Running Steel

Chapter 4

Two months had passed since the mall incident, and life had gone on as it always did. People went to work, school, and college. Tourists came and went. People went about without a plan, just their daily routine, except for the shadowy figure that held the woman in its gaze.

The Sentinel had been observing the woman for some time. Alison Kline, forty-two years old. A single, career woman, a lawyer. It was a dull day, with grey clouds looming overhead with a promise of cold winds and possible showers.

* * *

It was late November, and most of the trees had shed their golden foliage; winter was not far away, and bone-chilling winds and snow showers would come with it.

But today, it was a fresh twelve degrees with a slight easterly breeze.

Alison moved with the busy New York Street. Her brown Burberry coat wrapped around her tightly to keep away the chill. It was 12:22. Alison made her way to the coffee shop across the firm’s road, her favourite place at this time of day. Inside, Alison ordered a caramel cappuccino with cream and a chicken wrap to go.

Alison didn’t know she was being watched or had been for a week.

But The Sentinel saw everything she did. The way Alison ran her fingers through her long brown hair. How she wore the skirt suits to every meeting; today, it was grey with a sky-blue blouse and a pair of black Christian Louboutin platform shoes. And how Alison had slipped into that Victoria"s Secret black lace number she’d gotten two days ago.

The Sentinel took note of everything Alison did. How she dressed, how she went to work, how she made love to all those men. Her life had been catalogued and studied like an experiment. But she was more than that to The Sentinel: she was a name on a list.

Alison took her lunch and left the coffee shop, heading back to her office across the street. The traffic that day was maddening as everyone rushed to get somewhere.

Alison used a crowded pedestrian crossing, holding on to her lunch as if it were made from gelignite. Avoiding the oncoming traffic of people by swerving and dodging the hordes of pedestrians.

Alison made it safely to her building with an exhalation of relief and headed inside. She said hello to the two security guards at the desk and used the elevator to get to the third floor. It was another quiet day at Alison Kline’s office, the top attorney at a reputable law firm.

Alison placed her lunch and moved the mouse on her desk to reactivate her computer from the power-save mode. The screen returned, showing a calendar of appointments she had throughout the week. Today was Saturday, not much on, but Tuesday was full. Including preparation for a big case on Friday. This meant lots of working late at home during the night. Alison noted plenty of wine and takeout food from Tuesday onwards on the jotter next to her keyboard.

The Sentinel moved a small laptop around for a better view. The picture on the screen was Alison at work; the feed was from a camera hidden in one of her office’s strip lights. The Sentinel zoomed in on the computer screen and then the jotter. Finally, The Sentinel took a screenshot of what was written on the yellow legal pad.

The final phase of a plan was coming together.

The Sentinel had cameras everywhere: Alison’s work, home, and even her car. The Sentinel paid close attention to Alison and her lifestyle. Very close attention. After all, reconnaissance was crucial, especially if you were going to get rid of someone in public without ever being there.

Very* * *

Dark clouds loomed over the Manhattan skyline, and flashes of lightning flickered in the distance. The clouds appeared heavy, but not a drop of rain fell. Instead, the streets were full of midday travellers, tourists, and workers searching for that diner or fast-food stand to grab a quick snack. Long silver mobile dressing rooms and sound studios lined East 40th Street, setting up another big production, hoping the weather wouldn’t break.

People walked past with interest, hoping to catch a glimpse of a movie star or at least find out what was about to be filmed.

The Sentinel was clad in a long black hooded trench with black cargo trousers and military-style boots. Black leather gloves met with black leather gauntlets. It had been quite a look in some places in Europe in the 1800s or even now.

The figure moved fluidly through the streets, almost as if they were made from the mist. The Sentinel didn’t rush or push past other pedestrians but moved lithely and blended in with the masses.

The crowd walked past an alleyway, and the figure ducked in unseen as if it had never been there. The Sentinel moved through the alley, then got on to the next street before heading back up the street to a hotel. Looking around, The Sentinel ensured no one was following before ducking through the hotel entrance.

The inside was gloomy, but streaks of light from the windows revealed dust particles in the air. It was an old hotel, a pay-by-the-hour and no-questions-asked kind of place. Perfect for what The Sentinel needed. The figure moved to room 213. Faded, peeling wallpaper from the eighties barely hung on the walls, and what used to be red carpet was dark, stained, and walked flat. Despite all this, it was a place for low-rent people. Some people had made arrangements with the owner and had a lease. It was a steady, cheap income, so the guy didn’t mind.

The Sentinel opened the door to room 213 and went in. Inside was a short hallway leading to the bathroom on the right. Down past, this was a big room equipped with a small kitchenette comprising a small sink, a tiny workspace that held a coffee machine, and a single electric cooking plate. This was next to a built-in wardrobe on the back wall of the bathroom. Directly in front was a long, dirty glass window with orange and white patterned curtains.

To the left: a desk and a small cheap flat-screen television. A double bed with a dated orange bedspread sat against the right-hand wall. The bed had two bedside cabinets; each had a snaking aluminium lamp that came through the side of the bedhead. It was clean but required updating. The wallpaper was from the late seventies, brown with orange cut-out triangles, and the carpet used to be cream but was now a greyish colour. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was all that was required.

The Sentinel moved towards a desk facing one of the back walls. On the workspace were a computer and printer. On the wall next to the workspace was a large board. Several photographs of Alison Kline, a map of the locations she frequented, timings at each site, and distance from one place to another. Alison was the perfect target. She stuck to a routine to the second. Her compulsive nature was part of her reputation; it would also be her undoing.

The Sentinel took a memory card from a camera and placed it into the computer. There was a gentle hum. It started to download Alison’s surveillance photos taken throughout the day. Some included photos from the night before and the grey-haired man in her bedroom. With a mouse click, the printer started to spew out photographs.

The Sentinel stood, walked to the kitchenette, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Taking several mouthfuls, The Sentinel then placed the container back. Next, The Sentinel plugged the camera into a power socket and headed for the bed, moving back to the table.

It would be a while until Alison would venture out again. So, The Sentinel decided to get some sleep. And if Alison did make an unscheduled visit somewhere, The Sentinel had Alison’s phone tracked so she would find her or at least learn where she had been. The gentle whir from the printer was soothing to The Sentinel, almost like those ocean machines to help someone sleep. But The Sentinel didn’t have any problems sleeping; it was the nightmares that The Sentinel feared.