Dont Be a Hero

Salt Lake City Bound

The road was wide open and Jackson put the pedal to the metal. He had his favorite band blasting his favorite song. Superman's Dead by Our Lady Peace. In spite of the strange incident back at the station he felt hopeful and something told him everything would work itself out.

He kept his eye on the rear view mirror and made sure there wasn't anyone following him. He hadn't told anyone (not even Macy) where he was going. Staying on HWY 15, he would drive straight through Vegas, stop for something to eat, and then drive throughout the night right into Salt Lake City, his home town. He had questions. He needed answers. There was what felt like a physical pull, drawing him home. He had a feeling those answers would be there.

He had hardly blinked when he reached Las Vegas. It was the shorter part of the trip, but it was growing dark and he was hungry. He pulled the truck into the parking lot of an inconspicuous looking diner and hopped out. He looked around the small lot for anything suspicious. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he went inside.

A cute little brunette came to his table to take his order. After telling her what he wanted, he scooped up a newspaper that someone had left on the table next to his booth. The small restaurant was quiet. There were only two or three other patrons and the one waitress. He didn't look up again until she brought him his coffee.

When he set the paper down to smile at her, he scanned the other tables again and froze. His eyes landed on some new customers. Two men dressed much like the men he'd seen at the station. They must have come in quietly while he had been reading the paper. He knew they hadn't been there when he walked in.

They had yet to notice him, so he pulled the paper up in front of his face, but moved it into a position where he could keep an eye on the two men.

Just in case, he pulled a $20 from his wallet and placed it on the table. He didn't like the idea of fleeing without at least paying for the food he had ordered. 

The pretty waitress came over with his plate and he asked if she could bring him a to-go box, telling her he had just received a message and needed leave. She smiled and nodded before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Jackson peered out from around the newspaper. The men were looking around the diner casually. Suddenly one of them looked in his direction and stopped. Jackson knew he couldn't have seen all of his face, but he was sure he saw a flash of recognition in the man's eyes as though he'd found what he was looking for. He watched as the guy said something quietly to his partner.

They began to scoot out of their booth to stand up and Jackson shot from his seat. He made for the door. They were blocking his way and he could see they were planning to round him off and corner him.

With a sudden change in direction, he jumped over another booth and headed toward the kitchen. There had to be a back door. He nearly ran the waitress over and looked back at her apologetically.

"Sorry. Money's on the table," he called back at her. She just stood there with her mouth open. The cook let loose a barrage of Spanish insults at him as he navigated his way through the kitchen and finally out the back door.

He sprinted across the parking lot and reached his truck just as one of the men in suits burst through the front entry door. The other one must have followed him through the kitchen. 

Not waiting around to find out, Jackson jumped into the truck and started the engine. The man was running toward him. He could see anger and determination on his face. He threw the truck into reverse and floored it. The guy nearly got flattened, but jumped out of the way. Jackson jammed the truck into first gear and peeled away. The suited man lunged for the truck as he passed him and got a grip on the roll bar.