Blood risk

I can."
        Harris said, "She'll run out of money fast. She'll squander it, and then she'll start making plans."
        "I don't think so."
        "If she does, though, she'll come back to one of us, some way, and want more."
        "She won't."
        "Okay, she'll run back to Baglio."
        "He'd kill her."
        "Maybe she's too dumb to know that."
        "She's not. She knows the risks, and she knows how to handle herself. We can trust her; we have to."
        "Not necessarily," Harris said. He looked ugly. Maybe his wound was hurting him again-or maybe it had nothing to do with that look.
        Tucker said, "We can't kill her, if that's what you mean."
        "Why not?"
        "I made a deal with her."
        "So?"
        Tucker said, "Is that the way you'd have me do business? Remember, I've made a deal with you, too. If I can give my word to her, then kill her, what's to keep me from working the same thing with you?" Before Harris could answer, he said, "No, we can't do business that way. Besides, killing her would make the whole caper too hot. Baglio can cover up the death of one of his gunmen easily enough. But that woman's got a family somewhere, a life outside of the organization, and her death would probably mean the police getting into the act sooner or later."
        Harris wiped at his face. His gloved hand came away black, and some of his disguise was gone. "I hope you're right about her," he said.
        "I am. And cheer up. Now you can retire, like you want."
        Tucker went back to the hidden room, leaving Harris and Shirillo to guard the stairs, and unstrapped Merle Bachman, helped him out of the bed, tried to get him to stand on his own feet. As Bachman had warned with a shake of his head, that proved impossible. Evidently he hadn't been permitted on his feet during the last couple of days, hadn't eaten anything in all that time-couldn't have because of his ruined mouth-and had only drunk what he was forced to drink to keep from dehydrating. His weakened condition, magnified by the pain killers that the doctor had prescribed, had turned his legs to rubber which bent and twisted under him. Finally, though, Tucker got him to the end of the corridor under the attic door and left him with Shirillo.
        Five minutes after that he'd transferred all three of the money-stuffed suitcases to the same spot. "Anything happening here?" he asked Shirillo.
        "No. They're too quiet down there."
        Before Tucker could respond, Miss Loraine came up behind him and said, "I'm ready."
        She was wearing white levis and a dark-blue sweater, all of it cut to fit like second skin, both functional and sensual. Tucker remembered how she'd looked the day of the robbery in the miniskirt and tight sweater, and he wondered why, with that canny head of hers, she still was so careful to keep her sex honed as a bargaining tool.
        As if reading his mind, she said, "It always pays to be prepared for anything."
        "It does," he agreed. He looked at his watch: 7:02.
        It was full daylight outside.
        He'd told Norton that the operation would be concluded by dawn at the very latest. Paul would be chewing his nails and wondering how much longer he should hold on. Tucker hoped he'd wait another ten minutes, until they could put a call through on the walkie-talkie. No, he wasn't just hoping for that-he knew Norton would wait. He would wait. He was sure of it. Damn, damn, damn.
        He slipped a new clip into his Lüger, pocketed the depleted clip and relieved Shirillo of his watch over the pear stairs.
        "Get the suitcases up first," he said.
        The kid nodded, picked up the largest piece of luggage and struggled with it to the top of the metal steps, muscled it overhead and slid it onto the attic floor. He didn't have the physique for heavy work, but he wasn't complaining. By the time he'd taken the second case from Miss Loraine and worked it through the trap door overhead, his face glistened, his black makeup streaked. When he shoved the third bag into place above, he leaned into the steps and let out a long wheeze of exhaustion.
        "Want me to get Bachman up?" Tucker asked.
        "No. I will."
        The time was 7:10.
        Norton would be waiting.
        Shirillo examined Bachman, helped the battered man to his feet, found an acceptable hold on him and went sideways up the narrow collapsible steps. Near the