The watchman slumped against the mossy pillar; it was cold but less so than the iron gate. His eyes followed the puffs of his breath as they rose and dissipated into the night sky. Many years ago, on that very spot, he had been hired by the gentleman who lived in the manor and not once had he laid eyes on him since. Cars with blackened windows approached with drivers he knew, no new guys unless he received a full file on them. So when the car approached with a new face in the windshield his heart rate soared to a sickening rhythm and bile washed up his nicotine layered throat. This is what he collected the generous cheques for. Years of boredom possibly leading to a sticky end. He raised his AK47 and stood central to the gate, barrel raised.
...the pincers had taken their inspiration from nature. The bottom part was the larger piece, smoothly curved a the base, pretty even, but on the upper surface were ridges sharper than any creatures claw. The top part was far thinner than any pincer Riley had ever seen before, no more than a centimetre in diameter but razor sharp with complementary ridges to the base. They moved as if thought controlled, fluid, soundless. The robot watchman was nothing if not flashy, but he had the feeling it was more of a distraction. Why pincers and not guns? There was something else here, something more...
Mika's heart sank. Outside the concrete dwelling was a watchman. It wasn't his size that bothered her, his body-type closer to gorilla than human, but how heavily armed he was. The weapons weren't out on display, but she'd been in the field long enough to know where to look for the tell-tale bulges. She remained squatting a while longer, catching her breath. She'd wanted to go in with stealth but her only option now was to sink some tin into the guard. After that little "announcement" there was no turning back...
There was a watchman, Luka had been expecting one. They always employed them in these parts. The watchmen were as common as dogs in the city only not treated so well. Each one was little more than a mangy bag of bones working through a packet of cheap cigarettes. The one before him was slouched against the gate fiddling with his lighter, sparks lighting up the night. For a fleeting moment Luka recalled his birthday, Lucy struggling to light the candles. The smile was still receding from his lips as the knife left his hand. The watchman fell; moments later he was hidden in the low scrub by the roadside and Luka was on the other-side of the wall.
The watchman fulfilled only one part of what his title suggested. He was a man, that was it. As soon as the lights winked out in the big house he pulled a fold-up chair out of the shrubbery and got comfortable. With his cap repositioned over his face and the wind ruffling his sparse hair he fell into deep sleep, his snores adding to the drone of the traffic on the freeway half a mile to the east. In his pocket was a key card to the main gate and a folded piece of paper with every security code noted down.
Ian could hear Finch sucking in his cheeks over and over behind him. The watchman was close. This was no time for extra noises. Ian's jaw clenched, silently grinding his teeth as the combat boots crunched over the pea gravel. Each step was with military precision, the high shine on the boots reflecting the intense pole-mounted spotlights. The watchman's shadow passed over Finch; finally the sucking noises ceased. He turned toward them, his face too dark to discern, a halo of light radiating about him, flecks of blonde hair waving in the night breeze.
The watchman kicked off his shoes and glared at the monitors. Twenty screens of black and white more boring than any silent movie. Twelve hours a day, five days a week, for three years and four months, the grass had swayed and the cat had come and gone. His belly had grown over his shiny buckle and his brain found new ways to stay alive. Though his eyes stayed on the screens, he was shut down almost like sleeping, a wide-awake coma until the end of his shift. The only change that ever happened was the emptying of food containers.
The watchman had no intention of being body-bag filler. At the gate house he positioned a mannequin and climbed into his tree hide-away. Once it had been the tree house of the master's son, but he'd grown to old for such things. Painted khaki with slits to see through in ever wall and holes to rest the barrel of his gun, the watchman considered it perfect.
Security would have been tight had it not been for the frog races. For five long months Seb and his crew struggled to figure out a way into the compound, but it was Lucy who figured it out. "They're bored," she said, "watchmen are bored. Just give them something stupid and fun to do, they'll be all over it like dirty shirts." So they inserted Tarrant to get the "fun" going and he did. Every security guard had a frog and they'd all be in at the north wall at 2 am. Nothing happens at two in the morning...ever...
In the movies it's the watchmen that fall as unceremoniously as dominoes, faceless non-heroes. Their loss doesn't raise the pulse or the sympathy of the audience. They are bullet magnets, fodder, not people. Jared wasn't going to let that be him. He had retirement planned, vacations and fun. He knew the code, that bodyguards and the likes should be willing to die on the job, but he never saw it that way. Soon he'd have enough information to pull off an "inside job," to be set for life far away from the crooks who owned the businesses or the crooks that taxed them.