Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  A metallic click from inside the house drew his attention, and he watched Chino’s fingers trembling, even clasped around the pistol’s metal. Trapp raised his hand, left palm facing out, and whispered, “Stay with me, okay? Don’t shoot unless I tell you to. You got that?”

  “Yeah.” Chino nodded jerkily. “Yeah, I got it. I’m cool, man.”

  Even though every instinct was urging him to face the threat outside, Trapp held his gaze for a few seconds longer, focusing on Chino’s eyes and willing the man to relax. He watched it happen in real time, finishing with a tight, sharp nod to indicate that he was okay.

  I hope you’re right.

  Trapp’s attention flicked back the front of the house as Ryan’s boots scraped against the concrete at the front of the yard. Trapp blinked hard, dragged in a deep breath to steady himself, and then pulled the door open, shielding most of his body with its frame.

  Ryan looked up at the sound, guilt written all over his face. “Jason, I –”

  “Get in the house,” Trapp said, his eyes sweeping across the street. “Do it now.”

  He did as he was instructed, brushing past Trapp as he came through the door. Trapp slammed it shut and turned to face his friend. “What the hell is going on, Ryan? I need you to be real straight with me, okay? Because right now I’m feeling all kinds of jumpy.”

  At the sight of the two loaded weapons, Ryan seemed to calm himself, though the shame was still etched onto his face. It was as though his training kicked in. “Listen, Jason, I’ve got two minutes to talk you around, then some friends of mine are coming in.”

  Trapp ground his teeth together, and unconsciously raised the barrel of his weapon just a couple of inches. He still couldn’t believe that his best friend, hell, a man who for the past five years had been the closest thing to a brother he’d ever had, could have betrayed him.

  Or why.

  “Who is they?”

  “Please,” Ryan muttered, “just put the weapons on the floor. I need you to trust me. You’ll both be okay. That’s why I arranged this.”

  “You sell us out, motherfucker?” Chino yelled, raising his weapon and aiming it directly at the Delta force operative’s chest. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “Chino, relax,” Trapp hissed, pulling back the curtain a few inches and scanning out into the street. The SUV was still in the same spot, doors closed and unmoving. He turned back to Ryan.

  “Trust’s a big word, Ryan. And I want to believe you. But you’re making it real hard right now. So why don’t you start by telling me who’s sitting in that truck out there?”

  “Fuck,” Ryan hissed, dragging his fingers through his hair with significantly more force than the action really required. “Jason, I need you believe me on this. I wouldn’t ever do something that put you in harm’s way. That hasn’t changed. It’ll never change –”

  Trapp shut off the part of his brain his friend was attempting to appeal to. He addressed the situation with cool rationality. “Give me a name, Ryan.”

  “He’s my boss, okay?” Ryan yelled. “Colonel Caldwell. I brought him here to cut a deal. So you don’t get your dumb ass killed or spend the rest of your life behind bars. And if you can’t accept that, I get it. But I just tried to do what I thought was best.”

  Trapp froze, attempting to pull himself out of the moment and analyze the situation with a cool head – and instantly failing, as his lips moved faster than his mind. “You sold us out?”

  The hurt on Ryan’s face was real, he saw, instantly assailed with a wave of guilt that was all his own. But he didn’t have time to think it over. A thud outside caught his attention, and he whipped his neck around, only to see two men exiting the black SUV. They were a study in contrasts: one looked to be a few inches shorter than he was, the other a few taller, and each was blessed with a frame in equal proportion to that first impression.

  “It’s not like that, I swear,” Ryan protested. “Jason, I need you to put the gun down. I told Caldwell everything. He’s prepared to hear you out, okay? Maybe find a way out of this mess. But if you go in shooting, they’ll kill you. That man with him, the big guy, he’s one of the best marksmen I’ve ever met. He won’t hesitate to drop you. I’m begging you, Jason, that’s what these people do. I don’t want to see you die.”

  Trapp watched the two men tread the same path that Ryan had just a couple minutes earlier. The big man swung the gate closed behind him, sealing the safe house off from the view of the street once more. Its rusted hinges squealed before the frame clanged shut.

