Trap the Devil Read online

  Dewey let his arms bend and lowered the barbell, where it touched his chest, harder this time, slamming against his breastplate. He pushed up, grunting loudly, the entire barbell wobbling as if it might at any moment drop like a ton of bricks on top of him.

  “Have you ever considered getting a llama, Dewey?” asked Tacoma. “I hear they make great pets.”

  Dewey’s face suddenly contorted as he tried not to laugh, but it was no use. The barbell dropped as his arms went weak. It sank rapidly. Just as it was about to land on his chest, Tacoma leaned down and grabbed it. With relative ease, he lifted it and set it back on the brackets.

  Dewey’s eyes were closed, his face was bright red, and he fought to catch his breath. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at Tacoma.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  Dewey sat up, still trying to catch his breath. He clutched his shoulder.

  Tacoma eyed Dewey warily. “Sorry.”

  “I’m hitting the showers.”

  “Want me to wait?”

  “No.”

  “Well, actually, Hector wanted me to wait and make sure you went to that appointment.”

  Dewey glared at Tacoma. “Oh he did, did he?” he snapped.

  Tacoma’s eyes took on a slight edge, an edge Dewey knew all too well. Beneath Tacoma’s disheveled frat boy exterior lurked an altogether different person: an ex–Navy SEAL with martial and paramilitary skills that were rare; a cold, deadly serious, brutally tough individual who’d twice saved Dewey’s life.

  “Yeah, he did. I’m just the messenger.”

  2

  INDIAN PURCHASE FARM

  POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND

  Bruner’s pants were wet with dew as he moved along a footpath that crossed the twenty-acre field near his home. He watched a flock of Canada geese cut across the blue sky, flying in a near perfect triangle to the south. He stopped walking several hundred feet away from the main house. In the morning light, the rambling, meticulous mansion looked ageless, as pretty as it probably had looked when it was built in 1820. He knew that someday photos of it would be in history books.

  There were many reasons Bruner had chosen the path he was now on.

  The fields leading up to the home spread in a wheat-colored swath, the long grass fluttering as a slow wind came from the west. Winter was almost here; the field would need to be cut soon. A white horse fence demarcated the boundary between high grass and lawn.

  Bruner had on thick but worn Filson tin pants, handed down by his father. If Bruner had had a son, they would have become his. He thought about that son he never had, especially at times like now. He thought about the grandson that his son would have given him. Would he have been out here this day with him? Would he have been standing right beside him at this moment? Would his grandson be to his left, pushing through the high grass with the dogs scampering ahead, a wild smile on his face as he learned the raw joys of nature and the physical world, grass and brambles, soil, streams, rainstorms, and the sun?

  Then he thought about the daughter he did have, the daughter he lost so long ago.

  Bruner shut his eyes. He squeezed the brow of his nose.

  “Don’t think about her,” he whispered aloud.

  Everything I do is for you, sweet Molly. You will see what a father will do to avenge the death of a daughter. The world will see.

  The large circular driveway in front of the house was lined with automobiles.

  Bruner glanced at his yellow Lab, Ranger, who was standing still, tongue out, panting, looking at Bruner. His expression was a combination of delight after a morning’s hard run and the anticipation of a meal.

  “Are you ready for breakfast?” asked Bruner, kneeling slightly and reaching out both hands to touch the dog. Ranger wagged his tail.

  * * *

  Several minutes later, Bruner followed Ranger inside the house. He heard conversation coming from the den and walked toward the room, pausing just outside, where a servant stood behind a table. On the table was a silver coffee service.

  “Hi, Abe.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He handed Bruner a cup of coffee.

  Bruner stepped into the room. He stood near the double doors, casting his eyes around the vast space. A fire was burning in the hearth. The walls were covered in bookshelves. In front of the bookshelves were fifteen large, deep, comfortable chintz-upholstered armchairs. Closer to the center of the room were three big, old green leather chesterfield sofas. Every seat was occupied.

