NO WAY OUT
max connor
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This edition 2026
1
First published in Great Britain by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2026
Copyright © Max Connor 2026
Max Connor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9780008751579
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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For Janice and Chuck. This novel wouldn’t exist without you guys introducing me to Morro Bay in 2023.
Prologue
If Josie Chapman had been in possession of a crystal ball, she’d have probably stayed inside her Airbnb that evening and just made a sandwich.
If she could have seen the future, she’d have undoubtedly stayed put and headed to her small but comfortable bed in the studio hippy shack.
But Josie had been hungry, as well as tired after her day in the hills above the bay, and a cheese and dill pickle sandwich hadn’t been enticing, so she’d left in search of ramen in the picturesque Californian town of Morro Bay.
That had been her first mistake.
The second mistake had quickly followed.
An unexpected confrontation with a blond Czech man had been brief, but violent enough to attract the attention of the local cops who had been suspiciously close by.
Josie could have walked away – some could argue she should have. She could have let the bigger man continue with his violent, homophobic shake-down of the much smaller man, but with her late father’s words in her ears she knew that wasn’t an option.
‘You always have to do right, my girl, even if it’s not in your best interests. The right thing to do is always the correct thing to do.’
Thanks, Dad, she thought now as she sat in the back of the police car, her wrists in handcuffs. Her training flooded back to her.
‘If arrested whilst deployed in the field, do not resist, do not struggle, do not provoke. Comply, and wait until you arrive at the police station, and then call your handler urgently.’
She knew she’d made a mistake, particularly as her handler, Bas Marchbank, had all but ordered her to go straight to bed following her first ever operational mission assisting the FBI earlier that day.
There was no doubt about it, Bas was going to be pissed off.
She looked down at blondie, who was slowly coming around on the tarmac, groaning following her well-aimed roundhouse kick into his neck which had rendered him instantly unconscious. This is what had attracted the attention of the cops, and the lead officer hadn’t wanted to hear her explain that she’d intervened in a violent homophobic attack.
She’d been a good Samaritan, and it looked like she was about to get taken to jail.
She watched, stomach churning, as the other cop helped blondie up to his feet. The glares from the cop and blondie were worrying, as was the way that the Czech had spoken to him from between gritted teeth.
These men knew each other, that much was clear.
Worse, there was no doubt who was the boss. The cop’s eyes were downcast, as blondie glared at him.
Josie was just thinking that her day really couldn’t get any worse, when the cop produced the baggie of some type of powder from her hoody pocket.
She realized that her day had just got a lot worse.
She was being set up.
So yes, Josie Chapman, the British Secret Service’s newest asset, really did wish that she’d just gone to bed, with a cheese and dill pickle sandwich on stale Wonder Bread, because there was clearly something very wrong in Morro Bay.
A week before
Macey Chapman looked at Josie, her eyes clouded and brow furrowed as she sat, hunched and sad in her upright chair, a crocheted blanket across her lap, an untouched cup of tea and used plate in front of her. Josie was relieved to see that the breakfast plate had just a fragment of bacon rind remaining. Breakfast was the only meal that her mum really consumed; lunch and dinner were just pushed around her plate. Which was why she was painfully thin.
Macey didn’t look at Josie, but just stared at the window. Not through it onto the garden outside, just at it, eyes blank, the permanent expression of anxiety etched on her face.
It was the anxiety that made Josie’s heart ache for her mother. Some people with dementia had no awareness, and lived in a state of contented stasis. Not Macey. Macey existed in an almost constant state of nagging, bubbling anxiety. She knew she had dementia, but she couldn’t find the words to share her experience.
It was a beautiful day in the village of Sandridge, and the sun was streaming through the windows of the nursing home. The light
caught her face, bathing it in a glow as she now turned to stare at her daughter with her eyes displaying a mix of confusion and recognition, all tainted by the slight tremor of her lip.
It was often like this, her dementia a little more advanced on each visit, only occasionally punctuated by flashes of clarity out of the blue.
Sadness gripped Josie, as it always did when she was forced to recognize that her mother was slipping further away from her on an almost weekly basis. The adage that the family of dementia sufferers have to suffer the loss of their loved one in stages is painfully accurate. In some ways, Macey Chapman died a little more each time Josie visited.
‘How was breakfast, Mum?’
Macey looked up, her eyes wide in alarm. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Yes, breakfast.’
