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  BACK TRACK

  Jason Dean

  Copyright © 2013 Jason Dean

  The right of Jason Dean to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2013

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 0 7553 8310 8

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  About the Book

  Sometimes a man must take a step back to move forwards . . .

  In a small, sleepy Pennsylvania town, the staff of a loan store find themselves at the mercy of a gunman who demands they hand over the store’s entire cash reserves. But when the sound of police sirens shatters the silence sooner than expected, the robber is forced to take a young female customer hostage in order to make his escape.

  Former Marine James Bishop is no stranger to being on the wrong side of the law. Finally a free man, with his name cleared, he has the chance to get his life back on track. But as he flees the scene of the hold-up with his terrified hostage, he once again finds himself a wanted man . . .

  Prison can change some people. But has it changed James Bishop?

  About the Author

  Jason Dean was born in South London in 1966. He spent many years as a graphic designer before turning his talent to writing and deciding to write the kind of American thrillers he’d always loved to read. He lives in Thailand with his wife and is currently working on his third James Bishop novel.

  By Jason Dean and available from Headline

  The Wrong Man

  Backtrack

  To my wife, Nok – for all the reasons in the world.

  ONE

  James Bishop put on his sunglasses and got out of the silver Toyota Camry. He didn’t say anything to the driver. There was no need. He shut the door, adjusted his leather jacket and checked his watch. 09.12. Then he turned and headed north along Main Street at a steady stroll. Neither fast nor slow. As though he had some specific destination in mind, but wasn’t in any rush to get there.

  Which was true enough to a point.

  It was a warm Tuesday. Warm for early May, anyway. The sun was out, but there was also a cool breeze to take the edge off. Good spring weather. Even better when you were experiencing it outside a prison cell. Almost nine months since Bishop had gotten out and the novelty of walking around in fresh, pristine air still hadn’t entirely worn off.

  Parked vehicles already lined both sides of the street, but Bishop saw little actual traffic. Scratching his beard, he looked around as he walked and counted six other pedestrians. The town of Louisford, here in eastern Pennsylvania, was still in the process of waking up. Most of the stores were either still closed or just opening. That was one of the things Bishop liked about small towns. That casual indifference towards scheduled hours.

  But there were also plenty of places that opened on time, day in, day out. Banks. Post offices. Franchise stores. Especially the franchise stores. They took customer care a little more seriously. Like the small Starbucks over there. Bishop could already see a small queue of people inside, waiting at the cash register for their morning caffeine fix.

  But it was a franchise of a different kind that Bishop was heading towards. The one situated at the end of the street about two hundred yards away.

  Bishop saw an elderly local coming his way, led by a black Labrador on a leash. The guy nodded a ‘good morning’ to Bishop, who smiled and nodded back. Once they’d passed each other, Bishop immediately lost the smile and carried on walking until he reached his destination seventy-two seconds later.

  The cheque-cashing store was one of hundreds operating under the Standard Star umbrella. Most offered cash advances, too, but Bishop knew Pennsylvania was one of fifteen states that had either outlawed payday loans or capped the excessive interest rates to such an extent that there wa
s no profit in it. Which probably made the banks happy, at least.

  Bishop stood looking through the windows for two seconds before turning back to the street. Long enough for the interior to be imprinted on his mind in every detail.

  It was still the same.

  This branch had a row of four partitioned counters behind bullet-resistant glass and an ATM near the entrance. Closed circuit cameras in the ceiling covered each counter. A pair of customers – a bald, middle-aged guy and a young blonde woman – were being served at two of the counters. Following a rash of cheque-cashing store robberies over the past six months, the owners had obviously felt the need for a uniformed security guard, too. He’d been standing next to the ATM. Bishop figured late fifties. Overweight with a prominent pot belly. Probably a retired cop. Holstering an old service Walther 9mm and clearly bored beyond belief.

  Bishop used a hand to brush the dark hair away from his eyes and checked the street. Empty of traffic now. He looked at his watch again. 09.14. Time to go to work.

