St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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
    R and 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 ascarlet 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