a wave of frustration that almost catapulted him across the room, fist first.
“It wasn’t like that,” the captive officer moaned. “I didn’t –”
“Did you or did you not accept illicit payments as a quid pro quo for funneling contracts to a private military contractor called Odysseus Private Security?” Trapp asked, his voice a rasp of ice on steel.
Dawes seemed unwilling – or unable – to stare into the camera. “Yes.”
Trapp wrinkled his nose, as much because of the acrid stink of the man’s sweat as his distaste for him. “How much?”
The reply came quickly, almost as though it was prepared. “Three million.”
He whistled. “Three million, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly $3 million – to the penny?”
“It’s about that,” Dawes said, the chair underneath him squeaking as he tried to relieve the pressure on his bound shoulders. “I don’t know the precise figure.”
“Do you remember the deal we made, Charlie?” Trapp asked.
Dawes raised his head for the first time, looking hopelessly at his captor. “How could I forget?”
“Good,” Trapp replied without sympathy. “Because I want you to think real hard about the consequences of lying to me. Think about what I’ve done so far. Think about how far I’m willing to go if I find out you held something back.”
Ryan chose that moment to clear his throat – an entirely accidental coincidence, but an action that instantly drew Dawes’ attention. He looked warily at the man in the balaclava, flinching as he did so. Trapp concealed a smile. His friend neither had to say or do anything, his mere presence was enough to strike the fear of God into the man.
“I –” Dawes said, stumbling over his words. “I forgot. There’s more.”
“How much more?”
“It was $11.6 million,” Dawes admitted. “And another four if I push one last contract through before I retire.”
“Damn,” Trapp said through gritted teeth, “guess I got into the wrong line of work, huh?”
Dawes shrugged weakly but didn’t speak. There wasn’t a hell of a lot he could say without digging himself further into the mire he’d created.
“I guess I’m asking the $11.6 million question then,” Trapp said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. “How does a guy like you get so valuable? I must be missing something.”
“You know.”
“Tell me.”
Dawes suddenly exploded into action, throwing himself forward and toppling face first as his bound hands dragged the chair they were attached to behind him. He worked himself into a paroxysm of fruitless rage on the floor. Trapp watched on with withering distaste. When Dawes was done, cheek pressed against the carpet, panting heavily as a result of the clearly unaccustomed exertion, he jerked his head at Ryan.
Trapp watched in the little LCD screen to the side of the camcorder as Ryan walked into shot, wearing the olive green balaclava over a slim black suit. He dragged the man back upright in one seamless motion.
“Are you done?”
The coldness in his voice told the prisoner that it was a threat more than a question.
“I funneled them contracts, all right?” Dawes spat, a line of drool now hanging off his chin. “Constructed bid documents so that only they could win. Struck off other contractors, or better, handed out just enough deals so that it didn’t look suspicious. And once they were big enough, it was legitimate, wasn’t it? They would have won anyway. They had the talent, the manpower…”
“Maybe.” Trapp shrugged. “But that’s not how it happened, is it? You let them play the game with a weighted die.”
Dawes stared sullenly ahead.
Trapp grinned. He had enough now to hold this tape over the crooked Army officer for the rest of his life. He would give them names, places, dates, account numbers – everything. It was only a matter of time, and he had all night.
“Charlie – have you ever met a man called Jeffrey Banks?”
51
It was nearly noon by the time Trapp began the laborious process of pulling himself out of bed, dislodging the sleep from his eyes and scalding his body under a steaming shower nozzle. Once he was dressed, he headed down the stairs, only to find that Chino and Ryan were both already awake.
“So what now?” Chino asked as Trapp filled a bowl with cereal. He pulled the refrigerator door open and retrieved a jug of milk of uncertain provenance, sniffing it before dumping the remainder of its contents into the bowl.
Trapp leaned against the doorframe that separated the kitchen and the dining room. He shrugged, shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, and spoke over the resulting crunch. “Beats me.”
Ryan was seated at the dining table, spinning the plastic case that contained the mini disc spat out of the Sony camcorder. “Whatever happens, we’ll need copies. I don’t like us holding on to just one.”
“How do we get some?” Chino asked with a raised eyebrow. “Not like we can just hand that disc over to a kid on minimum wage at a photo shop. That’s a fast ticket behind bars.”
