Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

“What’s with the second ambulance?” the guard asked the taller of the crime scene cops.

“That’s how it is sometimes, more than one ambulance shows up. Are they having a party in there?”

“It’s a memorial.”

“What’s your piece?” The first cop was nodding at the pistol on the security guard’s hip.

“Oh, just a Colt. Thirty-eight. They don’t let us carry automatics here. I don’t know why.”

“How ’bout that. I’ve got a thirty-eight as my backup.” He glanced down at his ankle. “Nice weapon.”

“Totally dependable,” the guard said proudly, pleased a cop had liked his choice of gun.

“ You have a backup?”

“Me?” the guard replied with a laugh. “Not hardly.”

“Ah. Good.”

“Good?” the guard asked uncertainly, wondering why it was good. Then his mind did a leap and it occurred to him that it made no sense for crime scene officers to be here. That only made sense if-

“Tell you what,” the taller cop said. “Lift your hands out to your sides.”

“Oh, no,” the guard said miserably as he felt the other officer behind him touch a gun to his skull. “This is… shit, this is all a setup, isn’t it? You’re not cops. You’re hitting the place, aren’t you?”

“Hands,” the first one repeated.

The guard lifted his hands. He felt like crying. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

The second cop-well, fake cop-pulled the.38 from the guard’s holster. His wallet too.

The first one asked, “What’s your half of the code to the special exhibit room, the one in the tower?”

The room that contained a traveling exhibition of some small but important Renaissance drawings and prints. It had taken a year to get the Vatican to agree to lend the masterpieces, and they only did it because the museum installed a special security system that required two people to open it.

“Oh, they don’t tell us that.”

A voice behind him: “Who’s the little girl in the picture?”

The guard whirled around and saw the second fake cop looking through his wallet.

“Your daughter, right? Is she at home now?”

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 bythe 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?”