Molly's Run: Book Two of the Maison de Danse Quartet

By Greg Jolley

Nothing's slowing this girl down. Not the law, not her crimes, not her ugly and checkered past.

Molly Danser is a master thief, sharp as a razor and with no boundaries, racking in riches with her brilliant, high-tech bank hits. Fighting her private demons, she and her partner, Alison, depart the Isle o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Épouvantail Books, LLC
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087998862

Greg Jolley

Greg Jolley earned a Master of Arts in Writing from the University of San Francisco. He is the author of the suspense novels about the fictional Danser family. He lives in the Very Small town of Ormond Beach, Florida.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Part One - Flight

Chapter One - The Race

Chapter Two - Jackpotting

Chapter Three - ‘A flyin’ Molly’

Chapter Four - Paris to St. Augustine

Chapter Five - Chad

Chapter Six - Cracking

Chapter Seven - Room 27

Chapter Eight - Hillary & Peaches

Chapter Nine - Treetop Flyer

Chapter Ten - Bridge of Lions

Chapter Eleven - F’in Guttersnipe

Chapter Twelve - The Intracoastal

Chapter Thirteen - Climb your Hill

Chapter Fourteen - Home

Chapter Fifteen - Eye in the Sky

Chapter Sixteen - The Trouble Room

Chapter Seventeen - Hiding in the Rain

Chapter Eighteen - On the Beach

Part Two - Maison de Danse

Chapter Nineteen - A Wise Old Hawk

Chapter Twenty - The Big House

Chapter Twenty-One - Lillie

Chapter Twenty-Two - Aunt Izzy

Chapter Twenty-Three - Three Suites

Chapter Twenty-Four - Prison Life

Chapter Twenty-Five - Swimming with the Dead

Chapter Twenty-Six - Ping-o

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Underground

Chapter Twenty-Eight - LAND ON THE LAWN

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Dry Ice

Chapter Thirty - Lost and Taken

Chapter Thirty-One - Blood and Rain

Chapter Thirty-Two - Molly and April

Chapter Thirty-Three - On the Run

Part Three - The Island

Chapter Thirty-Four - The Gulf

Chapter Thirty-Five - Waiting for a Call

Chapter Thirty-Six - North Captiva

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Morphine

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Some Idiot

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Calling Molly

Chapter Forty - Shame

Chapter Forty-One - A Pink Melon

Chapter Forty-Two - Cornered

Chapter Forty-Three - Twenty-One Days

Chapter Forty-Four - Blizzard

About the Author

Part One

Flight

If you want to live, you must walk.

If you want to live long, you must run.

~ Jinabhai Navik

Chapter One

The Race

Molly was flying on the razor’s edge, her motorcycle at full throttle. Cresting the Ballaugh Bridge, she was airborne at a hundred miles per hour, not letting off, eyes to the next turn.

When the rear tire kissed the roadway thirty yards out, the front wheel was still in the air. She leaned forward and laid the bike hard to the left for the upcoming sweeper.

Flashing past the inside of the turn, inches from the curb and almost kissing the corner of a bistro, she came out in a power slide, the fat rear tire burning the pavement. Screaming up at her was the Sulby crossroad, a dog leg. Hitting both brakes, she downshifted twice and lay the motorcycle on its side, first to the right and then the left, accelerating up the twisting, narrow road between the village buildings. A series of right-left flicks were next. She took the first in fourth gear, followed by a tap of brake, then kicking down into third gear, laying the bike over for the next turn, knee pad skidding on the roadway.

Nailed you, Molly bit off through clenched teeth.

She was a third of the way home—on the run again, at perilous speed. Like her life, the motorcycle had no rearview mirrors. Looking back was pointless; success was all about handling the next twist up ahead.

Taking the tight right turn in the village square, rear tire scarring the cobblestones, she sent up spray from the morning rains. Handlebars cocked, the bike came out of the turn sideways in a controlled power slide. It dragged off speed, but Molly was hard on the throttle and working through the gears, the rear end twitching with each aggressive shift. Passing within inches of a right-side haw bale, the row of shop fronts blurred by. Before her, the road unfolded to a straightaway of open countryside. Trees and concrete abutments flashed by as she kicked her bike into top gear.

