by Mark Ayre
The door opener hadn't come again. Abbie hadn't heard them move but knew they were there, listening. Waiting. There was every chance this was all part of the plan.
The stairs were the only obvious route from the first to the ground floor. Abbie hadn't checked all the rooms upstairs. It was possible Smoker or the mysterious fourth person had found a way to the lot from one of the upstairs windows. Even now, they might be crunching into the gravel, circling the building, preparing to flank and execute Abbie.
Obviously, Abbie couldn't let that happen.
It was time to go.
The shooter on the stairs was listening for Abbie’s every move. If they heard her head for the main exit, they’d burst from the stairwell firing. Put a few bullets in Abbie’s back. End this thing here and now.
That was annoying. If possible, Abbie wanted to further even the odds before leaving.
After shattering Baldie's jaw, Abbie had dropped the metal stool at her side. With one silent step, she brought it within reach.
Time was of the essence. Abbie bent at the waist, collected the stool, turned towards the building's exit.
No sign of the enemy, but Abbie expected company any second.
Leaning back, she swung the chair across the room. As it moved, whistling through the air, so did she, stepping over Baldie's body and to the right of the stairwell door.
She grabbed the handle, pointing her gun towards where the crack was about to appear, at an angle, so the muzzle was aiming up the stairs.
The stool crashed down, hitting a desk, bouncing into the air, and bounding off a window.
Abbie turned the handle, pulled the door back a couple of inches, shoved the gun's barrel into the crack.
The chair bounced off the floor and came down with a dull, echoing thud.
At the same time, Abbie pulled her trigger, once, twice, three times, moving the gun left and right as she did, covering the staircase.
With shot four, she yanked the door wide. With shot five, she stepped through to the foot of the stairs.
The woman had been waiting. When Abbie started firing, she had attempted to flee to the upper floor.
She hadn't got far.
One of Abbie's shots had hit her in the hip, another in the base of her spine. Now she was groaning, sprawled across the stairs.
Her gun was still in her hand.
The echoing of the fallen stool ceased.
"Drop it," said Abbie.
The woman tried to turn. She did not release her gun.
It was all Abbie needed.
Twice more, she pulled the trigger.
The woman fell still.
Abbie took no time to relax in the peace and the silence of her victory. She wasn’t safe yet.
Baldie was out of action. The woman in the stairwell dead.
Two down. Two to go.
Four
Abbie released her gun's magazine, withdrew another. She was reloading as the spent clip hit the ground.
Leaning forward, she took the dead woman's gun and shoved it into her jeans. There wasn't time for another body search. Glancing to the top of the stairs, Abbie could see no one. Couldn't hear anyone, either.
Bad news.
The silence suggested the remaining two enemies had found a way from the upper floor to the gravel lot without recourse to the stairs. They'd left their now dead colleague in the stairwell so she could follow if Abbie tried to escape, but also to limit Abbie's options. They wanted to draw her outside where they planned to execute her.
Which was fine. Now Abbie could turn their plan on its head.
The door at Abbie's back had fallen shut, plunging her into darkness. Leaving her to feel her way up. A more difficult task than previously, when obstacles had not included a dead body.
Abbie made it over the corpse, only standing on her arm in the process, and the going was much simpler after that.
At the top of the stairs, Abbie paused as she had before. Though she couldn't hear anything, there was a chance another enemy stood in the hall beyond, gun extended, waiting.
It was a risk, but so was going out front. This was the lesser of two evils, so Abbie placed her shoulder to the door, once more put the muzzle to where the crack was to arrive, and pushed.
The water cooler appeared. There was no one beyond it.
Using the door as a rudimentary shield, Abbie continued to push with the shoulder, sweeping her gun in an arc past the area to the right, beyond the cooler, until she was aiming down the barrel of the corridor. Towards Davesh's office. At that point, the door-shield would move no more.
Davesh's door remained open. Three others had joined it, including the one behind which Abbie and Christine had hidden.
When Baldie first spotted Christine and Abbie and alerted his team to their presence, Smoker and crew would not have known with whom they were dealing. Smoker probably thought Baldie and the woman could handle it.
Then they would have heard the swinging stool and Baldie's scream. Would have known they weren't dealing only with runners but with fighters.
Then the gunshot.
While the now-dead woman covered the stairs, the remaining duo would have checked the windows in Davesh's office and learned there was no easy way to the lot via them. So what next? They'd have come into the hall and burst through the next door they reached, then the next, then the next.
That they hadn't reached the fourth and final door suggested they'd found a way to the lot within room three. Which meant that was where Abbie needed to be.
Her shoulder remained against the door. Now she twisted, placed the tip of her boot against the wood and shifted back.
Removing her shoulder, Abbie extended her leg and pointed her gun towards the door. All this, she tried to do in silence. She doubted there was anyone upstairs. If there was, they would likely be in the room Abbie believed was the last they had searched for an escape route.
Gun outstretched, Abbie whipped back her toe, stepped to the side of the water cooler, and prepared to fire.
The door swung closed.
