Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  What about the homeless guy?

  No way.

  As the cop cruiser disappeared into the distance ahead, he shook his head, an almost maniacal hilarity rising from his gut. To convince himself that the hobo was some kind of undercover cop would be to admit that he had gone entirely crazy. He’d seen the evidence of his own eyes. That man was a drunk, and an unrepentant one at that.

  Trapp’s eardrum clung onto the passing siren’s wail as the car itself vanished from sight. As it did so, he realized where it was heading: the abandoned lot where he’d planted the last lot of fireworks. Could it be that they didn’t even know about the gunfight yet?

  Either way, it was a close call. A real close call.

  He released a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding and realized that his brain was so starved of oxygen he was borderline hypoxic.

  And exhausted.

  A second police cruiser accelerated past no more than 30 seconds later, but by that point Trapp was too punchdrunk from the adrenaline and the stress to care. His eyes adopted a glassy, thousand-yard look, and he didn’t need to restrain himself from staring at the speeding vehicle. He just didn’t care.

  THUMP.

  “What the –?”

  THUMP, THUMP.

  Trapp twisted his neck around, half-expecting to see a cop car riding up his rear and attempting to nudge him off the road. But it wasn’t anything of the sort. It was the prisoner in the trunk.

  “Crap.”

  He attempted to stick to the planned route in his head, but the stress was making everything ten times more difficult. He almost missed the turn and was forced to spin the wheel harder than he wanted, avoiding clipping the curb by mere inches.

  “Get it together,” he cursed silently at himself. This was no time for basic errors. If a cop had seen him do that, it would be an automatic ticket. And with a trussed, beaten man in the trunk, and a high caliber rifle resting on the passenger seat…

  Game over.

  THUMP.

  Trapp took a risk. He twisted around once more, keeping one eye on the road, and yelled loud enough to be heard over the engine noise and through the upholstery of the rear seats, “You do that again, I’ll put a bullet through your kneecap.”

  He heard a rustling, but blessedly, no further movement. For now, anyway.

  Trapp returned his eyes to the road, only for them to widen a second later as he realized that he was already beneath the underpass. The road ahead was empty, and he checked his rearview mirror to make certain that no one was coming up behind.

  The coast was clear.

  He indicated to his right and slowed the Corolla near a concrete pillar clothed in graffiti tags to well above head height. As he exited the vehicle, grabbing the spare set of license plates with his left hand, his mind idly wondered how that came about. An image of a pair of graffiti artists, one on the other’s shoulders, came to mind, like the comedic depiction of two kids under an overcoat attempting to buy alcohol from a bar.

  Trapp switched the rear license plate first, ripping the pre-existing plate off and quickly placing the new Velcro-backed replacement in its place. When he was done, he popped the trunk, only a few inches, and kept his hand on top, pressing slightly down in order to impede his prisoner if the man attempted to make a break for it.

  He crouched and searched for his captive’s eyes through the crack. He saw a dull gleam, but nothing more. As he lowered himself toward the ground, the acrid ammonia stink of stale urine filled his nostrils, causing them to wrinkle. It was a scent of disease and decay, of a forgotten people in a forgotten place, and it was entirely apt for a moment and a place like this.

  “Listen, you dumb fuck,” he hissed, instantly plunged back into the choking rage that had enveloped him during the brief explosion of combat a few minutes earlier. “You have one chance to live, and one chance only. You want to know what that is?”

  He paused and waited for a response.

  His captive tried to move his head, but in his bound position it was essentially impossible. Instead, his entire body shook.

  “Good. I don’t want to kill you, you understand that? I’m different than men like you. But I will. Just give me a fucking chance, I swear, I’ll riddle your body with so many bullets they won’t be able to identify you at the morgue.”

  Again, Trapp paused, this time not waiting for a response, but only for the impact of his words to land. “So are we clear?”

