Cold Shot to the Heart (11 page)

She looked at the door, remembering the layout Stimmer had sketched. The living room here, then the dining room beyond, where the game was. To the left, a bedroom where the bank would be. The living room was big. They would have to cross it fast and silent.

Stimmer had the MP5 free, was cradling it in his arms. Clouds parted and the moon brightened. She put a hand on his shoulder to hold him there. They waited, heard the distant rumble of thunder out over the ocean.

When the clouds closed again, she crawled across the flagstones. She took out the Glock, used her other hand to hook the lip of the door. It moved smoothly as she pushed. Cool air flowed out. Wind billowed the curtain.

She could hear voices now, terse statements punctuated by silence. She got to her feet, Stimmer rising beside her. She eased the curtain aside.

When she stepped into the living room, there was a small white-haired man coming toward them, an unlit cigar in his mouth. She aimed the Glock at him, touched an index finger to her lips. Stimmer moved to her right, the MP5 up. The old man looked at them without fear, said nothing.

Light spilled from the dining room, but she and Stimmer stood in shadow. She pointed at the man with her left hand, made a circular motion. He took the cigar from his mouth, looked at both of them, then turned and began to walk back. They followed him.

When he stepped into the dining room, he looked at the nine men at the table and said, “Bad news.”

TWELVE

“Sit down,” Stimmer told the old man. He moved to the head of the table to cover them all, the MP5's stock extended now. “This is a robbery. Don't make it a murder.”

The old man took his chair. Crissa pointed the Glock into the room. Ten men at the table, one of them in vest and tuxedo shirt, a deck of cards in his hand. The dealer. Green felt cloth on the table, a pile of multicolored chips in the center, more stacked in front of each player. Against the wall, a table full of room service food, silver trays and liquor bottles, a coffeepot.

She felt their eyes on her as she moved past, into the corridor. A big man in a Hawaiian shirt was coming out of the bedroom, the door half open behind him. She aimed the Glock at his face. He stopped, looked at her, the gun, raised his hands to shoulder height.

There was a TV on in the bedroom behind him. In the hall, a big tank full of bright tropical fish bubbled softly. Those were the only sounds.

“Ricky,” the old man called from the dining room. “Do as they say. It's all right.”

She pointed at the floor. Ricky sank slowly to his knees on the carpet, hands still up.

“All the way,” she said.

He stretched out on his stomach. She straddled him, half-facing the bedroom doorway, reached beneath his shirt, felt the automatic in the clip holster. She pulled it out, patted him down again, took a BlackBerry off his other hip. She dropped both in the fish tank.

“Stay there,” she told him and went into the bedroom.

Inside, a bald man in a suit was cramming stacks of bills into a steel attaché case on a table. Beside the case was a teak box of chips.

She tapped the Glock on the door frame to get his attention. He froze, didn't turn.

“Step away from that case,” she said.

He raised his hands.

“Back up. That's good. Now kneel.”

She crouched behind him, took a walnut-grip .38 from his hip, tossed it on the bed. She pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, dropped it beside the gun.

“Facedown,” she said. She pushed the Glock into her pocket to free her hands, took out a pair of plasticuffs. He crossed his wrists behind him, and she slipped the cuffs on, drew them tight.

“Stay quiet,” she said. “Or I'll gag you.”

She took the gun and phone, went back into the hall, dropped them in the tank. Fish jetted away in irritation.

Ricky hadn't moved. She took out another pair of cuffs, bound his hands behind him. He grunted as she tightened them.

She went down the hall to a mirrored foyer, tapped lightly at the front door. When the answering knock came, she worked the locks, opened the door. Chance came in carrying a duffel bag, the ski mask pushed up on his head. The bag clanked as he set it down. She shut the door behind him, and he pulled the mask over his face, adjusted it.

She pointed at the bedroom door. He nodded, drew a folded canvas bag from his jumpsuit.