There was no one behind it.
Abbie swivelled back towards the corridor, gun still raised. She came to where the hall narrowed, proceeded past the unopened door on the left, stopped before the first opened door on the right.
She'd been correct. Beyond the open door, Abbie could hear the rustle of the curtains as the wind flowed into the room and pushed gently against them. She moved away from one wall and stepped towards the other. As she went, she turned until she was aiming her gun into the open room.
There was the window. Wide. Large enough for Abbie, though only just. A man much bigger than her would have had trouble squeezing through, which told her something about the enemy, assuming they'd both escaped the building this way.
Most of the room was to the right of the door. Abbie took a step in that direction to check the small space to the left was clear of enemies, which it was. Then, she rotated back the other way, stepped inside, and swept her gun from one side to the other, checking off the bulk of another office.
Desk, flower pots, filing cabinets, bookshelves. No people. Abbie was alone.
Proceeding to the window, she glanced out at the back of the building, looked left to one corner, right to the other—no one in either direction.
She searched the concentric circles of cars, one after the other, from the back of the building to the gate, seeking the hunched figure of a hiding enemy.
Street lamps from the road beyond the chain-link fence plus the moon above made hiding difficult. It was possible, but Abbie reckoned the bad guys had rounded the corners of the building, moving towards the front, rather than trying to hide amongst the cars. Why bother? They knew no one was guarding the building’s front and expected Abbie and Christine to escape that way. After all, if the two runners had tried to return via the stairs, the window escapees knew they had someone stationed there, ready to eliminate anyone stupid enough to turn back. They might have heard more shots, bu
t they wouldn't know for sure who, if anyone, had been killed.
Abbie could see how the duo had reached the ground.
A drainage pipe ran from the top of the building to a drain in the gravel below. Brackets held it in place. The pipe couldn't be made of glass or steel and thus would have ruined the building's hideous aesthetic if placed at the front. To circumvent this problem, the roof had been built to slant towards the back of the building. The drainage pipe was situated here, out of sight of new arrivals to the dealership. After all, who would want to buy a car from a place that made it obvious they were worried about safe and considered water drainage?
The pipe was designed to carry runoff water from the glass roof to the ground. It was not a fireman's pole. Its installer had not intended it to be used as a ladder from the office to the ground floor.
In descending from the window to the gravel, the duo had placed considerable stress on the pipe. Abbie could see it had been tugged away from the building in several places. At least two of the brackets looked as though they had just resisted popping loose their fittings and separating from the steel girders to which the installer had attached them.
In other words, the pipe had taken two people. Abbie wasn't sure it would take a third.
But she couldn’t go back.
She wasn't that high. She didn't need to get far before she'd be safe to drop to the ground. Besides, she was slim. While she was mostly muscle, and muscle weighed more than fat, she would still likely put far less strain on the pipe than had the duo who went before, at least one of whom was a man.
It was all about speed. Abbie slipped one leg through the window, then the other. She was perched on the sill, half in the office, half out. Twisting from the hips, she dropped, turning towards the building and grabbing the windowsill as she went.
Her boots hit the glass wall, saving her knees the pain of cracking the building. Once she was steady, she allowed herself to dangle.
Here, her muscular frame and hard-earned endurance came in handy. She was able to dangle from her arms without much trouble for a decent length of time.
Once Abbie was as low as she could get, knowing she was at her most vulnerable, pretty much doomed if one of her enemies appeared, gun in hand, she stretched one leg to the side and wrapped it around the pole.
At this point, she remembered her mother. Never a good sign. Abbie had fallen pregnant as a teenager, following one of the most harrowing nights of her life. Abbie's mother had been disgusted by her eldest daughter. Had told her she might as well give up school because, before long, she'd be wrapped around the pole, dancing for money to feed her baby.
Well, mum had got the time scales and purpose wrong, but here Abbie was, wrapped around the pole.
Taking one hand from the windowsill, she grabbed the drainage pipe. Releasing the other, Abbie put her entire weight on the already strained escape route.
Immediately, a bracket snapped free.
The pipe began to pull further from the wall, tilting Abbie at an alarming angle. A few more seconds, and it would snap away, and down would come Abbie, pipe and all.
This kind of unceremonious tumble would likely not kill her. If anyone saw, it would be embarrassing, and that was in many ways worse. So Abbie dropped, grabbed the pipe again, dropped again, grabbed the pipe again.
Another bracket snapped. By this point, Abbie had her feet on the glass and was much closer to the ground. Releasing the pipe, she kicked away from the wall and spun towards the gravel.
She landed, rolled, came up standing between a Porsche and a Ferarri, both two-seaters.
Rolling into grass would have been fine. Even concrete would have been okay from that distance. Gravel was uneven, often sharp. Abbie's shoulder, back and hip all ached from the landing. That was annoying, but no show stopper.
Abbie checked her jacket and belt. Found both the guns still with her and intact.
Now, it was time for the next enemy.
