Innocent as Sin

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Or the third.

  Jesus, Joe, now isn’t the time to take a coffee break.

  “Faroe here.” His voice was soft, almost secretive.

  “Bertone’s at the Arizona Territorial Gun Club. The helo was headed in that direction.”

  “Indian land,” Faroe said. “The Hokams. Small, but mighty in the law.”

  “That leaves out the local cops. How about the feds?”

  “They probably could bootstrap some jurisdiction, but St. Kilda can’t help you right now. Everybody in Phoenix suspected of associating with St. Kilda has been rounded up and detained by the local police.”

  Rand hissed something beneath his breath.

  “The badges are being nice about it,” Faroe said. “Grace is doing a professional job of educating a sharp but still fairly confused watch commander.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Right now we can’t move without getting our asses thrown in the slammer.”

  “Mother of all fuckups,” Rand said.

  “It’ll do.”

  “Tell the news helo to pick me up. If someone with a badge cares, I can provide probable cause for any search warrant any kind of police agency wants to run past a judge.” Rand looked at Elena. “I’m sure Elena Bertone will be willing to discuss the matter with whichever state or federal judge the cops decide to wake up from his Sunday-afternoon nap.”

  Elena nodded agreement and rocked her daughter, comforting both of them.

  “If anyone with a badge and a gun wants to come and play at Tire City,” Rand said, “Kayla and I will be the ones in blue jeans. Don’t shoot us.”

  “Roger.”

  Rand punched out and turned to Elena. “Where does Bertone keep his guns?”

  70

  Over Phoenix

  Sunday

  2:20 P.M. MST

  A bruptly beige suburbs gave way to beige desert. Paved roads became dirt tracks. Power lines strode on silver legs across the sand and creosote. The helicopter dropped, slid under the lines, and popped up again.

  The pilot’s grin told Kayla that he liked flying on the edge.

  The sweat on Foley’s face told her that he didn’t.

  She didn’t like it either, but anything that happened now had to be better than what would come when Bertone got his hands on her.

  Don’t think about that.

  When the moment is right, I’ll crawl through the cuffs and…

  Whatever it takes.

  She kept repeating it silently, a mantra of fear and determination.

  The helicopter swung to the right, then to the left, hard arcs that turned Foley’s skin a nasty shade of green. The pilot either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He kept playing tag with the desert, skids brushing the tops of the taller bushes, rotor sending out billows of grit, skating on the edge of disaster with a wide smile.

  Keep it up, flyboy. Foley will hurl all over your windshield.

  The idea made her lips curl in a grim smile.

  The pilot made a tight arc around a rumple of dry, rocky hills. A paved road appeared below. The helicopter followed it, then dropped eight feet to a butterfly-soft landing in an asphalt parking lot.

  The front doors of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club rose in a dark rectangle from the side of a hill. Wide concrete steps climbed to it like a shrine.

  Kayla surged to her feet, turned her back on the cargo door, and fumbled it open. She half fell, half rolled out, twisted, and somehow managed to hit the asphalt feetfirst. She took off, running as fast as she could with her hands cuffed behind her. Even if she didn’t get free, she’d buy some time.

  A black Humvee shot up the private road toward the club.

  She spun and raced toward what looked like an obstacle course, chewing up as much time as she could.

  Anytime now, St. Kilda.

  Plan C is looking real good.

  71

  Over Phoenix

  Sunday

  2:22 P.M. MST

  Martin handed Rand a headset, plugged it into a junction box, and made room for him on the jump seat.

  “What’s up?” the producer asked.

  “Foley kidnapped Kayla,” Rand said. Two pistols dug into his back when he sat down. He’d hoped for something with more firepower, but he’d had to settle for the Bertones’ bedside artillery. “He’s headed to Bertone’s gun club. The man himself is either there or will be soon.”

  “Where to?” the news pilot asked.

  Rand looked at the name sewed to the pilot’s pocket. Lopez. “Know where the Hokam Reservation is?”

  “Sure. Little vest-pocket holding to the east. Casino, failed dog track, and some kind of fortress.”

  “Get us to the fortress as fast as you can. Life or death.”

  “Roger.”

  The helo leaped up from the estate’s helipad, banked hard, and headed flat out to the east. The pilot talked to Phoenix Air Control. A few seconds later the bird went up like a bullet, then leveled. Rooftops and streets raced by several hundred feet below. The pilot’s face and hands were relaxed, steady, and his eyes never stopped checking gauges and airspace.

  “Where’d you learn to fly a bird?” Rand asked Lopez.

  “California and Afghanistan.”

  “Then you know how to shoot, too.”

  “Yeah,” Lopez said, reading dials.

  “Got a piece?”

  “This is Arizona. What do you think?”

  “Keep it handy,” Rand said.

  “Always do.”

  Rand’s phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “This is Steele. Do you have a computer with an uplink?”

  Rand looked at Martin, who had a laptop with a satellite connection. “I can use someone’s.”

  “I e-mailed you a URL for the gun club and satellite photos of the area. There is only one road, one entrance. The perimeter is chain-link fencing with razor wire. It looks like a military installation.”

  Without a word, Rand took Martin’s computer and called up his St. Kilda e-mail number. “Got it.”

