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

Blondie was terrible at his job. Only death would ensure his escape from the unemployment office once this day was done. From what Abbie knew of Francis, Blondie’s failure was as likely to result in a coffin as it was a P45.

“You’re perfect,” Abbie said. And really, he was.

The idiot gaped. Then beamed.

Then Abbie punched him three times in the face.

Three rapid-fire jabs, her middle knuckle extended beyond the rest—as much strength as she could muster in a tight space.

Each smack hit the bullseye—his nose. With a roar of pain, he arched back, bringing his hands to his face. In doing so, he smacked his head off the brickwork, which caused him by instinct to jerk forward once more.

Abbie met him in the middle. A vicious headbutt caused his skull to crunch the brickwork again and blood to explode from his nose and mouth.

Abbie stepped to the side, out of the arch, which had the dual effect of helping her avoid most of the blood splatter and putting her in a position to grab the back of his head.

Clasping it between two hands, Abbie brought her knee into his stomach once, twice, three times. Then rammed his head forward with all her might into the brick wall.

More blood.

Blondie The Crap Bouncer crumpled, and Abbie leaned forward to ensure he collapsed against the door.

Dropping to her knees, she routed through his jacket. Found no gun but a lighter and a three-inch blade much like the one with which Ronson had tried to kill her.

It wasn’t much. For the time being, it would have to do.

Rising, nudging the idiot to make sure he was out, Abbie reached forward and tried the door.

Unlocked. It opened inwards.

Abbie pushed the door and went inside.

Twenty-Nine

Abbie entered through the darkened door into a lobby that offered a desk for collecting from patrons an extortionate cover charge, a hatch concealing a tiny cloakroom, and two sets of double doors, each featuring two circular cabin style windows.

Through one double door set, Abbie spied the nightclub’s primary bar, a door marked STAFF ONLY, and an arch leading to toilets and an outdoor smoking area. A floor-to-ceiling partition extended out from the main wall, boxing in booths and blocking the majority of the dance floor from Abbie’s view. If Eddie stood on the dance floor, with or without company, Abbie couldn’t tell. She suspected at least one person was on the dance floor. Behind the bar stood a bald-headed, crinkle suited man, his hands palm down on the flat surface, a black pistol between those hands. The way he stared ahead indicated he was looking at someone rather than gazing into space. Hanging over the booths, Abbie could see the underside of what could only be a balcony.

Barging onto the dance floor with no gun and against an unknown number of enemies, all of whom would likely be armed, was suicide. Instead, Abbie retreated to the second set of double doors, through which she found a flight of stairs.

This place was home turf to Francis. He was meeting Eddie and would expect no problems. As such, he was unlikely to have left anyone on the balcony for extra protection. Just in case, Abbie took the stairs without making a sound. At the halfway point was a turn. Peaking around the corner, Abbie could see no one waiting above. Drawing her blade, ready to pounce, she proceeded onto the balcony.

It was a small space. A couple of booths at the far end, a small bar on the back wall, a few stools. A railing prevented drunken idiots tumbling onto the dance floor and cracking their skulls. It would do little to prevent an assailant pushing or hurling someone over, drunk or sober, to much the same effect.

Abbie had been wrong in second-guessing Francis. Another man in another crinkled suit, this one with greying black hair, stood with his hands on the railing, his back to the bar and to the stairs from which Abbie had just emerged. Like the man at the bar below, he would be armed. His gun would be concealed inside his jacket and within easy reach should trouble arise.

At the top of the stairs, Abbie could hear movement from the dance floor. Footsteps, but no voices. Someone paced restlessly. Without approaching the railing, Abbie was unable to confirm Eddie’s presence below. She suspected he was there, but she had suspected the balcony would be devoid of Francis’ goons. If Eddie was below, how many more armed men stood with him? And was Francis one of them?

To the latter question, Abbie thought, No. The silence indicated waiting. Given the power he held in this town, Francis was unlikely to fear Eddie. That did not mean he didn’t like to play games. As it stood, every second Eddie spent in the company of these frightening, armed men, he would be growing further and further agitated, more and more afraid. Before long, Eddie would reach peak fear, at which point Francis would appear and make that peak seem like a trough before the mountain of terror to come.

Abbie needed to get a lay of the land. She also needed to attack from below without fear of being shot from above. That meant dispatching the balcony guard.

He was but one man, and Abbie had the element of surprise. As with Blondie outside, Abbie was convinced she could render Balcony Guard unconscious following a short physical confrontation with relative ease. The trouble was, she had to dispatch this one without alerting those below. A fight was out of the question. Taking Balcony Guard out at the railing was also far too risky; his sudden disappearance might be noticed. Abbie needed Balcony Guard to leave the railing. Once he was out of sight of those below, she could deal with him.

Silently.

No small ask, then.

There would be risk involved. To get Balcony Guard to move from the railing, Abbie would have to arouse his suspicions that someone was up here with