Dead or Alive
Trevion Burns
DEAD OR ALIVE
Copyright © 2014 by Trevion Burns
Editor: Celeste Mulholland
All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
To Ashley
1
Juror number five gave it away.
It was the downward curl of her lips, the naked disgust in her eyes, the way she tightened her wool sweater across her breasts at the mere sight of him. After seven long months of court proceedings, it was now crystal clear.
Remy Archibald’s life was over.
The rest of the jury milled sluggishly to their seats. They looked just as exhausted as he felt. Not one of them threw him even a passing glance. Not one, except for juror number five. The judge hadn’t officially read his verdict, and Remy didn’t need him to. His verdict was right there, sure as day, behind juror number five’s grim blue eyes.
Adjacent to the witness stand the judge was taking his own seat, nodding his acknowledgment to the only armed bailiff, who was tucked away in the corner. The bailiff was preoccupied, staring longingly at the slim, attractive court reporter who was also off in her own world, gazing vacantly ahead.
“Does the jury have a verdict?”
Remy’s ice blue eyes blinked to attention. They were already reading the verdict? He looked to his lawyer, who was avoiding eye contact with Remy completely, opting instead to scribble violently onto his notepad.
“We do, Your Honor.”
“What say you?”
“We the jury, find the defendant, Remington Jacob Archibald… Guilty.”
Guilty.
Remy wasn’t listening. He’d already known it was coming. Instead, his eyes were trained to the holster on the bailiff, who was slowly making his way over. The bailiff didn’t have his hand on his gun, and the clasp was snapped open, flapping in the air with each step he took. He was the same bailiff who’d taken Remy in and out of that courtroom for the last seven months. Remy had been a model prisoner, and the bailiff had eventually become lax, even sloppy, in his presence. Today was no exception, as his gun fully exposed, fully accessible.
It was a mistake the bailiff would remember for the rest of his life.
***
"Here we are outside of the courthouse in downtown Redding, where former Virgin America pilot, Remington Jacob Archibald, is being charged with the murder of his old co-worker, flight attendant Meredith Collins--This sucks. Damn it. I suck. I blow. I'm Jenna Jameson with a microphone." Violet Chambers let the mic in her hand fall to her side.
The lilac skirt suit that had looked so good in her apartment that morning was now damp and wrinkled, proving no match for the brutal, humid air. Her waist length hair, which she'd woken up an entire three hours early to flat iron, was now approaching Diana Ross status in pure volume. She couldn't recall the last time she'd seen a mirror that day, and could only imagine the mess her mascara and eyeliner had made of her face.
Looking into the bright red light that had stopped blinding her years ago, she sighed. "Miles, turn the camera off. Didn't you hear me? Jenna Jameson! I blow. Hard."
Miles, the lead cameraman at their small TV station, KLAV 13, poked his head out from behind the camera. He was a grad student in his mid-twenties, but thanks to his small build and giant brown eyes, he didn't look a day over sixteen. His features were enigmatic, dusky and thoroughly Italian. He smiled, a gesture that only made him look younger.
"You don't blow. You're nervous. You're letting your nerves consume you. Get it under control. This is a big day. This is a day that could change your entire life." He disappeared behind the camera before peeking back out quickly. "Your. Entire. Life."
"Thank you, Miles, really. That takes the pressure right off." She waved her arm in front of her with one eyebrow raised high on her face. She tugged the collar of her blouse desperately. "Is it hot as fuck out here, or is it just me? I look like shit, right?" Her brown eyes grew wide.
"You never look like shit."
"My confidence is dwindling more and more by the second. I mean, out of all the anchors down at the station our boss chose me. Nelson chose me. Me!"
"He couldn't have chosen a better girl."
"But I have no experience in live coverage."
"You don't need experience to do this. You just need the grit, the instinct, the looks. You've got all three and more."
She made an exaggerated pout. "They're going to find this man guilty, that's no secret, and I have to find a way to broadcast that verdict perfectly."
She looked out onto the streets in front of the courthouse where throngs of people had called out from work, travelled thousands of miles, and essentially pressed pause on their lives just to be here. The only difference between the crowd at most high profile celebrity trials and this one was that this crowd all seemed to be in agreement that the man who was on trial was, without question, guilty.
The public hatred for Remington Archibald had grown quickly in seven short months. He was the most hated man in the country, and half of that country was here today to see that he be punished accordingly.
"Crazy,” Violet whispered, unable to take her eyes off of the madness.
Then it hit her. Her head snapped back to Miles, eyes bright.
He peeked out, again. "Uh oh, you look constipated. That means you're having a thought."
"I am having a thought." She bit her lip. "Oh fuck, now I'm having an idea."
Miles raised his eyebrows, the smile growing on his face.
Violet's eyes were wide in his. "Let's go inside."
His smile vanished. "Inside? It’s a closed courtroom. You won’t even make it past the front door.”
“I used to be a lawyer, remember? Once they extended the police station into a courthouse, I was at this building practically every day. I know all the secret ways in.” If it was possible, Violet's eyes grew. "We don't have much time, let’s go. Run!"
