Trap the Devil (Dewey Andreas Series #7)

Trap the Devil (Dewey Andreas Series #7)

by Ben Coes

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466841284
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 06/20/2017
Series: Dewey Andreas Series , #7
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 400
Sales rank: 9,282
File size: 3 MB

About the Author

BEN COES is the New York Times bestselling author of international espionage thrillers, including Eye for an Eye, Independence Day, and First Strike. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a Fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
BEN COES is the author of the critically acclaimed Power Down and Coup d’Etat. He is a former speechwriter for the George H .W. Bush White House, worked for Boone Pickens, was a fellow at the JFK School of Government at Harvard, a campaign manager for Mitt Romney’s run for governor in 2002, and is currently a partner in a private equity company out of Boston. He lives in Wellesley, Mass.

Read an Excerpt

Trap the Devil

By Ben Coes

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2017 Ben Coes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-04318-4



Dewey Andreas was lying on his back. He stared up at the steel bar above him, his hands holding it loosely. At each end of the long steel bar sat two fifty-pound barbells. Two-hundred pounds in all. With the bar itself, he was looking at a two-hundred and thirty-pound lift.

"You sure you should be doing this?" asked Rob Tacoma, who was standing behind Dewey, ready to spot him. "You're not supposed to do any heavy lifting. That's what Hector told me."

Dewey leaned his head back and looked upside down at Tacoma, shooting him an icy stare.

"From this angle it looks like you were just smiling at me," said Tacoma.

"You mind shutting the hell up?"

Dewey clenched his hands a little tighter around the bar. He took several deep breaths. He pushed up on the steel bar, feeling as it moved with a slight wobble up into the air, his arms straightening. The pain in his right shoulder went from a dull ache to electric, like a sharp object was inside the shoulder. He grunted as he lowered the bar slowly down to his chest, pausing a half-second, then pushed it back up.

"Not bad," said Tacoma absent-mindedly as he watched Dewey struggle to push the weight back up. "You're using your legs too much, though."

After several wavering seconds, Dewey's arms were straight above his head. He locked his elbows and breathed rapidly. The pain in his shoulder was intense. Yet as much as it told him to stop, he knew he needed to keep going. He had a hundred pounds to go until he was back to the strength level before Sirhan el-Khan stabbed him in the shoulder.

"Please, Rob, shut the fuck up," Dewey groaned.

Tacoma smiled.

Dewey was the first individual Tacoma had ever met who made him understand what it was like to have an older brother. He knew there was no question who was in charge, but that was the way he wanted it, the way he liked it. Sure, there had been other mentors in his life; upperclassmen on the UVA lacrosse team; older SEALs who took him under his wing; after the Navy, other agents within Special Operations Group who helped him out, who showed Tacoma a trick or two. But Dewey was different. He was the first operator Tacoma had ever met who he knew he could not defeat in battle, unless luck was involved. He was the first man who'd ever made him wish he had an older brother.

The last month had been a blast. Katie was off in Rwanda, spending six weeks volunteering along with a group of six other CIA agents, working to create a more secure route for food shipments into the region. Katie was his business partner, and her hiatus had given Tacoma time to hang out and help Dewey recover from the nearly fatal knife wound to his shoulder.

Dewey enjoyed it, too. The problem was, at certain times Tacoma acted like that little brother Dewey never had. Little brothers sometimes couldn't resist the temptation to make things difficult for their older brothers.

Dewey let his arms bend and lowered the barbell down, 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 top of 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.


"I'm hitting the showers."

"Want me to wait?"


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

Dewey glared at Tacoma.

"Oh he did, did he?" snapped Dewey.

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 exNavy 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."



Bruner's pants were wet with dew as he moved along a foot path that crossed the twenty acre field near his home. He watched overhead as a flock of Canadian 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 a thick but worn pair of 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 reached to the brow of his nose, squeezing.

"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 to his left, where his yellow lab, Ranger, was standing still, tongue out, panting. He was looking at Bruner with a face Bruner knew 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.

* * *

Several minutes later, Bruner followed his dog 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 top of 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 across the room. A fire was burning in the hearth. The room's walls were covered in bookshelves. In front of the bookshelves were about a dozen large, deep, comfortable-looking chintz upholstered armchairs. Closer to the center of the room, three big, old green leather chesterfield sofas. Every seat in the room was occupied.

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

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. It was to Bruner and, more importantly, to Bruner's America, a country they all believed needed to re-assert its utter strength and supremacy across the globe. This was the shadow government, sowed over a painstaking period of time – more than two decades – and now ready for its bloody harvest.

"The time has come," said Bruner. "Today, we begin the process of saving the United States of America."



The Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Lowell Benson Trappe Jr., climbed out of a mud-covered silver Ford F-250 pick-up 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, a pair of 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 in the U.S. House of Representatives since age twenty-five and elected speaker at forty. The Speaker of the United States House of Representatives made $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 tuckdown by maids who were known to spend more than a few minutes with the guests. This was Trappe's 11 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 wasn't a trip that 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 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. Scranton stood by the truck staring off to the shore line, a cup of coffee in one hand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. After a couple of drags, he pointed the cigarette to the shore.

"Looks like Schaller's Bluff'll be good," Scranton said in a deep Southern 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 went to the back of the pick-up and pulled a pair of duffels toward them.

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. Scranton had a deep western Georgia accent.

"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, then 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 then put the flask back.

"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," said Scranton, 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. Eventually, the path opened up to a crescent shaped inlet, a rough, pretty stretch of coastline, the black sea bared in 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 girl," said Trappe.

Trappe walked the final hundred yards to the water, setting his shotgun down 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, then 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 in the water since midnight.

The killer had spent two days studying the hunt from a rise to the east, up the coast. He 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-sized camera. Both blended into the reeds.

He watched as Trappe stepped down along the craggy water line. 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, he felt his left boot slip 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 onto. 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 vise-like 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.


Excerpted from Trap the Devil by Ben Coes. Copyright © 2017 Ben Coes. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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