The Stranger by Mark Ayre (ebook reader wifi .txt) 📕

At the end of the bar, Abbie placed her knife-wielding hand against the swing door. Her gun she pointed to the bar’s other end, at a run of suspended spirits that Kline had failed to shatter. When she pulled the trigger, the thug would be distracted only for a second. Abbie would have to act immediately. She would have only one chance.

“Come out now,” Francis. was saying, “or I put a bullet in Eddie’s head.”

Abbie pulled the trigger.

Someone kicked through the double doors.

Bottles shattered.

Abbie rolled through the swing door and came up, gun raised.

Kline had spun the wrong way, to the new arrival.

“Ronson,” said Francis. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Roaring, Ronson charged behind the bar, rocketing towards Abbie.

Who pulled her trigger four times.

Kline was thrown back into a booth. Blood sprayed.

With a cry, Francis grabbed Eddie, dragged him down.

Abbie readjusted her aim towards Ronson.

Who crashed into her, sending her flying into the wall. Her gun disappeared.

Crossing the dance floor, Francis fired. Ronson jerked back. Francis disappeared through the arch towards the smoking area.

Abbie tried to rise. Ronson punched her. Blood poured from his arm where Francis’ bullet had hit. His jeans were blood-soaked from where Abbie had earlier stabbed him. His skin was white. Only adrenaline and rage kept him moving.

He came to punch Abbie again. She rolled away. Her gun was some way across the dance floor. Before she could grab it, Ronson’s boot reached her, sending her flying across the floor. She landed on her back, sprang, rolled to her feet. Ronson was coming.

“This is it, you bitch,” Ronson said.

He swung a fist.

Abbie raised hers.

Their knuckles knocked.

From between Abbie’s fingers extended the blade with which she had murdered Balcony Guard.

Like a magic trick, the steel disappeared into Ronson’s approaching hand.

Ronson screamed. Withdrew his hand, taking the knife with him. Abbie raised a leg. Kicked Ronson in the stomach. Sent him stumbling. She turned and ran across the floor.

Despite the knife in his knuckles, Ronson charged again.

By the time he realised she had reclaimed her gun, that she was aiming it at his head, he was unable to stop.

Abbie twice pulled the trigger, then dived aside as Ronson collapsed like a landslide, barely avoiding the crushing weight of his dead body.

Silence followed. Surrounded by the dead, Abbie took only a few seconds to breathe deeply and recover before rising, before racing through the arch, gun extended, in pursuit of Francis.

Through the arch: a tunnel which ended in a bend. Around the bend, another short tunnel leading to open double doors. Beyond these, an enclosed outdoor area covered by a pergola and containing six picnic tables, three on each side.

In the paved aisle between these two rows of tables stood Francis, his arm around Eddie's throat, his gun to Eddie's skull.

"That Ronson," Francis said as Abbie appeared, gun outstretched ahead of her. "What a pest."

His head was almost completely behind Eddie's head. Only about an inch of his entire body was exposed beyond his human shield. Abbie was a good shot. Not that good.

Eddie was sobbing.

"I can't wait to shut him up," said Francis.

"You know your wife murdered Travis in the early hours of this morning?" said Abbie.

"Is that so?" said Francis.

"I think he tried to blackmail her."

"A terrible decision."

"Disingenuous too," said Abbie. "I take it he had already told you about the baby?"

"He phoned me late last night," said Francis. "Hoped to earn my forgiveness by telling me what was in the bag I asked him to steal."

"Did it work?"

"Doesn't matter now, does it?"

“Good point. Did you kill Danny?"

Francis shook his head. "Why would I?"

"Another good point."

"Might have been my wife. Another loose end."

"Maybe," said Abbie. But, considering the differences in Danny and Travis's stabbings, she doubted it. Right now, it didn't matter.

To Eddie, she said, "Was it you?"

His eyes widened. "What?"

Abbie was playing a dangerous game.

"Did you murder your brother? You always were jealous, weren't you? He was the fun one. The exciting one. You were boring Ed. You never could change."

"Of course I didn't kill him," Eddie squeaked. "How could you accuse me?"

Eddie was agitated. Abbie wasn't going to push him much further.

"Whether you did it or not,” she said. “You're responsible for his death."

Eddie whitened.

Francis laughed.

Abbie lowered her gun towards Eddie's leg.

Fired.

Eddie screamed and lurched forward, grabbing for his ankle.

Shocked, Francis didn't react quickly enough. Eddie's head escaped the crook's gun. Francis stumbled backwards. As he went, he realised what Abbie had done. He raised his gun.

Abbie shot him twice in the chest.

Francis dropped.

Gun still raised, Abbie stepped forward. Eddie had slipped to the side, onto his behind. Sobbing, he stared at the slash across his jeans and the thin red line on his skin.

"Stop snivelling," Abbie muttered. "I'm a good shot. That's no more than a graze."

Continuing past Eddie, Abbie stepped over Francis, planting one foot on either side of his waist. His chest was a bloody mess. His mouth was carping.

"More than a graze for you I'm afraid," said Abbie.

Though a mixture of blood loss, shock, and trauma would prevent Francis from hearing anything Abbie had to say; and although he would soon be too dead to add this encounter to his anecdote reel, this would be the movement, in a film, where a proper action hero would say something snappy, witty, and quotable.

Abbie was no hero.

Adjusting her gun, she shot Francis between the eyes.

She didn't say a word.

Thirty-One

Outside the nightclub, in the grey day, Abbie extracted her phone and typed a text which included the club’s address and the body count. In the contact field, she added Ben’s number. Hovering over send, she looked to her feet and sighed.

Still fussing over a bullet wound he didn’t have, Eddie was getting the car. Abbie had left her gun in Francis’ office after emptying his safe. On the club’s doorstep, she nudged the bulk at her feet until he stirred.

“Blondie,” she said as he pushed himself to a seating position, rubbing his head. “Your boss and several of your colleagues