Bedlam in its heyday.
I skulk around the perimeter, a ghost among the trees. If there are motion detectors, no one is paying any attention to them, and the only activity I see is a pair of gray rabbits who I flush out of a squat bush as I pass along the northern verge of the property.
The staff parking lot is in the back, and it's where shadows are allowed to gather. I slither across the damp grass and hug the tailgate of a pickup truck. I count cars, and making a guess purely based on the make and model of the cars in the lot, I surmise most of the staff on-hand tonight are only a notch or two above hourly wage.
The trio of identical black sedans parked in a row gets my attention. Same make and model as the car the mercenaries were driving in the garage. Rentals , I realize.
I'm considering the brazen approach when a door opens on the rear of the closest building. A pair of suits exits. One is fumbling in her purse for keys and the other has his ear glued to his cell phone. Their outfits match, though the man's jacket is ill-fitted in comparison to the woman's tailored top. Her haircut is more precise than his as well, and I'm a bit surprised when she finds her keys, clicks off the alarm to one of the three sedans, and holds open the back door for the guy. He ducks into the car without missing a word in his conversation, and she shuts the door. She opens the driver-side door, climbs in, starts the car, and then gets back out. Leaning against the car, she lights a cigarette, and stares at the building which they had just vacated. She's waiting for him to finish his call, and judging from her expression, this isn't the first time he's made her wait.
I wonder who he is talking to.
She finishes her cigarette—a Gauloises Blonde from the smell—and crushes it out beneath the smart heel of her black oxford pump. She looks around, as if she senses me watching, and I can tell from the slackness of her face that it's been a long day. She's not really looking, even though the lizard part of her brain just reached up and yanked on her consciousness.
I consider taking both of them. Certainly easier than any sort of assault I had considered in the parking garage. Drop her first; yank open the back door of the car; lean in and pop the guy on the phone. It would take me ten seconds, max; but then I would have to decide what to do with them later. And the first few suggestions that float to mind aren't really options, as much as I'd like to fantasize otherwise.
Invisibility is better, and so I stay put as she gets back into the car. It backs out of its space, pivots, and drives around toward the front of the facility and the long driveway to the main road. After it is gone, the silence returns.
Two rentals left. Somewhere between four and eight passengers. It's after ten o'clock. If there is a shift change coming anytime soon, it'll be midnight. I have two hours.
The scent of the Gauloises hangs in the air, a tantalizing hint of an idea.
The smoker's corner is under the overhanging eaves on the northern back corner of the main building. There are two plastic chairs and a tall cylindrical ashtray. A single video camera points directly down on the spot, the baleful eye of Eden Park's administration offering not-so-subtle distain for the lung-burners.
Having seen the unedited toxicological reports from the 1960s, I can't say I blame them.
Fortunately for me, any serious smoker is going to need a couple smoke breaks during an eight-hour shift. I shouldn't have to wait too long.
* * *
He's a three-pack-a-day man and although he washes his hands obsessively, there's still a nicotine stain on the inside of his right middle finger. He breathes heavily from the mouth when he's afraid, and I gag at the rot coming out of his lungs. His circulation is bad enough that it doesn't take much pressure on his neck to make his pass out. I lay him out on the ground, swipe his ID badge and his wallet, and after a moment's hesitation, I dig
I skulk around the perimeter, a ghost among the trees. If there are motion detectors, no one is paying any attention to them, and the only activity I see is a pair of gray rabbits who I flush out of a squat bush as I pass along the northern verge of the property.
The staff parking lot is in the back, and it's where shadows are allowed to gather. I slither across the damp grass and hug the tailgate of a pickup truck. I count cars, and making a guess purely based on the make and model of the cars in the lot, I surmise most of the staff on-hand tonight are only a notch or two above hourly wage.
The trio of identical black sedans parked in a row gets my attention. Same make and model as the car the mercenaries were driving in the garage. Rentals , I realize.
I'm considering the brazen approach when a door opens on the rear of the closest building. A pair of suits exits. One is fumbling in her purse for keys and the other has his ear glued to his cell phone. Their outfits match, though the man's jacket is ill-fitted in comparison to the woman's tailored top. Her haircut is more precise than his as well, and I'm a bit surprised when she finds her keys, clicks off the alarm to one of the three sedans, and holds open the back door for the guy. He ducks into the car without missing a word in his conversation, and she shuts the door. She opens the driver-side door, climbs in, starts the car, and then gets back out. Leaning against the car, she lights a cigarette, and stares at the building which they had just vacated. She's waiting for him to finish his call, and judging from her expression, this isn't the first time he's made her wait.
I wonder who he is talking to.
She finishes her cigarette—a Gauloises Blonde from the smell—and crushes it out beneath the smart heel of her black oxford pump. She looks around, as if she senses me watching, and I can tell from the slackness of her face that it's been a long day. She's not really looking, even though the lizard part of her brain just reached up and yanked on her consciousness.
I consider taking both of them. Certainly easier than any sort of assault I had considered in the parking garage. Drop her first; yank open the back door of the car; lean in and pop the guy on the phone. It would take me ten seconds, max; but then I would have to decide what to do with them later. And the first few suggestions that float to mind aren't really options, as much as I'd like to fantasize otherwise.
Invisibility is better, and so I stay put as she gets back into the car. It backs out of its space, pivots, and drives around toward the front of the facility and the long driveway to the main road. After it is gone, the silence returns.
Two rentals left. Somewhere between four and eight passengers. It's after ten o'clock. If there is a shift change coming anytime soon, it'll be midnight. I have two hours.
The scent of the Gauloises hangs in the air, a tantalizing hint of an idea.
The smoker's corner is under the overhanging eaves on the northern back corner of the main building. There are two plastic chairs and a tall cylindrical ashtray. A single video camera points directly down on the spot, the baleful eye of Eden Park's administration offering not-so-subtle distain for the lung-burners.
Having seen the unedited toxicological reports from the 1960s, I can't say I blame them.
Fortunately for me, any serious smoker is going to need a couple smoke breaks during an eight-hour shift. I shouldn't have to wait too long.
* * *
He's a three-pack-a-day man and although he washes his hands obsessively, there's still a nicotine stain on the inside of his right middle finger. He breathes heavily from the mouth when he's afraid, and I gag at the rot coming out of his lungs. His circulation is bad enough that it doesn't take much pressure on his neck to make his pass out. I lay him out on the ground, swipe his ID badge and his wallet, and after a moment's hesitation, I dig
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