Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

After the two men departed in search of a truck, Caldwell hefted his pistol, spun it around, and held it out to Chino. “Here, take this.”

  “Why?”

  The special forces commander pointed at the two parked SUVs. “If we want to back a truck up in here, Conrad and I are going to need to play Tetris with those. I need someone to watch over the prisoner. Can you handle that?”

  Chino transferred his cane to his left hand and stuck out the right. He was grateful that it didn’t tremble. Often his shoulder locked up when he used his cane for too long. “Yes sir.”

  Caldwell clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

  The engine noise from the two vehicles shortly drowned out any possibility of holding a conversation, not that Chino really desired one with the man who had – indirectly, at least – taken everything from him. But Banks took that luxury from him as well. He took a step toward his captor, seemingly on the verge of descending into outright tears. “They’re going to kill me. You know that, right?”

  Chino left the pistol hanging by his side and shrugged, though he was careful to keep his distance. “So?”

  “I can’t change what happened –” Banks started before correcting himself with an audible gulp. “What I let happen to you. I wish I could go back, but I can’t. But I can make things right.”

  The pistol twitched. “And how you gonna do that?”

  “I have a bank account. Several. All offshore. It’s clean, untraceable cash. I will wire you $5 million if you get me out of here. Just let me out that door. That’s all I ask.”

  Chino glanced over his shoulder, watching the elaborate ballet as Caldwell’s SUV reversed, stopped, went forward again, turned a little, and gingerly attempted to spin around in the confined weapons bunker. “You trying to bribe me, ese? Don’t you think you done enough of that?”

  Banks gestured offhandedly. “Call it reparations, okay? I really don’t give a fuck –”

  “Yeah?” Chino hissed, finding that the pistol was now extended directly at Banks’ face, his arm parallel with the ground. “Well, you know, I’m done with rich assholes like you thinking money is the only thing that matters in this fucking world.”

  He took a step forward, the cane scraping ominously against the bunker’s concrete floor. With his thumb, he reached for the pistol’s safety, and though the sound of the metallic click was drowned out by the engine noise, he saw Banks register what he’d done. He savored the fear in the man’s eyes, the knowledge that no matter who he was, how rich he was, nothing could save him now.

  “Please…” Banks begged.

  Chino didn’t realize it, but the engine noise died away, first one vehicle, then the next.

  “Chino!” Caldwell yelled out. “Don’t do it, kid. I’m telling you, you’ll regret it for the rest –”

  A gunshot rang out. The top left section of Banks’ forehead disintegrated, spattering thick red goblets of brain matter against the nearest pallet’s tan canvas covering, along with a spotted wave of mist, some of which hung in the air for several long seconds before speckling the concrete below.

  Banks dropped, and Chino was left holding the pistol in his hand, now trembling uncontrollably. He squinted, staring at the weapon like it was an alien appendage. “But I didn’t –?”

  “Chino, get down!”

  54

  Trapp slowed the truck to a crawl just long enough for Ryan to clamber back in, having closed the vehicle depot’s outer gate.

  His friend grinned. “You ever drive one of those things?”

  Trapp matched Ryan’s quiet tone. “How hard can it be?”

  The answer was: very. It took several minutes before they were back by the weapons bunkers, and on multiple occasions throughout the short journey a mechanical squeal split the stillness of the night before he was able to manhandle the heavy truck back into gear. Other times, his foot was too heavy on the pedal, and the truck jumped forward, accompanied with a commensurate level of engine roar.

  “Okay,” Trapp groaned once he was done backing the truck up against the bunker’s outer door. “I’ll admit it. Harder than it looks.”

  “Oh.” Ryan frowned in mock surprise, pulling the cabin’s door handle, but not yet stepping out. “Didn’t I tell you I’m fully checked out on these things?”

  Trapp threw a punch that matched his friend’s surprise. “Jackass. Why don’t you make yourself useful and find out what the holdup is?”

  “Your wish is my command, sir,” Ryan saluted before swinging the door open and jumping out. Despite his weight, he was as lithe as a cat, and the sound of his boots touching the ground was almost inaudible.

