Seeing Red(65)

He motioned for Kerra to freeze and slipped his pistol from the holster at the small of his back. For a full two minutes they stood motionless, his ears straining to hear the smallest sound.

Eventually he reached for Kerra’s hand, afraid to leave her out of his sight, and pulled her behind him as he approached his office. The door was ajar. Pistol extended, he eased it open with the toe of his boot.

Enough light was coming through the partially open window blinds that he could see that the place had been ransacked. His file drawers had been pulled from the cabinet and emptied, their contents strewn everywhere. The cushions on the couch had been slashed and disemboweled. Chairs and lamps had been overturned.

Only his desk remained as he’d left it. Seated in the chair behind it, holding a nickel-plated revolver, was Thomas Wilcox.





Chapter 19




Trapper recognized Wilcox, although he’d never met him face-to-face. With a casualness that belied the life-threatening situation, he said, “Hey, Wilcox. I think you know Kerra Bailey.”

Wilcox smiled. “You would be John Trapper.”

“I would.”

“Set your gun on the floor and come up slowly.”

“Better idea,” Trapper said. “You drop yours before I kill you.”

Beside him, Kerra whispered, “Please, Trapper.”

Wilcox shifted his gaze from Trapper to her, then back to Trapper. “We’re making the lady nervous. Why don’t we end this ludicrous standoff, conduct ourselves in a civilized manner, and set our weapons down simultaneously?”

“Because I’m barely civilized. Ask anybody. And on behalf of everyone who was injured or died in the Pegasus bombing, I would enjoy nothing better than to blow you straight to hell.”

Wilcox took his measure and must have determined that he’d meant every word. He lowered his revolver to the desk and raised his hands.

Trapper kicked aside the files and paperwork in his path as he walked to the desk. He grabbed Wilcox’s pistol, released the cylinder, and emptied the chambers. One by one the six bullets pinged onto the hardwood floor.

Wilcox looked beyond him and addressed Kerra by name. “Sunday night was a fiasco. Are you well?”

“I’m all right, but I’ve been better.”

During their exchange Trapper had halfway been expecting an attack to come from behind them. He kept his senses attuned to any sound or motion that would have signaled it. But no one sneaked up on them. It appeared that Wilcox was acting alone. Wilcox indicated the mess that had been made of the office and said, “I didn’t do this. It was this way when I got here.”

“Why’d you come?”

“It was imperative that I see you, because I fear you’ll soon be assassinated. It’s assumed by some that I will take the honor upon myself.”

Trapper chuffed. “You’re mulling it over?”

“I believe I have a better idea, yes. Better for both of us. Why don’t you sit? We’ll talk about it.”

Trapper considered telling him to kiss his ass and then shooting the bastard. But Kerra came forward and gave him a cautionary look.

He righted one of the straight chairs that faced his desk and motioned her into it. He remained standing and hefted Wilcox’s pistol in his palm as he studied the pearl-inlaid grip and elaborate scrolling on the barrel.

“During Prohibition, the madam of a whorehouse here in Fort Worth owned a pistol like this. She shot and killed one thieving whore, a cheating blackjack dealer, and three double-crossing bootleggers.”

Wilcox smiled. “I acquired the pistol at her estate auction. Anonymous bid.”

“Ever kill anybody with it?”

Wilcox said, “You would’ve been my first.”

“Wow. I could’ve been tacked on to the legend.”

“As I said, I have a preferable option to killing you.”

“You held us at gunpoint for the hell of it?”

“No, to protect myself from you. You have a reputation for being a hothead, and, so far, you’re living up to it.”

“Well, it tickles me not to disappoint.”

“I had hoped to open a dialogue with you, Mr. Trapper. I’m afraid the rifled office got us off on the wrong foot.”

Trapper cut a glance toward the wall socket just above the baseboard behind his desk chair where Wilcox sat. The outlet plate had been unscrewed and pulled from the wall. Wiring curled from the jagged hole in the Sheetrock.

Wilcox noticed Trapper’s consternation, and his knowing smile made Trapper see red. “Dialogue? You and me?”

Wilcox nodded. “I want to propose a deal.”

Trapper scoffed. “Not likely. Not even remotely. Instead, let’s talk about Sunday night’s fiasco. Did you order the hit on The Major?”

“I wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“It was stupid. A hit botched by two jerk-offs sent by someone a whole lot smarter. I’m guessing”—Trapper aimed his nine-millimeter at the center of the man’s forehead—“you. Just like the Pegasus.”

“You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Mr. Trapper.”

“No, you are. By thinking there’s going to be any dialogue, much less a deal, between us.” Trapper took a cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans and tapped in 911.