by Mark Ayre
Miss No One
An Abbie King Thriller
Mark Ayre
AFS Publishing
To Fay
For all of the things
Contents
By Mark Ayre
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Book Four: Twice Shy
Get exclusive Abbie King material
Thank you for reading
The Abbie King Thrillers
About the Author
By Mark Ayre
Abbie King Thrillers
Crossfire (novella)
The Stranger
Deep Water
Miss No One
The Hide and Seek Trilogy
Hide and Seek
Count to Ten
Ready or Not
Adam and Eve Thrillers:
Fire and Smoke
Lost and Found
Cat and Mouse
Lock and Key
Cloak and Shield
Hope in Hell
James Perry Mysteries
The Black Sheep’s Shadow
All Your Secrets
Standalone
Poor Choices
Contents
By Mark Ayre
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Book Four: Twice Shy
Get exclusive Abbie King material
Thank you for reading
The Abbie King Thrillers
About the Author
One
The hooded figure scaled the chain-link fence and dropped onto the gravel lot of the used car dealership beyond. And Abbie watched.
It was thirteen minutes, almost to the second, since Abbie had passed yet another WELCOME TO sign for a town she’d never previously visited. Six minutes since Abbie had parked her car and stepped into the cool night air.
The figure landed, and Abbie watched her rise.
Her. Because Abbie was reasonably sure she was watching a woman. She couldn't have explained why she believed this. But her intuition was rarely wrong. She trusted herself.
Man or woman, the figure scaled the fence with nimbleness and speed but without grace. They stumbled upon landing, their palm skidding into the gravel and dirt. Abbie couldn’t see their face as they rose but guessed the figure was not embarrassed. After all, they had no idea they were being observed.
Upon rising, the figure looked left and right, then did a twirl, surveying their surroundings. Abbie sunk further into the shadows, out of sight.
Quickly, the figure satisfied herself she was alone and turned her back to the chain-link fence. A second or two later, she moved away from the road and further into the lot.
Abbie didn’t hesitate. The moment she deemed the figure to be far enough away, she left her hiding spot—beneath the shadow of a small group of trees—and crossed the road to the chain-link fence. A couple of seconds later, she was over.
It wasn’t a competition, but Abbie was pleased to note she scaled the fence with speed, nimbleness, and grace. If there had been judges nearby, Abbie would have secured all tens. Or maybe all tens but one—a nine. There was always a difficult judge who simply refused to give the top score. Nothing to do with Abbie. This imaginary man or woman would not bring her down.
Focus.
The lot was the size of a premier league football pitch but circular. Dead centre was the dealership building. If Abbie had scaled the fence during the day, a pack of salespeople would already have left the building and would be approaching the newcomer. Not to admonish her for eschewing the front gate, but to offer her the deal of a lifetime. With dollar signs in their eyes and waggling contracts in their fists, they would come, and Abbie would try to remain non-violent.
This late, the building would be empty. The salespeople were at home. The cars they would tomorrow attempt to sell formed concentric circles around the central hub, like Saturn's rings. Seven in total, like in hell. Each ring represented a different price bracket: the sporty numbers, perfect for a midlife crisis, closest to the building; the rust buckets, ideal for first-time buyers, nearest the fence.
As Abbie dropped into the lot, the figure she had followed passed the penultimate price bracket, heading for Saturn.
Saturn—the lot’s central hub—was a two-story building about the size of a six-bedroom house. Except, instead of brick walls, it had glass, and instead of a tiled roof, it had more glass. Iron beams held the whole structure together. It was the perfect example of the kind of modern architecture that was becoming more and more common in commercial buildings.
Abbie thought it was disgusting.
Not here to critique the building’s aesthetic, Abbie focused on the job at hand. By now, the figure was at the entrance. She was dropping to her knees.
Abbie was still by the rust belt. Moving between the lines, she followed the path already trodden by the figure, trailing her towards the building.
