Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

“Tell them to sit on it. Don’t let it move.”

“Already done. Faroe has the back covered. We’ll find the woman.”

“What we’ll find is a hostage situation and a bunch of cops who will take five hours to get organized.”

He spun and glared up at the shiny glass skin of the building, looking from pane to pane, hoping to see something better than his fear. The woman answered the radio phone. Faroe reported that the back side of the building was secure.

No one had seen Kayla.

Rand saw his brother’s face, covered with blood, no more pain, no fear, just a slow sliding away into death.

Only it was Kayla’s face, Kayla sliding away.

“Suck it up,” the operator said to him, gripping his forearm with surprisingly strong fingers, “or get out of the way.”

He stared into her serious brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Mary. I’m a sniper.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“Trying to keep you from going ballistic.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“The true warrior fights best when he reminds himself that he is already dead,” Mary said.

“Faroe’s favorite saying,” Rand said bitterly. “But what does the warrior do when his fear is for someone else?”

There was no answer but the one Mary had already given him.

Suck it up.

He looked away from the building, trying to find something, anything, that would allow him to focus. There was a tree nearby, bare branches. A fiercely colored hummingbird dashed in and sat for a moment, looking right and left, searching for flowers or competitors or females. Sunlight flashed on the bird’s green feathers and brilliant red gorget.

Anna’s hummingbird. A species noted for pushing the edges of its territory, its limitations.

Good luck, bird. You’ll need it.

The bird took off in a flash of color and intensity.

Rand blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said to Mary. “I’m okay.”

She looked at him intently, nodded.

Then he heard the helicopter.

“No way,” Mary said, grabbing his forearm again.

“Why not? Bertone owns more than fifty aircraft.”

“In Africa.”

“Not all of them.”

The sound of the chopper was loud, but still low and far enough away that Rand couldn’t see it. He turned and looked at the bank building. There was room for a good pilot to set down on the front lawn.

Mary followed his glance. “We’d still have her covered.” She touched the belly pack at her waist. “If the pilot lands, I can put ten in the turbine.”

Rand stared at the building. Certainty washed over him in an icy wave. “Not if he lands on the roof.”

He ran for the front door while Mary punched the radio and started giving staccato updates.

An instant later the helicopter dropped down onto the roof and landed, still under full power. The cargo door of the aircraft slid back.

Rand reached the lobby just as the helicopter took off. It banked steeply and sped off to the east. The pilot was lean and blond.

Not Bertone.

Just before the cargo door slid closed, Rand saw two figures inside the bay. One was lying flat. The other flipped a bird at him.

Then there was nothing but the fading sound of rotors.

“Shit. If I’d had my rifle…” Mary said in a low voice. But all she had was a pistol and the radio was yammering. When Rand started toward the parking lot, her strong hand clamped down on his forearm, holding him. “Faroe wants to know what kind of helo, ID numbers, all of it,” she said quickly.

“Hind, Mi-24. Russian. Bertone imports them for firefighting.”

“Sweet.”

“Oh, yeah, Bertone’s a sweetheart.”

And he’s a dead man walking.

Rand wrenched his arm free and ran toward the rental SUV. “Where are you going?” Mary called after him. He didn’t answer.

Phoenix

Sunday

1:50 P.M. MST

Rand fought Sunday-afternoon traffic on Scottsdale Road, cursing and wheeling from lane to lane until he almost overran a police cruiser and had to clean up his act. He wanted to smash his fist through the windshield. Instead, he concentrated on being a good citizen and courteous driver.

The cruiser finally turned onto the freeway.

Rand put the accelerator on the floor.

As he raced under the 101 Freeway, headed north toward Cave Creek and Pleasure Valley, his cell phone went off. He fished it out and punched up the speaker.

“What?” he demanded.

“What the hell are you doing?” Faroe shot back.

“Driving.”

“Don’t piss me off. Where are you going?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Then I already know. Sky house, right?”

Rand didn’t answer.

