by Mark Ayre
The Stranger
An Abbie King Thriller
Mark Ayre
AFS Publishing
To mum
For being the first to read this book.
One chapter at a time, as I worked on it.
And probably buying it again now, even though you already know how it ends.
Contents
Get a Free Copy of Crossfire
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
Abbie King Returns…
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Thank you for reading
The Abbie King Thrillers
About the Author
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Meet Abbie King.
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SUMMARY
Meet Abbie King.
A single-minded, ruthless defender of the innocent, Abbie is unable to turn her back on someone in need.
So when Abbie takes a late-night stroll and spies two men breaking into a bungalow, she follows them inside and saves the young homeowner’s life.
Abbie believes this will be the end of her involvement. But actions have consequences. And Abbie's interference soon gets her caught in the crossfire between a corrupt businesswoman and a deadly gang responsible for multiple armed robberies.
The stakes are high. Abbie was never supposed to become involved in this particular battle. But now that she has, she'll see it through to the end.
Even if it kills her…
Get your free copy of Crossfire at: http://markay.re/readersgroup
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
One
Abagail King awoke in the dark and knew without recourse to watch, clock, or phone that it was bang on midnight.
No sooner was she awake, she was sitting up. Losing her underwear as she crossed the hotel floor, she hopped in the shower, whacked it on full blast.
It was freezing at first. That was okay. The nightmare had begun fading as soon as Abbie woke. The cold blast was like a water cannon fired at a group of protestors, pushing them back, back. The nightmare was the protestors. As her skin exploded with goosebumps, the darkness of the night’s dream receded into the corners of her mind, shrinking with each passing second.
The face which had formed the nightmare’s focal point never diminished.
A face which might usually look ordinary but which had, in the confines of Abbie’s dream, been twisted into the extraordinary by pain, terror, anguish.
She had to find him—this perfect stranger.
Already, the clock was ticking.
Within a couple of minutes, the shower started to heat. Before then, Abbie was out, towelling herself. There was no electric dryer. Skin still damp, hair matted with icy water, Abbie threw on a loose tee, a pair of jeans, a hooded top. Scuffed boots. The rest of her belongings fit in one drawstring bag, which weighed next to nothing once full. Would have weighed half as much again if she could bring herself to ditch her battered and bruised copy of Stephen King’s The Stand.
No chance.
There were a couple more items in the car. Nothing that mattered.
Abbie left the room without making the bed. Earlier that day, she’d paid for the night. While passing through reception, she chucked her key onto the empty desk and stepped outside.
Now she did check her watch. 00:09 and bloody cold. As one might expect in the dead of night in the dead of January in this part of the world. She threw her hood over her head and jogged to her car. She didn’t look back as she left the hotel’s parking lot, driving as fast as the speed limit allowed. Never faster.
Time was running out. She couldn’t afford to surrender a single minute to a police pull-over.
A tiny town she’d never visited. Had never even heard of. But she knew this was the place.
If anyone had asked how she knew, Abbie would respond as a parent to a toddler who demands to know how mummy can be sure Santa has received their Christmas list.
Because I do.
Between hotel and town limits, Abbie kept her music loud and the heating high. Upon passing the welcome sign, she switched off the radio and spun the heating dial to OFF. Despite the fact Abbie could almost see the cold pressing against the car, a physical force, she rolled down the window. Her skin once more rippled with goosebumps, but she ignored the chill. Leaning towards the window, she listened.
It was 02:04. The town was quiet. It wasn’t silent.
No matter the time, no town ever is.
She followed the noise. Within five minutes, she was driving past a club at closing time. Bored bouncers operated the doors, ushering people out. Drunk men and women spilt into the streets, laughing, kissing, play fighting. One or two had swiped half empty or almost full glasses before leaving. If the bouncers noticed, they didn't care. Most the club's ejectees looked to be students at one of the local Universities. A decent chunk was in their later twenties and thirties. A few were older than that, a few couldn't have hit the legal drinking age of 18.
Abbie passed the road on which sat the club and swerved into the next street. Along a sloping lane lined on both sides with parked cars, she somehow found a space. It took forever to slot in. And maybe she'd never get out. That was okay. It was a rental. She switched up on the regular. The dealer could always collect while she got a bus home or to the next hotel.
