Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

Bertone unlocked the club’s big doors, kicked them open, and rushed inside before a stray shot could kill Kayla.

Or an intentional one.

It’s what he would have done if he wanted to keep her from giving away a quarter of a billion dollars.

The sound of the helicopter faded.

“Take my Humvee,” Bertone told the pilot. “Kill whoever they left.”

The pilot set off at a run for the parking lot, slapping his pockets, reassuring himself that he had extra ammo.

Behind him, the front door of the fortress slammed shut.

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday

2:27 P.M. MST

Rand hugged the dirt bank of the ravine until he found a break in its wall. He scrambled out through the dry, crumbling wash and onto the slope below the clubhouse. Crouching in the lacy shadow of a bush, he scanned the area for movement.

The scattered boulders on the slope were covered with dark desert varnish and traces of lichen. A spring bloom of desert wildflowers was already fading.

Nothing moved but a breeze.

He pulled one of the pistols from his waistband and automatically checked the magazine. Eight bright cartridges gleamed in the sunlight, with one more already in the chamber. He replaced it and pulled out the other pistol. Same count. A total of eighteen bullets against Arizona Territorial Gun Club’s arsenal.

He’d get better odds in a state lottery.

Eyes narrowed, he studied the slope, picking out the best cover. Then he was moving again, keeping low, running hard. He paused behind shoulder-high rocks to check the ridgeline for anything alive.

Where the hell are they?

They had to hear the helo land and take off. They had to send someone after me.

Or are they torturing Kayla right now, figuring to get what they need out of her before anyone can stop them?

Ice twisted in his gut.

He sprinted toward the next bit of cover. A bullet screamed off a rock to his left, showering him with chips and grit. Instantly he dodged, ducked behind a different rock, and looked in the direction the bullet had come.

A white man with long, wild hair reared up from his cover behind a boulder and savagely hammered on the action of an AK-47. The usually reliable weapon obviously had a problem.

Next time, clean it better, Rand thought grimly.

It was a lesson he’d learned in Africa. Grit buggered up the works faster than water.

He stepped out of cover and took careful aim with the pistol. The range was fifty yards, uphill. Under those conditions, shooting with an unfamiliar gun, he’d be lucky to scare the man. He let out his breath and poured shots up the hill. Bullets whined and screamed as they hit the rock near the gunman.

Suddenly the man’s arms flew open. He fell backward without a sound. The assault rifle clattered against the rock and slid to the ground.

Rand waited, listened.

Nothing moved toward the gunman.

No more shots came.

Rand didn’t have time to wait around and be certain.

Wishing Reed was there to cover his back, Rand dropped the empty pistol, pulled out the second gun, and zigzagged up the hill. No one fired at him. When he reached the fallen man, he was groaning and jerking, covering himself in dirt. His face was a scarlet sheet of blood pouring from a jagged wound that had parted his hair just off center, parallel to his forehead.

A ricochet rather than a direct hit.

Works for me.

Rand shoved the pistol in his belt, grabbed the assault rifle off the ground, cleared the jam, and swiftly checked the surrounding area.

No one near.

The man thrashed and muttered in Russian.

Rand bent and rapped the man on his cheekbone with the assault rifle. “How many men inside?”

The Russian’s eyes opened, glazed and wary. He didn’t say a word.

“How many?” Rand raked the muzzle over the scalp wound.

The man bucked and tried to get away.

Rand put the rifle muzzle in the Russian’s crotch. “How many men? Where are they in the building?”

Sweat broke out on the man’s face.

“The first shot goes to your balls,” Rand said calmly. “Then I’ll take out your knees.”

The Russian looked at Rand’s eyes and started talking.

“Two,” the man said hoarsely. “Bertone and some nancy redhead. And the girl.”

Rand reached under the Russian, found no weapons in the small of his back, and began patting pockets. No car keys. No ID. But he did find a curved magazine. He pulled it out, hefted it, and smiled. “A full thirty. Thanks.”

The Russian looked away.