  He removed his sunglasses before pulling a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipping them on. As he reflected on how it had come down to this, he recalled a lesson that had been drilled into him more than once in the Marine Corps: that anybody’s life can turn on a single event. It was true. He’d experienced one of those events already, and wondered if he was about to again. If he did, he’d have nobody to blame but himself.

  Well, too late to worry about it now, he thought. Besides, I’ve got no other choice.

  Then he walked over to the entrance, pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  TWO

  Bishop paused just inside the door. The guard watched him and gave a welcoming nod. Public relations at work. You can wear a gun, but be nice to potential customers or you’re gone.

  Bishop walked over. He put a frown on his face as though he wanted to ask a question, but wasn’t sure whom to ask. The guard watched him approach. Once he’d closed the distance, Bishop turned so the cashiers couldn’t see, leaned in and pulled the .357 Smith & Wesson from his waistband. Jamming the five-inch barrel into the guard’s ample midsection, he said, ‘You know what this is, so don’t do anything dumb. They don’t pay you enough.’ At the same time, he used his right hand to unlatch the guard’s holster and pull out the Walther.

  ‘Hey,’ the guard said, wheezing. ‘Are you crazy? You can’t do this.’

  ‘I am doing it,’ Bishop said, sliding the magazine out one-handed and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He also ejected the chambered round and saw it land on the floor. ‘Relax and keep your voice down. A couple of minutes from now, this’ll all be over.’ After checking to make sure the guard carried no extra ammo, he placed the Walther back in the guy’s holster and said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yeah, your first name. What is it?’

  The guard looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but Bishop noticed he’d stopped wheezing. ‘Randolph,’ he said.

  ‘Is that Randolph or Randy?’

  ‘It’s Randy to my friends. To jerks like you, it’s Randolph.’

  Bishop smiled. ‘Okay, Randolph. Now I figure you’re the one holds the keys to the front door, right?’ Bishop already knew this was so, but wanted Randolph to get in the habit of answering his questions. Simple psychology, but it made things easier in the long run.

  ‘Yeah,’ Randolph said.

  ‘Good. What say we go over and lock it so nobody else walks in. Right now.’

  Still keeping his back to the cashiers, Bishop walked slowly with Randolph to the entrance and watched him pull a key chain from his utility belt. The guard picked a key, inserted it into the lock and turned it a hundred and eighty degrees clockwise. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.

  ‘Not that I don’t believe you,’ Bishop said, ‘but try pushing the door for me.’

  Randolph pressed a hand against the frame. The door didn’t move.

  ‘Good,’ Bishop said. He took the keys from the guard’s hand while he studied the street outside. Still empty except for the occasional vehicle passing by. ‘Okay, Randolph. Let’s go over to the counters now.’

  Randolph turned and Bishop stayed at his back as they walked towards the rear of the store. Bishop quickly stooped down to pick up the extra round he’d dropped as he passed. He didn’t want Randolph getting any ideas. When they were a couple of feet away from the counters, Bishop said, ‘Walk over to the first counter and just stand there.’

  He waited as Randolph did as he was told, watching the two cashiers’ faces. The woman serving the bald guy was the first to notice something was wrong. The eyes behind her glasses grew wide when she saw Bishop. She said something to her male colleague, who was in conversation with the woman customer. The man immediately stopped talking and stared at Bishop with his mouth open.

  ‘Okay, everybody,’ Bishop said. ‘Hands where I can see them. I’m here for the company’s money, not yours. So no heroics.’

  The two customers jumped at his voice and turned round. The blonde woman saw the cannon in his hand and took a sharp intake of breath. The bald guy said, ‘What? Hey, wait a minute. I ain’t even—’

  ‘Everybody relax,’ Bishop said, cutting him off. ‘This’ll soon be over and then you can all go back to your normal lives. But right now, I want you and you,’ and he pointed the gun briefly at the two customers, ‘to stand over there with Randolph and just be quiet. I’m calm right now, but if you play up I’ll get angry and you really don’t want that. And keep your cell phones in your pockets. They make me angry, too.’

