Cold Shot to the Heart by Wallace Stroby

smart. No tears.
    She ejected the disc, punched the power button, watched the screen fade to black.

ELEVEN
    She rode the elevator to the tenth floor, then got out and took the stairs. At the top, a fire door said NO ADMITTANCE . She pushed through, went up the short flight of stairs to the roof.
    She’d come in the front door with a group of drunk conventioneers, joined them in the elevator. The doorman hadn’t seemed to notice her. The conventioneers had gotten off at the fifth floor, gone noisily to their rooms, left her alone.
    She opened the roof door and stepped out into the night. In front of her was the immense blackness of the ocean, the moon a glow behind clouds.
    Stimmer and Chance were waiting in the lee of the big air-conditioning unit, sitting with their backs against it. They’d arrived an hour apart, Stimmer first, Chance dropping him off, then coming back with the van. She’d taken a cab, had it leave her four blocks away at another hotel, then walked here.
    The air conditioner rattled and thrummed, the only sound up here besides the wind. Heat lightning pulsed on the horizon.
    They got to their feet when they saw her. Stimmer was already in his jumpsuit, Chance in the maintenance uniform, both wearing gloves. Chance opened a duffel bag, began to draw equipment out.
    The blacktop was warm through her sneakers—residual heat from the day. She looked around. On both sides were more hotels, a long curve of them following the beach. To the front, traffic moved on Seabreeze. The far right lane emptied onto the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and led to the city proper.
    Chance held out her jumpsuit. She pulled it on over her jeans and T-shirt, a tight fit, zipped it. There was a Velcroed pocket on each side, big enough for a weapon. Chance handed her the Glock. She checked it, slipped it into the right pocket, smoothed it shut. The bundle of plasticuffs he gave her went into the other pocket.
    Stimmer had two nylon ropes anchored around the air-conditioning unit, was pulling on them to test them. Chance held up one of the harnesses for her. She stepped into it, tightened the belt, tugged on the leather rappel gloves he gave her.
    Stimmer drew the MP5 from the duffel, the stock retracted. He’d jury-rigged a harness on his back for it, strapped it in place. Chance helped him into the rappel gear.
    They got busy with the lines, feeding them through the carabiners and belay devices. She double-checked hers, tugged on the rope to test it. She gave Stimmer the thumbs-up.
    A gust of wind blew in from the ocean, lifted grit from the rooftop, swirled it in the air. It was stronger than they’d expected. They’d have to take it into account when they went over the side.
    She paid out rope, walking backward to the roof edge. She turned, looked down, felt a hollowness in her stomach. Thirteen floors below was the concrete patio, the blue light of the swimming pool, closed for the night, a stack of plastic chairs beside it. Beyond the patio, the empty beach. Light came through the ground-floor windows, illuminated a brief stretch of sand.
    If the rigging failed, she’d have two choices. Push away and hope she cleared the patio and hit the sand, or angle in and try to make the pool. Either way, she knew, the fall would probably kill her.
    â€œYou ready?” Stimmer said. She nodded. He pulled on a black ski mask, handed her another. She tugged it down over her face, adjusted the eye holes. She tried to swallow, couldn’t gather enough saliva.
    She repositioned herself, looked down again. Directly below was the dark shape of an unlit balcony—1202. They knew it was vacant, had called the room twice tonight to be sure. Below that, the balcony of 1102, the flagstones faintly illuminated by light coming through a sliding glass door.
    Chance was by the air-conditioning unit, checking the rigging. He gave her the thumbs-up. She hitched the harness to a more comfortable