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.”
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
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.
“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 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 Terri
torial Gun Club
Sunday
2:38 P.M. MST
Rand 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 that was a sign:
TACTICAL SHOOTING HOUSE
LIVE FIRE IN PROGRESS
Rand blew out the lock with a short burst of fire. The door slammed inward. He dove low through the opening, rolled behind the first cover he saw, and ignored the pain that was shutting down his vision.
The quick look he’d gotten as he dove through the door told him that the shooting house was the size of a basketball court. No windows. No ceiling for the maze of hallways and rooms. Light level so low that he had to let his eyes adjust.
Kayla’s scream was louder this time.
Rand clenched his teeth. I’m sorry, Kayla.
God, I’m sorry.
Breathing as quietly as possible, he lay behind a concrete pillar, trying to pinpoint the direction of the scream that was echoing around the room. Somewhere to his left, down a hallway without ceilings and behind a closed door, he heard the ring of a brass cartridge hitting and rolling across hard concrete.
A piece of shooting debris kicked by a careless foot.
Or a distraction created in the opposite direction of the real threat.
“Kayla!” Rand yelled, and rolled behind another pillar.
She answered with a choked-off scream, all she could manage before Bertone clamped steel fingers across her mouth.
The sound came from Rand’s right, down a narrow corridor formed by two eight-foot-high Kevlar “walls” designed to catch bullets sprayed by wild shooters. He examined the hallway. Thirty feet from his position, doors faced each other across the corridor.
Innocent as Sin Page 30
