The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  Abbie didn’t intend to let things get that far.

  His feet grew nearer. Abbie listened, trying to gauge where he was by the increasing volume of his steps. She waited until he stopped. Heard him edge a step back and knew he was planning to move away from the bar in a semi-circle, his gun pointed towards where the swing door would come into view.

  A second step back.

  Abbie stepped forward as she rose. Within a couple of inches, she had deciphered where he would be, only by listening to his steps.

  His gun was a little off target. As he adjusted his aim, he opened his mouth to shout, and his eyes widened as Abbie darted forward.

  She had her empty hand raised, palm up, as though she wanted to surrender. Too late, he saw her second hand wasn’t so empty.

  Snapping her empty palm down, she grabbed the gun, twisted it in a circle, bringing his finger off the trigger, then yanked the weapon free.

  At the same time, she shoved the knife deep into his larynx and corkscrewed the blade, shredding any hopes he had of shouting a warning to his comrades.

  The hand in which she now held a gun, Abbie bought to Balcony Guard’s back. As he died, he fell. Using her hand, shoulder, legs, Abbie eased him soundlessly to the ground, where he continued to bleed, continued to die.

  Leaving the knife, Abbie edged away from Balcony Guard, holding his gun and lamenting the ruining of yet another top. This one less than a day old.

  Once upon a time, Abbie might also have lamented the murder of a man she had no evidence had so much as stolen a penny sweet. But indecision could be deadly. This man was armed and worked for Francis. Abbie had made her choice. She had to live with it. Hopefully, Eddie would live because of it.

  There was no time to stop or slow down. Keeping low, rounding the dead Balcony Guard, Abbie moved to the edge of the balcony. She needed to know what she was up against.

  On the dance floor below, Eddie paced restlessly between two men. Kline still bore the bruises from his altercation with Abbie. The other man was a tall stranger with a shock of red hair. Both men carried guns. Both weapons were exposed and intentionally in plain view of the ever more frightened Eddie.

  As Abbie reached the balcony’s edge, now flat on her stomach, peeking under the railing, the STAFF ONLY door opened, and a man who could only be Francis entered.

  He was young, mid-thirties. Handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes. Smooth, tanned skin. Like his staff, Francis wore a suit. Not a single crease blemished his, and it must have cost more than the rest of the clothing in the building combined, as it was perfectly tailored.

  As this man approached Eddie, his smile was easy, his confidence evident.

  Abbie thought there was murder in his eyes.

  She knew time was almost up.

  Thirty

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the man who was probably Francis. “I’m a busy man. Plenty to do. Hope I’m not keeping you from anything?”

  Down the stairs. Fast. Silent. Okay, not entirely silent, but who knew how long remained? Ten minutes? A minute? Ten seconds? Five?

  “It’s about the money, Francis. About Danny’s debt.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Abbie slipped through the door into the lobby, turned, rushed past the desk where patrons were expected to pay for a night of fun to the doors which led into the main bar area. Through the glass panel, she could see Francis’ guy, palms down on the bar, smiling like a sociopath. Abbie couldn’t see his gun. Knew it was between those hands. From her pocket, she drew her knife, which she had retrieved from Balcony Guard’s throat. Held it tight in her fist—blade towards the door. The gun, stolen from the guard’s death grip, she clasped in her other hand, by her side.

  “Don’t worry about the money,” said confirmed-Francis. “Forget the debt.”

  Eddie gasped. He was shocked. Abbie wasn’t. Something had changed last night. Francis knew the truth. Or he didn’t. He might only suspect, but Eddie’s meeting request had driven a change of approach. It was an opportunity too good to pass up. If so, if Eddie died, it would be Abbie’s fault.

  “Forget the debt?” said Eddie. His voice trembled with both hope and fear.

  Abbie put her hand on the double door, began to ease it silently open.

  “Forget it,” reiterated Francis. “In lieu of cash, my friends here will ensure you endure several hours of excruciating pain. Then I’ll put a bullet through your brain.” Abbie could almost hear the monster’s broad grin. “No one will ever find your body.”

  Abbie stepped through the door, holding it open with her knife hand, as Eddie garbled, trying to process what he had heard.

  Hand still on the door, Abbie took another step. While pointing her gun at the Barman’s head, she moved to bring Redhead and half of Francis into view. The protruding booth wall still hid both Eddie and Kline from Abbie.

  At Abbie’s final step, Barman’s peripheral vision revealed to him a newcomer. He twisted his head, and Abbie did as Francis had threatened to do to Eddie, putting a bullet through Barman’s brain.

  Redhead spun. Abbie fired three times and dropped him. Now stepping towards the bar, she swung her gun to Francis and fired again.

  Francis was turning. Kline was moving. The latter grabbed the former and yanked him aside as Abbie fired. The bullet hit the wall.

  At the same time, Kline twice pulled his own trigger. Abbie avoided losing her throat and an eye by diving behind the bar.

  Keeping low, Abbie moved, stopping above Barman’s body. His gun remained on the bar. Abbie didn’t risk going for it. From the dead man’s jacket, she extracted a spare magazine containing nine rounds. She traded it for her own, which was almost spent.

