Then came silence except for the roar of the engine.

Now, do you have an extra magazine? Rand thought grimly.

Foley threw the M-16 to the ground and yanked a heavy revolver from the belt holster at his waist.

Rand put the accelerator on the floor.

Two bullets hammered, cracking the windshield.

Rand pointed the Humvee toward Foley and shielded his eyes against flying glass in case the windshield gave way.

No more bullets came.

Rand risked a quick look. Foley was running toward the big glass doors of the clubhouse.

Bulletproof, no doubt, Rand thought. Let’s see how they hold up to a battering ram.

The doors slammed shut behind Foley.

One-handed, Rand took a folding knife from his pocket and flicked open the serrated blade. He didn’t want to get pinned in the seat if the airbag deployed and then didn’t deflate fast enough.

The stately parade of steps up to the club’s impressive entrance slowed the Humvee’s charge. It was making less than fifteen miles per hour when the armored radiator smashed through the glass-and-aluminum doors of the club. The airbag deployed with an explosive sound. Within seconds it began to deflate, its job done. A slash from Rand’s blade speeded the process.

As he pocketed the knife again, he caught a glimpse of Foley scrambling behind the heavy concrete fountain in the center of the lobby. From there, the banker ran until he could launch himself up and over a long, waist-high counter where shooters registered for courses and arms.

The Humvee had enough momentum to climb the lip of the fountain before it crunched to a halt.

For a few seconds the only sound was the trickling of the fountain. Then the lobby exploded with the deafening chatter of a big machine gun.

The Humvee’s bulletproof glass wasn’t designed to withstand that kind of close, heavy fire. As Rand dove to the floor and kicked open the driver’s door, the windshield exploded. He rolled out onto the lobby’s tile floor, dragging the AK-47 with him. A heavy burst of machine-gun fire rattled off the Humvee’s body as he crab-walked forward and hunkered down behind the concrete fountain.

Judging by the angle of the bullets, they were coming from somewhere behind the waist-high reception counter. Rand ducked back down. Lead thudded into the black Humvee, chewed chunks of concrete out of the fountain’s pedestal, and ricocheted crazily.

Rand stayed down. He wasn’t facing some handy, portable, rapid-fire weapon. This machine gun was the kind trucks and go-fast raiding boats used on fixed mounts.

Does the bastard have a machine-gun emplacement behind the counter?

Rand grabbed another quick look over the concrete rim of the fountain. He caught a glimpse of Bertone standing, firing a heavy M-60 machine gun from the hip. It was a feat that took strength, skill, and balls.

Another burst of bullets rattled and ricocheted through the clubhouse lobby, leaving behind a ringing kind of silence.

Rand heard a snarl of Russian curses, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.

Ran out of ammo.

He sprang to his feet, AK-47 nestled against his shoulder, ready, willing, and quite able to kill Bertone.

Kayla screamed from somewhere just in front of Bertone, telling Rand that she was alive and somewhere in the private quarters behind the desk and down the hall. He kept his finger loose on the trigger, afraid of hitting her with a ricochet or having a bullet go clean through Bertone into her.

Foley sprang from behind a tile-covered concrete pillar and leveled his heavy revolver. The weapon went off with a roar. The impact of the bullet flung Rand against the front fender of the Humvee. The gun roared again as he slid limply down the vehicle and into the shelter of the front wheel. The AK-47 clattered to the tile.

Everything faded into the sound of a woman screaming in rage and fear, calling Rand’s name, once, twice.

Silence.

“I got him! I shot him!” Foley yelled. “I got his ass!”

“How many times did you hit him?” Bertone’s voice came from the hallway.

“Once for sure. Maybe twice. He went down hard. Nobody beats a.44 Magnum.”

“Be certain,” Bertone said.

Foley stared toward the fountain.

Nothing moved. But he couldn’t see the downed man, either. He was on the opposite side of the fountain, maybe behind the Humvee.

“I’m certain.” Foley laughed. “Damn, I’m good!”

That’s it, asshole, Rand thought through a haze of pain. Don’t move and fire, move and fire. Just stand there congratulating your miserable self.

