Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  “That’s good, no?” Chino shot back quizzically. “Why the cloak and dagger?”

  “Because someone else was there, too. A guy I know from boot camp.”

  “Jason…”

  Trapp held up a finger. “Hear me out. I trust this guy with my life. Hell, he’s saved it a couple times, and not just on deployment, you know?”

  Chino nodded. “I got an idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then you know he’s cool, all right. He won’t turn us in. No matter what it costs him. I arranged to meet him lunchtime tomorrow. I wanted to sound you out first. The truth is, we could use another pair of hands, because right now it’s me against the world. I’m not saying he’ll get involved, but he might. He’s that kind of guy. And even if he doesn’t, I owe him the time of day, at least. But you’re my partner in this. If you say no, I’ll scratch it, no questions asked.”

  Trapp watched for Chino’s reaction, careful not to come off as too expectant. His partner bowed his head and looked lost in thought for a few seconds.

  The reaction when it came was as unexpected as it was mild, and yet perhaps more impactful for it. Chino’s right hand shot out in search of his cane, presently leaning against his chair, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor. He cursed and hinged at the hip, holding himself up with one hand as the other stretched out in search of the fallen walking aid. Trapp watched but said nothing.

  Cane now in hand, Chino brandished it like King Arthur’s sword. “You see this?”

  Trapp nodded, a wry smile curling on his lips. “Kinda hard to miss.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing for me, Jason. You got your own reasons, and I get that. But you could have sat on your hands and done nothing. Or gone to the cops, only for the whole damn mess to get swept under the rug by the right payment at the wrong time. But you didn’t. And man, I respect you for that.”

  Trapp raised his hand in an attempt to stem the Latino’s flow, but the other man waved it aside, almost knocking the outstretched hand with his stick.

  “And I know I couldn’t do this on my own. Any of this. I’d’ve been stuck in that shithole house of mine until I died either of old age or depression or both, staring at pictures of men I wanted to kill and knowing I would never be able to. That’s what they took from me,” he spat. “Agency. The ability to make my own path in the world. And that’s what you’re giving me back, Jason. Whether you know it or not. I guess you could call it pride, the knowledge that what you’re doing counts. So if I haven’t said it already, thank you. And if you need the help, you can call in the damn Air Force for all I care.”

  “And if it gets us caught?” Trapp asked, sticking to the base details because he didn’t know how to handle the raw emotion in what Chino had said.

  “To hell with that,” Chino cursed, tossing his cane across the room. It skidded across the floor, rattling before bouncing off the far wall. “I told you, Jason, I’m in this until the end. No matter what. If we get caught, we get caught. But at least we’ll know we did the right thing.”

  Trapp stood up, noticing that Chino was rocking, unsteady on his feet. “Bring it in, man,” he muttered, unaccustomed to the tenderness of the moment. He reached out and hugged his friend, and neither of them said anything for a couple of moments.

  Until Trapp himself broke the silence, a broad grin on his face as he pulled away. “And I’m sorry about the house. I hope you got good insurance…”

  “Oh, you bet,” Chino muttered, stretching out his hand to locate the chair underneath them. “Real good. Twenty grand excess I’m sure.”

  “We can go after Allstate when we’re done here,” Trapp fired back. “Okay, Ryan or no Ryan, here’s what I’m thinking. You ever see one of those nature documentaries where dolphins or whales or whatever go hunt a shoal of fish?”

  “Sure.” Chino shrugged. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The dolphins work together to bunch the fish up, nice and tight. Then they go in for the kill. They got real pretty smiles, but don’t let that fool you. They’re killers. So let’s be more dolphin. You in?”

  “You bet.”

  41

  Trapp drove into Barstow using one of the sets of clean plates he’d procured several nights earlier. The sky overhead was the same luminescent blue as the eyes of the man he was here to meet.

