St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

Kayla,” Bertone said.
    Rand’s laughter was as rough as his voice had been, and colder. “She’s worth too much to you alive.”
    Silence. Then Bertone asked, “What do you want?”
    Rand bit back the words he wanted to say— Kayla free, unharmed —and said what a man like Bertone would understand. “Your death.”
    Kayla shuddered and waited for the bullet that would kill her.
    It didn’t come.
    Bertone really needed her alive.
    “Why?” Bertone asked, trying to find a weakness in the man who hunted him.
    “You killed my identical twin.”
    Bertone frowned and sighed. Vengeance was a stronger drive than love or greed. Much stronger.
    And like all emotions, it could be manipulated.
    “When?” Bertone asked. “Where?”
    “Five years ago. Africa.”
    Bertone smiled. The beauty of emotion was that it could make a man hot when he should be cold.
    “I killed many men in Africa,” he said. “Be more specific.”
    “You were flying arms to the rebels in Camgeria.”
    “Ah, you were the photographer.”
    Rand didn’t trust himself to answer. He just kept duckwalking toward the counter, silently cursing the pain in his shoulder and ribs that made it nearly impossible to breathe.
    “I can only imagine the agony of watching an identical twin die,” Bertone said, laughter curling beneath the words, “the gasping breaths, the bloody—”
    Kayla shoved hard against Bertone, afraid that he would goad Rand into doing something stupid.
    Bertone looked at her like she was a fly. He swatted her back the same way, casually.
    When Rand heard her muffled cry, he was at the counter. His eyes and the muzzle of the AK-47 cleared the granite top at the same instant.
    The hallway behind the counter was empty.
    He thought he could hear sounds from the room at the far end of the hall, but the pulsing pain and the rush of blood in his own were disorienting. He dropped down and forced himself to remember what he’d seen of the club’s layout on Martin’s computer.
    Anteroom at the end of the hall.
    Private shooting rooms open out from there.
    He checked the AK-47. Maybe ten rounds left, plus the second pistol Elena had given him, which was still stuffed in his waistband.
    He tried to think back over how many shots he had fired from the rifle. He couldn’t.
    Faroe would have a fit. The man’s a bear for counting shots.
    Not that it mattered. However many shots Rand had, Bertone had a lot more, a whole shooting house full of ammo. Rand’s best call was to wait for more men with guns to come and help him.
    But as soon as Bertone figured out what his stalker was doing, Kayla would have his full attention.
    Not good.
    Rand staggered to his feet and covered the hallway with the AK’s muzzle. He had to pin Bertone down, then cut him down. It was a job for several special weapons teams, but he didn’t have any in his hip pocket.
    He took a calculated risk by rolling up and over the reception counter and falling on his knees in the corner near the hall. From there he could control the corridor.
    And fight the waves of blackness that were right behind the bright red pulses of pain.
    Bertone circled Kayla’s throat with his left arm. Using her as a shield, he leaned forward and sighted down the blunt action of his Glock.
    The hall was empty but for a tiny bit of the AK-47’s muzzle showing from the corner behind the service desk. He shot quickly, more a reflex than an aim.
    Rand jerked back as plaster exploded, dusting the barrel of his weapon. He waited, hoping Bertone would come closer, would poke his head around the corner.
    And get it blown off.
    Bertone was too smart for that. He tightened his grip on Kayla and dragged her backward into the darkness beyond the far door, where the private shooting rooms waited. There he would get the only thing he needed from her.
    Moments later Kayla’s scream shattered the silence.

77
    Arizona Territorial Gun Club
Sunday
2:38 P.M. MST
    R and forced himself to think when all he wanted to do was run down the hall and stop Bertone.
    Suck it up.
    Think.
    The scream had been too far away to come from the hall itself or the anteroom beyond it.
    He grabbed a handful of spiral notebooks from behind the reception counter and threw them down the corridor.
    No one fired at the movement.
    Time to buck the odds.
    Riding a wave of adrenaline, he came to his feet and raced down the hall, weapon in firing position. The locked door at the back of the anteroom flashed a red warning light. Below