  What the hell do I do now?

  The two men were dressed in comparable fashion: denim pants and similar, but not matching, black field jackets of a type that could be found in surplus stores across the country. They were baggy enough to conceal a whole world of hurt.

  He let the curtain twitch back into place, realizing as he did so that the movement would have attracted attention. He knew that he was second-guessing himself, but it was impossible not to, given the background of the two men on the other side of the door.

  “Jason…” Ryan began again. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

  The sound of footsteps died away, replaced a second later by three sharp raps at the door. Trapp reached out to open it, then stopped, his arm in midair, turning back to survey the other two men one last time. Ryan was clearly as pained as his tone suggested, whereas Chino was simply frozen in indecision.

  The decision was up to him.

  Trapp let his weapon full to his side – though he didn’t let go – and twisted the door handle, pulling it back.

  “You must be Trapp,” the smaller man said, his features opening up in an approximation of a smile. He stuck out his hand. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

  Without thinking, Trapp raised his right hand to meet the gesture. The big man moved faster than he thought possible, pushing his boss aside and reaching inside his own jacket. Ryan yelled something from inside the house, but Trapp didn’t hear it. It was all moving way too fast.

  “Conrad!”

  Trapp stopped dead as the sound over the smaller man’s raised voice cut through the chaos like the crack of a whip. It had the same effect on his bodyguard, though the balance of power was now significantly shifted, since the big man had drawn his own weapon, which was now pointed unwaveringly at Trapp’s forehead.

  The smaller man reached out, placed his hand on his bodyguard’s forearm, and pushed down gently, throwing an apologetic shrug in Trapp’s direction and saying, “You’ll have to forgive my man. He can be very protective of me.”

  “Yeah,” Trapp croaked in reply, clearing his throat. “I see that.”

  “You mind if I join you in there?” the smaller man – who Trapp figured must be Caldwell – said. “This isn’t the kind of conversation I like to have out in the open.”

  Trapp gaped at Caldwell for several seconds, wondering how the man could possibly maintain such calm in the face of such inordinate stress, especially given the amount of adrenaline that was currently exploding in his own synapses. He mutely stepped aside, feeling sick from the tension.

  As the bodyguard, Conrad, stepped through the door frame, he plucked the pistol from Trapp’s now unresisting fingers. Crossing the room, he next confiscated Chino’s, all as Trapp tried to work out how the situation had flipped so quickly from underneath him.

  Caldwell simply radiated command, he realized as he attempted to compose himself. Maybe he’d been deceiving himself.

  “Thank you,” Caldwell said once the door was closed. He opened his jacket, withdrew his own pistol from a holster just under his left shoulder, and set it down on a window ledge before looking over at his bodyguard. “You too, Conrad.”

  The man shot his boss a positively rebellious look, but did as he was instructed, setting down his own weapon, along with the two confiscated pistols.

  “Much better,” Caldwell said, eyeing him closely. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  T
rapp attempted to take stock. Caldwell looked to be in his early forties, though he had the body of a man a decade younger than that. Curly black hair and thin-rimmed glasses didn’t detract from the sheer deadliness of the poise with which he carried himself. He moved more like an athlete than any officer he had ever met: coiled, as though every step, every movement, was entirely deliberate.

  “I guess so,” Trapp allowed.

  “Sergeant Price has told me a lot about you,” Caldwell said, gesturing at Ryan. “Well, enough, anyway. All of it complimentary, don’t worry. He’s extremely loyal.”

  Trapp raised his eyebrows at the colonel’s choice of words. “I’m not so sure about that, sir,” he said, only half joking.

  “Oh, I think you should be,” Caldwell snapped before composing himself. “Ryan is one of the finest operators I have. And believe me, he’s moved heaven and earth to put us in this room together.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “Right to the bone,” Caldwell said, glancing at Ryan. “You said he’d be like that.”

  “Yes sir,” Ryan replied. Trapp noticed that, consciously or not, his friend’s shoulders were drawn together, and had adopted a parade rest posture, hands clasped behind his back.

