The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

total. She’d check the bed first. There was at least a foot of clear space beneath. An amateur hiding place, but Travis was hardly a pro.

As Abbie got onto her stomach, Ronson said, “You have something our boss wants. For which he offered to pay good money.”

“Not good enough,” said Travis.

Ronson ignored this. “You going to tell us where it is, or do we have to beat you bloody then tear this place apart?”

Travis laughed and said, “You really think I’d be stupid enough to keep it here?”

As Abbie reached out and pulled from beneath the bed a woman’s bag.

Travis was being obstinant, and Ronson did not strike Abbie as someone who possessed a great deal of patience.

There was another kick, then Travis was hauled from the ground, smashed into the bannister. Someone punched him in what sounded like the stomach, then what sounded like the jaw.

Ronson said, “Are you ready to be reasonable now?”

“I want to speak to Francis.”

“Then you should have phoned him by ten-thirty like I said. You missed that chance. Now you deal with me. Where’s the bag?”

Travis’ room boasted a huge set of windows, two of which were large enough for Abbie to escape through. Peeking through the glass, she saw the patio below. There were no obvious hand or footholds to aid an escape, but Abbie was sure if she dangled from the windowsill, she could drop to the ground without sustaining damage.

And speaking of injury—Ronson punched Travis again.

“Where’s the bag?”

Travis muttered something Abbie couldn’t hear. That Ronson punched him again was evidence he had not given an adequate answer.

Abbie looked at the bag. It was small. Black. Appeared to be genuine leather. The brand logo on the side suggested it had not come cheap. No doubt bought with Francis’ blood money. It was nowhere near as practical as the drawstring bag Abbie kept over her shoulder. Though an argument could be made that it went better with an evening dress.

Some more muttering. Another punch. This had gone far enough.

Rising from beside the bed, Abbie moved to the door and dropped both her and Francis’ wife’s bags beside a chest of drawers. Over her head, she pulled her hoody. Unlike with Bobby, the reasoning for losing it was not flirtation or seduction. Stepping from the bedroom into the landing would put Abbie on an inevitable crash course with a physical altercation. Scrapping first with Danny, then Eddie was one thing. Both men had been wild and thoughtless in anger or grief. If possible, Abbie would wind up Robbie and Kline to the point of careless frustration. But they were used to fighting, and she would likely have to face both at once. She would need every advantage she could get. The hoody was restrictive. Beneath, she wore a tight top with long sleeves. Not designed for fighting either, but far less likely to get in the way than the hoody.

As ready as she would ever be, Abbie stepped through Travis’ bedroom door and across the hall. Knowing hesitation was never wise in these situations, she made straight for the steps. She had descended four before Kline noticed her.

Two steps later, Ronson turned his head up. Travis was at his feet, his face bloody. He was curled into a ball, and his hands clutched his stomach. Ronson’s boot was on his leg.

They were beside the staircase. Abbie turned and placed her hands on the bannister, leaning over. Looking upon Ronson and Travis, she tutted and shook her head. To Ronson, she said, “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

For a moment, confusion clouded Ronson’s face, as though he could not quite comprehend how she had come to be upstairs. Then the confusion dissipated, and a grin took its place. It was always lovely when someone was pleased to see you.

“Was hoping I’d run into you again,” he said.

“You mentioned,” she said. “No flowers, though. You weren’t expecting to see me here, but I was hoping you’d carry them everywhere on the off chance. You must have known I couldn’t stay away.”

“You flirting with me?” he asked, grin widening.

“You must be used to that,” she said. “Women and men panting in desire. Heterosexual men must get pretty confused in your presence. I see Kline here keeps checking out your arse.”

The world is far more an enlightened place than it was even a decade ago. Regardless, homophobia, racism and sexism are all far rifer than they should be, even now. Some jobs are more likely to attract people with certain prejudices. Abbie wanted to piss off the thugs and knew hired muscle more often than not had hang-ups around masculinity and homosexuality. An excellent way to make them angry was usually to imply they were gay.

Kline was a case in point. At Abbie’s suggestion of his sexual desire for Ronson, the bald thug clenched his fists, his face reddening. He took two steps towards the bottom of the stairs, and it seemed to take enormous restraint to hold himself from charging to meet her.

Predictable. Pathetic.

In that respect, Ronson was a pleasant surprise.

Still smiling, he said, “And who can blame him?”

Kline’s head whipped to Ronson, who rolled his eyes.

“She’s winding you up, mate,” he said. “Calm down.”

Kline didn’t look like he wanted to calm down. But Ronson was in charge, and Kline forced himself to take another step back from the stairs.

Annoying. If Ronson could keep a cool head, he would be more challenging to defeat in a physical confrontation. Abbie would have to move fast to take out Kline, hoping she had greater speed than Ronson because he was certainly stronger.

As Kline stepped back, Ronson was looking at Abbie, judging her. It would be difficult for him to assume Abbie could beat him in a fight, but he looked to be more cautious than she had imagined. Perhaps she should have hustled him, pretending to be scared and frightened, rather than swept out here with confidence. But a terrified woman would hide in the bedroom. She