The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [143]
Ritter darted another glance to the sky and sighed. “If you can’t beat them …” He needed a place to spend the night, something to eat, a secure computer, and a few answers, and only one address came to mind where he might be able to fill his shopping list.
Faced with the choice of trundling one hundred floors down the fire stairs or taking to the elevators, George Wilson chose a combination to reach the parking lot and his vehicle. From the rooftop, he walked four floors down, bridged the alarm circuit on the fire door, picked its lock, and exited to a corridor by the elevator bank. The express car looked tempting, but it would stop at the lobby, and there was a chance an alert security guard would spot the wet stain spreading on his tightly wrapped coat. Instead, he descended to the tenth floor and the shopping center, exited, and stood next to two women to wait for another elevator, his guitar case propped in front of him.
“Coming to the party?”
One of the women rubbed the sole of a cheap shoe on the linoleum and hiked a slowly sliding shoulder bag. “I haven’t been invited.”
“Of course you have. We all have. Mr. Morris said everybody.”
“He’s a creep.”
“He’s the boss.”
“A creepy boss.”
The woman with the sloppy shoulder bag glanced at George, did an almost seamless double take over the wet edges of his coat, and sniffed.
More people gathered before the elevator doors, eyes following the changing numbers overhead. Only one car went straight to the parking lots; the others would stop at the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye, George spotted two security guards approaching with the bored nonchalance of mercenaries. A high-pitched single bell, and the sliding doors to one of the cars opened, quickly followed by another. The woman with the keen eye filed past, not without darting another look at his coat. When the security pair was almost abreast, the far elevator pinged and slid open. George picked up his guitar case, glanced at a two-inch wet spot where he’d been standing, and filed into the car, his free hand reaching inside his coat. Once inside, George turned around. One of the security men stared at the puddle, then his lips moved and his companion burst out laughing as the sliding doors silently closed.
At the parking lot, George waited for his traveling companions to scatter in different directions before taking his bearings. There were three elevator banks, and he’d used the farthest to the right. He checked the overhead signs: 3W—right level, wrong letter. His car was at M. After checking the lay of the letters, he hefted his guitar case once more and walked purposefully down a wide aisle, reaching into his jacket pocket for the remote.
“Mister …”
George glanced sideways to see a man with a walking stick, wearing thick old-fashioned glasses, set on an interception course. How beggars managed to bypass security was beyond him. Damn vermin. He glanced around and lengthened his stride, the rear lights of his rented four-wheel drive flashing twenty yards ahead.
“Mister …”
The voice sounded farther away; the gimpy bastard couldn’t keep up.
He opened the vehicle’s hatchback, dumped the guitar case inside, and reached for a tire iron he’d spotted earlier. He would give the beggar some alms. He turned around, covering the iron with his body, and froze. Overhead, a fluorescent lamp flickered. George remained immobile, his eyes slowly panning the parked vehicles, the concrete pillars supporting the structure, and the aisles. The beggar was nowhere in sight. In a shoulder holster, George carried a squat Glock, safety off and a round up the spout. It would take a second to dive to the floor and roll over while his free hand flashed to his armpit. Then he heard a tiny metallic sound, like a chime, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted the slightest of movements and a glimmer. Through narrowed eyes, he followed a single silver