Her modified Kawasaki ZX-10R wasn’t a motorcycle as much as pure, unleashed, screaming-loud horsepower—a 1000cc high-speed machine. Her bike had wider-than-normal handlebars, which added three inches on each side and caused aerodynamic loss but gave her the leverage and control she needed.

The engine was wound out at maximum rpm as she took the long turns without lifting, hitting each apex by laying the bike over at 130 miles per hour. Sunlight flickered through the overhanging trees and played devil with her ability to pick out her left and right turning lines. It helped that she knew the roads, knew the turns. Approaching fast was the switchback near the stonebreaker’s hut. With a nudge on both brakes—a tad more on the rear—and three fast downshifts while laying the bike low, she took the first bend with a slight wobble that she fought with throttle and steering.

Almost home, Molly exhaled, her jaw locked inside her helmet.

Her kneepad skimming through a puddle, she took a hard right and opened the bike up for all it was worth, redlining at each shift, exhaust screaming. The narrow country road unwound before her as she made another series of left and right turns, inches from stone walls and dense hedgerows.

Five turns later, she entered a second village, roaring past two locals in heavy coats and wool caps, gawking at her from the sidewalk. The rear tire clipped the brick curb in front of the roadside tavern, upsetting her balance but not slowing her up. Her knee barked and scrapped the cobblestones. A twist of the throttle and a quick shift in weight got her right. She was close now, the fifty-nine-kilometer chase nearly over.

Molly was up into sixth gear when she approached Governor’s bridge. She didn’t slow as she went up the rise and was launched off it. As she flew, she shifted down two gears and balanced the bike before the tires struck wet pavement again.

The suspension compressed, absorbing the impact of the landing with no speed loss. Ahead of her was another hard left. This time, she braved it without lifting. Gripping the handlebars hard, she lay the bike over, aiming it just right.

Most the of the morning’s rain had left standing puddles, stealing time from her in tenths of seconds.

At:

13:01: 21 Her knee pad scraped.

13:01: 23 The rear tire kissed a curb.

13:01: 26 Molly reacted by beginning to turn into the slide.

13:01: 28 The spinning rear tire burned over the curb.

13:01: 31 She cranked the handlebars harder, determined to wrest control.

13:01: 35 The rear tire spun in the air and struck a lamppost standard.

13:01: 39 "No!" Molly roared in rage and frustration.

13:01: 41 She cranked the handlebars, not lifting, still determined.

13:01: 47 I’ve got this, Molly hissed, teeth clenched.

13:01: 51 Everything was ruined.

Molly was still going for it all, refusing to lift, still fighting beyond all reason. The suspension mounts broke on impact and parts flew. The bike rose and started to cartwheel. As it cantered and flipped, she was launched off.

Hitting the cobblestones thirty yards forward, her helmet and shoulder took the first blow before her legs spun overhead. Thrown off her bike like a test dummy with her arms and legs akimbo, she scraped and rolled up the road.

The bike came to its end by crashing into a brick doorway, exploding into flames.

Molly stopped skidding and lay completely still. Witnesses were shouting, pointing, but not moving to her. They looked on in stunned disbelief, their faces growing sadder with each passing second.

Molly still lay sprawled on the street. She flexed her fingers and bent her left arm to tilt her helmet visor open.

A man ran out to her. He knelt at her side with his arms out, afraid to touch her and do more damage. Black smoke from the burning fuel crossed from the motorcycle, rolling over the two of them and obscuring the view for others looking on.

Can you hear me? Don’t move, the man cautioned her. Lay still. Help is coming.

Others were taking tentative steps toward the scene, wanting to assist or to get a better view of the fallen rider. A group of men were tackling the motorcycle fire with extinguishers.

Molly turned her head and stared past the man bent over her, ignoring his pleas to not move. Her head rose for a better look.

So close, she growled, her voice muffled by helmet padding. She was within one turn of home. Eyes stinging—not from tears, but from the smoke and road dust—she propped herself up onto one elbow before rolling onto her side.

Don’t move anymore. Seriously, the man cautioned. Wait for the ambulance, please.

