Breaking Point by Kit Power Page A

Earth that seemed to indicate a cut-through from the car park. I checked my watch – six p.m. – and killed the engine and lights. I glanced around the lot, looking at the placement of the other vehicles. There were some, but all at the far end, under the lights and near to the business entrances. I had space and relative privacy.
    My initial plan, to get the lay of the land as regards the parking, then return home, was already compromised by my decision to pull in, and it occurred to me that it might be better to strike immediately, tonight, and finish the matter. I considered it carefully and could not find a serious objection beyond my own nerves. I engaged the boot-release, then climbed out of the car. Looking around as casually as possible, I observed no onlookers as I claimed the carrier bags containing my earlier purchases and my tire iron. Opening the passenger door, I sat in the seat. I emptied two of the carrier bags into the third and then placed one bag over each foot. These I secured around my ankle using elastic bands.  With one final check for observers, I took the remaining bag and tire iron into the tree line.
    It was better than I’d dared hope. The area was wooded but passable, with no obvious footpaths. There were also waist-high tangles of brush and bramble that provided excellent cover. Placing myself behind a conveniently placed bush, I swiftly pulled on the trouser covers and jacket. Using the scissors, I cut crude holes for my eyes and mouth into the hat, then pulled it over my face to my chin. I had to trim the eye holes a little so that my peripheral vision was not impaired, but it was a job of seconds. I still felt calm within myself, but I noticed that my heart had begun to beat more heavily as I opened one of the big bags and placed the hat trimmings inside it, along with the remaining bags. I secured the scissors in the waistband of my trousers and the tire iron under the waterproof. A quick glance around confirmed this area had not had recent foot traffic, so I elected to leave the bag in the bush. A risk, but it would look like dumped rubbish and I would be able to swiftly retrieve it on my return journey. Investigators would find the tracks of my passage, almost certainly, but the bags should disguise my shoes and the tracks would lead them only as far as the car park.
    I pulled on my gloves, checked my watch. Six minutes past six. Time.
     
    9
     
    The trees gave way swiftly to a block of garages, clustered around a dirt lot. I observed the unpaved road that ran along the side of the end house. Bad Boy's house. One of the garages appeared to back directly onto his garden and there was a narrow alley between this garage and the next, which I assumed would lead to his rear garden. Getting there would mean moving across open ground, in full view of the rear of three other premises, but there were lights on in only one, and there the curtains were drawn, so I made my move, swiftly but not hurried. My heart rate and breathing were both elevated as I entered the alley. The fences to my right were high, but to the left, waist-height. Bad Boy obviously didn’t prize privacy in his garden.
    Looking over, I saw an unkempt lawn, patchy and muddy, leading to a wooden back door with a large glass panel in it. There was also a window in the wall to the left, and another above, marking the first floor. All were dark.
    Again, I looked around and, again, luck was with me – the overlooking windows of his neighbours were either dark or had curtains drawn. Still, it would not do to linger. This part of the plan I had been forced to leave to chance – no way I could figure out how to gain entrance ahead of time. I would simply have to improvise, though I imagined the tire iron might give me some assistance. The window gave way to a kitchen area, shabbiness apparent even in the gloom. Perhaps – hopefully – he was not yet home. It would simplify matters considerably. I stepped over the gate and swiftly