  He had made the drive once already, only eighteen hours earlier, to scout the rendezvous point and note down a couple of key details. Barstow was a small city on the edge of the Mojave Desert, home to around 20,000 people. Large enough that a couple of fresh faces wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention, but small enough that he felt confident of detecting any surveillance.

  “You’re getting paranoid, Jason…” he muttered, tapping the steering wheel as he twisted his car onto the highway off-ramp and headed into the city itself.

  He was a little early, but he used the time to circle the streets, his navy-blue baseball cap pulled down low enough to obscure his complexion. Comfortingly, in five minutes of driving, he spotted another half dozen vehicles of the same make and model as the one he was presently behind the wheel of. Trapp searched for anything that looked out of place: a UPS truck parked on the curb but not moving; utility engineers who didn’t look like they knew what they were doing; even mothers pushing strollers without displaying any concern for their children. Each time, he came up empty.

  On his second spin around the block, he raised his sights. This time his eyes swept back and forth, looking for any window above ground level that might host a surveillance team. He cleared each one, going on gut feeling alone, though throughout a sense of fraudulence crept up on him.

  This ain’t the movies, and you ain’t James Bond.

  The truth was he didn’t know exactly what to look for and had to settle for his best and hope it was enough. After half an hour of this, Trapp decided that either he wasn’t being watched, or if he was, he wasn’t smart enough to figure it out. And since the Corolla’s air conditioning still stank of cigarette smoke, he decided that it was time.

  He pulled over in the parking lot adjacent to a chiropractor’s practice, on the opposite side of the street – and a little further down – from Barstow’s Full Gospel Church. He parked the car, checked the cell phone was still in his pocket, and stepped out. He crossed the street, far enough back from the church’s own parking lot that it would be impossible for his waiting quarry to catch sight of him.

  As expected, Ryan was right on time.

  Trapp calmly pressed himself up against the side of an empty retail unit and leaned casually against the doorframe. He brought the cell phone out of his pocket as though he was just stopping to make a call – which really he was – and powered it on without looking down.

  As he raised the phone, he scanned the street at leisure, using Ryan’s unmistakable surfer blond locks as a guide point. Thirty seconds later, this second wave of paranoia was assuaged. As before, either Ryan had come alone – which Trapp very much expected he would – or the watchers were above his pay grade.

  “Showtime,” he murmured, glancing down at the screen of the cell phone and checking for signal. He punched in the first digit on the keypad and hit the call button. The speed dial was already loaded with the number of the payphone on the corner of the street, just past the gospel church. It took a couple of seconds to transfer, and then a metallic siren blared about 30 yards away.

  Trapp watched for Ryan’s reaction, figuring that this was one last chance to pick up on any surveillance. If his friend knew he was being scrutinized, perhaps he would unconsciously reveal the location of the hidden eyes in an unconscious search for reassurance.

  Fat chance.

  He knew the guy too well to believe he would make a simple mistake like that. Ryan Price was as cool under fire as anyone he had ever met. Right on cue, his neck calmly swiveled around until his attention was focused on the ringing payphone. His hands jerked out a little bit, as if thinking
, C’mon, Jason…

  An African American woman exited the rear door of the church, and after taking a step or two in the direction of her car, she too stopped, her attention drawn by the unusual sound. Trapp’s eyes snapped back to Ryan, and he cursed under his breath, kicking himself for unnecessarily over-complicating the plan.

  Maybe there was a lesson to be learned from this.

  Maybe let’s get this part done first.

  He watched as his friend raised his arm to catch the older woman’s attention, then as Ryan laughed and said something that Trapp couldn’t hear, his own eardrum presently assaulted by the ringing of the small speaker pressed up against the side of his head, and the more discordant sound from further down the street.

  Ryan picked up the phone.

  “You took your time,” Trapp said irritably before his friend had a chance to speak.

  “Well, hello to you too,” Ryan replied, turning slowly on his heel. Trapp squinted at the unusual movement, only to roll his eyes as his friend’s face rotated into view, wearing a broad smile.

  “Okay, that’s fair,” Trapp allowed, not yet relaxing. “Did you come alone?”

