The Hangman's Soliloquy

by Jeb Bohn

  The Hangman’s Soliloquy

  Herman Ingram Book Two

  Jeb Bohn

  Copyright © 2020 Jeb Bohn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  For Neal

  Contents

  Strange Things Afoot

  Catching Up

  A Proposition

  Dreams in a Smoke-filled Car

  Got ‘Em

  Ifs and Buts

  Sour Visions

  Unexpected Departure

  Serving Notice

  Hubris

  Oops

  Frayed Ends

  Beget the Unraveling

  The So-many-miles Road

  The Devil’s in the Details

  The Stage

  Strange Things Afoot

  A dark convoy eased onto the exit ramp at Limon, Colorado, leaving I-70 for US-24 in the direction of Colorado Springs. Traffic was moderate, allowing the assorted trucks to maintain a brisk pace through the small and scattered towns. The late evening light threw shadows onto the asphalt; the glow of the full moon transformed the silhouette of the Rocky Mountains into the jagged shoulders of some long-sleeping behemoth. An unmarked road ten miles east of Peterson Air Force Base brought a change in course, guiding the vehicles past little more than scrub brush until a small security booth appeared. Inside stood a lone guard who rubbed his eyes when he saw the approaching headlights.

  As the procession stopped one hundred yards from the shack, a man emerged from the lead SUV clutching a rifle. Kneeling, he took a deep breath as he raised the weapon, remaining perfectly still, with a clear view of the doorway leading into the guard shack. The guard emerged from the structure, flashlight in hand, managing two steps before he collapsed to the ground. The sniper smirked, returning to his vehicle as the line of trucks resumed their progress, stopping when they reached the shack

  A man in black tactical gear entered the guard station, pressing the button for the front gate. The line entered a compound consisting of two drab grey buildings, each standing three stories tall. To an imaginative person, they looked like the kind of structures you would find at a prison in some futuristic dystopia. The twelve-foot high razor wire fence that enclosed the site only added to that effect.

  Proudly perched in the center was a seven-story building, moonlight gleaming off of its glass façade. Lights illuminated a random series of offices, each devoid of movement. The same was true for the other two buildings. QNI Research, the company that owned and operated this facility and six others like it across the United States, was currently under a federal investigation focusing on a host of legal and ethical violations. As a result, all of their facilities were inactive until the inquiry was completed.

  Back in the guard shack, the man made his way to a panel that was attached to the rear wall. He knelt in down, placing a small toolset on the floor. Selecting the appropriate implement, he set to work opening the panel and scanning the labyrinth of wires inside. He clipped, clamped, and rerouted them into a pastiche of bows and loops before walking back to the entryway. Taking care to step over the guard, he took a flashlight from his pocket and flashed it three times.

  Drivers began aligning box trucks at their designated targets; one each at the loading docks of the shorter buildings. The third truck sped towards the office building, bounding over a curb and smashing its way into the lobby, creating a blizzard of glass shards and dust. After killing the engine the driver stepped out, glass crunching under his boots. He lit a cigarette before strolling out to the courtyard in front of the building.

  A man stood at the edge of the lawn, a wraith among the shadows, surveying the movements of his crew. He eschewed the tactical outfits of the others in favor of jeans, a button-down shirt, and a black overcoat. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, a fire burning behind them fueled by a mix of rage and disgust. With his plan unfolding before him, his lips turned up, baring his teeth aggressively.

  His name is Greg Schultz and he once worked for the conglomerate that owned this facility. He had seen the vicious nature of their actions and had been an active participant in a particularly nasty one. For that he had paid dearly. He had been dragged down to a place darker than he ever imagined existed; a place that most never come back from. Greg, however, had made it through and was back with a vengeance.

  Tonight was the first major step in that vengeance.

  His gaze shifted as he focused on the approaching driver.

  “Rendezvous with Thompson, Hodges and Stroud. Pull up to the gate and load the guard into the back. We’re rolling out in five.”

  The driver nodded and walked away, leaving Schultz alone. The drivers of the other box trucks emerged, throwing quick nods to the man as they marched towards the rest of the group. They were moving in lockstep, each stride marked with purpose and conviction. Tiny beads of sweat began peppering their foreheads despite their goosebumps.

  One by one the SUVs came to life, the harsh glare of their headlights casting an ominous glow across the derelict facility. Three pulled away from where they had been parked and headed back to the front gate, the foremost stopping at the security shack. Three men emerged, two taking possession of the guard as the third opened the lift-gate. The men returned to their seats after stowing the subdued man in the rear of the truck before awaiting the order to move out.

  The last SUV pulled up behind Schultz, projecting his shadow onto the ruined face of the office building.

  “What an absolute abomination this fucking place is,” he said as he retrieved a two-way radio. “Okay boys, the time has come for us to complete our first test.” A shiver ran down his spine as he returned the radio to his coat pocket, but it wasn’t due to the cold. He was excited, inspired. “Another one bites the dust.”

