Wiriness

For several moments nothing happened. Hugo, Alain and Brontë held their positions, while Xavier, Jean-Claude and Joe inched their way along, unseen, high above. Robots trundled busily up and down the well-lit aisles, picking and placing cartons and shrink-wrapped anonymous bundles in and out of the racking, their tracks occasionally squeaking on the smooth flooring. Machinery somewhere in the bowels of the place clicked and clacked rhythmically.

An electric forklift truck rounded a corner halfway down one of the aisles, burdened with an unusual cargo. Three black clad men, lean and wiry, clung to the uprights as it glided silently along. Joe saw it first.

‘Here comes trouble,’ he whispered, tensing. All three watched the truck approaching the others, who had not yet realised they had company.

‘Should we do something?’

‘What can we do from ‘ere?’ The Frenchman was moving slowly, constantly checking that Joe was with him. 

Xavier was ahead of them, looking from left to right, apparently gauging distance.

‘They must have a plan, I think. They obviously dealt with those six others, so we don’t need to get in the way. We should wait,’ he said.