Gavin liked to conduct most business meetings face to face.
Written communication was slow, and electronic communication was insecure. Even assuming the use of a prepaid phone, paid in cash under a false name, the ways to track something like that were too numerous; it could be done through the cell towers or with the print of one’s voice. It was fine for petty crime, but Gavin had graduated past that long ago.
More than anything else, it was inconvenient -- and honestly, quite boring.
So it was in locations like this that he made most of his meetings -- rarely if ever the same place twice, but buildings similar to this one in most ways: a warehouse located in a part of town presumed too safe for the cheap owners to bother paying a guard, and equipped with closed circuit cameras that still wrote to a video tape with no backups. Not that he thought anyone could manage to get anything from the tapes even if he were sloppy about it -- the lights were out, the only illumination seeping in from grimey windows and the open roller door in the front.
Just past the line where the sunlight stopped flooding in from the open door, the whole building fell into shadow, stacked high with crates that seemed to have little organizational thought put into their placement at all -- yet providing plenty of convenient cover, should Gavin think he needed to use it.
He didn’t think he would.
He perched himself on a stack front and center, three boxes tall -- halfway to the ceiling. One hand rested calmly on his knee, feet dangling over the edge, and the other cradled his handgun, patting it idly against his thigh. His shoes, his gun, and his white suit were all mostly visible -- but the closer to the ceiling, the darker it became, such that his face was almost completely shielded.
Here he waited, watching the door -- watching, and listening. He waited for footsteps -- and he waited for them to draw just close enough that he couldn’t possibly be mistaken, before calling into the unknown.