  He entered the backseat of the truck and the compound fell silent. Five minutes later the convoy was back on US-24 heading north. They drove for three miles before pulling into a rundown convenience store, its old and yellowed lights illuminating an empty parking lot. More importantly, there were no surveillance cameras to capture their visit.

  Two men removed the guard, carrying him to the far side of the building and placing him against the wall. Any passersby would see a drunkard taking a nap and carry on with their travels. One of the men produced a cheap flip phone, checking the battery before dropping it into the guard’s lap. They then joined the others in a huddle next to the vehicles, looking in the direction of the facility.

  Schultz strolled over, a tablet in hand. The screen showed a countdown ticking under the one-minute mark. His chest was tight; acid burned his esophagus. What if this didn’t work? He couldn’t afford the possibility of the planning and resources going for naught, not with everything that was left to be done.

  30 seconds.

  He tried to purge the doubt, reminding himself of why he was doing this. Fury began to eat away his anxiety; apprehension was giving way to a single-minded purpose.

  10 seconds.

  Faces began to dance on a stage in his mind.

  5…

  First was his son, Evan.

  4…

  Then came his daughter, Isabel.

  3…

  Finally he saw his wife, Elizabeth.

  2…

  Fighting back tears, he raised his eyes just in time to see a luminous orange glow paint the sky to the Northeast. A smile inched across his lips as a cacophony of explosions touched his ears. The pane glass windows of the old store rattled in their rotting frames. It was the most beautiful thing that Greg had seen since everything in his life had gone to hell. The parking lot filled with
a mixture of laughter and celebratory hoots.

  “Each of you did an exceptional job tonight and you should be proud of what we’ve accomplished.” He held his hands in the air, a gesture intended to quiet the group. “Okay, okay, that’s enough circle jerking. It’s time to get out of here and get some rest. We still have a long way to go.”

  He looked at the eager faces of his team, the smile widening across his face.

  “We’re just getting started.”

  Catching Up

  “Good morning again as we welcome you back this fine Tuesday. A year ago, QNI Research Associates was a billion dollar company that most Americans had never heard of. All of that changed last July after explosions leveled both their primary research facility as well as an experimental water treatment plant in central Florida. As if that wasn’t enough, a video soon emerged showing the grizzly murder of one of their employees followed by a data dump that told a story of widespread corruption that led to allegations of everything from conspiracy to contaminate a public water source to murder.

  “After a seemingly endless parade of arraignments, several QNI executives are now facing serious charges. Questions abound, not the least of which being just who knew about what was going on in Florida. What makes this story stand out? The fact that the single biggest client of QNI was the government of the United States. Speculation is running rampant regarding the culpability of those handing over hundreds of millions of dollars in contracts each year to a company that was apparently willing to kill its own employees to keep their secrets obscured.

  “Joining us by way of Skype this morning is Herman Ingram, former reporter at the Washington Daily Record and founder of The Ingram Report, a news website that was instrumental in breaking this story. Good morning, Herman and thank you for joining us.”

  “Good morning, Tom.”

  “First things first, congratulations on breaking such an enormous story, especially one with such far-reaching implications.”

  “Well, thank you, but I honestly did very little. There was a team of people working on this, some of whom lost their lives in order for this information to become public. Truth be told, there are a number of people who should be here before me.”

  “While that’s true, Herman, you are the only one who’s been implicated in committing fraud regarding this story.”

  That sentence got Herman’s blood boiling, manifesting itself as short and dry chuckles. He bit back his anger before responding.

  “Okay, if you want to go there, let’s take a look at just who has put forth those accusations, shall we?”

  The anchor, sensing Herman’s animosity, made a weak attempt to extinguish the fuse that he had just lit.

  “Perhaps I could have worded that better.”

  “No, no, you want to get into this so let’s get into it.”

  Sensing the inevitable, the anchor sighed. Reading this as a sign of acquiescence, Herman continued.

  “Samuel Wright, the CEO of QNI and a man whose name is on ninety percent of the leaked documents, is trying to deflect any attention away from himself that he can. Despite being a deeply flawed human being, I am apparently the biggest name associated with this case, which is good enough to make me a target. Personally, it seems like anyone with a modicum of common sense could see his claim for what it is.”

  “So you’re denying the allegations?”

  Herman rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh of his own.

  “Tell me, Tom, have you read the documents?”

  The anchor stammered and Herman gave him no quarter, starting back in before the host could gather himself.

  “Because if you had, you would have seen proof positive that QNI intended to introduce a foreign substance into a water supply that serves millions of Americans, and that was only the first of a dozen planned installations.”

  The anchor tried to counter but Herman was on cruise control.

