Tim led Pamela and Barbara through a rusted steel door at the back of Cars R Us. The concrete ramp sloped downward, the air growing colder as fluorescent lights hummed to life overhead. The underground garage stretched wide, lined with rows of polished machines under industrial lamps.
"Ladies," Tim said, spreading his arms theatrically. "Welcome to our high-end, low-attention-seeking selection. Bulletproof frames, reinforced tires, upgraded transmissions, top-of-the-line suspension. Perfect for getting away from, say, certain authority figures, if you catch my drift."
Pamela's gaze was steady. "Oh, we catch it."
The cars before them gleamed in reds and oranges, muscle sedans with polished chrome plating. Barbara's eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms. "We don't want anything in red. Statistically, they're pulled over more often."
Tim froze, his grin faltering, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Pamela added smoothly, "Or bright orange."
"Right, right," Tim stammered, wiping his brow. "Gray, black, white. The low-profile line. I got you."
Pamela glanced at Barbara. "Gray?"
Barbara nodded firmly. "Perfect. One of the least likely to be remembered."
Tim hurried them along to a different section. Barbara's tone carried an edge of dry humor. "Show us your ultra-invisible cars. The ones people forget the second they stop looking."
Tim chuckled nervously. "These here are your budget-looking, high-durability, attention-repelling rides. Might not win beauty contests, but they'll keep you off every radar in Gotham."
Barbara approached a dusty gray sedan. She rapped her knuckles against the hood, listening to the dull thud. She pulled open the door, then popped the hood. A rugged, reinforced engine sat within, clean despite the car's shabby appearance. "Is the body bulletproof?"
"Completely," Tim assured her. "Reinforced shell under the grime. It can withstand gandgun fire, and most rifles—you're covered."
Pamela tilted her head. "What do you think, Barbara?"
Barbara's eyes narrowed further. She shut the hood and looked Tim dead in the eye. "We need something even more forgettable. Half-damaged exterior. Fake rust, dents. But underneath? Military-grade suspension, high-speed acceleration. Zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds. It has to look like junk but perform like a predator."
Sweat rolled down Tim's temple. "Of course. I must've forgotten I had those in stock. You two are… very discerning shoppers."
He led them deeper into the garage. At the far end, a rolling metal door rattled upward to reveal a hidden lot. The air inside was heavy with oil and dust. Cars sat under dim light, their bodies disguised with mismatched hubcaps, dents, and streaks of rust. They looked like junkyard finds but hummed faintly with concealed power.
Barbara walked slowly between them, inspecting every detail. "We need four-doors. With a big trunk. Maybe even a sunroof—in case we need to throw things at pursuers. Snowballs, hypothetically."
Pamela nodded, her lips curving faintly. "Very tactical thinking."
Tim cleared his throat. "Just so you know… these babies don't come cheap. Discretion and strength cost a premium."
Pamela unzipped the duffel bag at her side and tossed it at his feet. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, splitting open to reveal neat stacks of $100 bills. Wads of cash spilled out across the concrete.
Tim's eyes widened, his tone shifting instantly. "I see… you can afford it. In that case, I'll even throw in a complimentary cleaning. I'll wipe the engine block serials myself."
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