“I know a place,” Ryan said, flattening his palm over the slim plastic disc. “It’s nice and quiet. I’ll be able to make them myself.”
“Want me to ride shotgun?” Trapp grunted through a full mouth of toasted wheat.
“You look like shit, Jason,” Ryan said with a strained smile. “Go back to bed. Besides, I could use a bit of headspace, if you know what I mean.”
Trapp shrugged. “Fine by me. I’ll do the chores while you’re out. You know, mop the floor, clean the guns…”
The joke didn’t raise a smile, but then, he reflected, it probably wasn’t a very good one. They were all tired, after all, and under a hell of a lot of stress. If Dawes stuck to his word, he would stay in his hotel room for the rest of the week without tipping off Banks and his people. Trapp was pretty sure the colonel would play things straight. They’d put the fear of God into the man, and he’d seen the look in Dawes’ eyes when they told him the consequences of deviating from his instructions. Bluntly, he was scared shitless.
“You got it, buddy,” Ryan said, absent-mindedly searching for his boots. He found the left and quickly laced it up. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Holler if you need something.”
“Jason!”
Trapp was in his own world when Chino first raised the alarm. He was slumped on the safe house’s peeling brown leather sofa, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.
“Jason, wake the hell up, man!” Chino said a second time.
“What?” he grunted, sitting up and automatically reaching for one of the pistols in easy reach on the coffee table, where he’d left them after cleaning. He grabbed a magazine, slammed it home, and only then looked up. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, man,” Chino replied, his voice tight with anxiety. He was standing, supported by his cane, and leaning against the front wall of the house, surreptitiously peering out through the curtains.
Instantly on edge, Trapp climbed to his feet. He crept toward Chino, exploring the room with every sense. “What is it?”
The metal of the pistol’s grip was still cool to the touch, and the effect was even more apparent as every nerve ending in his body began sending a firehose of information to the brain. The level of detail was almost overwhelming.
“I don’t know,” Chino said, clearly unnerved. He pulled his fingers away from the moth-eaten curtain that shielded the window slowly, so as not to draw the attention of anyone on the outside. “Take a look. You ever see that Chevrolet before? I just heard it pull up.”
The two men exchanged places, and Trapp realized for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. The aging, coughing fan in the air conditioning unit began a downward sweep and sent a wave of chilled air over his body, causing every hair on his torso to stand on end. He pointed at it. “Kill that, will you? I can’t hear a damn thing.”
As Chino did as instructed, Trapp gently tweaked the curtain back.
The material felt cheap and acrylic in his fingers. He only opened up a gap about an inch wide, just enough to peer through.
The gate was open, giving a clear field-of-view to the street. If he wasn’t worried already, Trapp certainly was now. Ryan Price was a lot of things, but sloppy sure as hell wasn’t one of them. And leaving that gate wide open was sloppy as hell.
So what the hell, Ryan? Why would you go and do a thing like that?
The black Chevrolet SUV was parked just across the street – and more worryingly, just in front of Ryan’s rental truck. With the sun overhead reflecting against the truck’s windshield, it was impossible to determine whether it was occupied.
But Trapp had heard Ryan drive away. His truck had a braying mule of an engine: kind of hard to miss. Yet he was equally certain that the SUV next to it was new. It wasn’t just that it was out of place in this neighborhood, which was dominated by working-class, used-car types, but the fact that he’d walked the perimeter of the house less than ninety minutes before, and he would have noticed a disturbance like that.
“What is going on?” he breathed.
“I’m not going crazy, right?” Chino said, tapping his cane as he crossed the room to retrieve a weapon of his own. “I’m not in my head or nothing?”
“No, I see it,” Trapp replied. “Wait – I see something.”
The driver door of Ryan’s pickup swung open, and a pair of boots emerged, followed by the rest of a man’s body. Trapp squinted, attempting to make out whether the newcomer was his friend. He got his answer a second later, as the man straightened.
“It’s Ryan,” he said, breathing a faint sigh of relief.
“Is he alone?”
Trapp shrugged, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the pistol’s grip. “For now, anyway.”
He watched Ryan walk toward the safe house. His posture was slouched, though probably not enough for anyone other than Trapp to notice. His pace was equally hesitant, like a condemned man trudging to the gallows.
