The guard started to cry. “I only know half the code.”
“That’s all I asked for,” was the calm reply.
“One seven seven A M K question mark eight three one; the letters are caps. It’s case sensitive,” the guard blurted out breathlessly. “Please, I’ll do anything…”
The first cop jotted the code. “If this’s right, you don’t need to do anything else.” A nod, and in a moment the guard was duct taped and being dragged into the cloakroom nearby.
As they left, they shut the lights off, leaving him in darkness to consider how careless he’d been in not following the strictest security protocols. And to consider what kind of nightmare was about to unfold in the tower room.
They went by the names Bob and Frank, names that were short but, more important, distinct, so if they were working with a third person, there’d be no confusion as to who was being summoned.
The men were professional thieves. Killers too, though there’d been a major decrease in the market for hit men lately-because that job was relatively easy. Quality guns and explosives were cheap and easily available. But good thieves were hard to come by-a trace-free B and E required a lot of technical skill-so they’d reaped a windfall in fees over the past few years.
After dumping the guard in the cloakroom, they’d returned to the lobby. They were still in the crime scene outfits that had allowed them access into the museum. They wore these as often as they could on a job because the outfits protected them from sloughing off trace evidence as efficiently as they prevented cops from contaminating crime scenes.
Bob now walked to the front door of the museum, looked out, and unlocked it. He waved to their accomplices-the men posing as paramedics in the fake ambulance. One of the fake medics looked up. Bob called, “Ten minutes. We’ll secure the room and let you know when it’s clear.”
“We’re all set.”
Frank and Bob climbed the stairs toward the large room at the top of the tower. At the top, they paused only long enough to double-check their Beretta pistols and make sure the silencers were properly mounted.
Then they glanced at each other, nodded, and turned the corner, walking into the room where the guests were still assembled, talking among themselves about what had already happened that night, downing drinks to calm their nerves.
The attendees didn’t at first notice the intrusion. But then somebody gasped, somebody else cried out, and the rest of the crowd turned.
“Wait!”
“Who’re you?”
“What’re you doing here?”
Other pointless questions and screams. Emotion… such a waste of time and energy, Bob thought.
“No one touch a cell phone,” he called in a calm voice. “I want everybody on your knees, and lace your hands behind your head. If you don’t, you’ll get shot.”
No one did anything for a moment-which was typical-and then a bulky man, an older guy in a suit, strode his way. “I don’t know what this-”
Bob shot him in the head twice, blood flecking the wall and the clothes of those standing near. More screams and gasps.
A pretty, dark-haired teenage girl in a dark blue dress, horror on her face, ran toward the body.
Bob raised his pistol to shoot her too, but she controlled herself, dropped to her knees, then put her hands behind her neck.
Crying, gasping, begging, everyone else followed her lead.
Bob then did a fast head count. Hell… two of the guests were missing. Frank noticed the same. Bob pointed his gun at the girl again. “Where are the others?” he called to the crowd. “Tell me or I shoot her in five seconds.”
But no more bloodletting was necessary.
Just then two men turned the corner from a dark corridor leading off the tower and froze at the sight of the two intruders. Frank, the closer of the robbers, trained his weapon on them.
One of the men, whom the robber took to be in better shape than his friend, glanced at the body, then at Frank, then at Bob. They got the impression the man was quickly analyzing the scene. Bob would need to keep a special eye on him.
When the two new guests were on their knees and Bob was covering them all, Frank carefully frisked everyone. When he identified Justine Olegard, he said, “I need the second half of the code to the special exhibit room-I have the first half. The wall alarm codes too.”
“But-”
“We showed you we have no problem killing anybody. I want the code now, or I’ll kill… her.” He stepped forward and pointed the gun at an attractive thirtysomething, blond and pretty.
“No!” cried the burly man beside her.
“Don, don’t say anything to him,” she said. “Don’t make him mad.”
The guy with her, Don apparently, shouted to Justine, “Give him the code! Please!”
Justine nodded. Bob pulled her to her feet and walked her to the door of the special exhibit room. He stopped her at the keypad and typed in the first half of the code. Then she typed in the rest. A faint buzz and they pushed the double doors open, then stepped into the exhibit hall. She flicked the lights on. The place was filled with old sketches and prints that Bob knew must have been worth millions.
The crop was free for the harvest; it was time to earn his $500,000 fee.
Bob pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt and hit the transmit button. “We’re secure,” he radioed the fake paramedics.
A moment later a crackling answer: “Roger, we’re on our way.”
Bob led Justine back into the main room. He deposited her back on her knees. Then he caught a glimpse of that man he’d noted earlier, the big guy. Bob walked up to him. “What’s your name?”
“Jon Nunn.”
Bob stared down coldly at him but Nunn held his eyes without a problem. In fact he was looking back in a funny way, studying him, it seemed. With the shower hat, the bootees, the face mask, and the jumpsuit, there was no chance of getting a description. But Bob had an odd feeling that this Nunn was committing some kind of a description to memory, looking for attributes that could later be used in an investigation or at triaclass="underline" how Bob walked, how he stood, left hand versus right hand, height, weight.
Time to kill this prick.
He lifted the gun. Started to pull the trigger.
Then the elevator door opened and the paramedics walked into the room.
Bob frowned. Shit, hadn’t they gotten the instructions right? They were supposed to bring the carts in to haul out the art. Time was at a premium; as it was, they’d still have to load the artwork into the ambulance and fake crime scene van.
He started, “We need the carts-” but his voice froze.
These weren’t the men he’d hired! And they were clearly wearing body armor under their uniforms.
Police! Shit!
With a slam in his gut he understood that he’d been outsmarted. Somebody had figured out that a robbery was going down and called the police. The cops had arrived silently, found the phony paramedics outside, overpowered them, then dressed two officers in medic overalls as point men for a takedown team.
Which would of course be sprinting up the stairs right now.
The two cops crouched, weapons drawn.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Bob cried to his partner, who started firing toward the two officers, the ring of brass on the stone floor nearly as loud as the silenced report of his Beretta.
Bob’s strategy was to wound as many in the crowd as he could, forcing the tactical team to stop and give them aid. He could get out through the back, via an emergency route he’d planned earlier. Frank too, if he was able, but that was up to him.
The cop closest to him had his back turned, aiming at Frank. Bob lifted his gun to shoot the cop in the spine, but as he did, he heard a slap of feet behind him. And thought, Oh, hell…
An instant later he was tumbling to the floor after a shoulder caught him low and hard, right in the kidneys. A flash of yellow light burst in his eyes, an explosion of pain. Bob gasped, breath completely knocked out of him.