St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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
    K ayla 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,