A place like this, all modern and glass, Abbie would have expected an electronic lock, opened via key card or maybe even retinal or fingerprint scanner. From the figure’s position, on her knees in the centre of double doors, it was clear they were dealing with a lock and key system—how old fashioned.
Abbie was halfway between the chain-link fence and the hub when the figure rose and opened the doors. Slowing a little, Abbie tensed. Would the figure hear her feet crunch through the gravel?
That wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Abbie had followed the figure because past experience told her, when entering a
new town, searching for the life she was supposed to save, her best bet was to follow the trouble that inevitably presented itself soon after her arrival. Because she didn’t know what this figure was up to, Abbie relished a meeting where she could ask the question.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to follow unnoticed a little longer.
Abbie stopped twenty metres from her quarry. The figure held the door open for maybe three seconds without moving. Abbie expected her to look back, but she didn’t. She slid inside and let the door fall closed behind her.
Abbie remained stationary for a three count, then strolled the last twenty feet to the doors through which the figure had disappeared.
They were transparent, but the moon reflected off the glass, and all was dark on the other side. Thus, Abbie couldn’t see how far the figure had progressed after entering, nor into what kind of space Abbie would be walking.
One of a nervous disposition might have used these shortfalls as excuses to walk away. It was possible the figure had heard Abbie scale the fence and follow her tracks through the gravel. To lull Abbie into a false sense of security, she could have proceeded as though nothing was wrong. Knowing Abbie was not far behind, the figure might have her shoulder pressed to the wall on the other side of the doors, waiting for Abbie to enter. Once Abbie had taken two or three paces, the figure would strike, plunging a knife into Abbie's back or putting a bullet through her skull.
For several years, Abbie had lived a life short on happiness and personal fulfilment. She found satisfaction in saving lives, but even her successes were tinged with sadness and guilt. For every life she saved, at least one she failed, and several more she ended. Abbie tried not to kill except in defence of herself or others. The people she killed were always guilty of numerous despicable crimes. That made stopping their hearts easier. It did not make it easy. Nor did it stop those murders taking their toll on Abbie’s already fractured soul.
Such an existence did not mean Abbie craved death, but did help reduce the fear of taking actions which might hasten its arrival. Made it easier to step into situations others, people with something to lose, might consider too risky or dangerous. There was also, and this was something she always struggled to admit, a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that death might return Abbie to her little sister, Violet, lost so many years ago. On the other hand, it would leave no one to visit her older brother, Paul, in prison. Not that she had done that recently. Had to be better—something for the to-do list.
Not now, though. Abbie reached forward and grabbed the handle. She was unarmed. If danger awaited her beyond the glass, inside, Abbie would have to act fast to survive. She was alarmed to realise she was hesitating due to higher than usual levels of fear.
Maybe this was to be expected. For years, Abbie’s life had been empty except for her missions and Ben, the mysterious representative of the organisation that paid Abbie's bills and put food on her table, thus freeing her up to save lives. She had been alone and alone was how the organisation liked her.
To them, loneliness equalled efficiency.
But, recently, Abbie's situation had changed.
Ninety minutes ago, at midnight, Abbie had awoken from a dream in which she had watched a young girl, maybe seven or eight, screaming, crying, dying. Abbie didn’t know the girl. Didn't know her name or anything about her. Only what she looked like. Slim, with black hair and bright blue eyes. Until she got in her car and started to drive, Abbie hadn't even known where the girl lived.
On more than fifty previous occasions, Abbie had woken at midnight following similar prophetic dreams. Always she rose, showered, and departed her home or hotel room in the direction of the stranger Abbie now knew to be in mortal peril.
Today had been different. Previously, Abbie had always woken alone. Today, Bobby slept beside her.
It was not the first time Bobby had shared her bed. Things were different now. Abbie had something to lose.
So she hesitated, her hand trembling on the door. For that, she hated herself. Maybe her life now contained more happiness, more fulfilment, but she had promised this wouldn't change how she went about her duty.