  “I like that in a man.” Caldwell shrugged. “Better than beating around the bush. So I’ll lay it out for you, Jason. You’ve got yourself into a real mess here. You simply can’t go around shooting people in downtown Los Angeles and expect to get away with it. Let alone kidnapping a colonel in the United States Army.”

  “You’re safe, sir,” Trapp said, cracking a limp joke. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “What’s your exit plan, Jason?” Caldwell asked, pointedly ignoring the comment. “Where do you see yourself in a year’s time?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Trapp shrugged. “I didn’t go into this thinking about what it would get me.”

  “Clearly,” Caldwell said, hiking his eyebrow. “What if I told you I might be able to offer you a way out?”

  “Ryan mentioned something like that.”

  “Like I said, whether you agree with me or not, he’s loyal.” Caldwell looked at the floor for a second. “He called me a couple of days ago and told me everything.”

  “Before–?” Trapp paused, realizing that he hadn’t yet actually admitted to anything and wondering if now was the right time to start.

  “Yes, Mr. Trapp, before you paid a visit to Lieutenant Colonel Charles Dawes,” Caldwell said with a conspiratorial grin. “I place a lot of trust in my men, and I had faith that he wouldn’t permit you to step over the line. The fact that we’re having this conversation suggests he didn’t.”

  “Okay. So you let us interrogate him,” Trapp said, throwing caution to the wind. “Why?”

  “I did a little digging,” Caldwell replied. “Into Odysseus, Dawes, this Finch character. All of it. And I didn’t much like what I found. So here’s the deal, Jason. I want to offer you a way out.”

  “What’s the catch?” Trapp instantly fired back.

  Caldwell tilted his head. “Who says there’s a catch?”

  Before Trapp had a chance to reply, he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to see Chino raising his cane and rapping it against the floor twice. “Ese, there’s always a catch. Take it from a guy who knows.”

  “Mr. Woods, I guess?” Caldwell said, turning lightly toward him. “Son, I read your file. It sounds like you went through hell out there. You have my thanks.”

  “With respect, Colonel,” Chino said, his jaw set like he was about to go ten rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. “I ain’t interested in your thanks. They won’t bring my buddies back. So unless you’re here to fill those assholes with lead, I suggest you get the hell outta our way.”

  “Can I at least tell you what I found?” Caldwell asked, spreading his arms wide.

  Chino glowered but didn’t stand in his way.

  “Hundreds of millions of dollars was stolen from the Coalition Provisional Authority. Maybe billions. None of it was ever accounted for. They started shipping truckloads of cash around the country to pay people’s salaries without even checking if the employees even existed.”

  Caldwell extended the index finger on his left hand, then rested his right thumb on the next finger in line. “I’ve got enough circumstantial evidence on Lt. Col. Dawes to get him into some real hot water with CID. And I found a pattern of rapes, murders, kidnappings, and incidents of torture that closely track the activities of Odysseus personnel and facilities across western Iraq. Enough to get a few friends of mine real interested. So let’s get one thing straight: I’m not here to make you guys just go away.”

  Chino crossed his arms. “But?”

  Caldwell grimaced. “You want me to be honest? Either I make this problem disappear, or someone else will. And I don’t expect they’ll make you a counter-offer.”

  “So why shouldn’t we go public?” Trapp grunted. “What do we have to lose?”

  “Your freedom, for a start,” Caldwell said. “More likely your lives, if certain people found out about what you learned. But I’m guessing neither of you care a bit about that. Am I correct?”

  “You might be,” Trapp allowed.

  “If all this got out, it wouldn’t look good for America. It wouldn’t look good for the US Army either. But I know you don’t care about that. But here’s the thing, boys: I’m not here to protect the Army, or even the country.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I’m here to protect my men. Iraq is a tinderbox. We’ve got little fires burning all over the country. A militant group here, Shiite unrest there. Abu Ghraib was what, fifteen months ago? That turned half the country against us. I’m telling you, if this gets out, American soldiers will die. Not a few, hundreds. It’ll be like spilling gasoline in a fireworks store on the Fourth of July. That’s what I’m here to stop, okay?”