  “I think you know the answer to that already.”

  “Good. You come dressed for a hike?”

  Ryan’s left arm began to rise through the air. Trapp’s head cocked to one side as he tried to work out what he was doing, only to grimace with frustration when he saw that Ryan was staring right at him and began to wave. “I think you know the answer to that too…”

  Trapp’s fingers closed around the cell phone in frustration. “Dammit. Stay right there.”

  Instead of walking toward his friend, he turned the other way, climbed into his car, and parked it right alongside Ryan’s black pickup truck. He killed the engine. By the time he had opened the door to get out, his friend was standing just a few feet away, arms crossed.

  “Real cloak and dagger, Jason. There’s just one problem…”

  “What’s that?” Trapp groused, already knowing the answer.

  “You’re no good at it.” Ryan winked. “But don’t worry, I know a guy who can teach you a few things.”

  “I’m not falling for it a second time, Ryan.”

  “Okay fine,” his friend replied, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. “You got me. I’m the guy.”

  The truth was, Trapp did not doubt it for a moment. He hadn’t seen Ryan for a few months, but even in that time, his friend’s appearance had changed dramatically – and for the better. Though he was always tall, gifted with Californian good looks and built for the surf, now he radiated an old man’s disciplined strength and guile in a young man’s body. He was broad-shouldered without being over-muscular, and looked like he could run a mile in five minutes without breaking sweat, even under the punishing Pacific sun.

  But he didn’t have to admit it…

  “Ah, hell,” he grunted, opening his arms. “It’s good to see you, buddy.”

  “Likewise,” Ryan replied, squeezing Trapp tightly in return. Truthfully, it almost knocked the breath out of him. He pulled away, resisting the urge to rub his ribs.

  “So…” Ryan said, ostentatiously scanning the streets of Barstow with a hand over his forehead to block out the sun. “You care to fill me in on what we’re doing here? Not exactly a party town.”

  Trapp was certain now that his friend wasn’t here under false pretenses. He had been pretty sure of that from the get-go, but seeing Ryan made it more real. Still, there were some conversations you simply could not have in the back of a church parking lot just off a busy interstate. He turned around, leaned down into the open car door, and popped the trunk.

  “You up to a little walk?” he asked instead.

  “I guess.” Ryan shrugged warily. “Any place in particular?”

  “Let’s take your car,” Trapp replied, again avoiding the question. “Grab the stuff from the trunk.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes at his friend’s stubborn refusal to talk but grabbed a tan backpack from the Corolla’s trunk with his right hand and a matching one with his left. He grimaced. “Heavy.”

  “Water, mainly,” Trapp said. “And a few toys. You’ll see.”

  42

  They took route 395 and traded light, pointedly safe topics of conversation before turning off into a deserted road that cut through the desert scrub, bounded on either side by a single strand of barbed wire. It reminded Trapp of the road on which he’d first encountered Sheriff Grayson.

  “So – you going to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?” Ryan asked, looking away from the empty concrete ahead and fixing his gaze on Trapp. “I’ve been real patient, Jason. I think it’s time.”

  Trapp looked up from the map open on his knees and indicated a turning about a hundred yards up ahead. It was marked by a lonely wooden sign, the arrowed section bent and askew. “Take that one. Leads us to the Grass Valley Wilderness area. We can park the truck there.”

  Ryan inhaled sharply with frustration but acquiesced. He knew Trapp well enough to know that an answer would come in good time, and Trapp knew that he knew it, too. The campsite and trailhead was empty of other vehicles, though that wasn’t particularly surprising for lunchtime on Wednesday. He brought the truck to a stop and killed the engine.

  Trapp barely waited for the tires to stop turning before he opened the door and jumped out, his boots crunching on the coarse desert dirt. He grabbed the two packs from the rear of the truck and lowered them carefully to the ground, opening the first at random and pulling out a desert-colored field jacket, which he tossed in Ryan’s direction as his friend came around the back of the vehicle.

