Juan Harrison's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

Juan pulled a legal pad from his desk drawer and set it on the kitchen table. The morning light came through the blinds in thin strips. He wrote "Casterton Industries" at the top in block letters, pressing hard enough to indent the paper. No more mistakes. No more wrong targets. He drew a line down the middle of the page—on the left, everything he needed to relearn about the building. On the right, the gaps in his original plan that could have landed him in prison. The fire hydrant from last night stayed in his mind. Response times mattered. Exit routes mattered. He wrote "water pressure" and "alarm systems" under the left column. His hand moved faster now, filling the page with questions that had answers. The anger was still there, cold and patient, but now it had direction. He tapped his pen against the paper three times, then stood up and grabbed his fedora. Time to walk past Casterton Industries and start counting minutes. The walk took forty minutes. Juan kept his pace steady and noted every turn. He passed Casterton Industries twice without stopping, checking the street from both directions. On his third pass, he spotted what he needed—a pay phone booth on the corner, metal frame with glass panels intact. The booth looked old but functional. He stepped inside and lifted the receiver. The dial tone hummed in his ear. Perfect. When the time came, he could make calls without leaving any digital trace. He hung up and memorized the location, then continued his route. Two blocks later, Juan found a hardware store with a brick front. He walked around to the loading area behind the building. A yellow cabinet with a red flammable decal sat against the back wall, locked tight. Next to it, a heavy equipment dolly leaned on pneumatic tires. Juan watched a worker roll the dolly toward the loading dock, stacked with paint cans. The man left the dolly outside while he went back in for more stock. Juan checked his watch and counted. Three minutes before the worker returned. Three minutes when supplies sat unguarded. He turned and walked away before anyone noticed him watching. Back home, Juan added new notes to his legal pad. The pay phone location went on the left side. The hardware store loading schedule went on the right, along with a sketch of the yellow cabinet. His three alibis still worked—the receipts were dated but flexible. The parking pass in his wallet still had the Casterton Industries logo. Everything was coming together now, piece by piece, no wasted motion. He set down his pen and looked at the page. The plan was clean. The target was correct. When Casterton Industries burned, he would be across the street watching, and every face he saw would know exactly who had done this to them.