Princess opened the door. They all stepped out into the elevator, pulling off the ski masks to reveal the same kind of disk the woman wore underneath.

At the nod from Cross, the disks came off. He pressed a button on a transmitter.

The elevator opened in the lobby. As they walked across the carpet, Ace stepped from behind the security desk and joined them.

The anonymous gray car was waiting at the curb, its motor idling undetectably. Princess climbed in the front, Cross and the woman in the back. Rhino and Ace disappeared into the night.

The car pulled away. Cross opened the attaché case, rifled through the contents.

"There's something like a quarter mil here, everything included. It's 50–50 over the hundred grand, like we said?"

"I'll take the jewels and the bearer bonds–they'll have to be discounted. You keep the cash and the gold coins, deal?"

"Deal."

The big car moved silently through the night. Cross pushed a button and a partition slid up between the front and back seats. Cross dimmed the interior lights, lit a cigarette, turned to the

"He didn't come," Cross said. "After that, he probably never will."

"I did," the woman said.

KIDNAP

Hey, Buddha, you seen Princess?" the giant asked, his three hundred and fifty pounds of flesh blocking the opening to the back room of the Red 71 poolroom. "He didn't come back to the spot last night."

"Maybe he got lucky," the short, pudgy man offered, glancing up from a white tablecloth he had spread out on a desk made from a solid–core door positioned over a pair of sawhorses. On the tablecloth were arranged various parts to an automatic pistol. "Even a maniac like Princess has to score once in a while."

"What's your problem with Princess anyway?" the giant asked. "He doesn't mean any harm–you know that."

"He's like a little kid, Rhino," the pudgy man answered. "A little kid, playing games. I'm a professional–so are you. Fact is, I can't figure out why Cross–"

"You want to know, why don't you ask him?" the giant responded, his voice an incongruous high–pitched squeak.

"Take it easy," Buddha said. "What you so worried about? This can't be the first time he didn't show."

"Yeah, it is," the big man replied. "At least, he always left word."

"Hey, he's a grown man," Buddha said gently.

"No," the big man said, shaking his head sadly. "You're right–he's a big kid." Rhino glanced quickly around the room. "Cross around somewhere?"

"Somewhere," Buddha replied. "Either he's up on the roof playing with those stupid birds of his, or else he's down at the Double X checking out a new shipment."

"I'll go check," the big man said. "Maybe he–"

"You're on duty, right?" Buddha said kindly. "What if someone comes around? I'm not doing nothing–let me go see if I can scare him up."

"Thanks, Buddha," Rhino said, backing out the door.

Buddha quickly reassembled the pistol, slipped it into his shoulder holster, buttoned his khaki army jacket and went out another door.

Buddha took the back staircase, using a key to open a heavy–braced steel door. The floors were empty, the building having long since been listed as "unoccupied" in the city's computers–the only one of several just like it to have escaped the developer's wrecking ball. The owner of the apparently empty building was a corporation. Its officers had consistently refused all offers to sell during the mid–to–late 80's. Word on the street was that the corporation had outsmarted itself, holding out for a bigger price during the yuppie boom. A developer had razed the other buildings, cleared the land for new construction and then gone bankrupt–now the building was worthless, surrounded by a huge lot choked with refuse and debris. The owners of the last remaining building had enclosed it with a chain–link fence topped with concertina wire during the construction, but now the fence guarded nothing but junk.

Buddha made his way to the roof, musing that being a part–owner of a city building didn't make you a mogul. The poolroom in the basement was the only source of income, and that barely netted enough to pay the taxes. "We have to own our base," Cross had told the crew years ago. "Own it legit. That's the only way we can protect every square inch." Every member of the crew had chipped in to make the buy, but Buddha owned the whole thing on paper–he was the only one with an above–ground identity, complete with address in the suburbs and employment as a limo driver. He filed a tax return every year. Even collected a twenty–percent disability pension from the government for a wound he suffered in Vietnam. The building would go to his wife and children when he died–he was the only one of the crew with someone to leave anything to.

Buddha opened the door to the roof and stepped out gingerly, scanning the terrain, his eyes sweeping over a wooden box that looked as though it had been dumped carelessly. Buddha moved carefully, showing the box the same respect he had shown jungle trails in Vietnam. A bird's head popped up from the center of the box, it's yellow eyes gleaming with malevolence. "Don't get all excited," Buddha said softly. "I'm just looking for Cross–I'm not messing with you."

The bird's eyes tracked Buddha's every movement. It fluttered its wings briefly as though considering flight. Buddha registered the flash of blue on the wings–the male of the mated pair of kestrels Cross maintained on the roof. The kestrels were small birds, less than a foot in total length, including the long stabilizing tail feathers, but they were fierce, relentless dive–bombers. Other birds ran for cover when the kestrel's shadow darkened the sky. Kestrels are blessed with incredible eyesight and awesome dive–speed–the pit bulls of the air.

Satisfied that Cross wasn't on the roof, Buddha carefully backed up until he was on the stairs, gently closing the overhead hatch after him.

The Double X had the usual LIVE GIRLS! sign, blood–red neon against blacked–out window glass. Buddha opened the door, grateful for the air conditioning. The bouncer greeted Buddha at the door by nodding his head a couple of inches. He knew better than to ask for the cover charge–Buddha was the nominal owner of that joint, too. "We need a place where we can meet with people–a place we can control," Cross had argued.

"You got a thing for topless dancers, that's your problem," Rhino had responded. "How come we gotta chip in, too?"

"It could be a real money–maker," Cross said.

"I'd rather do what we do–steal," Rhino replied. "I don't know anything about running a goddamned strip joint."

"I can get someone to run it," Cross said. "Tell you what…if it's not making money in six months, I'll buy you out. Deal?"

"Come on, Rhino. It'd be fun," Princess begged.

The giant reluctantly agreed, shaking his head at his own stupidity. But, after a rocky start, the joint was coining money. Word got around fast–if you danced at the Double X, you didn't have to worry about the patrons getting out of hand. And if you were having trouble with your boyfriend, the joint was an absolute safe harbor. "He started it!" Princess said, explaining to the others why he had fractured the skull of a man who had slapped his girlfriend after a set. Rhino also worked the floor for a few weeks–protecting his investment, he claimed. Bruno, the bouncer they had now, was infamous–a notorious life–taker who'd already served two long sentences for manslaughter. But compared to the Rhino–Princess combo, the patrons considered him a teddy bear.