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.

“You 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 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.”