Deep Water
An Abbie King Thriller
Mark Ayre
AFS Publishing
To dad
For always being the first person to buy my books (and sometimes also the last)
Contents
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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
Chapter 36
Abbie King Returns…
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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
Heart pounding, lungs straining, Abbie woke from her nightmare at exactly midnight. Blackout blinds rendered the darkness in her room almost complete. Regardless, Abbie closed her eyes as she took control of her breathing and allowed her heart to settle. As best she could, she pushed the latest stranger’s face from her mind.
Without looking, Abbie reached out and clicked on the bedside lamp. The soft glow revealed her battered and bruised copy of The Stand, the phone her employer had given her, and the phone she should not have had. The illicit phone she collected, unlocked, checked. No new texts. Weakness had her rereading the last message.
Looking forward to it. Good night. x
Locking the phone, closing her eyes again, Abbie used meditative breathing to control her emotions, to stop anger taking over and convincing her to smash both phones, and possibly the lamp, into so many pieces beneath her hands and her heels.
Life wasn’t fair. There was no time to dwell on that fact. The face Abbie had tried to push away returned, bold and clear. The frightened eyes and blood matted hair blotted out all else.
Abbie rose from bed and went to shower.
Another stranger had less than forty-eight hours to live.
It was time to go to work.
Five hours and one strong black coffee later, Abbie parked in a deserted concrete strip carpark that overlooked a narrow beach and vast ocean. The air was sharp, cold. The first breath hurt, but after that, each deep draw was invigorating, offering an energy boost and decluttering the mind. The sound of the sea lapping the sand helped. Like white noise. The squark of numerous seagulls, the sight of them soaring over the water, sand, land, would have topped off the experience. Alas, two hours before sunrise, the birds were sleeping. Only wind swept across the sky.
Below Abbie, on the beach, a little to the west: voices. Unlike with seagulls, you could always guarantee some segment of humankind would be awake, regardless of the hour or conditions.
Past experience said Abbie's fastest route to the stranger of her dream was to find people, to go looking for trouble. If this town was anything like the others, trouble would be easy to find.
Crossing the carpark, Abbie descended a set of narrow stone steps onto the sand. Luckily she was here for business rather than pleasure. The cold, wet winter had packed the sand tight. In the darkness of pre-dawn, Abbie might have mistaken the surface for concrete had she not known where she stood. Building castles and digging holes would be out of the question. Fine by Abbie. It would be easier to run or fight on the hard surface than on fluffy, shifting sand. Abbie suspected it would not be long before she was required to undertake at least one of these activities. That expectation, too, came from past experience.
Looking west, Abbie spied silhouettes lying, sitting and standing in the sand, about a quarter-mile from where she stood. A few miles further than that, the beach ended with a rock face, atop which stood a large house not quite big enough to be called a mansion; large enough to be considered a severe eyesore for anyone who lived in the homes just north of this section of south coast.
Crossing the sand, keeping close to the wall which rose up to actual concrete, Abbie approached the dying embers of a party that must have kicked off almost twelve hours previously. Beer cans and cigarette stubs littered the beach. At its height, as many as fifty young people, ranging from their mid-teens to mid-twenties, must have crammed onto this small section of sand, breaking curfews and numerous public order and decency laws. In the last couple of hours, most party-goers would have sloped off to warm beds, alone or with temporary or permanent partners. Only the dregs remained. Those who had passed out, or who were still too drunk to notice the cold or care the numbers had dwindled, and those who had found themselves unable to wait to become intimate and were content to do so on the sand, rather than at their parents' houses or in a hotel or car.
Approaching what remained of the previous night's festivities, Abbie's heart panged. It always did
