St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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 camefrom 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
    K ayla 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