The heavy slam of the box falling echoes in the cavernous warehouse. Predictably, the cop - it must be a police officer - rounds sharply. After a beat, Charlie can hear the scrape as they shove off, the heavy slap of boot soles as they move back in the direction of the door.

Charlie's quick on his feet, rounding the immediate stack of boxes. Shit, shit, shit. There'll be a second officer at least, likely by the door if they're unlucky. If she's doing what he thinks she is, it'll mean running right into the wanker's arms. So Charlie does the only thing he can think to do to even her odds: throwing his flashlight at the officer's retreating back.

It pegs the man squarely in the small of the back, makes him cry out and sends him stumbling forward.