Abandoning her car in its claustrophobic space, Abbie returned to the club's street. The former patrons were disappearing in all directions. A sizeable number were drifting up the road toward a glass-fronted building named PERFECT CHICKEN. Abbie wondered which word was less appropriate to the venue's primary food offering.
Then again, who would eat at a place named VOMIT INDUCING PIGEON?
Although they could call it VIP.
Drawn not by the scent of food but the sound and sight of people, Abbie stuffed her hands into her jeans. She trudged up the road towards the laughter, good cheer, and occasional hysterical drunken argument.
Outside the front door, a group of guys in their early twenties pushed and shoved. Stopping only for a brief
moment as Abbie eased between them and stepped through the front door.
Inside, she was immediately assaulted by the rabble of drunken voices and stench of booze, plus frying potato and bird. Here was the kind of venue that lay dormant during the day but came alive at night. If the world ever ran out of alcohol or sobriety came into fashion in a big way, places like this would go bust overnight.
Most of the tables were rammed. Packs of four or even five clubbers crammed onto benches made for two. Some groups were so large the less forceful members within their ranks were made to stand, clutching their food to their chest and trying to remain involved in the conversation despite being considerably higher than the rest of the gang.
Abbie was loathe to be here. Not only did the mingled scent of oil-drenched bird and booze-drenched idiot make her sick, but these happy, smiling people made her remember all she had missed and would miss in this restricted life of hers. That was a dagger to the heart.
The face from her nightmare reappeared in high definition every time she blinked, offering a stark reminder as to why she could not depart. This town was new. She had no idea where or how she might find the stranger. Past experience said her best bet was to stick near people and wait. Soon enough, her next move would become apparent.
Because standing in the doorway of any commercial venue is suspicious, Abbie made her way down the chick shop's central aisle, nudging and shifting drunks out of her way as she went.
Behind the counter stood a man who was taller than should be permitted by law. At least six-five. He appeared to have stolen the smile of someone who held not quite such an awful job. He looked a similar age to Abbie. Late-twenties. Thirty, at a push.
"Hey there, what can I get you?"
Looking beyond this smiling man's shoulder, Abbie spied one of his colleagues wiping a snotty nose on the back of his hand before dumping a portion of chips into the deep fat fryer.
“Drink," she said. Glanced at Snot Man again. "Something that arrived sealed and remains that way.”
The smiler glanced at his colleague. Gave Abbie a wink. "Good choice."
He brought her a fizzy drink. She didn't want it, but it was cheap, and she was expected to buy something. She paid. Throughout the transaction, her server kept his eyes on Abbie's eyes. The smile never dimmed.
"Name's Bobby, by the way."
"That so?"
"It is. What's yours?"
She met his eye. How transparent he was. All of a sudden, Abbie wished she hadn't removed her hood.
Raising the drink, she said, "Thanks. Top service," and turned away.
At the table in the far corner of the room (closest to the counter, furthest from the door), two guys and a girl, all in their late-teens, sat crammed on one side of a booth. Their heads were close together. Whispering. Laughing.
A couple sat opposite. Though they had the bench to themselves, they were crammed together as though they shared it with six rugby players. They had a single meal in front of them. Steam rose from the chips and whatever meat. The food appeared to be untouched. The same could not be said of the couple.
The girl had a hand in the guy's hair. The guy had a hand on the girl's back. The remaining two hands were conspicuously missing, somewhere beneath the table.
Abbie dropped onto the seat at their side. "Don't mind if I join, do you?"
The canoodling couple jumped. The girl brushed back her hair and puffed out a breath. Her cheeks were flushed but not only from embarrassment. The guy's hand appeared from beneath the table. He went for a chip. Caught Abbie's expression.
"What?"
"Not going to wash your hands, first? No hygiene concerns?"
The three teens across the table laughed. Now the guy's face flushed, too, but with anger rather than embarrassment. He pointed the finger with which he had almost taken a chip towards Abbie. She wasn't sure how old he was. Old enough that she needn't feel guilty about hurting him. If it became necessary.
Before the guy could get himself in trouble, his girl leaned in, whispered in his ear. Whatever she said, the guy considered. The girl wasn't keen on letting him make up his mind.
"Scuse," she said, turning to Abbie.
Abbie nodded. Obliged. Rising from her chair, she put her back to the wall, allowing the girl to slide from the booth, dragging her fella with her.
