The sun took what seemed an eternity to set. I occupy myself by listening to the almost-silent radio and dozing fitfully. It's said that flamingos can send half of their brain to sleep so as to be both restful and alert, but since I'm only human I have to make do with both sides of my brain being half asleep.
About nine, Thompson leaves. It's a good sign. It could mean others are going to enter or exit. Or, at the very least, it means that people come and go without incidence. Although, those people are probably all usually expected. Thompson looked relaxed though, possibly even happy as he stumps to his car. His body language is radically different.
I subconsciously ticked off the hours he'd been in there, roughly about ten. Which in my opinion means there's more to the concrete box below the surface. Who in their right minds would spend ten hours in a four by four featureless box? Although ironically I've spent the last ten hours in a car with no one but my thoughts for company. Still, I'm convinced there is more there than meets the eye.
I wait another hour. It's a moonless night, which suits me and my goals perfectly. No one else has approached the entrance since Thompson left. Not cars, not people. No one. I check my watch one last time before opening the glove compartment. Inside is a locally-powered, high-torque circular saw, a suppressed pistol and a torch. Somewhat contradictory, one loud tool, one quiet firearm and one silent visual aid that would kill any attempt at being stealthy. However, my experience with breaking and entering convinced me long ago that most problems can be solved with the right equipment.
The battery indicator on the saw was at about half charge, which was more than enough to get me through the metal shutter if plan A was a miss. But as I had no idea what was on the other side of the shutter, it might not be enough. I turn off the radio and step from the car. No point locking it. Car doors have foiled many a would-be escapee's retreat in the past. And besides, if anyone takes two looks at the battered, smoke stained Astra and considers it a worthy steal, a simple lock isn't going to stop them driving off with it.
Visibility was a minimum, but I'd had all the lights in the car turned off so my eyes could adjust to the night. As such, I could see relatively well in what I was sure anyone coming from a lighted environment would consider pitch black. I approach the shutter from the side, keeping my right side to the wall. The camera is a modern design, a small glass bulb situated on the wall above the shutter. While it gives the illusion of a 360 degree coverage, in most cases the viewpoint is fixed. I sight down my pistol and take it out in one well aimed round. The report, muted by the silencer, is no more than a polite cough. The remains of the bulb litter the floor in front of the shutter with a series of small plink noises.
I wait a moment before vaulting the window ledge and hiding behind the wall. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a metallic whirring sound kicks in from the top of the cement box. Gears engage, and I hear the shutter begin to retract. Light spills onto the street, I see it refract off the broken glass in the window frame above my head. Footsteps crunch the pavement and further crush the camera glass. One man outside, definitely. He mutters something to himself, but there is no explanation or word to a companion. Alone.
I rise, bringing my gun with me. Before the man even has chance to notice my appearance, I put one in his head. In a crouched position, he slumps to the ground with glassy eyes. There is no shout of alarm or concern from the box. I finally exhale. I vault the window sill again, taking care not to stand on any glass or gravel. No point getting sloppy now.
Shuffling along the wall, I swing out in a firing stance ready to eliminate any resistance. There is no one inside. A small bulb hangs in the centre of the box, illuminating a small room. An open trap-door lies on the floor with the first rung of a ladder visible. In the corner is a blank monitor on a desk with the words 'NO FEED' flashing red in the middle. A stool sits at the desk, with a small switch visible on the wall labelled 'shutter'. The detritus of boredom is visible about the room, with multiple vain graffito's and etchings on the walls.
I hear the sounds of footsteps on a ladder, so I quickly back out of the room and put my back to the wall, ready to swing out and kill the unlucky person coming up.
'Frank, how many times have we told you not to open the shutter the whole way?!'