  “I can’t help you cover this up, sir,” Chino said. “Not after what they did to me.”

  “I’m not asking you to, son. Lt. Col. Dawes is a disgrace to his uniform. And Finch, he’s a stain that needs to be wiped clean. That goes for all of Odysseus. All I’m asking is that you let me help you do this quietly. You do that for me, I’ll make the rest of this go away.”

  Caldwell paused and slowly rolled the tension from his neck. “So do we have a deal?”

  52

  Trapp twisted as he reached for his pistol, wincing as a jolt of pain from his side provided a timely reminder that he wasn’t yet fully healed. The skin had mostly begun to regrow, leaving a pink welt on what was once pristine flesh.

  “You’re sweating,” he remarked, his voice deliberately off-handed to obscure his own nerves. “Wipe it off.”

  Lieut. Col. Dawes did as instructed, reaching for a handkerchief in the breast pocket of a civilian blazer. He mopped his balding head, then replaced it in a sequence of jerky, trembling movements. “What now?”

  Trapp pressed the pistol through the head rest so it gently kissed the back of Dawes’ neck. The man shivered at the touch of death. “You’re going to place a phone call,” he said. “If you attempt to wave him off, it’ll be the last thing you do. No second chances. Understood?”

  A fresh bead of sweat formed on the man’s left temple, and Trapp watched it quiver before gravity compelled it to tumble down the side of his face. “I told you already,” Dawes hissed, fear and frustration meeting one another, “I’ll do whatever you want. If this is what it takes, I’ll do it. Just stop fucking threatening me.”

  “So you have a backbone after all,” Trapp observed cruelly, stroking Dawes’ skin with the muzzle of the gun. “I suggest for the next few minutes you lose it.”

  He withdrew the pistol but left the weapon in his lap, still in easy reach – and clear view through the Chevrolet SUV’s rear mirror. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a black burner phone, ensured it was powered on, and outstretched his hand, palm up. “Leave it on spea
ker.”

  The speaker blared, tinny and urgent. “Hello..? Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Dawes whispered, his eyes glued to the mirror, where they met Trapp’s own sparkling orbs. “I’m outside.”

  Banks waited a beat before replying, and his puzzlement was evident. “Why? Did we have –?”

  “It’s an open line,” Dawes said curtly. “How many guards have you got with you tonight?”

  Again, Banks was clearly befuddled by the question. “Three, like always. Seriously, Charlie, what the hell is going on?”

  “We’ve got a problem,” Dawes replied, extending his index finger and scratching his nose over and over. Though externally he appeared to be crumbling, his voice did not betray his nerves. “Send away two of your guys, then wait five minutes. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t speak to anyone except me. I think your place might be bugged.”

  Trapp nodded with approval as the crooked Army colonel delivered the last of the lines they had rehearsed together. He drew his hand across his throat, signaling it was time to kill the call.

  The phone’s speaker crackled, and Banks said, “Now what the hell is going on, Charlie? I –”

  “I’ll be outside in five,” Dawes said. An electronic chime indicated that he’d ended the phone call, but Trapp kept a single finger pressed to his lips until the man handed the cell phone back so that he could be certain of it.

  “Nice work, Charlie,” he said, enunciating the name. “A little longer, and this will all be over.”

  “Yeah,” Dawes mumbled, kneading his right fist. “Sure it will.”

  The SUV was parked a hundred yards from the front gates of Banks’ Hollywood Hills mansion, just before the curve in the road that would have spoiled the view. It was getting late, and spotlight beams up and down the street were beginning to blink into life, bathing gate posts, walls and front doors in a halo of light. None of the houses would have looked out of place on the front of a design magazine.

  Trapp watched through the tinted rear passenger window of the vehicle, glancing at Dawes every few seconds to ensure that he didn’t step out of line. He didn’t expect the cowardly colonel to grow a set of balls now, but the man’s career, reputation and fortune hung in the balance – and any one of those three factors might prove sufficient motivation to do something stupid.