Reluctantly, he came. Once standing, he stopped, facing Abbie. He was her height. He had a bit of bulk to him, but she guessed crap food and excessive boozing contributed more to this than did lifting weights.
"Before you ask," said Abbie. "Threesomes aren't my thing."
The girl was tugging the guy’s hand, and the guy sneered. Leaned over and grabbed a chip. Shoving it in his mouth in a manner that was presumably supposed to be threatening, he faced Abbie again.
"Have it," he said, nodding to the leftover meal. The girl tugged, and the friendly fella disappeared towards the front door.
As they arrived, it flew open. In came two men without thanks or so much as a look at the couple who had jumped aside to admit them.
Surrounded by fun-loving and lust-filled drunks, Abbie was out of place. As of the arrival of these two, she was no longer the only one.
They scanned the room. Abbie sat in the booth and slid along, taking her drink and pushing away the couple's meal. The trio opposite was looking at her. She glanced at them as she opened her drink. Perhaps they were eighteen, but she doubted it. More likely sixteen or seventeen. Regardless, they'd been drinking.
"That was quality," said the one in the middle—the leader, Abbie didn’t doubt. "Not seen you around these parts before."
Such a clichéd line. The girl, to the leader's right, produced a sycophantic laugh that doubled as a pathetic attempt to hide her jealousy. She hated the way Leader was eyeing Abbie. Abbie could have told her there was no need to worry. But there was if she liked the guy. Leader had no chance with Abbie, but nor did he have any interest in the girl at his side.
The boy to Leader's left was interested in the girl. She would never notice he existed while Leader was around, in the same way Leader would never notice her—what a mess.
The boy also idolised Leader, who was used to the world revolving around him, to people falling at his feet. Dealing with Abbie was set to be a disappointing experience for the kid.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Why don't you focus on your friends?" said Abbie. Her eyes were over Leader's shoulder. The two men who had entered the chicken joint were searching for someone. Both were tall, broad. Both had shaved heads. They wore dark jackets. Thick. Despite this, it was easy to see they were well built. They probably drank but didn't overindulge. They were careful about what they ate. Any weight they carried was all muscle.
And they were dangerous.
Though probably not as dangerous as Abbie.
"Why you dressed like that?" Leader was asking. "You got a fit face if you don't mind me saying."
"I do."
"Hard to tell with all them baggy clothes, but you look like you've got a rocking body."
The thugs had spotted their target. They progressed through the chicken shop. Anyone in their path scurried out the way or ended up on their behind on the gross, sticky floor.
"You got a man?" Leader asked.
"Several," said Abbie. "And before you proceed with your hopeless attempts to pick me up—" she pointed over her shoulder— "I'd say you got a couple of your own."
Leader smiled. He held her eye a second, then turned towards the thugs who were now almost at the table. The girl and boy on either side looked too. The girl gave a little squeak and squeezed Leader's hand. He shook her off.
"Travis," she said. Her voice hurried, afraid.
"Shut up."
Then the thugs were at the table. Pressed close, leaning in. They looked remarkably similar. Products of the same batch at the local thug factory. Abbie guessed they weren't related, but it was possible.
One of them, slightly the taller of the t
wo, looked at Abbie.
"Going to need you to jog on, little lady. Got some business with Travis here."
Abbie met the thug's eye, then looked to Leader—to Travis. He was holding fast to his bravado, but it was coated in butter and was slipping through his fingers.
"Piss off, Ronson," he said, though he was leaning away from the thug. "I'm chatting with my new friend."
Ronson gave Travis a look that said, Don't test my patience, and Travis fought desperately not to whimper. To stay strong. After a beat, Ronson returned to Abbie.
"Just get lost, will you?"
"I'd rather not." Abbie didn't hesitate. She hadn't had to.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't get me wrong," she said. "I'm not looking to disturb your conversation with cocky Travis here. I won't even earwig. Consider me absent. But take a look around. You see any free seats? I've had a hard night. I want to sit here and enjoy my, uh—" she looked at the bottle in her hand. A brand she didn't recognise. It was a weird colour. "Cola, I guess."
Ronson stared. He wasn't sure how to handle this woman in the hooded top and in his way. From the look of those beady eyes, she guessed his preference would be violence. But in such a busy place? Even surrounded by drunken youths, he'd be remembered.