  Bishop watched the woman nudge the man. Then they both shuffled to the left and stood next to Randolph a few feet away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Randolph said. ‘Everything’ll be fine. Just do what he says.’

  The bald guy snorted and just looked at him. ‘You kidding me, Randy?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Bishop said. ‘Now shut up.’

  He stepped forward and faced the male cashier at the third window. Placing the revolver in plain sight on the counter, he glanced at his name badge and said, ‘You stay right there, John. Don’t move.’ He turned to the bespectacled woman, noted her name badge and said, ‘Leanne, I want every note in the place except singles. You’ll put them in a bag fast as you can and when you’re done you’ll pass it through to me. Got that?’

  Neither cashier moved. Neither of them said anything. Bishop knew they probably felt safe as houses behind the thick wall of glass. And that the only reason they weren’t running out the back was because of the two customers on this side. He also knew one of them had already triggered a silent alarm somewhere, but he’d planned for that.

  Bishop tapped the gun barrel against the glass and said, ‘Leanne, the only thing separating us right now is a three-quarter-inch thick layer of polycarbonate. You know why they call this glass bullet-resistant and not bullet-proof?’

  Leanne’s eyes were orbs. She swallowed and gave a small shake of her head.

  ‘It’s because they don’t want to get sued for false advertising.’ He tapped the glass with the barrel again. ‘Now this is a .357 Magnum loaded with light-grain, 125-gram hollow-points. And the main advantage of using a light-grain round is it travels a lot faster than a normal bullet. Fast enough to zip right through this glass like it was rice paper. I’ve seen it happen. Which means there really isn’t anything separating us at all. Randolph, I’m guessing you were a cop once. Convince Leanne I’m not making this up. I don’t want to have to give John here an extra eye to prove my point.’

  Randolph said, ‘He’s not making it up. Get the money.’

  Neither cashier moved. They were probably still in shock. Bishop needed to get things moving. He tapped the barrel against the glass again. ‘Three,’ he said.

  He paused. Tapped again. ‘Two.’

  Pause. Tap. ‘One.’

  John suddenly came out of his trance and said, ‘No, don’t. Please.’ He turned to Leanne. ‘Quick. Get him the m
oney.’

  Bishop watched Leanne jump off her stool and look round the room. She knelt down, picked something off the floor and came back with a small canvas sack. Then she started rummaging around under the counter and sorting through notes.

  ‘When you finish here, Leanne, don’t forget to get the rest from the manager’s office out back. I’m sure he’ll help once you fill him in.’

  Leanne nodded as she worked and Bishop turned to look at the three in the corner. He ignored their stares and checked his watch. 09.17. It changed to 09.18. Then he heard the sound of sirens. Two vehicles, it sounded like. And not far away. Maybe three or four blocks at most.

  ‘Faster, Leanne,’ he said, and then heard the sound of a horn out front. He turned and saw the silver Toyota right outside. The driver, Sayles, was behind the wheel looking back at him, moving his head back and forth like a rooster. Then he looked behind as the sirens got louder. Sayles beeped the horn once more. He stared at Bishop for a long moment. Then he shook his head, revved the engine and just took off.

  Without expression, Bishop watched him disappear. Sayles was there, then he wasn’t. Just gone. Bishop allowed a long breath to escape from his lips.

  The sirens were getting much louder now. Probably already at the next block. Looked like from here on in he was on his own. Bishop stared at a spot on the floor for a moment and then at the three people in the corner.

  Well, not alone, exactly.

  He focused on the woman. Early twenties. Very pretty, if pale. Five-six, slim, with straight blond hair down to her shoulders and large blue eyes. Wearing a long-sleeved baseball shirt and jeans. Gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

  She must have felt his gaze on her. She turned her face from the direction of the sirens and stared at him. Bishop thought she looked plenty scared.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  She paused. Swallowed. ‘Sonja Addison.’

  Bishop heard the screeching of tyres in the street outside and then the sirens cut out entirely. He turned and saw flashing red lights reflected in the store windows opposite, but that was all. Turning back to the girl, Bishop reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a set of nylon flex cuffs and said, ‘Okay, Sonja. Step over here.’