Page 149 of Bound By Fire
Flint nods. “They should have decent coverage inside, too. If Magma’s right about the timing, we should be able to pull her up on multiple angles.”
“Let’s go.”
We cross the lot together. The automatic doors hiss open. The store is wide and bright and smells like sawdust and rubber matting. A teenager at the till looks up at us with a flat expression.
“We need to speak to your manager,” Flint says.
“Is there a problem?”
“No problem.” Flint keeps it light. “We just need a few minutes of his time.”
She picks up the phone next to the register and says something into it. A minute later, a man comes out from a doorway near the back. He is middle-aged, balding, with reading glasses pushed up on his forehead, and a name tag that reads PETER.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?”
We both pull our credentials.
“I’m Commander Ridge, and this is Flint. We’re both from Draig Security and working a case. We need to look at your store’s CCTV footage from last Wednesday. We won’t be able to give you details, but it’s important and time-sensitive.”
Peter looks at the IDs. Looks back up at us. “Is one of my staff in trouble?”
“No, sir,” Flint says. “Nothing like that. We’re following up on an incident involving a member of the public. Your footage may have something we can use.”
“All right.” He nods slowly. “We have nothing to hide. Come through to the back.”
He takes us through a door beside the customer service desk and down a short corridor to a small office. There’s a desk, a monitor, a second monitor showing live camera feeds, and a chair that has seen better days. He logs in and pulls up the recording software.
“All right. What day and what time?”
“Last Wednesday,” Flint says. “Just before twelve, give or take.”
“Which camera?”
“All of them, please. Inside, at the front counter first. Then we’ll work outward.”
“Are you familiar with this setup?”
“Yes,” Flint says.
Peter sets it up and steps back. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Take as long as you need. Close the door on your way out if I’m not back.”
“Thank you.”
He leaves and pulls the door shut.
Flint takes the chair, and I lean over his shoulder.
He scrubs through the counter footage. The timestamp ticks forward. People come and go.
Then Magma walks in.
“This is it,” I say.
I feel something loosen in my chest just seeing him on the screen. He’s wearing the dark green jacket I know, hair pulled back, a small package already under his arm from one of the aisles. He goes up to the counter and waits behind another customer.
She steps into the frame a second later.
It’s a human female in her mid-thirties. She has light brown hair tied back at her neck and is of average height and slimbuild. She’s wearing a long-sleeved gray sweater, dark jeans, and yes, thin black gloves. The kind you might use for gardening or driving, but absolutely not for a regular shopping trip on a warm day.