“Uhm--”
She turned on her heel and jetted towards the doors of the courthouse as quickly as her sky-high heels would allow. As she circled a few corners, expertly dodging the heavily armed guards at each entrance, she only hoped Miles was still behind her.
***
The bailiff's keys jingled on his hips with every step he took toward Remy. The very keys that would lock Remy into a cell where he’d live and die alone for a crime he didn’t commit.
I can’t go back, Remy thought, almost paralyzed at the idea of going back to prison.
His eyes stayed riveted to the bailiff’s keys and the open gun holster right next to it.
"I’m innocent. I didn't do this,” he croaked, jamming his eyes shut when the bailiff took his arm and pulled him to his feet.
Without another thought, Remy snatched his arm from the surprised bailiffs grasp and clutched his shoulders, kneeing him firmly in the groin. The bailiff doubled over, and Remy took hold of the exposed gun on his hip, removing it in one swift move.
A heavy gasp shook the walls, immediately followed by horrified screams. Left and right, jurors and onlookers fell to the ground, some screaming, some crying, and some crawling for the nearest exit. Even the judge, who was anything but a wallflower, was pressed back against his monstrous leather cha
ir, stunned silent.
Remy stared down at the gun in his hand like he'd never seen one before. He contemplated giving it back, apologizing, saying he didn't know what he was thinking to have grabbed it, at all.
The bailiff’s palms flew up in surrender, and Remy knew there was no turning back. He'd just made the biggest bed of his life and now he’d have to lay in it. The heavy metal trembled in his grasp, so he cradled it in both hands, attempting to steady it while pointing it straight at the bailiff.
"Back away from me slowly,” he commanded, scarcely recognizing his own voice.
The bailiff complied. Remy waited until he was three, four, five steps back, before bolting for the large swinging doors of the courtroom. Every row of pews he passed elicited a new set of terrified screams from onlookers who were sure their fate was in the hands of a murderous lunatic.
Remy burst through the doors, stunned to see the courthouse hallway nearly empty. No guns, no cops. No nothing. He looked to his left, his right. Not one cop. Not one threat. Apparently word of his escape had yet to get out.
He hurriedly scanned his surroundings. It was a dead end in every direction, except for an exit door to his far left. It led to a stairway which would surely serve no purpose but to barricade him in once the police got word of his getaway.
Remy cursed. Time was running out. He quickly took in his surroundings a second time.
The few reporters who’d been cleared to be in the building were so busy documenting his guilty conviction that they hadn’t even noticed his presence. He took advantage of their oblivion and started towards the courthouse’s large marble staircase, moving as swiftly and discreetly as possible. Not walking, but not quite running.
Then, just like that, there she was.
Remy stopped moving, mid-step, as his eyes landed on the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Violet stood in a horrified, stony silence as she found herself face to face with Remington Jacob Archibald, a man who’d just been convicted of first-degree murder--with a gun in his hand. She had half a mind to run, to scream, but her legs were frozen in place. All logic ceased to exist. The only thing that existed in Violet's mind was the fact that she was about to make history.
No one else had even realized he was in the room. This would be a KLAV exclusive! Her chest heaved and, unable to break her wide-eyes away from Remy, she spoke to Miles over her shoulder. “Are you getting this?"
Remy almost laughed out loud. Unbelievable! Reporters! They would risk even their own necks just to get the money shot. She was the one person that day who hadn't fallen right to the floor at the very sight of him, and for that, she would hold Remy’s affection in a way he could never explain. Did she believe he was innocent? She must have. She didn’t seem the least bit afraid.
Even amidst the danger, Violet couldn’t help noticing that with his thick, dirty blonde hair, chiseled jaw and icy blue eyes, Remington Archibald was every bit as obscenely handsome as he came off on T.V., and much taller, broader. She took the time to appreciate this, even as her life hung indisputably in the balance.
Remy took in her porcelain face, shadowed beautifully by a head of impossibly thick, spiraling hair. His gaze fell to the slim brown legs that were jetting out past her lilac mini-skirt. Her knees visibly shook. He couldn’t help imagining himself between them.
Then, just like that, there it was.
"Freeze!"
Stunned back to reality, Remy panicked, and immediately reached out, grabbing the flap of the beautiful stranger’s open blazer in a flash. Her brown eyes, which were just a touch too big for her face, grew bigger still when the weight of the situation finally seemed to dawn on her. Skillfully, she axed her slim arm between his hand and her blazer just as Remy was pulling her toward him, freeing herself, before breaking into a run.
Remy was too large, however, too fast. His arm was around her waist in an instant, seizing her effortlessly and pulling her body back to him before pressing the gun to her temple. Her shocked gasp rang in Remy’s ears just as a slew of policeman came barreling up the staircase, guns drawn. Remy immediately backed into the wall, tightening his hold around her slim waist when she stumbled in her high heels.
“Freeze Archibald!”
