Cold Shot to the Heart by Wallace Stroby Page B

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.
    â€œRicky,” 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.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œStep away from that case,” she said.
    He raised his hands.
    â€œBack 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.
    â€œFacedown,” 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.
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œEverybody stay calm,” the old man said. “Let them take what they want.”
    â€œSam,” said a man in shirtsleeves and thick glasses. “What is this bullshit?”
    â€œEasy, Morrie,” the old man said. “Everybody take it easy.”
    â€œGentlemen,” 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.
    â€œDo it,” Stimmer said. The heavy man met his