Breaking Point by Kit Power

internet terminals, choosing one at the end of a row, against the wall, to minimise the chance of my work being observed. The firm we'd used had a website, of course, and a list of employees with photos. It took a little under a minute from sitting down before I had a name to put to the face.
    I thought long and hard about the next step:  how to obtain an address. I had decided that what I was planning would work best as a home invasion. Bad Boy was clearly a singleton and would be most at ease in his own home. Abduction would be problematic at best. No, a break-in should be the best bet; keep it simple and neat, let the police go looking for a burglar.
    His name was damnably common, but luckily we’re still a relatively small town, despite our repeated pretentions to city status, so it seemed reasonable that the phone book might yield fruit.
    Fifteen people with that surname and three misters with the correct or no first initial.
    Bother.
    I contemplated visiting each address in turn, looking for clues as to the resident. I was confident that I would be able to ascertain his dwelling once I found it, but equally aware that this would expose me to the risk of being seen and remembered, especially if I needed to make more than one visit. If simple burglary had been my goal, this might have seemed an acceptable risk, but under the circumstance... no. No good.
    Time for Google maps to earn its keep.
    The first address was in a nice neighbourhood and the street view confirmed a five-bed detached property with lakeside views from the rear. I doubted the owner of the company had that kind of equity, let alone our Bad Boy. The second was plausible, irritatingly – a set of flats in a much less salubrious part of town. Lots of neighbours, high unemployment so lots of people home. The culture of passive resistance to law enforcement amongst such under-classes was unlikely to extend to the murder of one of their own by a stranger. My heart sinking, I tried the third address and switched to street view. Immediately, I felt my stomach contract with excitement. Parked in front of a grubby looking two-up, two-down – end-terrace, yet – was a flatbed truck with the company decal on the side. The words were not clear, but the colours and style were unmistakable.
    It was him.
    After a few more minutes of virtual reconnaissance, I cleared my browser history, and returned to the office.
    The afternoon's work passed in a blur. Having informed my wife I would be late home ("Oh my dear, they really don’t deserve you!") and, setting my office phone to auto-forward calls from home to my mobile but refuse all others, I left work promptly at five (snagging some elastic bands from my desk on the way out), and paid a visit to the town shopping centre. There, I paid cash for thick dark gloves, a black waterproof jacket and trouser covers, and a black woollen hat (the too-tall kind that are or were the fashion) a pair of thick kitchen scissors, and finally some black refuse sacks. Having thrown away the receipts, I stored the items in their carrier bags in the boot of my car. I then drove out, headlights cutting through the autumn night, to the industrial estate.
     
    8
     
    My plan had simply been more reconnaissance, at first. I drove by the industrial park slowly, evaluating the parking area. I saw two things that were very encouraging. The first was that there were no CCTV cameras covering the parking area itself, though I noted cameras above the entrances of each business. This should mean no record of my vehicle. Even better, the back corner was not even lit – the streetlights either broken or powered down. Either way, it seemed to auger well for my enterprise.
    I pulled in.
    I parked up in the darkened area, the nose of my car facing the trees. My headlights showed the tree line would be easily passable on foot and I even caught a glimpse of a garage door through the foliage, suggesting that I’d successfully located the spot on Google