Flash Fiction Series…
A reflection beams back from the Crome; the scene mirrored in a visor. Chinstrap loose, pushing the helmet up to suck in air, the shell drops back down into place. Time check: half an hour has passed. Helmet feels heavy, breath sharp, a look round, the space closing in.
Walls gleam, nothing unusual, an average lift.
Thirty minutes trapped. Boxed in tight, nowhere to go. “We are still here Sir,” says a voice through the speaker. “Are you ok?”
The reply curt, “yes.”
Head butts the wall; no force, just a tap. The voice of the responder again, “won’t be long now Sir.” “Ok.”
The conference will be due to end shortly. A need to get out and away before the main speaker is missed. A busy city like London, not uncommon for people to be late. Soon the questions will start. They will come looking.
Hurry the fuck up
Sweating; it’s close like a coffin, helmet tight, uncomfortable. A glance up at the camera. Still broke, smashed before pressing the alarm. The visor stays down.
Fucking feet ache
A wiggle of the toes, a look at the phone… still no signal. “Sir, the engineer has arrived.” That voice again, an irritating tone. “Won’t take much longer,” she says. “He will need to set up, then winch the lift to the rooftop.”
Gun removed from the waistband, gets into position.
“Is it definitely just you in the elevator?” says the speaker, “the hotel CCTV shows two people entering.” A corpse sits behind, the wall above painted in blood. The silencer fastens into place as the door peels back. A workman stood there, mouth open, his face in terror. An employee screams. Two shots fired. The gunman steps out onto the roof and moves towards the fire escape.
On the street crowds exit the hotel. The motorbike starts first time. It speeds off. The call connects in the helmet, “Go ahead.”
“Mr Yakanawi will not be speaking at this years conference Sir.”
“Very well Julie,” the reply. “Payment will be received in the usual fashion.”