Miss No One, Mark Ayre [romantic love story reading .TXT] 📗

been sitting opposite one another, chatting. As Winston lowered his radio, Orion stood. The anger swelled again. Rachel touched her brother's arm.

"It’ll be alright."

Franks thought Rachel was right. Orion didn't look so sure.

The engine grew louder. Then there was shooting.

The watchtower man radioed again.

"Shit, I didn't get anyone. They're on the runway."

Orion gripped the back of his chair. It was hard plastic, but Franks wouldn't have been surprised to see it snap in two under that grip.

Winston was on the radio to his patrolman, directing them towards the runway.

Lowering the radio, he looked to the boss.

"Go," said Orion. "No games. I want her dead."

Winston didn't hesitate. A curt nod was his only response, then he was out the door.

Orion had drawn his gun. His eyes flicked to the hostages, then he looked at Franks.

"Out the other way. Surround them."

Franks paused. Felt her mouth fall open. It wasn't supposed to be this way. All the hard work was over. This was the easy bit; wait until the plane came, then take your final payment while Orion and Rachel got on board and disappeared into the night.

She wasn't supposed to get into a gunfight with a woman who had already proven herself lethal and unkillable.

In the face of her hesitation, Orion's eyes widened, bulged as though about to burst.

Raising his gun, he pointed it at Franks' head.

"You got three seconds."

Before he'd reached two, Franks was out the room, in the hall.

The long corridor led to two external doors, one at each end of the building. Winston had disappeared through the door at the control room end of the runway. Franks took a breath, then moved towards the door at the watchtower end.

As she went, she drew her gun. A smooth, cool handgun. Fully loaded. It was fine. Winston was out there with his shotgun, and he was lethal. There was every chance Abbie would be dead before Franks arrived. That would be nice. That would be fine. Franks wasn't a fighter; she just liked money. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. No way she was getting close to any action; worst-case scenario, she'd stand fifty metres away, firing until she was out of bullets. At least that way, she could say she'd done her best.

Kind of.

She reached the door at the end of the corridor and pushed it open. She would peak around the corner, onto the runway, just to see what the situation was—no need to put herself in danger.

She stepped outside, turned towards the runway. Pressing herself against the wall, she took a breath, preparing to lean around.

And someone appeared behind her. She felt the hard, cool steel of a gun against her skull.

"Hi there," said Abbie. "Looking for me?"

The car was on its side. Angry black smoke billowed from the engine. In any other scenario, if he was up against any other opponent, Winston would consider this battle won, game over.

Abbie was different. At the dealership, she had taken him by surprise. That was a mitigating circumstance but didn't excuse the failure of his team, who died at her hands, or that her proficiency had pushed Winston into a position where he felt retreat was the only option.

Winston never retreated. Except now he had.

Circling the car, Winston brought himself in line with the roof, which was now the side, and pointed his shotgun where he believed the driver would be suspended by her seatbelt.

At the school, setting Abbie up for arrest had been plan B. Plan A was to kill Abbie and Kilman.

Winston had never previously had to resort to plan B. Except now he had.

Not only that, but he had failed to kill Gary, and even Kilman might survive. Abbie had evaded the police; her fast thinking had almost led to her killing Winston. Once again, he had fled with his tail between his legs.

The memory made him flush with shame.

Though he feared Abbie a little—Winston was not afraid to admit this, even if he was afraid to admit the truth (that it was more than a little)—he had hoped he would meet her again. He needed redemption. Needed to prove, to himself rather than anyone else, he was still top dog. Cock of the walk. He would not be defeated.

What he really needed was for Abbie to show up and make a mistake.

Aiming his gun at where the driver of the crashed car must hang, he smiled.

Finally, luck was falling his way.

A door burst open.

In Winston's shock, he almost fired as he moved. He spun to see DS Moore appear from the control room.

"What happened?"

The pathetic mess of a man was white with fear. He looked ready to faint or collapse. Winston had warned Orion involving the cops this late in the game was a mistake; they would do more harm than good, but Orion wanted them here. He planned to kill them before he, his sister, and Winston got on the plane. That was fine. Winston was paid to do a job, regardless of the obstacles. He got on with it.

"Enemy crashed," said Winston. "Why don't you piss off?"

He considered shooting Moore but resisted. This was the guy in charge of turning on the runway lights and radioing the pilot when they came into land.

Speaking of.

As with the oncoming car, Winston was the first to hear the new noise. The roaring engine of a private aircraft, big enough for only the pilot and four passengers. A cramped ride, but that was okay. Once the Beckers escaped the country, they could live out the rest of their days in supreme comfort. It would be more than worth a few bumpy, uncomfortable hours.

Seconds after Winston, Moore heard the plane and looked to the sky, though they couldn't yet see anything.

"Get on the radio," said Winston. "Tell the pilot about the crash, but let him know he’s still got plenty of room to land if he’s careful. Put on those runway lights."

Moore was still looking at the sky. Turning back to Winston, the cop's eyes widened as