Clocked

Raindrops pattered on the wooden bridge. In the shadows darkly clad surveillance watched and waited, waited and watched, for any sign of approach to the dead drop. All they needed was to clock their target and they had the lead that could take them into the web of deceit that pervaded the department.

A figure came towards them and immediately the automatic shutter on the night vision camera was in motion. The tracked it to the bridge, watched it halt and bend near the second pillar. The camera was stopped as the hooded top left, made its way across the bridge and out of sight.

Back at the Centre the download was examined by the latest pattern recognition system and the result displayed on the conference suite screen.

“What the hell is that?” said the Head.

“Looks like we clocked Homer Simpson in a hoody,” said the analyst.

“D’oh!” said the field operative.

About Lindsay Craik

Writer & Poet Poetry, plays and short stories
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