Silently Rand rolled onto his injured right side, gritting his teeth against the pulsing, radiating pain. The AK-47 lay where it had fallen, between him and the black tire of the Humvee.

Inches out of reach.

“Make sure of it,” Bertone said. “Put a shot in the bastard’s head. Then we’ll question the woman.”

“You’ve got a better angle,” Foley said roughly. “Just stand up behind the counter and let him have it from a distance.”

“Do it close in, or I’ll shoot you, then him.”

In the shadow of the wheel, Rand lay still, clenching his teeth against waves of pain. Body armor was good, but not getting hit by a.44 would have been a lot better. He had at least two bad ribs and his right arm-his shooting arm-was half numb. His right hand felt weak.

Biting back groans and curses, he forced himself to reach out until he could curl his left index finger around the trigger of the heavy AK-47.

Foley’s Italian loafers and eight inches of his legs showed beneath the Humvee. He was walking forward, flat-footed and slow, a man used to shooting at things that couldn’t shoot back.

Rand’s vision dimmed and the world started to spin. He bit into his tongue, creating enough pain to distract from the damage left behind by the hammer blow of a.44. Slowly the world settled into patterns of pain he could work with. He shifted the gun until its muzzle was aimed a few inches above the tile floor. Squinting through the iron sights, he moved the muzzle until it covered Foley’s feet.

The fire-selection lever grated on the tile, just enough noise to freeze Foley for an instant.

It was more than Rand needed.

A short burst of fire chattered and echoed in the lobby, followed instantly by Foley’s scream. Even as Rand lifted his finger from the trigger, shifted position, and aimed again, Foley went down like a dynamited building. As he hit the floor, the AK spit fire and death.

Three more bullets caught Foley in the torso. The force flung his body backward, sliding and skidding into the glittering, shattered glass that had exploded from the front doors.

Silence.

Then the liquid sounds of the fountain.

76

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday


2:35 P.M. MST

Kayla forced herself to be still, not to scream or cry or try to run to the place Rand had fallen.

He’s not dead.

Wounded, okay, but not dead.

Not dying.

If she didn’t believe that, she’d shatter into more pieces than the glass front doors. And with every piece, she’d try to cut Bertone’s throat.

“Call out to him,” Bertone said, twisting the hand in her hair until she was forced to her knees.

“Foley?” she asked through clenched teeth.

He wrenched her head. “He’s dead. The other one. Your lover. Call to him. Tell him I want to talk.”

It was something she wanted to do. “Rand,” she called. “Bertone wants to talk.”

Rand took a slow breath, then another, easing toward the waist-high counter. He wasn’t worried about being caught in the open. In order to shoot him, Bertone would have to reveal himself first.

The thought made Rand smile.

“I can hear Bertone just fine from here,” Rand called back.

His voice was changed, roughened by adrenaline and pain, but Kayla was so glad to hear him that she swayed in relief.

Get a grip, she told herself savagely. We’re a long way from home free. Foley’s weapon is out of reach, and I can’t even lift that monster Bertone was carrying.

She could try for the ugly handgun he had now, but only when all other chances were gone.

Rand glanced several times at Foley, then didn’t bother again. None of the torso wounds were bleeding. The shattered ankle bones should have had him screaming in agony.

Instead there was the silence of death.

“Throw down your arms or I’ll kill Kayla,” Bertone said.

Rand’s laughter was as rough as his voice had been, and colder. “She’s worth too much to you alive.”

Silence. Then Bertone asked, “What do you want?”

Rand bit back the words he wanted to say-Kayla free, unharmed-and said what a man like Bertone would understand. “Your death.”

Kayla shuddered and waited for the bullet that would kill her.

It didn’t come.

Bertone really needed her alive.

“Why?” Bertone asked, trying to find a weakness in the man who hunted him.

“You killed my identical twin.”

Bertone frowned and sighed. Vengeance was a stronger drive than love or greed. Much stronger.

And like all emotions, it could be manipulated.

“When?” Bertone asked. “Where?”

“Five years ago. Africa.”

Bertone smiled. The beauty of emotion was that it could make a man hot when he should be cold.

“I killed many men in Africa,” he said. “Be more specific.”