No Escape (No Justice Book 2)

by Sean Platt

  Mal and Mike followed Wilson toward the parking lot. They reached his department-issue Chevy Tahoe, and he threw his keys at Mike.

  “You drive!”

  Mike and Mal traded glances.

  Wilson raced to the passenger side door and climbed inside.

  Mike hopped into the driver’s seat. Mal got into the back.

  “Get a move on!” Wilson yelled, flicking on the siren and light bar.

  Mike gunned the engine, gravel spitting as he tore out of the lot, past the security gate and toward SR 110.

  Wilson dialed someone on his phone, for the third time since they left the station, anxiously waiting through the ringing.

  When they were getting into his truck, Mal wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry. Detectives weren’t usually first responders. They handled the investigations after bodies hit the ground. Maybe he missed the chase.

  But then Mal realized that he knew someone at the diner.

  Wilson looked back at Mal. “Is he inside yet?”

  “No. He’s approaching.”

  “Fuck! Come on, Trey, pick up the fucking phone.”

  Trey, Wilson’s son. He worked as a cook at the diner.

  Trey finally answered.

  Wilson didn’t wait for him to say anything. “Get out of there! Now. Take anyone in the kitchen and run out the back door. There’s a gunman about to go in there.”

  Mal watched in horror as Orestes666 burst through the diner’s front door and opened fire. “No!”

  Mike pushed the SUV to go even faster, though they wouldn’t arrive at the scene before the other officers, still roughly three minutes away.

  Wilson’s eyes were wide. “Trey? You there? Trey?”

  He stared back at Mal, then down at her phone, watching the carnage unfold.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 16 - ORESTES666

  Chaos erupted as he strolled through the diner, firing indiscriminately.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He tried to avoid children. Everyone else was fair fucking game. Aside from the kids, this diner held no innocents.

  Shattered glass crunched underfoot; bloodied people cried for help and coughed up blood; others screamed in agony as they bled out. All of it, music to his ears.

  He kept his eyes out for two things: another person with a gun, and the bitch he’d come here to kill.

  As his first magazine emptied, he ducked behind a wall separating one row of booths from another and reloaded.

  He saw the woman he’d come for: Lynn Macklin, co-owner of the diner along with her brother, Stewart.

  She cowered beneath a booth, probably thinking she’d somehow avoid detection.

  He let go of the rifle, hanging by a strap around his shoulder, grabbed his pistol, then seized Lynn by the hair, yanking her out hard.

  “No, please!” She stumbled forward and fell at his feet. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and terrified. “Please!”

  Lynn was in a simple blouse and a fitted pair of jeans that on a younger woman might have been flattering. But at forty-one her best years were behind her, and no amount of plastic surgery would help her keep pace with the younger, hotter women that worked for her.

  He was tempted to remove his mask so she could see his face, and know who was pulling the trigger. That would give him immeasurable pleasure. Hell, it almost aroused him. If he had time, he might even have fucked her first, just because he knew how much she’d hate being taken by the man she’d ridiculed so much.

  But, with sirens wailing, there wasn’t time to hang around. The place would be crawling with cops any second, and he was only done when Lynn was dead.

  He pulled her up roughly, barking, “Stand!”

  She did.

  He put the gun to her head, then leaned in and whispered, “You shouldn’t have interfered.”

  “Interfered in what? Who are you?”

  He reached around, grabbing her tit and squeezing it hard.

  She cried out, spinning around as if she were going to strike him.

  He put the gun on her face.

  That shut her the fuck up.

  “Who am I?” He smiled under the mask. “You wanna know who I am?”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  He killed the audio on his GoPro and told her.

  Then he said, “And all of these people are dead because of what you did.”

  Recognition dawned, followed by a look of anger, then contempt. Like Lynn was about to become the megabitch he always knew her to be. Like she was going to grab his gun. As if she hadn’t just witnessed him destroy her precious diner. As if he wasn’t holding the ultimate power.

  Before she could say or do anything, he pulled the trigger and wiped that bitch look off her fucking face.

  Then, with sirens ever closer, he ran.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 17 - MALLORY BLACK

  “We’re too late!” Mallory said, watching the livestream die. “He’s on the run.”

  “How’s Trey? Did you see him?”

  “No,” Mal told Wilson, even though they were watching the same stream. With all the madness of people running and screaming, the camera’s jerky movements, and the killer cutting the feed after he killed the woman he seemed to have taken the most interest in, it was difficult to tell how many people had been shot, much less if Trey was among them. Plus, bullets could have ripped through walls into the rear of the diner.

  All Mallory knew was that there were many bodies, maybe the most in Creek County’s history and that the killer was getting away.

  Mike turned up the radio as dispatch updated them on the position of the killer’s car, a black, late model Dodge Charger, last seen going west on SR110.

  Several officers responded, saying they were en route. Other officers and EMTs were already on scene.

  “Is that him?” Mike pointed at a black Charger racing toward them on the opposite side of the street.

  Mike slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop as the killer raced by without a cop in sight.

  Mike cranked the wheel hard and jumped the median, turning onto the westbound street, and floored the pedal.

