Wicked Prey by John Sandford Page A

covering the loading dock; they both record and live-monitor,” Cruz said. She was flipping through a notebook with handwritten notes. “The only people who look at the monitors are the desk crew, and they don’t have time for it. You won’t be breaking in, so even if they see you, they’ll think you’re staff. You’ll wear hats, keep your heads down. You go in, the staff stairway is to your left. No cameras in the stairwell. There are cameras in the hallways, but they’re direct-recorders and aren’t live anywhere.”
    “So if we come out of the stairwell with masks . . .”
    “You’re good. They’ll look at you afterwards, but by then, it’s too late.”
    “Where did you get the uniform?” An idle question: he didn’t really care. The talk was his way of nailing down the terrain.
    “Macy’s. It’s a tuxedo jacket and pants with a red dress shirt,” she said. “Now, when you’re in the hallway, you’ll see the cameras hanging down from the ceiling—they’re smoked-glass bubbles, about six inches across. You get to the door, then McCall turns his back, takes off his mask, knocks . . . If they look through the peephole, they’ll see a black guy with the room service uniform. If they open the door on a chain, you kick it and go in, and McCall pulls the mask back on. If they open it, you go in.”
    “What if we meet somebody in the hallway?” Cohn asked.
    “Well, you peek first, see if there’s anybody there. We’re doing it right during all the big meetings and parties, so there shouldn’t be a lot of traffic. There’s a big party in the Mississippi Ballroom, so you may get somebody coming up to pee. If you do, well, you take them into the room with you. Holding them would not be a problem: you’ll only be inside for five minutes.”
    They were headed around the block, and Cohn looked back at the hotel. “Two rooms.”
    “Two rooms.” Cruz nodded. “After you take five-oh-five, Lane stays with the people there, freezes them. You and McCall go down to four-thirty-one. We do the lower floor second, so if anything goes wrong, we’ll get out that much quicker. And four-thirty-one is closer to the staff stairwell. When you finish four-thirty-one, you call Lane on the cell and you all walk.”
    They were easing through the tangle of streets between the park and the downtown. Cruz pointed at a parking garage.
    “Two blocks, around two corners,” Cruz said. “If we have to ditch the car or if somebody gets caught on foot, we’ll have one emergency car here, another one on the street down from the park. We’ll have to position that one just before we hit. Everything like we’ve always done it: keys are with the car, magnetic box under the rear left bumper. Each car has a two-gallon plastic gas can in the back, half gas, half oil. If you have to ditch a car, try to burn it.”
    Cohn nodded: of course there’d be emergency cars. And, of course there’d be gas cans. There always were, on his jobs. He adopted any advantage, or possible advantage. That was why he’d survived, and why he worked with Cruz: they saw eye-to-eye on advantages, and survival.
    “I want to see that layout again—we have to know which way to go however we get out, even if we have to throw a chair through a window,” Cohn said.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Feels strange,” he said, looking back at the hotel, busy, well-dressed people flowing around it. “That much cash, with no protection. You’re sure about the money?”
    “Ninety percent. That’s as good as I can get it. Not as good as with a duck, but pretty damn good,” Cruz said. The group had its own slang, and referred to armored cars as “ducks,” as in “sitting ducks.” She added, “The thing that sold me was, it’s so soft.”
    They stopped at the mouth of a short alley and she pointed down the alley to a loading dock. “That’s the door, off to the left. I checked the key last week. If they changed the lock last night, well, you walk