Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1) Read online

  “I thought you already did,” the bar owner harrumphed.

  “You mind taking the cost of a couple sodas out of my next paycheck? I meant to pick some up, but I guess I ran out of time.”

  Lenny turned to face him, stacking his hands on the polished handle of his cane, a gleam of interest in his rheumy old eyes. “Would I be guessing right if I thought one of those was going to Shea?”

  “You would,” Trapp allowed with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Then you listen here, boy. That girl’s special. I’ve known her since the second day she ever drew breath, and you better believe me when I say I hope I last long enough to see her wedding day.”

  “Yes sir—” Trapp started.

  “Let me finish,” Lenny grunted. “You understand, if she so much as sneezes, and it’s your fault, it won’t just be her father you have to answer to. I’ll be right there by his side, okay?”

  Trapp conjured the image in his mind and stifled a smile. The truth of the matter was the old man’s care for Shea was evident, no matter how he expressed it—and he respected that. “Yes sir. I think I’m coming to learn just how special she is.”

  “You don’t touch, all right? Not before you buy.”

  “Yes sir.” He nodded.

  “Well go on, then, what are you waiting for?” Lenny said, flicking his fingers dismissively.

  “Thanks, Lenny.” Trapp grinned, spinning on his heel and crouching down in front of one of the metal-doored coolers. He grabbed a couple of Cokes and carried them between his knuckles.

  “They’re on me, okay?” Lenny said, with a poorly masked smile and a slight shake of the head. Trapp left with his parting words ringing in his ear. “You be good to her, you hear?”

  The ride home was quick, and Shea was already waiting outside the house by the time he got back. She was wearing a red summer dress that was decorated with white flowers. It hung to her knees, but the material was thin enough that it hugged her body. It was difficult for Trapp not to stare.

  “What?” she asked, her fingers self-consciously toying with her ponytail. “I figured I was gonna get helmet hair anyway, so why bother?”

  “No,” Trapp said, his bike’s engine still chugging beneath him. He killed it, because it seemed more appropriate that way. “You look… stunning.”

  “Thanks.” Shea smiled shyly.

  It was funny, Trapp thought, how different it felt from the night they’d spent by the campfire. They had opened up to each other more that night than he had with men he’d known for years. And yet in this moment, everything felt so halting, like walking on a frozen lake without knowing how deep the ice went.

  “You got the cooler?” he said, even though he could see the small blue box by her feet crowned by a motorcycle helmet.

  “Yup. You got the sodas?”

  Trapp grinned. “Yup.”

  “Let’s get going, then,” she said. “Don’t want to miss it.”

  He saluted laconically. “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Shea manhandled the helmet onto her head, squashing her tied-up hair in with it as best she could, Trapp stowed away the cooler box, placing the two sodas inside for safekeeping. When she was done, he offered her a hand onto the bike, checked her arms were securely fastened around his waist, and fed a little gas into the engine.

  But not too much…

  Between Lenny’s warning and Sheriff Grayson’s quiet authority, there was no way that he would risk harming a hair on her head—and especially not as a result of some poorly thought through attempt to showboat.

  Besides, Cecelia Grayson wasn’t the kind of girl to be impressed by the smell of gasoline.

  The hill was about 15 miles from the house, and Shea guided him the last couple of miles by tugging gently on either his right or left shoulder. The dirt road that led up to the hiking trail wasn’t marked, but since it led in only one direction, and the rocky outcropping of the hill towered above them, it was easy enough to follow.

  Trapp slowed the bike down to almost walking pace, to avoid coating Shea’s dress with the thick clouds of dust that the wheels would kick up if he went any faster now they were off the asphalt. To their right, they passed a small parking lot, with space for about twenty cars. None were presently in residence.

  “That’s funny,” Shea called out from over his shoulder. “Usually it’s busier here.”

  “Hikers?” Trapp said, raising his voice over the chugging of the engine.