  The voices went silent. Bruner took a sip of coffee as he scanned the men’s eyes. He stepped to the large stone fireplace and placed his cup on the mantel.

  Gathered before him were the chosen few. Each man had been carefully selected, vetted, approached, and ultimately brought into Bruner’s inner sanctum. All had sworn allegiance. Before him sat two members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, three cabinet secretaries, and more than two dozen high-ranking officials inside the administration of President J. P. Dellenbaugh. But they all shared a secret loyalty, a darker allegiance: to Bruner and, more important, to Bruner’s America, a country they all believed needed to reassert its utter strength and supremacy across the globe. This was the shadow government, painstakingly assembled over more than two decades—and now ready for its bloody harvest.

  “The time has come,” Bruner announced. “Today, we begin the process of saving the United States of America.”

  3

  MAYEWELL HUNTING CAMPS

  OSSABAW ISLAND, GEORGIA

  The Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Lowell Benson Trappe Jr., climbed out of a mud-covered silver Ford F-250 pickup truck and scanned the gray horizon above the ocean. It was 5:10 A.M.

  Trappe was dressed in hunting apparel. It was well worn and fit the way it was meant to; a Filson coat that had been his father’s, thigh-high L.L. Bean boots, canvas pants from Carhartt. At six foot tall and two hundred sixty pounds, Trappe was on the heavy side. He looked older than his fifty-six years, though his hair remained thick and brown and his face ruddy and wrinkled with character. He’d been a member of the House of Representatives since age twenty-five and was elected Speaker at forty. His salary was $223,500 a year, but Trappe, like all Speakers, lived like a king.

  The three-day duck-hunting trip to Ossabaw Island was a typically high-end respite from the Capitol. The private lodge was small but lavish in its own way, a camp of sequestered log cabins with bold ocean views, room service, and even a nightly tuck-down by maids who were known to spend more than a few minutes with the guests. This was Trappe’s eleventh visit to Ossabaw, and every time it seemed to get better. The ducks were more abundant, the food more delicious, the women more beautiful. It was a trip not even a billionaire could arrange. It was the reward for being Speaker. The fact that the camp was owned by Georgia’s largest electric utility was inconsequential. Trappe had backed them and opposed them so many times over the years it was hard to keep track. Pundits and idiots said that money could buy influence, but in Trappe’s case it wasn’t true. Trappe knew that a politician who allowed his or her decisions to be purchased by the highest bidder was, in fact, of little use to most special interests seeking assistance. What money did buy when it came to Lowell Trappe was honesty and a straightforward, no-bullshit way. People, companies, other politicians, reporters—they all knew where Lowell Trappe stood and they knew why.

  The utility’s chief lobbyist, Will Scranton, climbed out of the other side of the truck. Like Trappe, Scranton looked at home in his hunting apparel. He stood by the truck, staring off to the shoreline, a cup of coffee in one hand. He lit a cigarette. After a couple of drags, he pointed the cigarette to the shore.

  “Looks like Schaller’s Bluff’ll be good,” Scranton said in his deep western Georgia drawl. “Surf ain’t too high this morning, Mr. Speaker.”

  Trappe nodded. “You got better eyes than me, Will.”

  “I know how much you like to shoot from there, Mr. Speaker.”

/>   “Yes, I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?”

  They pulled a pair of duffels out of the pickup.

  Two dog crates were also there, each containing a white Labrador retriever. The dogs stood at attention, barely making any noise, though their excitement was obvious by the whack whack whack of their tails swinging against the crates.

  “So what do you think?” said Trappe, sipping from a stainless steel coffee cup.

  “It’s early,” he said.

  “You’re the one who wanted to get up at four.”

  “I mean it’s early in the season. It’s been warm up north. I’m not sure what we’re gonna see, Mr. Speaker.”

  Trappe smiled and put his hand on Scranton’s back.

  “That’s why I like you, Will. You’re just who you are. You don’t shine people on.”

  “Thanks, sir, I try not to. But that being said, we might get lucky. My father put down seven last week over there.” He pointed. “You’re a pretty good shot. I mean what the hell, even if we don’t get anything, it’s not like we’re up in Washington, right?”