  Another nod, slower, as though a stunned, creeping realization was overcoming the man that he was hanging on to life by only the most slender of threads, and that if he didn’t hold on with everything he had, it might snap.

  Trapp didn’t bother starting his reply until the trunk was already slamming shut. “Great. I’m glad we agree on something.”

  He circled the nose of the Toyota, quickly swapping out the remaining license plate, and climbed back behind the wheel. The journey home might have taken less than twenty minutes of driving, but instead stretched out over an hour as he made sure no one was on his tail. A faint hint of light was visible on the horizon as he reached the safe house.

  Before he had a chance to step out of the vehicle and open the gate that led to the garage, it was already swinging open. Trapp’s mind instantly assumed the worst. His fingers clenched around the wheel, already initiating a hard turn when a familiar face hove into view.

  Chino.

  Trapp tapped the brakes, killing the vehicle’s momentum, and lowered his head to the wheel, exhaling every scrap of air in his lungs. For a brief moment, he forgot the overwhelming imperative to get the car hidden and out of sight immediately, and simply wallowed in his relief.

  His friend finished swinging the gate open and hobbled over to the car window, tapping on the glass several times. Trapp rolled it down.

  “You made it, man. I was starting to worry.”

  Judging by the haggard expression on Chino’s face, his words were an understatement. It looked like the young Latino hadn’t slept a wink. A plastic chair was sitting next to the front door with a thermos of coffee next to it and an empty cup at its base.

  Trapp nodded jerkily. “Yeah, I made it. I made it.”

  There was a brief pause, and both men shared a moment that would stay with them for the rest of their lives. It was one of gratitude, but also the shared realization that this fight was far from over.

  Chino swept his free arm toward the garage and said, “C’mon, man. Let’s get this thing squared away.”

  Trapp did as he was instructed, finding a relief in not being the one giving the orders. Sometimes it was easier just to follow. And he did so, piloting the car into the open garage as the closing gate squealed behind him.

  He killed the engine and just sat there for a few seconds as all of the tension and exhaustion melted away into the seat fabric beneath him.

  But it wasn’t over. Not nearly. Not yet.

  With great effort, he levered himself out of the front seat and met eyes with Chino a second time. He couldn’t fail to notice their questioning gleam, and he was impressed that his partner had been so restrained. In the Latino’s shoes, he would have popped the trunk already, just to find out how the op had gone.

  Trapp nodded, answering the man’s unspoken question. “I got one.”

  37

  “It can wait, Jason,” Chino insisted about half an hour later. “Get some rest. You’ll be more effective with a couple hours’ sleep under your belt.”

  “Not happening,” Trapp replied, his jaw set with a stubborn grimace that anyone who had ever served with him would recognize. It was the look he got on his face when ordered to hike thirty miles with a fifty-pound pack on his back. The mountain was there to be conquered. The objective to be taken.

  The prisoner to be interrogated.

  “Coffee, then,” Chino said, with the air of a man who had expected that response all along. He pressed a cup into Trapp’s fingers, and he didn’t resist. “Come on. You need something hot inside you.
”

  Trapp relented, closing his fingers around the scalding cup and savoring the slight burn as much as taste of the liquid itself. He knew Chino was right, just as he himself understood that there was no better time than now to loosen the prisoner up, while he was still reeling from his capture.

  “Fine.” He swallowed the instant coffee in a few gulps and slid the cup across the kitchen’s work surface. “Satisfied?”

  Chino shrugged, an action which lifted the tip of his cane from the floor for a second too long, unbalancing him. “Hey – I tried,” he muttered before stumbling.

  Trapp’s hand lanced out like a striking snake, catching his friend by the upper arm and supporting his weight. “You okay?”

  “Just gravy,” Chino replied, an embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks.

  “Sorry,” Trapp ventured, feeling unaccountably uncomfortable, as though he had overstepped his bounds. The truth was that even though he and Chino were engaged on a kind of crusade together, fighting a shared enemy, they scarcely knew each other. Both were dealing with their own demons, and he wasn’t sure how he would feel if the other man attempted to fix his.

