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

It was 12.03.

Packed as it was with industrial units and night clubs, the street was all but deserted. The only man in sight was young, maybe early twenties. He had little hair, and what there was of it, he had bleached blonde. Wearing all black, he shivered even in his heavy coat. His agitation was evident.

Abbie had no idea who he was. It did not take a genius to discern in front of whose door he stood.

Before he turned her way, noted her presence, Abbie disappeared into the doorway of another closed venue. Removing her phone, she stared at the screen. Once more, Abbie phoned Eddie. Once more, she phoned Michael. Neither answered. Possibly Michael was asleep; Eddie was at home, curled up with Jess. Abbie didn’t believe it. If Micheal had reached Eddie, surely one of them would have phoned her? Why hadn’t Eddie called anyway?

It didn’t matter. There was no time to track down Michael and find out what he’d done. No time to check if Eddie was home. The clock continued to tick. Abbie had to assume Eddie was in the night club and act accordingly.

Abbie thought about the man on the door. From Francis, he would have received strict instructions. If the police showed, he would warn Francis via a pre-arranged signal then distract the cops while Francis removed anything incriminating from the building. Guns, drugs, bleeding bodies; those kinds of things. As such, Blondie might be carrying a blade, certainly not a firearm. If anyone unwanted besides the police arrived at the door, Blondie would be expected to use menace and persuasion to convince them to go away. If that didn’t work, he would stab them in the gut and drag them inside, where they would be added to the pile of incriminating evidence.

The first question was: how competent was Blondie? Francis would trust him to a degree, but surely his most trusted people were inside, armed and watching over his presumably not so reasonable chat with Eddie. There was a chance, therefore, that Abbie might be able to count on Blondie as someone easily distracted from his duties. Especially in the presence of an attractive woman.

The second question was whether Francis had warned Blondie to be on particular lookout for someone matching Abbie’s description. This was possible, if unlikely. Certainly, Francis would have had no picture he could show to Blondie. At worst, he would have warned the younger man to watch out for a woman who looked like his wife but who had probably never been a model. Even in such a scenario, Blondie might lose sight of his instructions if Abbie approached in the right way.

Abbie hated working on hunches. Because of Ronson’s inconsiderate attack and Sanderson’s inconvenient arrest, Abbie had had no time to reconnoitre the building, meaning the direct approach was her only approach. She was making educated guesses about Blondie, but there was always a chance he would draw a gun and put a clip’s worth of bullets in Abbie’s chest the moment he saw her.

Unfortunately, that was a risk she had to take. Every moment spent trying to second guess what might happen or making plans she should have made earlier was a second wasted, and she possibly only had a handful of seconds left at all.

Abbie checked her watch, brushed her hair from her face and tugged the hem of her top, ensuring it was pulled tight. She tried to picture what a seductive walk might look like. When that was a complete failure, she stepped out of the doorway, turned, and approached Blondie.

It was 12.07 pm.

With five steps taken, and roughly thirty to go, Blondie looked up and noted the approaching Abbie.

Eye contact made, Abbie had no choice but to act. With distance ruling out attack, her only option was enticement. She didn’t have to distract him for long. Five seconds might be enough.

With their eyes locked, Abbie gave what she hoped was an inviting but shy smile. The kind of smile that said, Oh my God, I’ve just made eye contact with a handsome man, I hope he’s either romantically free or happy to conduct an illicit affair.

Naturally, this was a difficult smile to nail. Whether Abbie did so or not didn’t matter. How Blondie responded would reveal to Abbie how difficult he would be to pass. With that knowledge, she could act accordingly.

If Blondie was more professional than Abbie had given him credit for, he would not smile but would hold a straight face. Though Abbie might not look threatening, Blondie would stand tall and puff out his chest in an effort to look imposing. If he had a weapon, he would go for it. If he didn’t, he might put his hand in his jacket anyway, to pretend.

Any of these actions would worry Abbie. She would need to think fast, pivot, and decide how she was to get near and overcome the bouncer.

Their gazes locked. Abbie smiled what she hoped was an inviting smile and waited. Nervous.

And Blondie flashed a smile right back.

Ducking her head, looking away as though embarrassed, Abbie forced her smile to widen. Still approaching Blondie, now only a few feet away, Abbie waved.

Like an idiot, he raised a hand to wave back. Opened his mouth to say something. Probably how pretty she was.

Before he could speak, Abbie put a hand on the nape of his neck, pulled close and looked him dead in the eyes.

He stared, his own eyes wide, his jaw slack—what a mug.

Abbie edged back a step.

“It’s you,” she said.

Though they’d never met, he smiled and said, “Hello.”

As Abbie had approached, Blondie had moved further across the pavement, towards the road. Abbie twisted to put the club at his back. The darkened door was recessed, creating a metre long tunnel of brick walls beneath a concrete overhang. Placing a hand on Blondie’s chest, Abbie edged him towards the door and turned him to put his back to the wall.

One hand still on his