It was a cold, starlit night.  A light breeze rustled the litter which lay scattered around the grounds of the A1 storage warehouse.  Andy Turner hummed as he keyed the security clock, one of four, set along the walled perimeter.  Once he had keyed the first, he had six minutes to key the others and the process was repeated each hour.  The taco graph was inspected after each shift failure to complete a round within the time limit resulted in fine, repeated offences in dismissal.

Andy strolled back towards the security guard’s cabin beside the high entrance gates.  Moths flapped feverishly against the glass lens of the security lights, whose beams lit up most of the warehouse.  Since his return from Vietnam in ’75, five years earlier, he had been fighting what he felt was a childish fear of the dark.   At home in winter he slept with the light on.  He felt just as comforted by the blazing beams of light which lit up the warehouse, as the holstered handgun he carried.  He was pleased to return to the cabin.  He was getting hungry and Maria’s tuna sandwiches lay waiting his attention in his lunch box.  He turned the handle and entered, tossed his peaked cap on to the desk in front of him. A gun muzzle slammed into his side.

“Put your hands on your head, don’t try anything foolish.”

A man stepped out from behind the door and relieved Andy of his gun.

“Step away.”  Andy did as he was told.  The gunman kicked the door shut.

“Sit.”  He pointed to the only chair available, it had been moved from behind to the side of the table, pushing it out of sight of the only window.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there.”   The man stepped around to face him.   He was heavy set man with beady deep brown eyes below bushy eyebrows.  The nose had the characteristic bend of a fighter who had suffered as much, if not more, than any opponent, the upper lip was hidden by a wiry, nicotine flecked  walrus moustache.   Andy knew he had seen him somewhere before.  

“We’re gonna have a little talk, do as I say, no one gets hurt.”

Andy stayed calm but the fact that the gunman made no attempt to conceal his identity was a real worry.  He was cool, too cool, a professional.

“I can’t get you inside, I don’t have the keys.”

“Cut the crap.  If I wanted in, I’d be in.  I’m not here for money.”

He dangled a set of skeleton keys in front of Andy.  “Got in here didn’t I?”

“I want you to do a little job for me.  Man of your experience it’ll be no problem.”  

Keeping the gun pointed at Andy he dug into his dark grey crumpled suit jacket with his free hand and pulled a couple of snap shots from an inside pocket.

“This is the deal.”  He threw a photograph down on the table.  It showed a pretty blonde haired woman on a bed wearing see-through lingerie and smiling suggestively at the camera.  The gunman tossed a second photograph on top of the first.   Andy recognised the two faces, a woman and a young child smiling happily at each other on their porch swing.   The shot had been taken from across the street from his own home. 

“If you’ve done anything to my wife and child.” 

“Easy, easy.  I haven’t touched them and I won’t if you do as I say.”  He nodded his head towards the photos.

“I want you to kill that woman.  She’s of no consequence, just a hooker.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“I don’t understand.”  Andy stuttered.

“Simple.  You kill the woman and your wife and boy live.  You don’t, they die.”

“You’re mad.  I couldn’t kill anybody.”

“Don’t bullshit me.  I know more about you than you know about yourself.   Born in Maine  ’48.

Graduated Upton High, joined the army, served three terms in Vietnam, decorated.  Married Maria ’73 and your son Tony is six, o.k.?”

Taken aback, Andy quickly decided that he would have to go along with the plan then wait for an opportunity to tackle the gunman.

“What about punching the clock?  I’ve to do it every hour.”

The gunman glanced at his watch.

“There’s fifty minutes before you do it again.  We’ll be back with time to spare.  Lets go.”

The gunman forced Andy to walk ahead of him but before they left the cabin, he shoved Andy’s gun into the desk drawer.   Out past the main gates the gunman tossed Andy a set of car keys.  He motioned him to the drivers’ side of a black saloon, which sat parked at the kerbside.

“You drive.”

Andy sat into the driver’s seat, the gunman slid in behind.  The gun dug into the nape of Andy’s neck.  He drove for five minutes following the gunman’s directions.  They arrived at an apartment block and turned down the ramp to the underground car park.  The barrier was down.  He handed Andy a plastic card.  “That’ll lift it.”  It did.  The barrier rose.

When they parked the gunman ordered Andy to open the glove compartment.  It contained a pair of black leather gloves and a three foot length of thin razor wire.

“Now listen I don’t want any mistakes.  Go to room 18 on the fifth floor.  Give two long rings on the bell, push this under the door.”  It was the torn half of a hundred dollar bill.

“Once you’re inside you know what to do.”

“Are you going to wait here?”  Andy asked hopefully.

“No I’ve got other plans.  Don’t bother trying to plan a way out, there’s none.”  He ordered Andy out of the car stepped out behind him.

 “I’v e got a car parked outside so you take this one back.  Dump it close to the warehouse, wipe it down then leave the keys in it.”

“Look I’m not the man you seem to think I am.  It’s one thing killing at a distance in Vietnam but I never had to look someone in the eyes, I don’t think I can.”

The gunman shrugged his shoulders, “You either do it or you don’t.”  He wiped a thumb and forefinger over his moustache.   “I think you value your wife and son more than some hooker.  You’ll be back in work to punch the clock with a rock solid alibi and no one the wiser.  Put the gloves on.”

Andy stepped away from the car and made his way to the elevator the gunman had pointed him towards, razor wire and gloves in his pocket as instructed.   He had to think and think quickly.  There were two small areas of hope; a single, dimly lit door entrance to the stairs about fifty feet to the left and the elevator he strode towards did not have the usual bulb lit floor indicator.  No mad man was going to harm his wife or son.  He glanced back and saw the gunman watch him enter the elevator.  He punched the button for the first floor then the fifth. 

The burly gunman watched the doors close.  He glanced at his watch he would wait five minutes then make his way to the car park exit.  He knew the Nam vet wouldn’t have any qualms about ridding the world of another piece of dirt.  He knew Andy’s military record verbatim, knew of his bravery in hand to hand fighting during the retaking of the city of Hue.  His plan was working well.  He glanced again at his watch then strode contentedly towards the ramp.  He failed to notice the figure slip in to the deep shadows by the exit.

At eight a.m. Andy signed over charge to the day security guard.  He drove his car homewards restraining a natural urge to speed.  He passed the car he had used earlier, now abandoned by the side of the road.  Amazingly it had not been stolen, the local joy riders must have thought it was a set up.  If the cops got to it first they would not find his finger prints, the car was wiped clean.

Local radio’s news was dominated that morning by the murder of Detective Spiro, a leading investigator hunting the serial killer responsible for the murders of the six of the city’s prostitutes.  It was noted, that like them, he had been murdered by the use of razor wire.

Andy turned the key in the front door of his home.  Maria heard him enter but continued filling the washing machine.  Tony called out, “Hi dad, bye dad,”  as bag in hand, he raced as six year olds do, for the school bus which had just pulled up outside.