Innocent as Sin sk-3
Page 29
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 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.
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.
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.”
75
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.
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.”
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.