  Shea’s laugh tinkled back. “Naw, high school sweethearts. It’s kind of secluded here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Easy, tiger.

  He parked the bike where the dirt road died, instead of leaving it in the lot. It was only a hundred yards further up, and there was plenty of room for the Harley. It was almost 7 in the evening, and Trapp doubted that they would see another soul up here anyway.

  Shea pointed out a lightly-worn trail that led up the slope. The vegetation was greener around here, Trapp noted, and he wondered if there was a natural spring somewhere close. There must have been, because though a warm breeze was now gusting around them as the day turned into night, it was no cooler here than the flat desert terrain below.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the summit of the hill, probably because it was more of a rocky mound, anyway, “towering” only a hundred feet or so above the land at its base. Trapp set the cooler down and watched as Shea walked onto an enormous boulder that jutted out over the edge of the hill, then unfurled a small blanket and set it down on the bare rock.

  She shot him a shy grin and said, “You coming?”

  He walked out to join her, his gaze scouring the sheer drop underneath the outcropping, his expression one of exaggerated trepidation. He jumped up and down a couple of times, bouncing on the soles of his feet, as if testing whether the whole edifice would start to crumble.

  Shea rolled her eyes and lay down on the blanket, propping herself up with her arms. “I don’t care how many hours you put in at the gym, Jason, this rock has gotta weigh five hundred tons. If it hasn’t shifted an inch in all the years I’ve been coming here, I doubt it’s going to start now.”

  Trapp winked. “Better safe than sorry.”

  He sat down beside her and cracked open the cooler, offering up a Coke. Underneath the two glass bottles was a small picnic. Hand cut sandwiches in fresh, home-baked bread, filled with thick cuts of ham that Shea assured him was from a farm just down the road.

  Then again, in Texas that could mean a hundred miles.

  The whole evening went just as he hoped. Though neither of them made a conscious agreement to stick to safe, marshmallow topics, that was the way things panned out. He guessed they’d both had enough of the heavy shit that night by the fire. Instead, they talked about Shea’s time at high school, her plans for the future, and in turn Trapp spilled the beans on a particularly raucous weekend’s leave in Bangkok, after a couple of weeks’ worth of field exercises deep in the jungle.

  “You should’ve seen the size of those mosquito bites. Like bowling balls!”

  When it happened, it just felt natural. Perhaps if he had been a little older, a little more experienced, Trapp might have understood that Shea was leading him to it. Opening up her body, playing with her hair, even fluttering her eyelids a little in a way that would probably have been too embarrassing to contemplate if she was only a little older.

  But in the moment, they were both young, and it was just right.

  Trapp’s lips grazed hers, and he rested his hand on her head, wanting to stay respectful. Well, knowing he had to, at any rate.

  “Damn,” Shea whispered when they both came up for air. He was looking down at her, so when her eyes widened a second later, he flinched with alarm, twisting his body to see what had so concerned her.

  “I don’t see it,” he muttered with confusion a second or two later. The wind had picked up a little, and there was a smudge of blackness on the horizon, but he’d expected a pack of wolves or something judging by he
r response.

  Do they have those round here? Probably not.

  “I hate to spoil the moment, Jason—really, I do, but I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Shea said, already starting to pack up their little picnic. “Storms come on quick around here, and this one looks like it might be a doozy.”

  “Roger that, ma’am.” Trapp grinned.

  He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest. Sure, he would have liked to see where the evening might have taken them, but he was skipping on cloud nine regardless. He swept up the blanket, folded it, and the pair of them made double time back to the bike. A minute later, all evidence of their picnic was stowed away, and the engine thundered into life.

  As they passed the parking lot, on the left this time, he was surprised to notice a single vehicle had appeared, parked with its nose facing in. It was a truck, a beaten-up black Ford F-150 They hadn’t seen anyone else on the hill, had they?

  He didn’t think so, but then, it was entirely possible that someone had approached them quietly enough to avoid being noticed. They had, after all, been otherwise occupied.