Back in the dining room, Stimmer stood as before, the MP5 unwavering. The men at the table turned to look at her. Two were Asians in resort wear. Across the table from them sat a young, slim man in a red and white cowboy shirt with pearl snaps. To his left, a heavy man with a pockmarked face, black and silver hair slicked back. He wore a suit jacket, his white shirt open to show a gold Italian horn on a chain. The stack of chips in front of him was the smallest on the table.

“Everybody stay calm,” the old man said. “Let them take what they want.”

“Sam,” said a man in shirtsleeves and thick glasses. “What is this bullshit?”

“Easy, Morrie,” the old man said. “Everybody take it easy.”

“Gentlemen,” Stimmer said. “Wallets and cell phones. On the table.”

A groan came up. Sam put the unlit cigar back in his mouth, then pulled a thick leather wallet from his back pocket, tossed it onto the chips in the center of the table. “No cell phone,” he said. “Hate 'em.”

One by one, the others added wallets and phones to the pile. The heavy man didn't move.

Stimmer came around behind the Asians, faced the heavy man across the table. He leveled the MP5 at his chest.

“Do it,” Stimmer said. The heavy man met his eyes.

“Lou,” Sam said. “Come on, don't fuck around.”

Crissa raised the Glock. “Do what he says.” It was taking too long. They were losing the element of surprise, giving the players time to think.

After a moment, Lou said, “Punks.” He took a leather billfold from an inside pocket, tossed it with the others, sat back.

“Phone,” Stimmer said.

Lou looked at him, then took a thin black cell from another pocket, dropped it on the table.

“Morrie,” Stimmer said, looking at the man in glasses. “Take the cash out of those wallets, pile it on the table.”

“Why me?”

Stimmer pointed the MP5 at him. Morrie sighed, stood. Stimmer aimed at Lou again, their eyes locked on each other.

Morrie began pulling cash from wallets, dropping it on the table.

“Make sure you get it all,” Stimmer said. “Then sit down.”

Chance gave a short whistle from the corridor. She went out, saw him with the laundry bag between his feet, one end now bulky with cash. He'd taken Ricky into the bedroom, laid him down next to the banker.

Chance gave her a thumbs-up.
Got it all.
She cocked her head at the dining room. He nodded, went through. She went around the suite looking for room phones, found three. She unplugged the jack cords at both ends, shoved them into her pocket.

Back in the dining room, Chance was shoveling loose cash and cell phones into the laundry bag, the men watching him. He pulled the drawstring tight and hefted the bag, and she went with him to the front door. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall, a masked figure in black.

Chance took the second duffel, pulled it open, the rappelling gear inside. She ejected the magazine from the Glock, cleared the chamber, dropped gun and clip into the bag. Then she stripped out of the jumpsuit, stuffed it in after them. She was pulling at the mask when they heard the flat
crack
of the gunshot.

She looked at Chance. From the dining room, someone said, “Oh good Jesus Christ, no.”

She tugged the mask back down, swung around the corner into the dining room. The men had all pushed back from the table, some with their hands up. Gunsmoke hung in the air.

“Oh, Jesus,” the man in the cowboy shirt said. “Oh good Jesus Christ.”

Lou was sprawled back in his chair, the top of it wedged against the wall behind him, keeping him from falling. There was a black hole on the left side of his chest, the shirt blooming red around it. There was blood on the wall, on the felt, specks of it on the face of the man in the cowboy shirt. Lou slid lower in his seat, eyes half closed.

Silence in the room. She looked at Stimmer. He had the MP5 to his shoulder. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the breach. No one moved.

“He was reaching for something,” Stimmer said.

Lou tumbled slow to the left, out of the chair. The cowboy pulled away, let him fall. He took the chair down with him, thudded onto the floor, and lay still.

Stimmer tracked the gun over the rest of them. The cowboy raised a hand in front of his face. The Asians looked at Stimmer, patient. Sam had his hands up. No one looked at the body.

“Anyone tries to follow us gets the same,” Stimmer said.

She turned, moved quick into the hallway. Chance looked a question at her.

“It's fucked,” she said. “We need to get out of here.”