“Make sure you can do the time for any crime you commit,” Faroe said.

“I’ll bury it deep.”

Faroe’s end was silent for a moment. Then a low curse and “In your place I’d do the same. Let me know if I can help.”

“Did the cops find anything at the bank?”

“Negative, so far. They’re trying to trace the helicopter.”

“They won’t find a thing. The pilot wasn’t Bertone.”

“You sure? He used to fly helos before he could afford to hire someone else for the dirty jobs.”

“Too lean. Long hair, wrong color.”

“Damn. One of our guys works a regular job at the FAA regional center,” Faroe said. “He may be able to get a line on the bird.”

“They’ll stay under the radar. If I see the helo at the house, I’ll tell you, but I doubt that it’s there.”

“So why are you going?”

“Remember? You don’t want to know.”

“You met Mary. We’re getting her the tools of her trade as I speak. Keep it in mind.”

“I will.”

Rand punched the call off and drove hard until he turned onto the county road that led to the gated entrance to Andre Bertone’s house. He stopped on a high hilltop short of the gate and stared at the mansion on top of the mesa. From here he could see the garage and someone washing the bulletproof limo that drove Elena everywhere she and the kids wanted to go. He could also see the helipad.

Empty.

He wasn’t surprised. Foley had left more wreckage behind than even Bertone’s diplomatic passport would clean up.

But Elena was still there.

Maybe Bertone was, too.

Be there, you bastard.

He grabbed the cell phone and punched up Faroe’s number.

“Where do you want Mary?” Faroe asked.

“Not yet. I need a helo. I’m going to test Kayla’s certainty that Elena is a good mother.”

“Huh.” Faroe breathed out hard. “You want the helo open or stealth?”

“Bells and whistles all the way,” Rand said. “Hell, bring in a news chopper.”

“Okay.”

“What?” Rand asked, confused.

“I told you yesterday.”

“Tell me again.”

“The camera crew from The World in One Hour put the squeeze on a local network affiliate for a weather and traffic chopper. They’re doing background shots of Phoenix, the businesses Bertone owns, and as much of the Bertone house as they can legally get.”

“Thank you, God,” Rand said.

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re going to hell.”

“You know anyone who isn’t?”

“No. I’m on a hilltop about a half mile south of the castle. If I can’t get inside, is the helo pilot good enough to pick me up?”

“Ask Martin. You have his cell?”

Rand didn’t bother to say good-bye. He just cut out, called Martin, and waited for the okay man to answer.

Over Phoenix

Sunday

1:54 P.M. MST

All Kayla could see was the shiny tops of Foley’s loafers. All she could hear was the hammering noise of a helicopter in flight. She knew she was bruised and scraped from Foley’s rough handling, but she couldn’t feel anything except the adrenaline flooding her body. Her thoughts came with unnatural speed and clarity.

Can’t run now.

Foley is the weak link.

Bertone is the stone killer.

Work on Foley.

She groaned and pushed away from the gun barrel jolting against her skull. Even Foley was smart enough not to shoot in a moving helicopter.

“Hold still, bitch!” he yelled.

The pilot winced and yanked off his headphones.

Kayla pulled her hair free of Foley’s grasping fingers and shouldered herself into a sitting position against the helicopter’s side. Behind her back, handcuffs wrapped her wrists like obscene bracelets.

No weapons within reach.

No purse.

No cell phone.

Not even a nail file.

The flat tract houses of Phoenix raced by in giddy beige curves as the pilot maneuvered to avoid power poles, telephone lines, and freeway overpasses. He was flying so low the skids nearly clipped roof tiles.

She wondered what Bertone would do if she died in a crash.

At least it would be quick. Maybe I should get my hands in front, do a Flight 93, and bring down this bird.

Or maybe not.

There’s still a chance to get out alive after we land. Small, but still a chance. That’s more than Flight 93 had.

Foley unhooked his harness and started to go after his prisoner.

The pilot grabbed his shoulder, shoved, and said, “Nyet!” loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.