  When he hit the asphalt of the main road, he fed the engine a little more gasoline, noticing that the darkness was scuttling across the horizon even faster now. He wondered if he should pull over and give Shea his jacket, just in case. She wasn’t wearing anything over her dress. Come to think of it, he should have insisted she wear something that offered more protection right from the start. He’d just been so damn distracted by her figure he hadn’t even given it a moment’s thought.

  So in the end, it escaped him that he had in fact seen the truck before. It probably wouldn’t have mattered much anyway.

  Probably.

  Mike Lee ducked out of sight the second he heard the grumble of Trapp’s motorcycle engine in the distance. The rider was making such little use of his powerful engine that he barely heard it in time.

  He gritted his teeth, wishing that he’d had the time to replace the car. Using it again was a risk, and he knew it. He’d trailed Trapp with it once, and his target had stared directly at it. If the kid was as smart as Lee worried he might be, then there was a chance he would remember, wasn’t there?

  No.

  Trapp had no reason to suspect he was being followed. And so what if he remembered the truck? There had to be a dozen just like it in this county alone. Even if the kid remembered the license plate—and that was going out on a limb—did that mean anything? The Ford could as easily belong to a local. Hell, that was a likelier explanation than it being the sentinel vehicle for a mercenary hit squad, wasn’t it?

  Chill out, Mike. Just play your part, and this will all be over.

  Sucking a deep breath in through his teeth to calm himself, he waited until the low cloud of dust trailing Trapp’s bike turned the corner before lifting the Motorola radio handset to his lips.

  “He’s heading your way,” he said.

  20

  The first fat, heavy raindrop hit Trapp’s helmet visor and splintered into a thousand smaller droplets, which the force of the buffeting wind quickly wiped away. But a quick glance up at the angry skyline revealed that the storm was coming on fast, and it was likely only to get worse.

  Trapp flicked the switch for the headlights to warn any oncoming traffic of his presence but noticed that the beam flickered before catching.

  “What the hell?” he grumbled out loud.

  That hadn’t happened before. Then again, he had been riding the bike pretty hard these past few months. He made a note to take it in for service the next time he got a chance. Another raindrop fell from the dark sky, hitting his jacket, and that one was followed by another in quick succession.

  At least they’re warm, he thought, thinking ruefully of the scant protection provided by Shea’s flimsy sundress. He figured that they would be home in ten minutes, and if he was lucky, they would outrun the worst of the storm. Even if he stopped and gave her the jacket off his back, they’d lose time, and she would end up soaked to the skin either way.

  He twisted his neck, poking his helmeted head out to the left in order to check the brake lights were working okay. They were. That was good at least. As he was turning back to the road ahead, he noticed another vehicle on the road behind them, about half a mile back, but gaining. It rode high on the road, indicating it was a truck of some sort.

  “Jackass,” he muttered sourly, noting that the driver hadn’t chosen to put his own headlights on—a real bugbear of any frequent motorcyclist. It was the vehicles you didn’t see, in conditions like this, that launched you into a short-lived but extremely costly second career as a stuntman. He resolved to keep an eye on the truck, just in case the driver’s lack of thoughtfulness was matched by an equally inconsiderate approach to the rules of the road.

  Within sixty seconds, the raindrops were falling too heavily to think of them as distinct phenomena. They blended into one, working their way down the side of his helmet and into the gap between his neck and his jacket, and only spread from there. Maybe a mile up the road ahead—though it was difficult to determine precise distances in conditions like this—he saw the pinprick of a pair of headlamps.

  “See, that’s how it’s done,” he muttered, glancing at his mirrors as he was reminded to check on the truck behind. They were soaked with rain, so he briefly lifted his right hand off the handlebars and wiped the worst of the water away, which gave him a momentary window of vision before the droplets returned with a vengeance.

  The vehicle behind him was a lot closer now. Less than a quarter of a mile away but holding steady. It was dark, and definitely a truck.