  Hell, that was a lie, too. He knew the answer. He would hate it.

  “Don’t be,” Chino replied, shaking himself free and scornfully looking down at his cane. Trapp noticed the man’s knuckles going white as he gripped it tight. “Not your fault, is it?”

  “No, but –”

  “Jason, you’re a good man, you understand? And I’m a broken one. Those two things will never change. Least, not unless they invent some kind of mechanical Robo-leg.” He grinned. “And even if they did, I’m pretty sure that a dumb, broke grunt like me would be at the back of the line.”

  Trapp stayed silent, his own anger smoldering as he grappled with the quiet sadness in Chino’s voice. It was almost more heartbreaking than rage might have been.

  “But I’m not angry for me, you know? Sure, sometimes I lie in bed at night with my stump screaming out, and I want to scream too. But mostly I’m angry for them. For my brothers. Like they would be for me. You understand that, I know you do.”

  Trapp nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from Chino’s dark gaze, even though the intensity was almost stifling.

  “That’s right. So you don’t need to worry about catching me when I fall. I wouldn’t be upset if you were wiping my ass because I wasn’t able to. Not with you, anyway.” He looked down, jabbing the wooden floorboards with his cane, creating an audible crack. “It’s him who should suffer. Not just him, but he’s a start. He’ll fucking do.”

  Trapp reached out and grasped Chino’s arm a second time, this time in compassion, not aid. He gripped hard, digging his fingers into the man’s flesh. “Okay. Let’s get started.”

  The safe house’s basement was almost the perfect location for an interrogation. For some reason, it had been cut deeper than Trapp imagined the building code required, and it was topped with concrete that was at least a foot and a half thick. Only one minor addition had proven necessary – at least for noise reduction – which was packing the basement door with fabric and insulating foam.

  Before he left earlier that night, Trapp had tested the makeshift system by screaming at the top of his lungs, only for Chino to report from the other side of the door that he couldn’t hear a damn thing.

  Trapp had been sure to show their prisoner the addition they had made when he carried him down the stairs, still gagged and bound. He didn’t provide any commentary, just let the man work it out for himself.

  He figured the lesson would stick better that way.

  The captive was in the center of the basement, cable-tied to a wooden chair by all four of his limbs. He’d been marinating down there in complete darkness for about half an hour now. Chino was right.

  It was time.

  38

  The prisoner raised his head warily as he heard Trapp descend the stairs that led into the basement. He was an African American man, probably in his mid-twenties, about Trapp’s height, and with a muscular build. He had about a week’s stubble growth on his face, though strangely nothing grew on his cheeks. Duct tape still covered his mouth.

  It took Chino a few seconds longer to make it down into the basement. In his right hand, as usual, was his cane. The left hefted the shotgun with which he’d first greeted Trapp. He hung back beside the far wall and leaned the gun against it.

  “Just hold still,” Trapp murmured, raising his hand and pressing it against the captive’s cheek. He pulled a pair of kitchen scissors from a pocket, and the man’s eyes flared wide with panic.

  Trapp pulled back, feeling a little sick at witnessing the reaction, and held up his free palm. “Relax. I’m just removing the tape, okay?”

  He waited for a response, which came in the form of a slight nod of the head, which he returned before gently snipping through the tape at the back of the man’s head and peeling it away from his skin.

  Once it was completely free, he tossed it onto the concrete floor. “Feel better?”

  There was no response.

  Trapp turned and walked a few paces to the utility section of the basement, where there was a short worktop, a sink, and the connection points for a washer/dryer set. He opened the tap and poured a tall glass of water, making certain that his captive was able to watch every move he made. He returned to his earlier position and raised the glass to the man’s lips.

  “It’s just water, okay? You saw me pour it, right?” Trapp said softly, understanding his captive’s resistance.

