The Last Witness

I leave work late, with tired feet and a phone showing six percent battery. The main road is jammed, so I take the narrow lane behind the abandoned warehouse. I have used it before in daylight. Tonight, two streetlights are dead, and thunder rolls over the rooftops.

Voices stop me. Beside a black car, a man in a white shirt holds out an envelope. “I brought the money,” he says. “What else do you want?”

The other man stands with his back to me. “You should have kept quiet.” The man in white shakes his head. “I am going to the police.”

I decide to turn around. A gunshot cracks through the lane before I can move. The man in white collapses. I duck behind a wall, pressing a hand over my mouth. The shooter searches the fallen man’s pockets, takes his phone, and heads toward the car.

I could run. Instead I lift my phone and photograph the number plate. CLICK. I forgot to silence the camera. The shooter freezes. “Who is there?” His footsteps turn toward my wall. Five percent battery. The warehouse door stands ajar beside me. I have seconds to decide.