  Wilson got on the radio to update dispatch that they were in pursuit, filling them in with as much info as he could, hoping for a roadblock with spike strips farther up the road.

  There was surely a part of Wilson that probably wanted to circle back to the diner and see if his son was okay, but a deputy’s duty was to chase an escaping killer first. Besides, they’d know soon enough once information started trickling in.

  Cars flew by on either side as Mike weaved through traffic, about ten car lengths behind the Charger.

  Mal wished they were driving one of the department-issued Chargers. The truck was slower and its handling was all over the place. The odds of a Tahoe winning this pursuit were nil. Their only hope was that the killer made a mistake, without murdering more people, or that another unit could get a spike strip in place.

  The Charger was approaching a major intersection and a red light.

  This was their chance.

  But the car didn’t slow.

  It blew through the light, narrowly missing oncoming traffic.

  A pickup slid to avoid the Charger, spun out, and slammed into another car in the westbound lane.

  Wilson called it in as Mike kept driving.

  They slowed approaching the intersection, cars stopping for the siren.

  Mike went through it at about 50 MPH, Mal bracing for an unseen collision.

  They made it through unscathed, but The Charger was gaining, approaching the railroad tracks.

  And, of course, the crossing gates were falling, red lights blinking.

  “Shit!” Mike yelled.

  They had about thirty seconds before the train appeared.

  Traffic stopped for the gates.

  The Charger swerved to the right, and for a moment, it seemed as if it was going to turn along a side road. But then it gunned the engine, bursting through
the gate to cross the tracks.

  “Fuck!” Mike yelled, gunning the engine, pushing the SUV to its limits.

  They were about ninety yards away.

  The train was in sight, maybe a hundred yards.

  The Charger made it, with nobody to stop it if they failed to catch up.

  “Hold tight!” Mike said, eyes narrowing on the road as he swerved left of the traffic, heading straight into the train’s path.

  “Cortez!” Wilson yelled, eyes wide.

  Mal’s heart was a jackhammer, glancing at the space ahead, at the Charger in the distance, then at the train.

  Quick spatial reasoning said there was no way they could avoid the train.

  Mike was going to crash.

  At best, it would be the slimmest of margins.

  They closed in fast.

  Mal closed her eyes, bracing for an explosion.

  Mike screeched to a sudden stop.

  She opened her eyes and saw the train, inches from the SUV, speeding by, deafening, a wall of wind blasting their truck.

  “Fuck!” Mike screamed, punching the steering wheel with both fists.

  Wilson called into dispatch: they’d lost the Charger.

  Mal hoped that there were other officers en route from a different direction, or maybe they’d managed to get a chopper in the air, but her gut knew what her mind wasn’t yet willing to accept.

  The killer got away.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 18 - JORDYN PARISH

  The school gymnasium usually smelled like sweaty boys. But somehow, whoever put the dance together expunged the place of its reek, and decorated it so that it barely looked like a gym.

  Jordyn was stuck in the Circle of Calum, as Bobby called it behind his back, for the first half of the dance. The Circle was essentially Calum holding court with his friends, his girlfriend and her friends, and everyone else who wanted to be in their group. They kissed his ass, laughed at his off-color jokes, and acted like the adults held hostage in that Twilight Zone episode with the creepy kid who uses his powers to harm anyone who doesn’t amuse him.

  Jordyn was enjoying a happy buzz, not yet tipsy or pukey.

  After listening to Calum and Nate bust balls back and forth while the girls laughed at every punchline, Bobby finally managed to break them free and ask Jordyn to dance. Slow pop with a female singer, a song she vaguely recognized from hearing people playing it on their phones, but it wasn’t her style — which mostly consisted of 90s British music from, as her father called them, “effeminate men singing moody music.”

  Jordyn had never danced with a boy, so her heart galloped as she took his hand.

  He met her eyes and held her gaze.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, Jordan trying not to trip or worse. Maybe she shouldn’t look so hard. Was he going to think she was a creeper?

  She glanced around. Most of the girls were resting their heads on, pressed to their partner’s chest.

  Jordyn did the same.

  Bobby wore a light, sweet cologne. She loved it on him.

  His hands closed tighter around her waist, brought her closer to him.

  Her heart kept racing. She wondered if he could feel it against his chest. She tried to listen to his heart, to see if it was also beating fast, but the music was too loud.

  Oh, that wouldn’t seem weird at all.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered in her ear.

  Just the kind of thing she’d make fun of if a guy said it in a movie or TV show, but it worked well enough on Jordyn — melted her stomach and weakened her knees.

  She could feel her big, goofy smile.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He leaned forward and kissed Jordyn gently on the lips.

  Oh, my God!

  She didn’t know what to do. Open her mouth? Put her tongue in his mouth? What if she kissed like a fish?

  Jordyn closed her eyes and went with what felt right, hoping she didn’t mess up.

  His tongue slid into her mouth, just a little, and then the kiss was over.

  She opened her eyes and found him staring into hers, smiling.

  From his pleasure or her inexperience, Jordyn didn’t know.

  Mercifully, the song was over. The lights brightened, and a faster song started to play.