  When he was gone, Trapp studied the side mirrors, trying to work out how the hell he was going to back the vehicle into the bunker without shearing one of them clear off. He guessed when the doors were open as wide as they would go there would probably be about 5 inches of clearance on either side. Not a whole hell of a lot of room to play with.

  A low thud sounded to his right, and Trapp glanced down to see Ryan standing there, his pistol drawn. He flashed a hand signal and twisted around.

  What the hell?

  Taking his lead from his friend, Trapp quietly exited the cabin, putting his arm behind his back and retrieving the pistol stashed in his waistband. He checked it was ready to fire, then crouched by Ryan, and spoke in a low whisper. “What’s going on?”

  “Not sure. But we’ve got company.”

  An elbow locked around Chino’s throat, throttling him at the same instant he felt cool metal against the scar tissue on his skull.

  “Drop the gun, Mr. Woods,” a cold, emotionless voice hissed into his ear.

  Chino felt like the world had just turned underneath his feet without anyone telling him. “What? Who –?”

  “I said drop the fucking gun.”

  His fingers were numb, and he couldn’t think. What the hell was going on? His breath, God, his breath was so tight. Why couldn’t he breathe?

  “Drop the gun!”

  But the words weren’t coming from his mystery assailant, not this time. Caldwell and his Delta force bodyguard were sprinting toward him, their own weapons drawn. So who was the guy behind him?

  “You have three seconds, Mr. Woods,” the voice said calmly in his ear, the bristles of a thick beard scratching his skin. “I won’t count down.”

  But the bells tolled in Chino’s mind regardless.

  Three.

  Two.

  His fingers came away from the pistol’s grip, though the trigger guard caught on his index finger for several heartbeats before it slipped off. Chino closed his eyes as it fell, blocking out the sight of Banks’ blood-spattered corpse, and flinched as the weapon hit the ground, expecting a round to cook off at any second.

  “Good,” the voice hummed into his ear. “Now, if you do exactly as I tell you, I will let you live. Understood? My boss sent those men to kill you the other night, not me. I am a rational man. I have no quarrel with you. I want my money, and I want my life. Those are my only stipulations.”

  Caldwell came to a halt about twelve feet in front of the mystery man, who Chino now realized must be Eric Finch.

  “Let him go, Finch,” the colonel growled, confirming it.

  “I don’t think so,” the mercenary replied, tightening his arm lock around Chino’s neck. The cane fell from his left hand and clattered against the floor as he fought for breath. “If I did, then where would I be?”

  Chino’s vision started going dark, and his hands scrabbled against Finch’s torso in a desperate fight for oxygen. The grip loosened just a fraction, just enough so that he could breathe. As his sight started to return, Chino saw Conrad circling around to Caldwell’s right.

  Or is that my right?

  The darkness beckoned once more, prompting Chino to stand on his tiptoes. He was shorter than Banks’ one-time right-hand man, and crippled, to boot. No matter how hard he struggled, this was not a fight that he could win. At some point, his calf muscles wo
uld give out, and Finch’s locked arm would strangle the life from him.

  “That’s far enough,” Finch warned. “Steve, if either of them so much as sneezes, I want you to take the shot.”

  Steve?

  Chino’s eyes flickered wildly to either side. There was a dark patch to his left, and as he locked his gaze on it, he realized that occasionally it moved. Finch had another man with him.

  “Yes, boss,” a voice replied.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Caldwell said coldly, his disgust for Finch etched into his face with a sculptor’s skill.

  Finch shrugged, and the action stole a little more oxygen from Chino’s lungs, forcing his toes to scramble even harder for height. “Should I?”

  “I’m the commander of Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta,” Caldwell said, white-lipped. “I take it you understand what that means? I suggest you drop your weapon now, before this gets any worse for you than it needs to be. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you you’ll get out of this scot-free. You won’t. But if you let that man go, I promise you I will help limit the fallout.”

  “Go to hell,” Finch snorted.

