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

At 9.20, she left her car two streets from where the meet was due to take place. After locking the door, she stretched, working a kink out of her back. Then two meaty hands appeared out of nowhere, grabbed her hair, and smashed her face into her car’s roof.

Unacceptable, unbelievable.

Spinning, ringing, blurring.

Some sense of that big, meaty hand, still in her hair. Another hand, just like the first, in the small of her back. Pulling her head and shoving her spine. Pressing her pelvis into the side of her car and bringing her face beside his.

Already, the dizziness was fading, the world returning to focus. That Abbie could taste no blood indicated her nose was intact. That was good.

The clearer her head felt, the more her scalp began to cry out as her hair was pulled tighter and tighter. The palm in her back became the knuckles of those meaty fingers, pressing into the spine and pushing, sending waves of pain up her back.

The breath of her assailant was minty fresh. Not a surprise. People often assumed the dental hygiene of petty criminals and hired muscle was below par. Not so, in Abbie’s experience. Most brushed twice a day, morning and night, just like the rest of us.

Still, his knuckles pushed further into her back. His hand tugged harder at her hair until she started to wish she was bald and wore a wig. What a surprise if her hair flew away. Her assailant would have lost his balance. Abbie would have the upper hand.

A low chuckle from her attacker. The bristles on his cheeks tickled her smooth skin. Somehow, the pain, which was fast nearing excruciating levels, did not override and make meaningless the sensation.

Revealing his identity, her assailant said, “Oops, forgot flowers again,” and swung her forward, face first, for the second time towards the car’s roof.

Swinging her free arms around, Abbie placed one hand over the other atop the car, so her face hit flesh rather than metal.

Still hurt like hell. Nowhere near as bad as it could have.

As soon as Abbie made impact, she retracted her hands, grabbing Ronson’s wrists at her skull and spine. Placing a foot on the car, she kicked back while twisting at the waist and yanking Ronson’s wrists in opposite directions.

He was strong. Though Abbie took him by surprise, she could dislodge only one of his hands. As soon as his knuckles slid off her spine, Abbie released that wrist and elbowed Ronson’s kidney.

With an oof, he stumbled, allowing Abbie to wrench free his other hand and spin to face him.

He punched her in the chest.

As she smacked her car, he kicked her in the stomach.

Falling, Abbie rolled, coming up at the car’s front. When he went to punch her, she knocked his hand aside. He came forward, shot a shoulder like a battering ram into her throat. As she turned to block the move, his hands came, grabbing her top, lifting her from the ground as though she weighed no more than a length of rope.

She was in the air.

Then on the bonnet.

Ronson let go. She bounced.

Hit the concrete.

She was trying to rise. Ronson was there.

She raised a hand as his foot came in.

Roared in pain as he booted it like a football.

As that hand was cast aside, Ronson punched her in the head, sending her sprawling to the floor. The moment she hit the concrete, he kicked her side, rolling her onto her back.

With a boot, he tried to stomp her. With both hands, Abbie caught his foot. As he continued to drive it towards her, her elbows smashed the road.

Screaming, Abbie rolled as Ronson pulled away his foot. She tried to rise. A nudge from his booted toe was enough to roll her over.

“Looks like Kline was holding me back,” said Ronson, laughing. He came again. Abbie rolled. Dodged his foot. Her body screamed at her to stay down, and she climbed from the concrete onto unsteady feet, staggered back, turning to face her assailant.

“Is this a Francis sanctioned attack?”

Ronson beamed. “Nope. This is personal. You embarrassed me at the kid’s place. I couldn’t let that slide.”

He came again. Abbie ducked a fist, but at the same time, Ronson brought the open palm of his other hand to her waist.

Following her meetings with the car and the concrete, Abbie was sluggish. Ronson got her jeans, gripped them in a fist, and shoved.

On the curb, she tripped, stumbled, fell to the pavement. Rolled, reached for the gravel driveway close to, and rose.

Ronson jumped onto the pavement.

Abbie hurled gravel in his face, and he retreated a step. Abbie hopped forward, lifted a leg, and booted him in the chest.

Already on the edge of the curb, Ronson tripped, went over.

On the pavement, he tried to rise, fast, as Abbie had done. Ronson had more bulk to lift than did Abbie, and before he could get up, she had kicked him in the head.

In the road, he rolled. This time he did rise.

Still smiling, he made one hand into a fist and kept the other flat, fingers spread. Having taken much more damage than him, Abbie hoped a car driving too fast and recklessly would appear and flatten Ronson.

Better than a car, a van or a lorry. Possibly a train.

A car did turn onto the road.

Ronson came. Swung a fist, which she dodged, then punched her in the stomach. Then hurled her to the road. Then kicked her in the chest. Then stomped on her leg. Then stood over her with a victorious smile.

From inside his jacket, he withdrew a knife. Gripping the hilt, he pointed the blade at Abbie. It was only three inches long. Big enough to do the kind of damage he was after. One swipe along the throat, and Abbie could be dead.

The sirens started.

Shocked, Ronson turned.

Having been trained never to become distracted during a fight, Abbie swung a boot into Ronson’s inner thigh.

The police car was there.

Springing to her feet, Abbie grabbed Ronson’s