  Rand zoomed in on the sat photos. Steele was right. The gun club could have been a military bunker.

  “Anything else needed?” Steele asked.

  “A few warrants and cooperative badges.”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “Then how about a miracle,” Rand muttered.

  “They’re back-ordered.”

  The connection ended.

  Rand studied the Arizona Territorial Gun Club’s web page. It showed outdoor pistol courses and the roofless tactical shooting house nestled against some barren desert hills. Beyond the outside shooting areas, two huge doors led into the hill itself. He studied the interior photos of the club, orienting himself to the layout of indoor firing lanes, a firearms and souvenir store, and a lounge for members interested in shooting bull as well as live ammo.

  It was called the Brass Club.

  The web page mentioned an exclusive set of private tactical shooting areas attached to the club room, but showed no photos.

  That’s where Bertone will take her. Nice and quiet, with heavy soundproofed walls and plenty of privacy for an old-fashioned round of torture.

  The thought made his gut lurch. Kayla was smart and quick thinking. Bertone was merciless.

  He would peel her like a ripe banana.

  “How long?” Rand asked the pilot harshly.

  Lopez held up two fingers.

  Rand called up the aerial maps and photos again. He located the perimeter fence and the guard shack that blocked the road into the club. Tracing recognizable landforms, he looked forward through the windscreen. The facade of the clubhouse rose several miles away, straight-lined and glistening, out of place in the dusty, unruly Arizona desert.

  “There’s a dry wash with steep sides about two hundred yards south of the clubhouse, at the bottom of the slope,” Rand said to the pilot. “See it?”

  The pilot gave a thumbs-up.

  “Drop me there,” Rand said. �
��Then haul ass back upstairs and fall back to one mile.”

  “We can’t get good coverage from a mile away,” Martin protested. “Faroe said there might be some great bang-bang footage.”

  “You stay in range and you’ll get more bang-bang than you want,” the pilot said. “This helo isn’t armor-plated.”

  “Hey,” the cameraman cut in, “no biggie. I was in Fallujah. After that, this is a piece of cake.”

  The pilot shot him a you dumb fuck look and shook his head. When it came to bullets and death, there was no such thing as a piece of cake.

  “That club has more firepower in its vaults than the whole Iraqi insurgency,” Rand said. “Hang back until the cops and agents come pouring in. It shouldn’t be long.” I hope. “Then you can come in close and get all the footage you need.”

  The pilot went into a sharp descent and stayed low, approaching from the west and then swinging around the hill, keeping well out of rifle range.

  Martin leaned forward, lifting field glasses to scan the club.

  Rand grabbed the glasses.

  “What the—” began Martin. A look at Rand’s eyes stopped the producer’s protest. “Okay. Okay. They’re yours. Enjoy them.”

  The field glasses brought everything close. The Russian-made helicopter that had snatched Kayla and Foley from the roof of the bank building had set down in the empty parking lot. The only other vehicle was a black Humvee.

  Bertone.

  Rand raked the ground with the glasses. Suddenly Kayla leaped into focus, running hard into the desert away from either helicopter. Handcuffed, she was no match for the long-haired man closing in on her, his arms pumping, swinging free as his legs ate up the ground. An AK-47 was slung across his back. He grabbed her, slapped her hard, and began dragging her back to the club at a trot.

  “Can you cut them off?” Rand asked the pilot, pointing. He knew the answer but he had to ask anyway.

  “Not before he could bring us down with that AK-47 or kill her or both.”

  Shit.

  “After you drop me, keep an eye on their helo,” Rand said curtly. “If it takes off, follow. Get on the emergency frequency and tell the cops.”

  “What about you?” asked the pilot. “Want me to pick you up before we tail them?”

  “If they get airborne, I’m already dead.”

  The pilot leaned on the stick and adjusted the cyclic control. The helicopter dropped, flared, and settled into a sand-bottomed wash that was twenty yards across.

  “Luck, man,” the pilot said as Rand stepped out onto the skid.

  The instant Rand’s feet hit soft sand, the overhead rotor churned up a blinding boil of dust. He crouched and fought through the grit while the helicopter lifted off and spun in midair, using the walls of the wash as cover for its retreat.

  He was running before the dust settled. He figured he had less than a minute.

  72

  Arizona Territorial Gun Club

  Sunday

  2:24 P.M. MST

  Kayla lashed out with her heel at the pilot’s kneecap. Her soft shoes muffled the blow, but the man still staggered, swore, and hit her with the butt of his AK-47 hard enough to make darkness spin around her. He drew the butt back to hit her again, harder.

  A big hand slapped the weapon away. “Enough,” Bertone said. “She has to be able to talk.”

  Bertone bent, put his shoulder in Kayla’s stomach, and stood easily, taking her weight. With one arm clamped around her thighs, he ran toward the club’s double-story front doors like he was carrying no more than an AK-47 over his shoulder.

  Kayla’s head bounced against Bertone’s back while he trotted up the broad fan of steps leading to the club. At first she thought the roaring in her ears was blood returning to her head. Then she realized the sound came from a helicopter she couldn’t see; she could only hear the rotors slicing air and the engine howling, going away.

  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.

  73

  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 i
n 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.

  74

  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.