“Drop the gun now!”
At the sound of the blood chilling police commands they’d surely only heard on television, every head in the place finally snapped toward Remy and Violet. Whether it was the sight of his face or the gun in his hand that sent horror racing through the veins of every soul in the room, Remy wasn’t sure, but piercing screams erupted at every angle. Bodies dove to the floor. Arms of surrender immediately flew up.
Remy couldn’t believe his eyes. Seven months ago he’d been a regular guy just doing what he loved, flying airplanes, and now people were hitting the floor at the mere sight of him. He understood that the gun in his hand wasn’t helping his cause, but he couldn't help feeling betrayed by his own country. His own people. He was an innocent man. Was this justice?
In mere seconds, every civilian in the room was on the floor, covering their heads with their hands.
Violet’s chest heaved as her eyes leapt between the dozens of police officers who now stood before she and Remy, guns drawn. Though they all seemed desperate to not only shoot Remy, but shoot him dead, none of them did. None of them took the shot. The truth of the matter finally dawned on her. She was a hostage, and they couldn’t take the chance of shooting her by mistake. A horrible regret flooded her. Every other reporter in the room, the arguably smarter reporters, had gone right for the floor. All except her. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
"Let the girl go!"
A gun cocked.
"There's no way out, Archibald, don't be an idiot. Let her go now and we can talk about this.”
Remy almost laughed. Talk about what? There was nothing left to talk about. Did they think he was a complete idiot?
He wasn’t an idiot. He was now a man with nothing to lose.
"I'll kill her,” he croaked. The looks on the faces around him, and the way the woman in his arms seemed to have stopped breathing altogether, proved that they all believed him. They all believed he would kill this beautiful angel in his arms.
Violet could feel his warm, strangled breath against the back of her ear. She began shaking from head to toe.
Remy felt her body quivering against his own. It was curved up against him just right. He held her taunt, right at her rip cage, just below her pert breasts. It had been so long since he'd touched a woman. If he had to die today, this was surely the way to go. He was momentarily entranced, but only momentarily.
"Violet--let her go you son of a bitch!”
Remy’s eyes flew to a young Italian kid who had one fist clenched around a camera, and the other around a small pocket knife, looking about ready to commit murder himself for the woman Remy now knew as 'Violet.’
"Miles. Don't be stupid. Get down on the ground," Violet said, as calmly as she could.
Remy was shocked when she spoke, and pressed the gun into her skull with more force. "Shut up,” he demanded.
Violet was the one who’d dragged Miles in here in the first place, and she’d never forgive herself if something happened to him. When Miles didn’t comply with her demand, she blubbered. "Please, Miles, just get down on the ground!”
“I said shut the hell up.”
Violet pressed her lips together, jamming her eyes shut in relief when Miles finally got down. Her eyes popped back open when another officer cried out.
"Archibald! Drop the gun or we will shoot!"
Remy didn’t comply, losing his breath when at least twenty more cops came barreling up the stairs. Recalling the exit door he’d seen behind him, he took one step back. Everyone flinched, but no one took that shot. Keeping his back to the wall, he took another slow step back, then one more after that, taking her with him until they were full on walking. Walking! He was going to walk right out of the building with this woman. All along h
e'd been wrong. The gun wasn't what held the power, the hostage was.
They made it to the exit door, with every cop slowly following after them, each attempting to talk Remy down. His fingers dug into Violet’s heaving ribcage. With every step they took, the curve of her plump ass brushed against his orange prison pants with more and more force. He blinked rapidly, his breath picking up. Was this her strategy? To distract him with her beautiful body?
If it was her strategy, it was brilliant. And it was working. Remy swallowed hard, willing himself to focus.
"Back up!" he cried to the dozens of officers surrounding him, guns drawn. Some moved back, others didn't. Frustrated, Remy fired two quick rounds in the air. Wails and hollers filled the room, and the woman in his arms almost collapsed to her knees, but he held her steadfast, pressing the barrel of the gun to the side of her waist this time. “Back the fuck up!"
This time, the gun wielding officers listened. Slowly, guns still pointed directly at him, they began to back away. Some tried to reason with him, and others looked anxious to kill him right where he stood. Clearly there was a commanding officer somewhere who was ordering them to hold their fire. If an innocent female reporter was killed in a police shoot-out, with cameras all around, it would be all their asses on the line.
At that point, Violet wanted them to take the risk. She would’ve told them, but the lingering shock of this lunatic setting off the gun had left her too stunned to speak.
Remy backed up into the exit door. It clicked open, and he dragged Violet in with him.
The door slammed closed.
***
Violet’s chest heaved, and sweat droplets began to form on her upper lip as she climbed the exit stairwell, never losing sight of the hand gripping her shoulder, or the gun pressed to the small of her back. She could hear Remy struggling for air behind her as well. They’d circled at least five stories, and she was silently thanking god for the gym across the street from her house. The Stairmaster was her favorite machine, and Violet was sure she could out-climb this bastard any day, if that’s what it came to.
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