She glared but made no reply.
All in; the button was pressed for the underground parking garage. The elevator car descended, making no stops on its plunge to the bottom.
The Mega Mart's infrastructure extended for several levels underground. Beneath the sprawling, stepped pavilions and landscaped gardens at surface level lay an extensive underground parking garage complex. It was huge, occupying the space of a city block. A necessity for the legions of employees who drove their own vehicles to and from work.
Admittance was restricted. Nobody could just drive in out of the blue and grab a space. The underground complex had a number of ramped portals, each of which was secured by mechanized gates and tollbooths. It was monitored by security cameras, most of which were trained on the main aisles and cross passages and the entrances and exits.
There was room for several hundred vehicles.
Most of the companies housed in the Mega Mart and their employees put little credence in the concept of the five-day workweek. On Saturdays, from eight A.M. until mid-afternoon, it was not unusual to see the underground lot filled to anywhere from a fifth to a quarter of its full capacity.
Not today, though; not this Saturday, with Everette coming on. Here was where the truly dedicated stivers and workaholics were separated from the merely ambitious corporate worker bees and drones. They had come, even today, several score of them, their vehicles scattered around the subterranean lot.
Due to the reduced demand, and in preparation for the coming storm, all but one of the exit/entrance ramps were closed. That ramp was secured by a mechanical gate and manned by a single attendant in the tollbooth.
The express elevator touched bottom, easing to a halt. The doors opened, spilling out its carload of passengers. The riders exited on the hustle, double-timing their way through winding corridors of white-painted concrete blocks and slick gray cement floors.
In the lead were Jack Bauer, Pete Malo, and Mylon Sears. Susan Keehan raced along with them, but the three in the lead were grouped to screen her from potential threat and wouldn't let her pass them. Gene Jasper jogged alongside her, for additional security. Alma Butterworth flanked her on the other side, her short thick legs churning. Bringing up the rear was Hal Dendron, huffing and puffing.
Trouble lay ahead, the only question being how much.
Jack and Pete had a two-man CTU backup team posted in the garage to keep an eye out for Garros, to intercept and detain him should he elude the senior agents and make for his car. These agents, Topham and Beauclerk, failed to respond to Pete's repeated cell phone calls.
Raoul Garros, likewise, failed to answer the calls to his cell made by Susan Keehan.
Building security had reported that the attendant in the exit tollbooth also did not reply to their increasingly urgent queries.
The newly arrived group half-walked, half-ran as they threaded the corridors into the vast underground space.
It was a totally artificial environment made of stone and steel, lit by electric lights. Modern-day catacombs, subdivided by rows of round, upright pillars that created vanishing point perspective lines as they filed across the expanse of cement floor toward the space's far-distant opposite end.
It smelled of exhaust fumes, oil, gas, rubber, and a flinty dankness that came of being below the surface of one of the most humid cities in the world. These scents persisted despite a powerful ventilation system.
Rank has its privileges, not only aboveground but beneath it. Those at the apex of the Mega Mart organization and the businesses it housed had been assigned parking spaces that were conveniently close to the elevator banks. Not for them the inconvenience of having to traverse the cavernous space of the lot to go to and from their vehicles; they had merely to step out of the elevators and proceed to the nearby reserved area that had been set aside for them.
Naturally Susan Keehan and her upper management cadre were allotted prime parking places in this privileged compound.
As the object of Susan's affections, Raoul Garros was routinely assigned one of these coveted spots and issued a permit and sticker allowing him unrestricted access to it.
His car, a late model maroon Mercedes with diplomatic plates, was there now, neatly positioned within the painted lines of its high-status parking space amid a cluster of similarly entitled VIP vehicles.
But Garros himself was gone, nowhere to be seen.
Sprawled on the floor near the Mercedes were two bodies. They lay in plain sight, where they had fallen. No attempt had been made to cover them up. They were CTU agents Topham and Beauclerk.
Topham's head lolled at an unnatural angle, the result of a broken neck. Beauclerk's death was messier. His throat had been cut with such force that the head was almost severed from the neck.
Susan Keehan gasped, biting the back of her hand to keep from screaming. She swayed, seemingly in danger of fainting. Gene Jasper grabbed her upper arms, steadying her. Alma Butterworth gave him a dirty look.
Jack, eyeing Beauclerk, said, 'The angle of the cut and the pattern of the blood spray indicate he was attacked from behind.'
Pete Malo said, 'No mean feat, to sneak up on Topham. He was a good man. Beauclerk, too.' His expression consisted of mingled parts of grief and rage. 'It probably happened while we were wasting time on that jag-off session upstairs in the KHF offices,' he said.
Mylon Sears said, 'That's not necessarily the case; we don't know that for sure.'
Pete said, 'Give me a break and stop singing the company song.'
It was a long walk across the concrete pavement to the far side of the garage, where the exit ramp lay, the only one that had been in operation this afternoon.
The ramp slanted up to street level.
Before exiting or entering, all vehicles must go through the checkpoint and gate.
Machines belonging to persons employed in the building were fixed with a plate or card similar to the automatic EZPass system used on certain state highways. A card with a microchip was fitted to the front of the vehicle. At the checkpoint, a monitoring device with a sensor electronically read the pass card; if valid, the gate lifted and the vehicle was allowed to proceed.
Visitors without the pass card must punch an auto-tab machine before entering, to receive a ticket stamped with date and time of entry. The gate would then lift, admitting them. If they were transacting business with one of the companies in the building, the ticket would be validated at the respective office or by the front security desk on the ground floor.
Since the sprawling subterranean site had more space than there were vehicles issued to building personnel, it also served as a public parking lot for the midtown business district, another way for Mega Mart management to maximize profits.
It also allowed entry to the public at large, with all that implies for good or ill.
In which case, the driver would present the stamped ticket at a tollbooth on the way out, where an attendant would levy charges for the time spent parked in the lot, collect the fare, and open the gate for the vehicle to exit.
Today, one sole tollbooth had been in operation. Violence had been done to the gate, a yellow-and-black striped metal pole that worked like a railroad crossing barrier, lifting when the fare was paid. The pole now lay on the ramp, crumpled and twisted and torn almost completely loose, except for a rivet or two that attached it to the gatepost.
Violence had been done to the gatekeeper, too.
The attendant now sat on the floor of the booth, his legs extended through its open doorway. He was wearing loafers, one of which had come off, leaving him with one foot shod and the other shoeless. He was wedged in the bottom of the booth, arms raised over his head and pinned in place by the narrow, upright walls.
His head was slumped forward, eyes open and staring, chin on chest, a bullet hole in the middle of his