A young, innocent child was in grave danger. Abbie couldn’t afford to let up.
Not today.
Against that nagging fear in the back of her mind, in defiance of the sweat on her palms and brow, Abbie opened the left of the double doors and stepped inside.
Where no one tried to kill her. At least not right away.
Immediately on entering, Abbie turned left, turned right, looked ahead. Once she’d cleared the space visually, she closed her eyes—listened.
And heard footsteps, halfway between this floor and the one above. Moving up.
The dealership’s ground floor comprised a small waiting area, a coffee-making station and six comfortable booths where pushy salespeople would attempt to shift “valuable” extras to their unwitting customers. In the far corner was an office—more glass. Abbie saw a desk, a bookshelf, a bag on the floor. A couple of plant pots, probably for show. This was not the big cheese’s office. More likely a medium-sized cheese—the sales floor manager rather than the dealership owner, who would have an office upstairs.
Where Abbie’s quarry now headed.
Just through the double doors, Abbie waited, trying to decipher any sound which might indicate the figure was not alone in the building.
Once Abbie followed the woman, made her way upstairs, the ease with which she could escape a dangerous situation would diminish. That would be okay. That had to be okay.
Before Abbie had left home, Bobby had said, Stay safe. Come back to me.
What a dick. Obviously, those words were going to rattle her whenever she stepped into a dangerous scenario. Those words could end up as shackles around her wrists when the going got tough. They probably wouldn’t lead to Abbie’s death.
They might cause someone else’s.
Stepping across the ground floor of the dealership, towards the door which concealed the staircase, Abbie tried to shake those words free. Tried to shake her anger at Bobby free, too. She had taken a significant risk telling him the truth about her life. He had struggled to believe it. Personal experience helped. Still, this was the first time she’d been called to action since they started dating. It was always going to be tough.
Stay safe. Come back to me.
Silently, Abbie groaned. Dick, dick, dick.
She yanked open the stairwell door. Too harsh, too loud. She paused before stepping through. Still, she could hear the footsteps above. Faint now. It was unlikely the figure would hear Abbie because the figure wasn’t straining to hear anyone. She should have been, but the way she had acted since scaling the fence told Abbie she was not.
Abbie stepped through the door onto the small square of carpet that preceded the bottom step. Keeping three fingers on the door, she eased it closed. No sound.
No light, either. The wall here wasn’t glass, nor was the door. Moonlight had spilt onto the bottom floor, lighting the way, but other than the glow which crept beneath the door Abbie had just passed, there was nothing here to guide her.
For several seconds, Abbie allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. While holding the bottom door open, she had noted the way ahead. Ten to twelve steps, straight up, leading to another wooden door devoid of glass. Meaning no one would see her rise, even if they came to the top door's other side. Unless they decided to open it.
That was possible but unlikely. Anyway, it wouldn’t matter. Abbie would hear approaching footsteps. She’d have time to prepare and the element of surprise. The figure would have the high ground if they opened the door. But, so long as Abbie made it to the top step before that happened, she could grab and hurl the door opener down the stairs. Probably before they had time to register Abbie’s presence.
Abbie hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She would rather cast a stranger down a flight of stairs then risk a bullet or knife to the face but didn’t fancy either scenario. Better to take the sta
irs as fast as she could, and hope she reached and passed the higher door before the figure finished whatever she was doing above and made her way back.
With soft but quick feet, Abbie rose. One hand on the wall, the other leading the way, she counted ten steps, then stopped. Now she extended her hand as far as it would go until the tip of her middle finger brushed the wood of the door she sought.
She took another step, folding her arm as she went, keeping her finger on the door. Then another. The final step led right into the door. She would have to move up and step into the corridor with the same swing of her leg.
By this point, Abbie could no longer hear footsteps. Her quarry had either stopped moving or was far enough away and behind enough doors that the sound of her feet traipsing around the upper floor could no longer reach Abbie.