  Caldwell shifted his attention to Finch’s comrade, just out of Chino’s sight. “What about you then, Steve? Are you really willing to kill an officer in the U.S. Army? Think about what that means. They won’t ever stop hunting you.”

  Chino heard the rustle of clothing as an unfamiliar voice spoke. “I’ve done worse.”

  “Okay,” Caldwell sighed. “Conrad?”

  Trapp watched through a gap in the bunker’s access door as, without blinking, the Delta force operator squeezed his trigger and put a single round through the second shooter’s head, followed by two quick shots to the chest of what was now most assuredly a corpse.

  “What the hell!” the man with the red beard – Finch – yelled, taking a step back and dragging Chino with him. “What the hell did you do that for? Did you forget I’m holding your friend, you dumb fucks?”

  Finch took another step back, dragging the sole of his boot through the quickly spreading puddle of his accomplice’s blood. He squeezed himself tighter behind Chino, most probably making a shot from either Conrad or Caldwell impossible – at least without risking grievous harm to Chino.

  Trapp gently pressed his palm against the metal door, only applying the minimum pressure required. He almost sighed with relief when it didn’t squeak, subconsciously thanking whoever had oiled the hinges. Still, at first he only dared move the heavy door half an inch at a time.

  The greased hinges were silent as he made a hole big enough to fit his frame through without catching against a body part. The strip light above the side entrance was out, meaning that the front of the bunker was gloomy, if not entirely dark.

  “So now there’s one of you,” Caldwell said loudly. “And two of us. I suggest you think real hard about how you want to play this, Eric. If you want to live, slowly place your gun on the ground, and kick it toward me.”

  Does he know I’m here? Trapp wondered.

  “Fuck that,” Finch spat, dragging Chino a few steps toward the nearest SUV. “Start loading up the trunk, or I’ll put a bullet in this cripple.”

  Trapp climbed through the hatch, flushing a signal with his free left hand for Ryan to hold back. He quickly scanned the bunker’s corners, searching for a hidden shooter that Caldwell hadn’t spotted. They were all empty.

  “That’s not how this works, Eric,” Caldwell said firmly, his own pistol aimed unflinchingly at the man’s skull. “Like I said, drop the gun, then we can talk.”

  Conrad took a step to his left, and Finch reacted by dragging Chino backward a step by the neck. The Latino stumbled, but the mercenary was careful to yank him straight up, continually shielding himself behind human flesh. Even for an operator like the Delta man, the opening was too slim, and entailed way too much risk to take.

  Trapp glanced down and confirmed what he already knew: his pistol was loaded and ready to fire. He was 15 feet away. Could he make the shot?

  Caldwell glanced to his left and locked eyes with his bodyguard. They communicated something silently, and then he said, “Okay. Let’s just do this nice and –”

  “Get moving,” Finch hissed. “I’m not playing games.”

  Trapp steadied both his breathing and his aim. He was behind, and slightly at an angle to the muscular mercenary. He took a step forward, only allowing the heel of his boot to kiss the concrete floor before lowering it a fraction of an inch at a time.

  Just a little closer.

  He took another step, but this time, something went wrong. Finch’s neck swiveled around, his eyes wild and searching. “What –?”

  Trapp squeezed the trigger. The roar of a single gunshot echoed around the enclosed bunker, and for a terrible eternity, he wondered whether he’d made the shot.

  Then Finch slumped to his knees. A hole the size of a boy’s fist was drilled into his temple.

  He was dead.

  Epilogue

  The derelict warehouse sat about five minutes off Highway 15, surrounded by endless miles of barren desert. The desiccated, straw-colored remnants of plants conjured up by long-ago rainfall poked through the cracked concrete foundation it sat on. More still had been separated by the wind and now skidded across the surface whenever the breeze mustered itself from its lazy doldrum.

  The truck they’d jacked the night before was already parked behind the warehouse’s rusted shell, obscured from view from a road that saw little traffic, and Caldwell’s Chevrolet SUV sat next to it. Trapp piloted the Corolla in alongside the two vehicles and killed the engine.