  “Abbie? Is that you, Abbie? She knows where the money is. We can give you your money.”

  Eddie finished speaking then cried out. A clunk indicated Kline had pistol-whipped him. This duo plus Francis would be grouped together, Kline aiming for the bar. Francis would have a gun on Eddie. If Abbie rose, Kline and Francis could fire simultaneously.

  Something needed to happen. Somehow, Abbie needed to change the dynamic.

  A gun fired. Above Abbie’s head but a metre along, two bottles of suspended vodka exploded. Clear liquid and shattered glass rained to the floor.

  “Abbie?” mused Francis. “You must be the lovely lady who embarrassed two of my guys. In fact, so embarrassed was Ronson he refused to report for duty today. Luckily, Kline is more professional.”

  Another bang. This time two whiskey bottles exploded on Abbie’s other side. More glass and liquid rained to the ground.

  “I like a strong woman,” said Francis. “My wife is a ferocious lady, as you seem to be. I thought you were just protecting that stupid kid Travis, so I let you be. Now you come here, kill at least two of my men—and probably four, given the guys I posted on the door and balcony aren’t intervening—and interrupt a business meeting. I hope you understand; I cannot let that slide.”

  Abbie said, “Oh, I understand.”

  “You’ll have to share a grave with Eddie here. Will that be agreeable?”

  “Tell him where the money is,” Eddie interjected.

  “Yeah, Abbie, tell me where the money is.” Francis spoke with a laugh in his voice.

  “Will you let us go if I do?”

  “Could I let you go?” Francis retorted. “Or is your heart set on ending my life?”

  This was a valid point. Abbie almost smiled.

  “The money,” she said, “is in one of your safes. I assume the same one from which it was taken. And you won’t leave this club alive.”

  Francis laughed. To Eddie or Kline, he said, “I like her. She’s smart.”

  Another shot. More bottles exploded. Abbie ducked. Covered her head with her hands. Shards of glass littered her back. Stinking booze soaked her already blood stained top. When she pulled her hand away, the back of one was cut. Blood ran down to her wrist and dropped to the floor. Pain roared through the wound as whiskey seeped in.
r />   “This won’t end the way you want,” said Francis.

  Abbie was moving. Keeping below bar top level but on her feet, so the shattered glass which covered the floor didn’t slice her palms or knees, she moved to the far end of the bar from where she had entered. Here was another swing door. Beyond that: the wall and STAFF ONLY door through which Francis had first appeared.

  “We hear you moving,” said Francis. “What exactly is the game plan?”

  Abbie would never have responded to the question. Still, she wished she knew the answer.

  Whatever she did, it would have to be soon. Static indecision only brought Eddie closer to death. Francis would quickly grow tired of the standoff and was in a good position to shoot Eddie and leave.

  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 are dead. I killed them. You going to be a problem for me?”

  He stared at her, his eyes wide, afraid.

  “My dad like Blondie.”

  “Maria is a quality song,” Abbie conceded. “Answer the question.”

  Blondie considered. Abbie got the impression he was in pain, struggling to keep his thoughts straight.

  “You’ll never see me again.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “Now, piss off. Try find some ga
inful employment.”

  He staggered down the road as many drunks leaving the same doorway no doubt had in the past. Abbie changed the body count in her text from six to five. Hit send. Within half an hour, Ben’s people would arrive to handle the scene. Possibly there would be a fire. Abbie tried not to follow the news when it came to the towns she had left, the lives she had ended. Already someone would have wiped her photos and prints from the police database. Nothing would tie her to any crimes committed in her short stay here.

  Once Blondie had disappeared around the corner into the distance, Abbie stepped from the doorway of the club-turned-mausoleum and waited for Eddie. Her body ached all over. Her clothes were stained and ruined. Luckily, the whiskey which had drenched her as she hid behind the bar had diluted the blood. She stank, but of booze rather than death. Still not a pleasant aroma, and a trip to the club toilet had done little to alleviate the stretch.

  When Eddie arrived, Abbie dropped into his car, and they drove for ten minutes before parking on a deserted street. In the distance, the sun was visible above the horizon. It would be falling soon. Abbie had saved Eddie in the light. A rare treat.

  The father-to-be had stopped the car but kept his hands on the wheel. They shook. Wide eyes were fixed on the road ahead, though they were no longer moving. With a gentle but impatient touch, Abbie eased Eddie’s hands from the wheel and placed them in his lap.

  “I don’t understand what happened,” said Eddie. “The money—“

  “Was irrelevant,” said Abbie.

  Eddie stared at her. “You said it was in his safe.”

  “I did.”

  “You put it there?”

  “No.”

  “But you knew it was there?”

  “I’ve no idea where it was,” said Abbie. “There was eighty grand in his office at the club. That might have been some of it. Who knows.”

  Eddie glanced to the back seat, where Abbie had thrown the bag containing the money she’d stolen from Francis’ office. She shouldn’t have taken it. She knew that. Usually, she would not have. But it wasn’t for her, and she didn’t regret it. It was going to a good cause.