Wings of Death

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Jack Hollingsworth crouched down beside the still figure lying on the concrete floor of the hangar and shone his torch into a blood stained face that he instantly recognised.

In a sudden state of shock, he moved the light onto his watch. Up to this unforeseen moment, the evening had started well for Jack, in what he thought would be another tedious evening of night duty.

Almost three hours ago, he had stopped reading and hastily rammed his copy of the Cumberland News under the reception desk. At Brinton Aviation Ltd this was almost what is known in the working world as knocking off time, and as a security guard, prepared himself for the onslaught of bodies that would hand in keys and grab for their cards to clock off from their shifts.

Then, the blast of the klaxon sounded, indicating the end of the shift, and he listened for the impending sound of the pounding feet and smell of cigarette smoke from the workforce that would soon pour through the double doors from the assembly and maintenance hangars, on their way out to transport buses, bicycles and for the management, the company cars in the car park.

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