Macey shook her head. ‘I didn’t have much, just a piece of bacon like this.’ She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. This was normal. Irrespective of what she’d eaten, she would claim that it had been a piece of bacon that was just an inch long.
‘Well, you need to eat, Mum. You’ll waste away.’
Macey opened her mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again, her eyes turning downwards in sadness. ‘Is your dad coming to see me today?’
Josie felt the familiar punch in the gut at the mention of her father in the present. Frankie Chapman – ex-Regimental Sergeant Major Frank Chapman, CGC, DSO, MID, Bronze Star, all earned over a stellar career in the Royal Marine Commandos, spanning every conflict on the globe during thirty years of distinguished service – had died last year. Killed during a burglary at their home during which his valuable medals were stolen. A war hero, Josie’s hero, and beloved husband to Macey.
Macey could not remember that her dear husband was no longer with them, but was buried in Sandridge Church Cemetery just a five-minute walk away.
Josie felt it again. The rising sweep of loss, undimmed by the passing of the last few months since he’d gone. The feelings of anger and hatred. Knowing that her dad had died for the sake of some medals. Her grief was only just tempered by the daring operation Josie shared with Frankie’s old comrades to recover the medals.
The elation at having succeeded had been replaced by a new sense of bereavement, because she’d now have to try to get her mother to understand, again. Josie opened her mouth to answer her mum, but found she didn’t have the words.
‘Well? Is Frank coming?’ Macey’s eyes were suddenly fierce and strident.
Josie cleared the lump from her throat and answered. ‘Maybe later, Mum, he’s been busy with work, you know.’
If dementia meant that Josie felt that her dear mum was dying a bit more each day, it suddenly hit her that telling the truth now would be akin to Macey losing her husband again each time. And to what end?
Macey sighed, her eyes sad. ‘Shame. Always so bloody busy, that man, always away on his flipping adventures whilst I keep the home fires burning.’ She jutted her jaw.
‘Would you like to see his medals, Mum?’ Josie brightened her voice and smiled, forcing the grief down.
‘Oooh, yes, please. I’m so proud of him, you know.’ Macey’s eyes cleared, as they always did as the sun chased away the clouds that were fogging them. Josie handed over the green baize-lined box, and Macey took it like an excited schoolgirl.
Reverentially she opened the box, and caressed the metal and ribbons of the spectacular group of medals. The Conspicuous Gallantry Cross earned in Afghanistan, the Distinguished Service Order from the Falklands, the Iraq medal with the oak leaf of the Mention in Despatches. Her hands caressed the campaign medals: Northern Ireland, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, and the unusual Bronze Star awarded by a USA Five Star General for something very secret. She caressed them like a child would a favourite toy, and her eyes instantly relaxed.
‘Frankie was such a brave man,’ she almost whispered, and Josie couldn’t help but notice the past tense of the word ‘was’. Her mum continued to stroke the metal and ribbon of the group for a further thirty seconds before handing them back to Josie with a satisfied nod. ‘Put them somewhere safe, there’s a good girl. Worth a pretty penny, those.’
Josie took a deep breath; she had to tell her now. ‘Mum, I’m going away for a couple of weeks.’ She smiled.
‘Oh really. That’s good, love. Anywhere nice?’
‘California. You went once with Dad, remember?’
‘Did I?’ The brow furrowed again, and Josie instantly regretted the question.
‘No matter. Just a couple of weeks, I’ve a new job.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Something interesting?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘And where is it?’ Macey had already forgotten.
‘America, Mum. Back in a couple of weeks, I promise. Liz will visit – remember Liz from next door?’
‘Yes.’ Macey nodded, but Josie could tell that she couldn’t remember their neighbour of two decades. It’d be fine, she’d recognize her when she visited. Maybe. Hopefully.
‘Well, that’s all right then. Have fun, wherever you’re going.’ Macey yawned, her delicate, papery hand covering her mouth and the sudden fatigue was written all over her face.
‘Would you like me to read to you, Mum?’ Josie asked as she tucked the box away in her bag. They’d go back in the floor safe that she’d had fitted as soon as she got them back.
‘Oh yes, that’d be lovely, sweetheart. Maybe My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. My eyesight isn’t what it was. I last read that in Corfu with your father. Lovely book.’
Josie picked up the well-thumbed paperback from the shelf, opened it and began to read.
By the time she’d finished the first page, Macey Chapman was asleep, her face finally calm and contented.