  Ryan caught it, squinting. “What’s this for?”

  “Just trust me, all right?” Trapp replied, pulling on one of his own.

  “You’re making it real hard,” came the pointed reply.

  Trapp looked up, noting – it was impossible not to – the concern etched onto his friend’s tired face. “I get it, okay? Just go with me for a little bit. It’ll make sense, I promise. I just… I just need to show you this.”

  Ryan sighed but didn’t put up any further resistance. He donned the jacket and the matching boonie hat. His pants were already tan and made from a rugged material, so Trapp tossed aside the fatigues he’d packed just in case.

  Last, Trapp pulled out two pistols from his own pack, each complete with holsters. He offered one up, holding out the grip.

  His friend froze. “Jason –”

  “Just take it. Call it insurance.”

  Ryan’s arms remained resolutely by his sides. “Tell me you’re not putting me right in the path of a storm. I’ve got a career now, J. I can’t risk it.”

  Though Trapp knew his friend did not mean anything by the comment, it still stung. He, Ryan, had a career. The inference was clear, even if it wasn’t intentional.

  You don’t.

  And whose choice was that?

  “I promise you, Ryan, the only shot I want to take today is a photograph. You met the Graysons, right?”

  Ryan nodded wordlessly.

  “Well, all I’m saying is that their daughter didn’t end up in that hospital bed all on her own. Some real nasty people came after me, man, and I put her in harm’s way. I carry that with me every day, you better believe it. Well, I ain’t doing it again. You’re a big boy, and I know you can handle yourself in a scrap.” He waggled the still outstretched weapon. “Like I said, this is just insurance.”

  Ryan’s eyes closed for a long blink, and when they opened again, they were clear. He plucked the weapon and looped the holster over his shoulder, buttoning the jacket over it. Looking down to check the weapon was concealed, he pulled at the hem. “Which war were these left over from? Vietnam?”

  Trapp smiled, understanding the man’s tacit peace offering for what it was. “Real useful in the jungle, jackass.”

  “You’re not a lost cause yet,” came an approving reply.

  The packs got progressively lighter the
further they hiked. The sky was cloudless, beating down a relentless ninety degrees, and the dry desert scrub had long since swallowed any rain that might have fallen. Trapp had packed ten pounds of water, and by the time they had trudged 7 km to the northeast, he was wondering if that would be enough.

  A couple of clicks earlier they had stepped over a rusted barbed wire fence marked with long-faded signs that indicated this area was the property of the US Army, or had been, anyway. His friend had let that particular piece of information pass with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, but Trapp knew that he was treading on thin ice.

  “How is she, Ryan?” he finally asked after the desert’s oppressive emptiness – and his friend’s knowing silence –got to be too much. “Shea, I mean. Did you see her?”

  He was a pace ahead of Ryan and took another couple of steps before he realized he was on his own. Turning, the raised dirty blond eyebrow on his friend’s face was impossible to miss.

  “So you’re ready to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Trapp unhooked one strap of his backpack, then another, groaning with unfeigned relief as he lowered it to the ground – and not unintentionally bought himself some time to think.

  “You’ve gotten soft, Jason,” Ryan observed as he did the same, without the accompanying soundtrack. He placed his own bag on the ground and sat on top of it. “You should think about joining us down at Bragg. We’re recruiting hard. I know the colonel’s looking to bring in more guys like you. Men who’ve seen combat, you know.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Trapp replied, thinking back to just two nights earlier. “And I’m not sure I’m ready to go back. Anyway, you want answers or not?”

  Ryan gestured at him to continue.

  “You remember I told you about what I saw in the sandbox: those contractors wasting that Iraqi family?”

  “You don’t forget a thing like that,” came the reply. Ryan’s piercing blue eyes were fixed on Trapp’s own. It was like staring directly into a lie detector – except much more accurate. The two men were more like brothers than friends. Trapp couldn’t have lied if he’d wanted to.