He held the duffel open. She pulled off her mask, dropped it in. Stimmer came hurrying out of the dining room behind her. He engaged the safety on the MP5, closed the stock, slipped the gun into the bag, started to unzip his jumpsuit.

She didn't wait. She opened the door, looked both ways. The hallway was empty. She stepped out, walked toward the stairwell, turning her face from the cameras, fighting the impulse to run. She passed the maintenance closet, the door propped open as Chance had left it.

On the ninth floor, she left the stairwell, went down the quiet hall to the elevators. She pushed the button, waited, heard the machinery inside. After a few seconds the door on her right opened. Empty. She got in, pushed
G
.

When the doors opened, she stepped out into the garage. To the left, the door to the maintenance area was propped open with a brick. The van that said
NBS MAINTENANCE
on the side was parked in a spot near the elevator, nose out. She considered walking past it, up the ramp and onto the street, but she didn't know the area, would be lost around here on foot.

The passenger door was unlocked. She climbed up, leaned over, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught. It would save a few seconds. She pushed her glove back from her watch: 2:00
A.M.
She looked back at the stairwell, kept a hand on the door latch, ready to pull it, do a runner if she had to.

A few minutes later, the stairwell entrance opened, and Chance and Stimmer came out, Stimmer back in street clothes, unmasked. They went through the maintenance door, and seconds later came out, Stimmer with the duffel, Chance with the laundry bag. They were breathing heavy from the walk down.

Stimmer pulled open the side door of the van, tossed the bags in, climbed in after them, slid the door shut. Chance got behind the wheel, his face white, pulled out of the spot without a word. She ducked below the dashboard as he drove up the ramp, turned left on Seabreeze and past the hotel. She stayed low as the van turned again, then a third time, the tires rumbling over metal plates, the bridge that led to the city itself.

On Los Olas Boulevard, she heard sirens, raised her head far enough to see a police cruiser streaking toward them from the opposite direction, lights flashing. It passed them, headed toward the beach.

They rode for another five minutes, making turns; then she heard tires on gravel, and the van came to an abrupt stop. She looked out, saw they were in a warehouse parking lot. Stimmer's switch car, a gray Kia, was parked beside a Dumpster.

“Go on,” Chance said. “I need to get rid of this thing.”

She opened the door, got down, looked around the lot. A dark street, a long row of warehouses on both sides. She heard the side door open behind her, Stimmer getting out, shutting it. Chance pulled away, steered out of the lot.

“Give me the keys,” she said.

Stimmer looked at her.

“What?”

“Give me the keys. I'm driving.”

After a moment, he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

He took the keys from his pants pocket, tossed them. She caught them in front of her face.

“Let's go,” he said.

She got behind the wheel of the Kia, started the engine. He climbed in beside her, didn't speak.

It was a twenty-minute drive to the bus station. There was a trio of taxis waiting at the curb. She drove past them, turned down a side street of darkened businesses, pulled to the curb.

“You'll want to scrub your hands and wrists,” she said. “For powder residue. Even with the gloves.” It was the first she'd spoken.

“I will,” he said. He turned to her. “He was reaching for something. I had to do it.”

She nodded, turned the engine off, looked at him.

“What?” he said.

She hit him high in the left temple with her right fist, knocked his head back against the window. He grabbed at her, and she hit him again, a snapping backhand blow with her fist. He lunged across the seat, trying to get atop her, pin her hands. She put a gloved thumb in his eye.

He cried out, backed away against the door, a hand to his face.

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

She opened the door, got out. He was still leaning against the passenger door, hand at his eye. Blood dripped from a nostril.

“You'll hear from us,” she said and shut the door, headed for the taxi stand. She didn't look back.

THIRTEEN

Chance upended the duffel, dumped the cash out on the hotel bed. Most of it was banded. The banker had been neat.

He shook out the last of the loose bills, and they divided the money into two piles. They counted without speaking, Chance using a pocket calculator, Crissa doing it all in her head. She wore rubber bands on her wrist, slid one off to bind the bills whenever she reached a round number.

When they were done, they counted once more and compared figures. The total came to $418,320.

“Far cry from a million,” she said, “but not bad.”