  “So,” he said, turning to Chino in the passenger seat without removing his hands from the steering wheel.

  “How you gonna play this?” Chino replied, gripping the handle of the cane that lay between his legs.

  “The way I see it,” Trapp said slowly, “we ain’t holding too many of the cards.”

  Chino popped the door handle but didn’t push it open until he finished speaking. “Yeah, I guess you got that right.”

  As they were speaking, Ryan climbed out from behind the wheel of the stolen truck, joining Col. Caldwell and his bodyguard, both of whom were dressed more casually than when they’d first introduced themselves. Conrad’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, and he was armed, if inconspicuously.

  Trapp jumped out and walked over, with Chino in warm pursuit. He nodded at the three men opposite. “Surprised you didn’t just drive that thing down to Mexico,” he grunted.

  Caldwell grinned. “Son, if you think this is the first time I’ve come across a haul like this, well”–he chuckled–“I guess you’d be right. Not this big, anyway. But I certainly didn’t get into this job for the money.”

  “Did you count it?” Trapp inquired. He shifted uncomfortably on the spot as the heat of the desert built against the back of his neck.

  “Ballpark,” Caldwell said. “Let’s call it $310 million, plus a little change.”

  “So what you planning on doing with it?” Chino asked.

  “It’s the government’s money.” Caldwell shrugged. “So part of me says it’s not my call to hold on to it.”

  He paused, allowing the space to fill with the sound of cicadas and traffic passing in the far distance. “Of course, if I bring it in, that might provoke uncomfortable questions about where I found it.”

  “I’d hope so,” Trapp said.

  “You’d be surprised.” Caldwell grinned, reaching up and scratching his nose. “When was the last time the Pentagon’s budget got audited – 30 years ago? A few hundred million here, a few hundred million there, pretty soon you’re talking about real money. But that doesn’t mean the bean counters have any chance of finding it.”

  “Then what?” Chino said. “What I’m saying, if you don’t mind me asking, sir, is exactly what are we doing here?”

  Standing to the side of, and a couple steps behind, his commanding officer, Ryan gri
maced at Chino’s tone. Trapp concealed a smile, reflecting that he’d probably have felt the same way a few months before.

  “No, that’s a good question,” Caldwell agreed amiably enough. “And one that kept me up for what was left of last night. Like I said, if we turn over this money to the authorities, then we’ll open up a hornet’s nest of questions, and I don’t think any of us wants that.”

  He ground the sole of his left boot against the concrete, crushing a shard of masonry into white dust, and spent a few seconds studying it, deep in thought.

  “I know you lost some friends out there, Alex,” he eventually said, focusing his attention on Chino and Chino alone. “And there’s no amount of money that will bring them back, nor give their children fathers, or wives husbands. But,” he said, glancing back at the truck, into which Conrad was hauling Marcel Hawkins, “we can make their lives a hell of a lot easier. I’m not suggesting we split all that money between them. But enough so they never have to worry about feeding their kids again. I’m talking about college funds, everything.”

  “What about the rest?” Chino croaked.

  “That’s where I was hoping you might come in, Alex,” Caldwell suggested softly. “I know some people who can turn those notes into clean money. That’s my end of the bargain. I want you to handle distributing this cash. Not just to the families your friends left behind, but to the hundreds of kids just like them. Whether we like it or not, by the time this war’s over, it’s going to rip a whole lot more families apart. This money’s done enough harm. It’s time we tried to do a little good. So – are you in?”

  Chino stared back at the colonel, open-mouthed with astonishment. He took a step back, momentarily forgetting about his cane, and stumbled before recovering – though only long enough to close his mouth briefly before opening it again. “Why… I mean, sir, I don’t know nothing about money, okay? I’m not sure I’m the right –”

  “You can cut that right out,” came the quick-fire response. “I don’t need a money manager. Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up with one of those. What I need is someone honest. The kind of man who wouldn’t even dream of siphoning any of the money off for their own personal use. And I can’t think of anyone I would trust to do this task more than you. Would you agree?”