  Trappe laughed. He reached to his pocket and took out a copper flask. He unscrewed it and offered it to Scranton.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Beam,” Scranton said to the flask. He raised it to his lips and took a big gulp, then hissed as he swallowed.

  “Ah-oooh-ga!” he yelped.

  Trappe smiled and took the flask back. He downed a large chug.

  “So, any things you guys need up there?” Trappe said. “Been here two days and you ain’t said shit ’bout nothin’. What do you got?”

  Scranton took the flask and threw back one more.

  “No, sir,” he said, shrugging. “Session’s almost done and we got pretty much what we wanted, which was to be left the hell alone. Besides, let’s not ruin a good hunting trip with that stuff. We know you got our back, Lowell.”

  Scranton let the two dogs out of the crates.

  They walked for about a quarter mile along a dirt path that led to the rocky shore, the dogs trotting along behind them, scouring the horizon. Finally, the path opened up to a crescent-shaped inlet, a rough, pretty stretch of coastline, a black sea with flecks of foamy white. In the distance, an orange hue was visible at the horizon as sunrise approached.

  “You take the bluff,” said Scranton, pointing to the small inlet, a magnet for birds. “I’ll go up to Widener’s. I’ll see y’all at breakfast round eight.”

  Trappe nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Scranton whistled twice. One of the dogs leapt toward him as the other moved to Trappe’s side.

  “Good girls,” said Trappe.

  Trappe walked the final hundred yards to the water, setting his shotgun on a rock. He took a sip of coffee, then one more swig of bourbon. He picked up his shotgun, plopped a shell in each barrel, slammed the gun shut. He moved to a low, flat rock at water’s edge. In the water directly in front of him was a latticework of reeds. Even if he’d been a trained operative, he probably would not have noticed that one of the reeds was not a reed at all.

  * * *

  The frogman was beneath the surface of the water. He’d been there since midnight.

  The killer had spent two days studying the hunt from a rise to the east, up the coast. He’d assumed the other man, Scranton, would give the Speaker the best hunting spot on this, their final day on the island.

  Two devices stuck up from below: a breathing apparatus, like a straw, and a pencil-size camera. Both blended into the reeds.

  He watched Trappe step down along the craggy waterline. He also observed the dog. He would not have been surprised if the dog picked up his scent through the oxygen tube. Dogs were remarkable. He didn’t need or want the dog alerting Trappe that something was amiss. He reached to his wrist and pressed a small button, shutting off the tube, initiating a closed-loop oxygen system that would enable him to breathe underwater for a time. Not long, perhaps ten minutes, but that would be more than enough time.

  The dog’s eyes darted about wildly.

  * * *

  “What is it, Bodie?” Trappe said to the agitated dog. “You excited?”

  Trappe saw the ducks cutting like a shadow across the eastern sky. They were disorganized, mainly because there were so many of them. His heart raced. He raised his shotgun.

  But before he could fire, his left boot slipped off the rock. He dropped the shotgun into the water, scrambling to catch himself before he fell, but what he thought was a slippery patch of rock was, in fact, a pair of gloved hands, grabbing his ankle and pulling him below the ocean’s surface.

  Beneath the water, Trappe opened his eyes, looking for something to grab on to. Instead, he found himself staring straight into the black tint of a scuba glass.

  Trappe swung at the dark figure, grazing his chin with a slow-moving punch, which did little to the frogman, who clutched Trappe with viselike hands below the water. Trappe struggled, kicking with his free foot, but it was futile. The diver was too strong. Trappe screamed, even though he knew he couldn’t be heard. He made a final, desperate lunge for the frogman’s mask, trying to pull it aside, but the killer knocked his arm away. A few seconds later, Trappe had no choice; he needed oxygen. He inhaled. A deluge of water poured down his throat and into his lungs, drowning him.