Molly nodded and ignored him. Her interior radar scanned her feet, legs, back, and arms. Moving each enough to be sure, she turned her head from side to side, testing her neck.

All safe and sound, she breathed to herself, all fear quickly dissolving.

She rose onto her knees, placing her hands on the roadway for balance.

The other motorcycle that had chased her all the way screamed past. She kept her head lowered until the rider was into the next turn and out of sight.

Please, don’t move anymore, the man at her side implored.

Instead of heeding his plea, Molly rose, swaying. The man took her elbow and steadied her. Molly was tempted to wrest his hand off, but she allowed it; he was trying to help. She started up the road, her steps determined but cautious, her balance tilted. Before her was the village road, lined with shops and cafés. As she took a few more steps, her new companion saw she was moving steadily on her own and let go of her elbow.

At the end of the street was the sharp turn her pursuer had disappeared around.

He didn’t get me, Molly breathed. It was small reward, considering she had failed to make it all the way.

Her gloved hands clenched and loosened, releasing taunt energy and some of the bitter frustration.

She walked further up the road, ignoring the crowd gathered around, and crossed the finish line before climbing over the low wall into the pit lane. Her stall was twenty-five yards ahead. Alison, her compadre in crime, was watching her closely and not uttering a word, knowing better.

Molly wrested her helmet off and flung it, clouting Alison’s array of toolboxes.

A microphone was thrust before her from the side, nearly tapping her chin; it came from one of the local newsmen.

Miss Danser! Rough go of it, but you seem okay. Your time was brilliant. Tell the viewers, please, what happened after Governor’s bridge?

Molly pulled off her Nomex shroud and balled it up in her gloves. She turned slowly to the reporter, her eyes greeting him like he was a snake on the hunt. Her hair was damp and clung to her skull and her thin lips were pulled back, revealing fine white teeth. As her hard gaze struck, the reporter took a step back.

Right with that, a bit nattered. Perhaps later? he turned from her to the cameraman.

For those viewers just joining us, as you’ve seen, the Isle of Man TT motorcycle race is a throwback to the deadly days of road racing. This racetrack often repays error with death and critical injuries. It’s an absurdly fast race through city streets and the countryside on narrow lanes lined with buildings and trees. Let’s move on and see if we can’t get a word from the Ducati team.

Molly waited until the reporter was out of earshot before accepting the water bottle Alison was offering her. She took a large gulp, rinsed her mouth, and spit before pouring the remainder on her head and face.

Bike’s ruined. You gonna kill me? she asked Alison.

You’re doing fine on your own, he grinned. I’ll collect the remains and get them in the pod after the last rider’s through.

The modified Kawasaki ZX 10R was his handiwork. Molly did her best to assist, but Alison was the brains of their two-member race team. The bike had been his work of art: a titanium frame fitted to the maxed-out engine, enhanced aerodynamics, masterfully tweaked handlebars and throttle bias to suit Molly’s aggressive, late-braking racing style.

Now it was to be laid to rest on a lorry, wheeled to the back of the pits after the race ended and deposited in parts in their race pod for the return flight to the States.

How’s the wrist? Alison asked.

Molly had broken it at the Tropea, Italy road race five weeks earlier. She raised her arm and rotated the wrist, refusing to grimace.

Duct tape, please, she asked, needing to wrap it firmly in place for the night. The day before, she had sawed off the cast before entering herself and her bike for inspection.

Alison tore off a length while Molly peeled her leathers down to her hips. Rolling up the sleeve of her Nomex underwear, she held her arm out to him. As Alison wound the tape around her wrist, she looked out to the street. Another bike roared past, to a spatter of applause.

How close was I? she asked, loud enough to be heard over the din.

Three-tenths off first place, but closing, until… Alison measured out a second length of tape and tore it off.

A member of the race team in the next box stepped over to offer his condolences.

Nasty spill, that, he said. You’re looking no worse for it.

Thank you, she found a smile, not feeling it at all.

You nearly nailed it, he continued. Fine form until… well, you know.

Don’t rip out his throat. He’s being kind, Molly thought, feeling like she had been stabbed in the gut.

