The Stranger, Mark Ayre [microsoft ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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.

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