  The diver eased his hands from Trappe’s ankle and let the corpse float slowly toward the surface. He watched for a few extra moments and then swam quietly away, the only sounds that of a barking dog and the patter of small waves slapping against the rocks.

  4

  WINDBLOSEN

  RUSWIL, SWITZERLAND

  The greenhouse was Romy’s favorite place on earth. Their chalet, across the field, was beautiful, of course. It was perched on a languid curve of sloping green heather, with views for miles, but it was the greenhouse she loved. It was hers and hers alone.

  Romy had cut back lavender growing in the field below the chalet. Now she was tying the small stalks with their tiny purple flowers into bunches and hanging them to dry over the winter. Carefully, she tied a piece of twine around a bunch and was about to hang it up when she heard a vehicle on the driveway. She paused an extra moment or two, making sure her ears weren’t deceiving her. When she heard the squeak of brakes, she turned. She put the flowers on the worktable, removed her gardening gloves, and stepped toward the door.

  It was a white van, clean looking and new. Perhaps it was a delivery truck, she thought.

  She glanced in a small mirror above the potting table. She thought she was a mess and used her fingers to brush her brown hair out of her face, though in truth she looked stunning. Despite the unbrushed hair and the lack of makeup, her youthful beauty was obvious.

  As she reached for the door to go outside, she saw the rear door of the van open. Three men emerged, all dressed in white uniforms. She stood still. She felt her heart racing. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the phone on the wall. She knew she shouldn’t have answered the call.

  Why? Why did I answer it?

  As the men moved toward the main house, one of them looked at the greenhouse. He pointed and said something to the others. Romy backed up as the three men walked toward the greenhouse. Had they seen her? She looked around, panic taking over. She looked for a place to hide, but the men were already at the door. They all looked the same. White single-piece uniforms, pale skin, and bald.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” she said as they came through the door without knocking or saying anything. For the first time, she noticed the light blue gloves on their hands.

  Two of the men stepped toward her, their arms extended. They grabbed her arms. The third man opened a thin silver case as they held her, pinching her arms tight.

  “My husband is inside!” she screamed. “Kyrie!” she yelled. “Kyrie!”

  The third man removed a hypodermic needle from the case. She watched helplessly as he extended the long needle toward her, a drop of liquid bulging at its tip, then felt a sharp prick as he stabbed it into her
neck.

  5

  QUEEN STREET

  TORONTO, CANADA

  A green Ford Explorer came to the intersection, moving through the flashing yellow light. The vehicle turned down Queen Street.

  It was a working-class neighborhood. The shops were small and utilitarian—a butcher shop next to a dry cleaner, a payday check-cashing store beside a take-out restaurant. They all had something in common: signs in Arabic.

  In the middle of the block, in a building that appeared exactly like those around it, was the Hamza Mosque.

  The SUV slowed as it came to the mosque, then turned right at the next intersection and parked. Ryan, David, Matthew, and Harun—the four individuals in the SUV—were silent as Ryan turned off the engine and sat back in the driver’s seat. He stared straight ahead.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” said Harun from the backseat. “I’m about to wet my pants.”

  “Thanks for telling us,” said David.

  “I could use something to eat,” added Matthew.

  Ryan remained silent. His silence caused the others to stop talking. After several moments, he spoke: “This is your last chance. If any of you want to leave, do it now. Once we go inside, we’re stepping over a line we can never return from. Do you understand?”

  The license plates on the SUV were dirt covered. They read MICHIGAN—WORLD’S MOTOR CAPITAL. A faded green-and-white sticker was affixed to the bumper. It showed a cougar, mascot of Northeastern High School in Flint, Michigan, where Ryan, David, Matthew, and Harun were students.

  “Why are you saying this now?” asked David.

  “Because you have to make your own decision,” said Ryan.

  Harun opened the back door and climbed out.

  “I’m going in. And it’s not just because I have to go to the bathroom. I believe in what I’m doing. Death to the fucking infidels.”

  He slammed the door.

  Ryan looked in the rearview mirror at David.

  “Allahu Akbar,” David whispered, nodding. He reached for the door.