Right, she managed to get out. Your times? she asked. See, I can be nice.

Middling. We’re down seven percent on horsepower.

Alison finished rounding the tape on Molly’s wrist. Seeing his friend struggling with the chatter, he put an end to it.

Thanks, mate. Gotta get her checked out through ER. Good luck with your times.

Yes, the man responded before adding to Molly, Ugly spill. Good to see you upright.

Molly managed to smile again and stood shoulder to shoulder with Alison until the man returned to his own team.

Let’s get to the hotel, Molly said. There’s nothing more for us here today.

You go ahead. I’ll see to the bike and join you.

There was no mention by either of wasting time with the medical team at the back of the pits.

Thanks. I need to pack the tools for tonight, Molly said.

Grab yourself a hot shower, first. And a snack.

I might.

They both knew she wouldn’t, not until she had packed and repacked the modified endoscope and other items needed to illegally crack the ATM at the Douglas Ferry depot. They were going to hit the machine in the wee hours for at least two duffel bags of Euros.

Chapter Two

Jackpotting

Molly left the Rutland Hotel at 2:45 AM, her canvas satchel—filled with the necessary tools—slung over her left shoulder, two empty duffels over the other. Much like the lobby she had crossed, the streets were late-night dead. Her rented Vespa waited for her, parked at the curb just aways up the sidewalk. Above her, the three-quarter moon was hidden behind dark, slow-rolling clouds. Mindful of the CCTV cameras along the street, she stayed to the shadows.

Alison watched Molly from a window inside the hotel, tracing her until she reached the scooter. She was dressed in all-black, skin-tight silks. Earlier in the night, she had changed her hair and eye colors to a rich dark chocolate. He could make out her lithe, muscular body as she approached her ride, all faux casual, as if she was just another late-night wandering tourist—who just so happened to be cruising the street with three large bags.

He couldn’t hear the Vespa start but saw the spray of its headlight. Seconds later, he saw Molly pull out onto the road. As she headed out into the darkness, he whispered.

Be quick. Be safe, he put has hand flat on the glass. This was the toughest part of the business, the bit Molly always insisted on doing alone. He did all of the exacting research, technical design and builds; her part was cracking the cash-fat machines.

He would stand there fretting until she returned.

Molly kept the scooter at the posted speed limit while gliding up the promenade that curved along the harbor. She was less than a mile from the target.

At 3 AM, Molly parked the Vespa in the lot fronting the Douglas Ferry terminal, choosing a spot outside of the spill of the sodium lights. Her target was around the corner, but she had to first cross the well-lit waiting area.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. As she crossed the landing, she studied her unwanted companions from the corner of her eyes. A security guard reclined on the bench closest to the ferry entrance, his uniform tie loosened, his mouth wide open as he snored. A plump woman in her early fifties sat on a second bench to Molly’s right. The woman was awake, her face alight in the blue glow of her cellphone. She was dressed in layers of orange and browns, her large feet squeezed into dainty little boots. Two battered suitcases rested at her sides.

If she aims that phone at me, it’s over for the night, Molly thought, continuing across the landing while studying the woman’s hands from the corner of her eye.

As Molly rounded the corner without being noticed, she let out of a quick huff of relief. She walked straight for the Diebold Nixdorf ATM secured to the wall. Stepping within seven feet of it, she was out of range of the camera inconveniently placed atop the target. For three painfully slow minutes, she cooled her jets while listening for any footsteps.

She and Alison had taken to the technical art of jackpotting nine months earlier. This was a new branch of their criminal partnership. After careful research, they decided to focus exclusively on the ATMs manufactured by Diebold Nixdorf instead of the more common, but also more secure NCS machines.

Molly opened her satchel and took out a can of black spray paint. She moved like a cat about to pounce, stepping to the ATM with her head down and hand high, quickly spray-painting the security camera lens. Then she took out the modified endoscope—one of Alison’s finest inventions.

Inserting the endoscope felt exactly like the start of intrusive mechanical surgery. With the help of the white beam of light from the micro lens, Molly watched the display on the device instead of her hands. The modified and attached cellphone showed her the way, a route she and Alison had clinically mapped. Like the surgical placement of a