by Mark Ayre
But he had no more questions. He rose.
"You don't need your attorney," he said. "I'll sign your release papers immediately. Within five minutes, someone will be here to let you go. They'll bring your things. The Stand is unharmed like I promised."
"Thank you," said Abbie. If Sanderson was expecting anything further, he was set to be disappointed. This was a precarious situation. It seemed to be going in the right direction. Abbie feared pushing it back the other way. She did not want to ring Ben and request a lawyer and wouldn't unless Sanderson gave her no other choice.
"I'm going after Leona," said Sanderson. "But I know you're involved in this. I advise you to get out of town. Leave, and don't ever come back."
Tapping the table, he said, "I think if I ever see you again, I'll be able to arrest you a second time. And if I do, I doubt you'll be getting out so quickly."
Turning, he left without Abbie saying a word.
She checked her watch.
It was 11.42 am.
Twenty-Eight
Noon. And someone seemed to have sapped the sun of its power. It hung high above, limp. Despite its presence, the day was gloomy, and there was little warmth to be found at ground level.
Abbie shivered. Goosebumps prickled along her skin, but as well as the cold on the outside, internal shivers rippled across her heart. Shivers of impending failure.
The Nightingale was only a couple of minutes away. For the sixth time, Abbie put the phone to her ear and listened to it ring. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished for Michael to answer. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing Dorothy’s magic slippers. Tapping her heels wouldn’t prevent the call from once more going to voicemail.
This time, she left a message.
“Michael, please answer, I’m worried about you.”
This was true. Ben was obsessive about security. It had been a moment of madness, asking Michael to meet the man who was due to deliver Abbie a weapon.
Following their conversation, Michael would have given the correct code word at the window of the black Vauxhall. In response, would the driver have handed over the package or drawn his gun, shot Michael in the chest, and sped away?
If the latter, rage and misery would consume Abbie. No dream nor nightmare could tempt her to save another life until she had found, tortured, and murdered Ben.
But Ben wouldn’t have. Surely not.
The phone was still to her ear. Abbie chose to carry on as though she knew Michael were alive. As though he was just being a teen, letting his important duties slip so he could get pissed or play video games or touch himself.
“You have to ring me now. Right now,” Abbie said. “You’ve grown up without a dad. You know how much that hurt. Eddie’s going to be a father; he wants to be there for his kid, as all fathers should be. Please, Michael, if you didn’t manage to warn him to stay away from Francis, I need to know. If you have the package, and Eddie hasn’t been warned, I need it now. You need to call me now. Help me save Eddie’s life. Don’t let another kid grow up without a dad.”
Hanging up, she stuffed the phone in her pocket and tried to ignore the guilt which crept through her body.
What if Eddie died? Saving his life was Abbie’s responsibility. It had been her job to collect the gun and to get everything ready at the Nightingale. It had been her job to find Eddie. Letting Ronson sneak up on her was a stupid blunder. Getting arrested was unforgivable.
She’d put too much on Michael. Maybe he had collapsed beneath the pressure. After this call, how would he feel if Eddie died? How could she have heaped such potential life-defining guilt upon the boy when the only one to blame would be her?
Stop it. Don’t think about Michael now. Focus.
Turning a corner, Abbie entered the street on which was situated The Nightingale. Thirty seconds up the road was the nightclub’s front door.
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 w
ould 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 chest, she stroked his cheek with the other.
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 him. The only way to do that was to make a sound. Of course, any sound would arouse his suspicion. The key was striking a balance. Too quiet, and he might not hear; too loud, and he would become convinced a threat existed and might alert those below. Abbie needed to find that perfect middle spot, where Balcony Guard believed he had probably imagined the noise, but decided to check, just to put his mind at ease. Without mentioning his worries to his colleagues.
Having little time to plot and plan, Abbie knew she had to go for it. Stepping off the top step, she crept behind the man’s back to where a waist height swing door allowed for easy access behind the bar. Reaching this, Abbie eased back the door, taking great care, knowing the slightest squeak of the hinges might cause Balcony Guard to turn. She wasn’t yet ready to grab his attention.
The swing door was soundless. Abbie eased herself down, crouching on her haunches, facing the bar with the swing door held open by her back. She could no longer see Balcony Guard. Nor would he be able to see her when he turned. If all went well, he wouldn’t see her until he was within a couple of feet of where he would expect to see the swing door and where Abbie now crouched. By that point, it would be too late.
Still, Abbie could hear pacing on the dance floor. Otherwise, the nightclub was almost silent. Next to but behind Abbie was a fridge within which stood numerous bottles of white wine, all of which were attached to outrageous prices. A rubber seal between the fridge and its door kept in the cool air. Twisting, Abbie placed one hand atop the fridge and, with the other, took the door handle. Black plastic. Cold. Taking a deep breath, she pulled.
The rubber seal resisted. Abbie applied a little extra pressure. The door opened.
A sucking sound preceded a pop as Abbie thwarted the seal. Inside, a couple of bottles jostled. Abbie closed the fridge.
At first, there was nothing. Abbie wondered if Balcony Guard was turning his head, was examining the bar, wondering what had happened. While imagining this, Abbie withdrew from her pocket Blondie’s knife and extended the blade.
Seconds passed. Nothing happened. Balcony Guard was no doubt telling himself the fridge could not have opened, and what did it mean if it had? A trap? Why would it be a trap?
Abbie prepared to turn and open the fridge again. To give enticing the guard another chance.
As her body twisted and her hand reached for the handle, she heard Balcony Guard’s hands relinquish the railing, then the soft step of careful feet approaching the bar.
While crossing the balcony, the guard went to his jacket and took hold of his gun. Abbie heard the rustle of material as he found it, gripped it, removed it. If he caught Abbie lurking, he would probably not shoot to kill without hesitation. More likely, he would stand back, point the gun at her head, and shout to those below that he had found an intruder.