  Brianna and Calum ran over. “Come on!” Brianna said, her voice slurred and eyes red. “Time for Second Party!”

  “Second Party?” Jordyn asked.

  Calum said, “We got a suite at the Parke Grande.”

  “A hotel?”

  Brianna laughed, “Oh, honey, you thought this was the point of tonight?”

  “I dunno. My dad is expecting me home by midnight.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bobby said, “I’ll have you home at 11:59 PM.”

  Suddenly, Nate, Adam, Bethanee, and everyone else in the Circle of Calum were there, looking at Jordyn, their judgment on her like a stink. She could practically feel them thinking, Who doesn’t want to go to the after party? What kind of dork is she? She’s not one of us!

  She had heard of parties after dances, particularly proms, and while Jordyn hadn’t been to any, she knew a few girls who had. And according to them, they were typically alcohol and drug-fueled orgies. The sorts of places that Jordyn always thought she was too smart to go.

  As her father had said plenty of times, the best way to stay out of trouble was to stay away from people who found it.

  She’d always been good about that. It was easy to avoid those kinds of people when they didn’t want anything to do with you, and you traveled in different circles. But now she was going out with one of the most popular boys in school. She was part of the very sort of group that she’d always judged but had never taken the time to know.

  While they seemed like bitches and assholes collectively, individually they were perfectly nice. Most of them, anyway. She genuinely liked Bobby, a lot.

  And while they engaged in the sorts of things that got most people in trouble, Calum and his group never seemed to suffer a single consequence. They somehow floated above it all, immune to the pitfalls that befell so many kids.

  “Well,” Calum said, “is Cinderella coming with or heading home to her pumpkin?”

  Jordyn drew a deep breath, digging deep for the bravery required to bloom from the shy, introverted wallflower to the young, strong woman she yearned to be.

  “Yes.”

  Calum, Brianna, Bobby, and the others all cheered, then pushed her like a wave to the exit, and into the waiting limo.

  **

  The hotel suite was out of this world.

  It felt like a rich person’s home. The bathroom was all marble, and the tub looked like it could have held a half-dozen people. Twice that for the gorgeous shower, practically sparkling with thousands of tiny tiles. Pillow-top king-sized beds, Jordyn wasn’t even sure how many — she thought the place had four bedrooms. The living room was twice the size of Jordyn’s, and the city sprawled below like peasants at the foot of a mountain. Jordyn knew that Calum came from money — everyone had seen his Teslas — but this hotel was unbelievable.

  There were eight of them at the after party. Four guys, four girls. Calum and Brianna, Bobby and Jordyn, Adam and Bethanee, and Nate and Sammi.

  Music blasted as the group gathered around the bar and Bobby rolled joints with admirable skill.

  Jordyn found a spot on a couch, away from the group, anxious as she fondled a Corona that Adam had handed her. Two sips and she knew the drink was disgusting, but Jordyn smiled as she sipped. Better to nurse a bottle than call attention to herself by saying no.

  How long before the loud music attracted hotel staff? How long before police showed up to break up the party?

  Jordyn would never live it down if she got busted at a party like this. Dad would guilt trip her, and likely forbid her from going out with Bobby — not that they were officially dating.

  Are we?

  She wasn’t sure what the criteria were. The
y hung out a lot, and he asked her to the dance. He’d kissed her.

  But that didn’t make them a couple, did it? Did guys even ask girls to be their girlfriends? Or did people just slide right into a relationship?

  Jordyn wished her mom was still around. Sure, she hadn’t been a kid in about twenty years, but she probably knew how to navigate these waters better than Dad.

  She sat alone on the sofa, watching the group, trying to figure out how each of the couples ended up together. Nate was drinking a Corona while flicking through Snapchat, critiquing each girl’s shortcomings in clinical detail. Brianna and Bethanee occasionally cut in, either laughing at the unfortunate girl if she didn’t fit their standard of beauty or calling the girl a whore if she did.

  Calum sat back in a seat beside Bobby, smoking the first rolled joint, handed it to Nate, who took a drag, coughed, then passed it to Sammi.

  Just as Jordyn was starting to wonder how long before someone would urge her to smoke, Brianna, Bethanee, and Sammi all approached her, Brianna holding the joint.

  “Why are you sitting here by yourself? Here.” She passed the joint to Jordyn.

  Jordyn held it in her fingers, staring at it like a snake that might strike her.

  Brianna laughed, “Please tell me this isn’t your first smoke?”

  Jordyn shrugged her shoulders. “Um …”

  Brianna laughed harder.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Sammi held out her hand, offering to take the joint.

  “No,” Calum said, getting up from his spot beside Bobby. “She does have to. You don’t party with us and not party with us.”

  He approached Jordyn, stone faced, like she’d personally insulted him.

  Everyone was quiet, watching her.

  She couldn’t see past Calum to gauge Bobby’s reaction.

  “I’m sorry. I just never smoked before. I’m not judging you.”

  He stared at her. The room was silent.

  Her heart raced. She’d committed a horrible faux pas and didn’t even know it. And his eyes were so angry.