Cold Shot to the Heart by Wallace Stroby Page A

position, leaned back until the line grew taut. Then she stepped backward over the edge, planted her feet against the stucco wall.
    She played out rope, the nylon stretching as it took her weight. Her right hand worked the belaying device at her hip. Don’t look down and don’t look up, she thought. Concentrate on what you’re doing.
    She lowered herself, testing the tension, letting the rope out in increments through the cinch links, her sneakers scuffing on the wall. She juddered in stages down the side of the building, the wind pushing gently against her. She felt exposed, waited for someone on the ground to see her, cry out.
    She let out more rope, and then suddenly the first balcony was under her. The wind blew her toward the building. She braced her feet on the wrought-iron railing, let it take her weight. Three seconds of rest and then she let out more line, pushed away. She could hear the ocean.
    Stretched across the railing, the line held her farther out from the building now. She looked down, saw the balcony of 1102 just a few feet below. More line, and then she swung her weight out—once, twice—let the momentum carry her back in, her legs extended. On the third try, she hooked the railing with her feet, pulled herself in. Then she played out a final three feet of rope, swung her hips over the railing, and landed soft on the balcony.
    She crouched there, not breathing. The sliding glass door was open two inches, the breeze stirring the curtain inside. The room beyond was half-lit. A wind chime sounded from another balcony.
    She put a hand on the flagstones for balance, used the other to undo the harness. She eased out of it, then double-knotted the trailing line around one of the carabiners.
    Movement above her. She looked up, saw Stimmer coming down. He tried to swing in to the balcony, missed. She caught his ankle on the second try, guided him in. His feet touched the flagstones, and she pulled him down beside her.
    They waited, listening. He eased his harness off, knotted the line, tugged twice. The two harnesses rose off the flagstones, brushed once against the railing, and were gone.
    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
    â€œSit 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