Rand stood, pocketed the magazine, and slung the AK-47 into carrying position at his front. “This is your lucky day. If you can make the road, you might get away before the cops come. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

While Rand backed away warily, the Russian sat up, then stood and staggered a few steps down the slope. He stopped, bending at the waist like he was going to throw up.

Rand started running toward the top of the hill.

Not good, bro. One of us dead is enough.

He spun around just in time to see the Russian yank a small pistol from his boot. Rand pulled out his own pistol and shot quickly, precisely. The Russian fell hard and didn’t move again.

Rand had seen death before. It had nothing new to teach him.

He turned and ran toward the gun club.

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday

2:30 P.M. MST

Bertone stood at the front door, waiting to hear the AK-47 speak again. He listened intently. And listened.

Silence.

Apparently the pistol had had the last word.

With a curse for the incompetents he was surrounded by, Bertone turned back toward the lobby of the gun club. Foley stood ten feet away. His pistol was pressed hard against Kayla’s neck. Her skin was pale, the pulse in her neck was hammering, and her eyes open, watching, always watching. She had been a great deal of trouble to Bertone, slowing him down, wasting time, mocking him with her silence. He was looking forward to killing her.

After he got the password.

“What happened?” Foley asked nervously.

“Obviously the fool got in the way of some bullets.”

Kayla’s smile was a mean curve in her dirty, bruised face.

“Now what?” Foley asked.

Kayla eased away from the pistol muzzle digging into her neck.

Bertone shrugged. “I can fly the helicopter better than he can.”

“But-” Foley began.

“Shut it.”

Foley flinched and shut up.

Bertone sorted through probabilities, possibilities, and miracles with the speed of the highly intelligent gambler he was. The odds of getting himself and an unwilling Kayla to the helicopter out front without being picked off were smaller than the odds of taking out whoever had killed the pilot when he came after Kayla.

Then Bertone would fly the helicopter to Mexico and work on Kayla at his leisure.

Without a word, he strode out of the lobby. A few moments later he was back with an M-16.

“You take the front,” he said to Foley, handing him the weapon. “It’s on full automatic.” He put one hand in Kayla’s hair, twisted hard, yanked. “She comes with me.”

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday

2:32 P.M. MST

Rand found Bertone’s black Humvee parked at the top of the slope, a hundred yards from the front of the gun club. Everything between the Humvee and the club was scraped level and cleared of brush and boulders.

A perfect kill zone.

And Bertone was a good shot with just about anything he could get his hands on, including a sniper’s rifle.

Rand’s skin prickled, waiting for the bullet that could strike before he even heard the sound of the shot. Using the heavy body of the vehicle as a shield, he opened the driver’s door.

The key was in the ignition.

The big engine turned over and caught, revved slightly, then settled into a healthy growl. Rand backed up, turned, and pointed the vehicle toward the club. He kicked the accelerator hard, wanting to see what the Humvee had under the hood.

It had enough. Dirt, grit, and sand showered from beneath the big tires.

Suddenly a tiny starburst bloomed in the windshield a few inches in front of Rand’s face. Instinctively he flinched and sank down behind the wheel. Another bullet ricocheted off the heavy, angled glass, leaving barely a pockmark.

He laughed. “Thanks, Bertone. I should have guessed you’d bulletproof your favorite ride.”

Driving hard, he plowed through the soft, sandy dirt. Then he popped up onto the asphalt parking lot. He accelerated toward the helicopter, then spun the wheel at the last instant. The butt of the Humvee smashed into the pilot’s seat. One skid collapsed.

Let’s see you fly that, Bertone.

Fifty yards in front of Rand, something red flashed. A man’s hair.

Foley.

Using some landscape shrubs as a blind, he was firing a long gun with a telescopic sight. It looked like an American M-16.

High velocity, small caliber. Hope this glass is as good as Bertone is paranoid.

Foley poured bullets into the Humvee’s windshield. Lead smacked and whined and skipped off the tough glass.