  The road ahead curved around a barn that must’ve been there before it was built, and as the change in the wind’s direction cleared his mirror for a second, he saw that the truck behind was the same black Ford F150 that he’d seen parked in the lot by the hill.

  That was weird, wasn’t it?

  The headlights in front were growing in strength now as the other vehicle closed the distance. It was about a quarter of a mile away now, and that space was being eaten up quickly. Trapp tucked the bike in to the side of the road, extra-cautious with Shea on the back, and returned his gaze to the mirrors.

  He’d seen that Ford before, he was certain of it now. Not just by the hiking hill, but…

  Outside the library.

  The image slotted into place in his mind like a piece of a jigsaw, and he put it together. Not the whole picture, but at least the vitals. Someone was following him. That day, and tonight as well.

  You’re being paranoid, he urged himself, more out of hope than belief. If someone wanted to hurt you, why not do it out on the hill?

  Trapp’s eyes flicked back to the oncoming vehicle, now only a hundred yards up ahead. His headlights were on full, half-blinding him, and he grimaced with irritation at the distraction from the question eating at his mind.

  What if someone wanted to make a move on him? Wouldn’t they choose a place just like this—a road in the middle of the desert, isolated and empty?

  He squinted to shield his eyes from the headlights up ahead. They were coming from another truck, it looked like a Jeep Cherokee, but he wouldn’t have put money on his guess, not when all he could see was the faintest outline of the damn thing. It was riding the road’s centerline. Whoever was behind the wheel was a real asshole, that was for sure.

  Out of instinct, Trapp rode even closer to the edge of the asphalt. The last thing he needed was to escape the clutches of some psycho behind him only to be killed by an inattentive drunk the other side. Behind him, he felt Shea tighten her hold on his torso.

  Just in time.

  “Oh, shit…”

  The driver of the Cherokee yanked the steering wheel hard, and the big truck swerved right across the centerline and headed straight for Trapp. He didn’t bother glancing right, he knew there was a fence running parallel with the road no more than a couple of yards away, and any encounter with that would prompt a very messy ending. From inside the tr
uck’s rain-spotted cabin, he saw the flash of a weapon. Ice filled his veins, but right now the weapon wasn’t his prime concern. To hit a target of his size in these conditions, the shooter would have to be one in a million.

  “Hold on!” he bellowed, knowing that it was almost certainly pointless. The wind stole his warning, and he didn’t have time to go back for more.

  Instead of choosing the instinctive option of turning to the right to avoid the Cherokee swerving from the other direction, Trapp threw all his weight to the left and yanked his handlebars in the same direction. Without meaning to, he squeezed his eyelids shut, which meant that the last image he saw was an imprint of the radiator grill of a red Jeep about three feet in front of his bike.

  One.

  Two…

  Shea’s ear-splitting scream brought him back to reality. Somehow, miraculously, they’d made it past the onrushing truck with only inches to spare. But now, just like a week or two earlier, an equally deadly threat was approaching fast: the opposite side of the road.

  Trapp wished he could spare a glance over his shoulder to see what the Cherokee was doing, but he didn’t have time for that. Instead of attempting to brake hard or embark on another hairpin turn in the other direction when he was still recovering from the first, Trapp gently shifted his weight to the right—and instead of breaking, gunned the engine.

  On the left-hand side of the road, as on the right, the asphalt fell away into the desert floor. The rain had only been falling for a couple of minutes, which meant that the newly birthed mud would have become sticky, but not yet impassable. Still, if he tried killing speed too fast on terrain like that, then the bike would pitch forward, and both he and his passenger would go right over the handlebars.

  No bueno.

  As the bike’s front tire hit the mud, Shea’s hands clenched tight across his belly, and he winced as her helmet thudded hard against his back, though he’d take that pain any day of the week, because it meant that she was still on board. And holding on for dear life, which didn’t hurt either.