She looked left, then right. Her fall hadn't been soundless, but she doubted the enemy had heard. For one thing, they were near a motorway. Even this late, the traffic was consistent. For another, if the duo had split and each turned one corner onto the left and right side of the building, as Abbie suspected, they had doubtless kept going until they were inches from the dealership's front. That put them a decent distance from where she now stood.
Yes, she thought she was safe, but she had to move fast. The duo expected her to attempt to escape from the building. They'd be watching and listening for her. They knew they couldn't wait forever, so before long, they would move in. Once they passed the front entrance, they'd see the ground floor was empty. Moving to the stairwell door, they'd find their dead comrade and ascertain what had happened.
Abbie expected to be rumbled. Before she was, she wanted to even the odds. Make this a one on one battle.
From the Ferrari and the Porsche, Abbie moved back to the ring of cars second furthest from the dealership, now placing herself between a two-seater Mazda and four-seater Hyundai.
The Mazda was to her right. She moved to its rear and crouched by its bumper. Securing one gun in her belt, checking the other was fully loaded and ready to go, Abbie proceeded from the Mazda to a Peugeot, then to another Ferarri, working her way towards the right back corner of the dealership.
After five cars, she had a clear sight down the dealership's right wall. It was hard to make much out in the building's shadow, but Abbie saw a shape she was pretty sure would soon reveal itself to be a person.
On she went, past high-end cars with fake number plates, all waiting to be sold. Excited to start their new life with a mug. Assuming Christina was correct and they were stolen or cut and shuts.
Abbie was now moving further along the building's side. The shape came into clearer and clearer view.
It was moving, but not the way a bush or plants might sway in the night breeze. These were the movements of a human waiting for something or someone and fast losing patience.
Abbie stopped when she was two cars from the one that would put her directly in line with the shape. From this angle, she could see not only the man and the corner he stood by but right across the front of the lot. She could see the open gate through which the newcomers had arrived and the section of chainlink fence Abbie and Christine had scaled.
She wondered again if Christine had escaped. Pushed the thought away. Now was not the time.
The Smoker's crew might have been well trained. But they were thugs, mercenaries. Probably not used to waiting around. For those who hadn't practised patience, waiting for something to happen with no company and nothing to occupy the mind led fast to a loss of focus.
Abbie made her way alongside a deep blue SUV and then to the boot of a hatchback in the innermost circle of cars. Keeping low, she made her way to the front bumper of the hatch and paused.
She was fifteen feet from her target. The guy's gun was in his hand, but his hand was at his side. Loose. His shoulder was against the wall, his head tilting left, tiling right.
He was bored.
He'd stopped paying attention.
Good.
Abbie rose from the front bumper, stood tall fifteen feet from the enemy.
The guy sighed. A long, frustrated breath.
Abbie left the hatch. With quiet, delicate steps, she made her way towards the guy…
Who used his gun to scratch his leg. Then shook his head. The shake said I've had enough of this shit.
He didn't hear Abbie coming until she was three feet away. By that point, she'd raised her gun, aiming at his skull.
The guy tried to turn, but Abbie pulled the trigger.
The guy went to the ground in a heap. Abbie stood over him and put another bullet between the eyes, just to be safe.
Now it was she who sighed.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting."
Five
Silenced pistols were not silent. The dull thud of the shot reverberated across the air. At the opposite front corner
of the dealership, another enemy was lurking. Had they heard?
Abbie would soon find out.
Dropping to her knees, she performed a hasty but thorough search of the man she'd executed. Found nothing. The lack of a phone suggested this was not Smoker. It felt right the little group's leader was the last man standing. Made it like an action film, and Abbie did enjoy pretending to be an action hero. It really took the edge off ending lives and creating grieving widows and despondent children.
On that happy thought, Abbie rose. The night was quiet, still. Abbie could see the enemy's vehicle from her spot by the dealership's wall, parked side on between the fifth and sixth ring of cars.
Abbie returned to the first ring; proceeded to the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth. Once at the rear of the first car she reached on the fifth row, Abbie crouched. In this uncomfortable position, she worked her way from car to car, now moving in an arc around the front of the building towards the enemy's mode of transport.
She was a quarter of the way to her target—probably in line with the staircase across which lay the woman Abbie had earlier shot dead—when a shape emerged from around the building's side.
Abbie stopped, dropped behind a Ford's bumper, and glanced around the car's rear right wheel arch.
This new man had his gun raised, aimed along the building's front, towards the corner around which lay his dead comrade. After ten paces towards the front entrance and his deceased colleague, he stopped, gun still aloft, waited.
Abbie guessed Smoker had heard Abbie's shot, but it was muffled. He couldn't be sure the sound was of a bullet leaving a chamber. Definitely couldn't know if the potential bullet had ended a life and, if it had, whether that life was friend or foe.
Maybe he would step into the building. That would be ideal. It would give Abbie options. Always a good thing. She could take the easy route and escape, or the challenging but perhaps more satisfying path, and follow him into the building, shoot him dead and complete the set.
Try to shoot him dead, anyway. Abbie had never yet failed in a fight to the death but had to remind herself: neither had Smoker.
