Page 10 of With a Vengeance

Six

Lt. Col. JackLapsford gets things done.

That’s his specialty.

A military man through and through, he ascended to his current rank by demanding answers, making tough decisions, getting results. Now seventy-two and retired, he heads to the first-class lounge ready to get this—whatever it is—over with.

Along the way, he thinks of the questions he plans to ask whoever summoned him here. The first concerns not just this train but all of them. Why do they make the passageways so narrow? Lapsford isn’t a small man by any means. But he certainly isn’t the largest. He’s seen bigger in his day, which makes him wonder how those fellows navigate trains. Because he’s having a terrible time of it, proceeding slowly, both shoulders brushing the sides of the corridor. If someone were to approach in the opposite direction, there’d be no room to let them pass.

Not that Lapsford has seen another passenger since boarding. That’s his second question: Where is everyone? The only other person he’s seen is the conductor, which makes Lapsford uneasy. Normal trains—embarking on normal trips—are filled with riders, porters, waitstaff. This train seemingly has no one.

Minutes after departing Philadelphia, he’d gone to the dining car, hoping to at least get a decent meal out of the trip. No such luck. All nine tables—one for each first-class room—were set for dinner, but no one was seated at them. Nor were there any waiters working the car. On the way back to his room, he saw it was the same in the lounge. Empty seats. Empty bar. Empty car.

While Lapsford has no desire to bump into someone in the train’s cramped passages, it would at least put him slightly more at ease. At that moment, he feels like the only person onboard. A preposterous notion, yet there it is.

Next to that in Lapsford’s thoughts is a third question—Why am I here?

Technically, he understands why. Someone knows something about him that they shouldn’t. Now he needs to mitigate the damage, monetarily if necessary. At least that’s his interpretation of the message scribbled on the back of the invitation.

How does it feel to have blood on your hands?

What continues to bedevil Lapsford are the logistics surrounding the situation. Who, exactly, is privy to this information they shouldn’t have? How did they acquire it? What do they want from him, other than money?

The one question he doesn’t have is what it’s regarding.

This is about what happened twelve years ago.

Of that, he has no doubt.

Lapsford was still in Washington at the time, part of a group charged with the logistics of warfare. Getting troops and equipment where they needed to be, when they needed to be there. And to do that, the military needed trains. Big ones. Powerful ones. Which is how Lapsford found himself having a steak and scotch dinner with a man connected to an entire railroad.

Only the man wasn’t lobbying for a big military contract. He wanted Lapsford to give one to someone else—for the most nefarious of reasons.

“What you’re suggesting is sabotage,” Lapsford said then, red-faced and flustered. “Why do you think I’d go along with such a scheme?”

“Just hear me out,” the man said. “Look what happened after Pearl Harbor. America finally woke up. It sure as hell got FDR’s attention. Support for the war skyrocketed. Thousands of men enlisted. But that was six months ago, and we’re still playing catch-up to Hitler even though we’re now in the thick of the fight. You know that better than anyone. The only way to get the military up to speed is by giving the country another reason to rally around Uncle Sam.”

Lapsford knew the man was right. Roosevelt’s foot-dragging had cost them greatly. America should have been readying for war months before actually joining it. Now they needed more men, more resources, more everything. Even though a smaller version of Pearl Harbor might be just the kick in the pants the country needed, there were ramifications to consider.

“But men are going to die,” he said. “Innocent ones.”

“They’ll probably die anyway.”

Although a cruel reply, Lapsford appreciated the man’s bluntness, for that was indeed the likely outcome. That’s all war was, really. Masses of innocent, expendable men being tossed into the meat grinder of battle. The key to victory was to lose fewer than your enemy.

“But those men are needed elsewhere.”

“If it finally gets America truly ready for war, then their sacrifice will not be in vain.”

“And as an added bonus, you get to destroy the competition,” Lapsford said.

His dinner companion leaned back in his booth, a glass of Macallan in one hand and a Davidoff cigar in the other. “That’s not why I’m doing this. But since you brought it up, if this goes according to plan, I will be reaping the financial rewards. As will you. From what I hear, Jack, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

At that moment, Lapsford knew that the choice presented to him wasn’t really a choice at all. So he made it happen, because getting things done was what he was good at. And he doesn’t regret it. Regrets are for the weak. The strong never look back. They only stare forward.

Lapsford does just that as he enters the lounge. Eyes on the door, chest puffed so much it strains his shirt, heart thrumming in anticipation just beneath the fabric. But once he pushes his way inside and Lapsford’s gaze lands on the four other people in the lounge, his chest deflates and his heart briefly stops.

He recognizes these people.

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