  “And, if that isn’t enough to raise some very serious questions for you, there’s the fact that QNI sent out hit squads to keep this secret. George Wilman and Edward Marsh, two men who are the only reason that any of this came out, died because they refused to be involved in this power mad scheme. They refused to sit back and watch.”

  “Calm down, Herman.”

  Herman wouldn’t listen.

  “How about Dennis Stroud? Do you know that name, Tom? He was working on the investigation into QNI when he was run off of a cliff. But no, you’re right, let’s talk about baseless allegations from a man whose fingerprints are all over this ball of unrepentant corruption. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Herman, you can’t expect me to have all of that information at my fingertips.”

  Herman smelled blood and he went for the kill.

  “No, of course not. I mean after all you’re just a network news anchor, it’s not like it’s your job to be informed about the things that you report.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” the host said, his anger palpable.

  “What about the QNI facility that was annihilated in Colorado last night? Maybe you’d like to check my phone records or ask me to verify my whereabouts. Then again, you’d genuinely have to be interested in the truth to get to that point.”

  “Do you want to run this show, Herman?”

  “Hell, Tom, my audience is already three times the size of yours, and you wanna know why?”

  “Yes, Herman, I’d love to hear why you think that is.”

  “You’re not a journalist, you’re a goddamned talking head, sitting on your fat ass, reading from a TelePrompTer. For all practical purposes, journalism is dead, its corpse bearing the marks of vapid imbeciles such as you and your ilk. If there’s not an angle to exploit, you don’t cover it. Here’s a thought that you’d do well to marinate on: when every story you run is infused with opinion, it’s no longer news, it’s an editorial.”

  “First, I’m going to ask you to control your emotions, Herman. Please be respectful. Second, do you have an issue with editorializing?”

  “No, I have no issue with it when it’s presented for what it is and not passed off as fact, which it most certainly is not. You’re free to have your own opinions but your job is to report the news in a factual manner. Then again, I’m sure that I owe a great deal of my success to the utterly incompetent way that you do your job, so thank you, I guess.”

  The host, finally sensing his lack of control, elected to do the only thing that he could.

  “Okay Herman, I think this interview is over.”

  “Fuck you, Tom.”

  Herman ended the call and stood up abruptly, kicking his chair back as he did. Otis, his blue tick hound who was fast asleep next to the desk, didn’t flinch. Herman ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated by the sham that he had just been a part of. Kneeling down, he set the chair back up and took a seat. His exhaustion was visible all over his face, seeming to etch new lines as it sank in.

  There was a bottle of good bourbon in the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. Just as he removed it and prepared to take a swig, his phone began to ring. Herman fought his first instinct, which was to throw the phone full force at the wall. Instead, he picked it up with the intention of sending the call to voicemail. It was Ray Whitestone. Herman answered silently, knowing what was coming.

  “Well, well,” Ray said with a chuckle, “you certainly give one hell of an interview, Herman.”

  “Can you believe the shit they’re trying to push, Ray?”

  “Yeah, I can believe it. You’re talking about a cabal who had their power, influence, and bottom line blown to hell. Like it or not, Herman, you’re the overt face of that; the herald of their downfall.”

  “Jesus, Ray” Herman said before taking a draft of bourbon. “I think you missed your calling as a poet.”

  Herman took another drink before bringing the bottle down hard on his desk.

  “Enjoying a liquid breakfast this morning, are we?”

  “C’mon Ray.”

  “
Look, I know you’re dealing with a lot and I’m the last person to lecture anyone on drinking before noon, but you can’t hide from this and you sure as hell can’t drink it away.”

  There was a brief pause before a response came. When it did, Herman faltered momentarily. Once he had himself together, he spoke with an anger that Ray hadn’t heard from him in a decade.

  “You know what, fuck this. I didn’t ask for your advice and I don’t really want it. If you want to peddle that shit, call Walt.”

  When Ray replied he was uncharacteristically calm, having been put on the defensive by Herman’s outburst.

  “Okay Herman, have it your—”

  Herman ended the call before Ray could finish, shattering his phone against the wall without pausing to think. Roused from his slumber, Otis sauntered over and licked Herman’s hand. He reached down to pet the dog, tears rolling down his face without restraint. Whimpering sympathetically, the dog raised a paw and gently placed it on Herman’s knee, an act that calmed him substantially.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  Otis cocked his head to the side and issued a single, short bark.

  “Yeah, you’re right, my head’s in my ass. Firmly.”

  Another short bark came, this one a little louder.

  “All right, all right, you’ve made your point.”

  Satisfied that he had done his job, Otis got up and trotted away, setting off to do whatever it is that dogs do when no one is watching. Herman was left to stew in his malaise, a toxic brew of depression and anger tinged with a feeling of impotence. That’s what troubled Herman the most. Through all of his successes and failures he had rarely grappled at the altar of self-doubt. Even when taking a course of action that carried the distinct possibility of blowing up in his face, he had always gone into everything with conviction. It was the only way he knew.