The ride had been hectic, to say the least. People on the street begged for help or simply fled the scene when Heather roared by. Some tried to drive away from the mayhem. They passed a hearse filled with bullet holes, its tires squealing as it rounded corners. Guess people will use whatever car they can find, Mark thought.
Heather, Finster, and Mark stormed through the front doors of Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Employees ran around chaotically, shouting and yelling. One woman fled past Mark, screaming that they were all going to die. Security was in the process of shuttering the place down, hoping to weather the oncoming disaster. Talk of malfunction floated about, prompting dozens of people to fling themselves at the shutters, kicking and clawing to close it. Finster caught Heather’s eye and they picked up their pace.
The front desk attendant was busy on the phone, and she held up a finger to Heather as they approached. Heather eyed Finster, who snatched the phone away from the woman and threw it.
“Where. Is. Rooke?” Heather growled. The attendant raised a trembling finger to the top office.
When they arrived at the office, they found the doors locked. Finster kicked them in. Rooke was nowhere to be seen. The window was open. Heather ran to it as if she expected to find her boss climbing down the side of the building. Finster tried Rooke’s private phone line, checking to see if he could contact Whyte or anyone else on the screen. No number he dialed went through.
Heather hit the window sill. “Where could he be?”
“His house?” Finster suggested.
“Maybe,” she said, staring at the parking lot below. “Or maybe at Leonard’s.” She strode out of the office, flanked by Finster and Mark. “You check his house. Mark and I will take Leonard’s. Meet up at the hospital in forty minutes.”
“Gotcha,” Finster said. They separated at the parking lot. He hot-wired a truck to drive while Heather and Mark took the sports car.