  The confirmation seemed to work, and the man drank greedily, fat rivulets of water spilling out of the sides of his mouth and down his chin since he was unable to cup the glass with his bound fingers. The liquid landed on his crotch and stained a patch of darkness onto his black fatigues.

  When he was done drinking, Trapp pulled the glass back and returned it to the sink – careful not to leave any potential weapon within reach of his prisoner, no matter how implausible he thought it was that the man might break free of his bonds.

  “Okay,” he said as he turned back and crouched in front of his captive. “I’m going to run the ground rules by you. Any questions, just hold on to them and I’ll answer them at the end.”

  His captive said nothing in response, though the whites of the man’s eyes seemed to bulge as they flickered left and right, as though in search of a way out. Judging by their constant movement, he wasn’t finding one.

  “You saw the door on the way in,” Trapp said matter-of-factly. “It’s rigged to absorb sound. No matter how loud you yell, no one’s going to hear you, okay?”

  “Who the fuck are you guys?” the captive replied instead, switching his attention from Trapp to Chino and back again. “Please, I didn’t do anything to either of you. Just let me go, okay?”

  Trapp heard Chino’s clothes rustle from behind him, and he held out a hand to forestall any interruption. He kept his tone of voice soft and reasonable. “I told you, questions at the end. Now – where was I?”

  He twisted his neck and directed his gaze at Chino at the back of the room, noting the smoldering expression on his partner’s face. He would need to watch out for that. He hadn’t considered the emotional and psychological impact this would have on the guy.

  Maybe I should ask him to step outside.

  No, there was no way Chino would stand for that. And rightly so. After all he’d been through, he deserved to be in this room, face to face with the enemy that had haunted his dreams for so long.

  “You were telling him about the soundproofing,” Chino growled, his voice like rasping charcoal. “About how even if someone could hear him through five feet of concrete, we’ve got twenty miles of empty desert on every side for him to scream into, if he’s that interested in losing his voice.”

  Trapp kept his attention focused on Chino for a couple of seconds, silently asking his partner whether he was all right. He received an almost imperceptible nod in return.

  Okay then.


  He turned back to the prisoner, wearing an appreciative smile on his face over Chino’s lie. They weren’t in the desert. Far from it. You would only have to walk ten minutes to find the nearest McDonald’s. But the mercenary didn’t know that.

  “Yeah, that about covers it, I guess.” He decided to riff off Chino’s embellishment. “Here’s the thing: No one knows where you are. No one’s coming to get you. If you don’t tell me exactly what I want to know, I’m going to shoot you in the back of the head and bury you under a pile of rocks. It gets hot enough out here to mummify your body in a week. A month from now, you’ll just be dust and bones.”

  He paused to allow his threat enough time to sink in.

  “Now, why don’t we start with something easy? How about you tell me your name.”

  The prisoner rocked forward and back on his chair and stared stubbornly at a point just above Trapp’s shoulder. “How about you assholes tell me who the fuck you are?”

  Chino’s shuffling footsteps drew Trapp’s attention as the man launched himself away from the wall, covering the distance between himself and the prisoner at a speed that Trapp wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. He lifted his cane and jabbed it furiously at the man’s chest. “I’m the guy you were going to kill, you smug prick. How about you –”

  Trapp closed his fingers around the tip of Chino’s cane and slowly pushed it down, absorbing a little of the man’s rage. He marveled at the Latino’s strength. He wouldn’t have expected that, either.

  I guess hobbling around on that thing all day has some benefits after all.

  He shot Chino a warning look, then embraced him and whispered into his ear, “I got this, okay? Just let me do the talking.”

  He didn’t receive an audible reply, but his friend walked slowly back to his earlier position, shoulders hunched over, though whether it was with exhaustion or suppressed anger, Trapp couldn’t say.

  “He’s right, you know,” he said to the prisoner in a conversational tone. “You did try and kill him. People get kinda angry when –”