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

be essential to her mission to save an innocent little girl.

Lanky cried out again.

Though she hated to do so, Abbie was waiting to hear the attacker talk. In a perfect world, he'd go all Bond villain about now. Standing over his felled enemy, he would explain exactly why he was attacking Lanky, as well as unveiling his nefarious plot to take over the world or make a bunch of money or steal all the kittens in a six-mile area.

Or whatever.

Once he had unfurled his plan, he would draw a knife or a gun or a lightsaber and prepare to kill Lanky.

At this point, Abbie would intercede, save the day, and revel in her added knowledge as she proceeded onto whatever disaster she stumbled upon next.

Then she heard the attacker drop to his knees. Heard them squelch into the damp grass and the dirt. And Lanky found the strength to speak again.

"No, man, please. Please, I'm sorry, I—“

Some people just hadn't watched enough movies. Hadn't let it seep into their consciousness and allowed it to affect their day to day lives.

Abbie blamed the schools.

Having dropped on top of Lanky, the attacker didn't say a word. Not even to make a quip. He punched Lanky in the face once. Then again. Then again. Then again.

Abbie closed her eyes, took a breath. If she could hold on, there was still a chance the attacker would reveal something pertinent.

But Abbie couldn't hold on, and she knew it. Unable to keep still her legs, she made her way around the block's side and came out next to the women's toilet.

Lanky was a couple of metres away. His hood had fallen down, revealing a young, frightened face. He might have been out of his teens; if so, it could only have been by months. Maybe days. On his chin was a pathetic patch of hair. His head was shaved. His eyes were wide and blue and reminiscent of a child who has watched a monster burst from his closest.

His nose was bloody and misshapen. His face would be bruised all over by morning. If he lived long enough for the marks to develop.

"Okay," said Abbie. "I think that’s enough."

Two faces turned. Abbie focused on the higher head, the attacker, rather than the cowering, whimpering victim.

The attacker's eyes expressed shock at the sight of Abbie. Then they narrowed. The man was perhaps forty and dressed in a pressed, expensive suit. It was nice. Abbie was surprised he'd risked ruining the trousers by dropping into the grass atop Lanky.

The man had short black hair and dark brown eyes. His features were soft, and he was lean. Beneath the suit, it was impossible to tell if he was well-muscled or just skinny.

"I don't know you," said the attacker, "but this is not your business. Please leave."

The man's voice was soft like his features. It did not fit his stance or the blood on his knuckles, the injured man between his knees.

"Afraid I can't do that," said Abbie. "You should let the guy up. He's had enough."

The way Lanky had spoken told Abbie plenty about the attacker, but the attacker’s strikes and attire told her more. As did his reaction to her demands.

Abbie had interrupted with a warning the assaults of many criminals and bad guys. She was a woman; most of those she faced were men. Usually, they laughed her off. Occasionally they said something inappropriate or offered to take her on a date once they'd killed their victim. Sometimes they rushed straight for the attack.

That was how cruel criminals behaved.

Lanky's attacker did none of this. Remaining on top of his victim, he stared at Abbie, caught in indecision. That he didn't insult Abbie or swear or attack indicated he was not your everyday wrongun. Assault was not something to which he had become accustomed. Lanky was a special case.

"You don't understand," he said. "This man is a lowlife. He's scum."

"Is he even a man?" asked Abbie. "Looks more like a boy to me. You're the man. You should know better. It’s time to get up; come on.”

"He deserves this."

"You may be right. Doesn't matter. I've made my decision, and I've told you what to do. This is your final warning: get off the kid, or I'll drag you off. Please feel free to test me on that promise."

The attacker's fists clenched. If he tried to strike Lanky again, Abbie would attack. Her speed would surprise him. He'd still be surprised when she took him to the ground in one sharp, painful blow. No chance he’d notice she wasn’t at her peak. The throbbing ankle would not impede her.

But Abbie could see the attacker was not preparing another strike. The clenched fists were not formed in preparation to attack but were a sign of the attacker's frustration. Indecision still plagued him.

"Do I need to instigate a count down?" Abbie asked. "I'll do it, you know, don't think I won't."

The attacker's jaw clenched like his fists. Anger swept over him, but he was sufficiently afraid of Abbie not to strike with reckless abandon.

Jabbing a finger into Lanky's chest, he said, "Don't move." Then he rose.

Abbie looked at the attacker’s trousers. As she'd expected, the knees were ruined.

"A pity," she noted. "Maybe you should have stuck to kicking. Or wasn't that personal enough for you?"

"This is no joke," said Dirty Knees. "I've stood so we can talk. I've no intention of hurting you—“

"Nor the capability."

Dirty Knees took a calming breath and closed his eyes. Opened them again and continued.

"I'm going to handle this scumbag as I see fit. I suggest you stay out of my way. That's my strong recommendation."

“And walking away, it’s not in my nature,” said Abbie. “What can I say, I’m an interfering cow. Now I’ve seen you two, my oar is well and truly in. Better do as I say before I start swinging it. It packs a hell of a whack.”

Abbie paused.

“It’s clear I was extending the metaphor there and still talking about the oar, right?”

A