There was no answer but the one Mary had already given him.
Suck it up.
He looked away from the building, trying to find something, anything, that would allow him to focus. There was a tree nearby, bare branches. A fiercely colored hummingbird dashed in and sat for a moment, looking right and left, searching for flowers or competitors or females. Sunlight flashed on the bird’s green feathers and brilliant red gorget.
Anna’s hummingbird. A species noted for pushing the edges of its territory, its limitations.
Good luck, bird. You’ll need it.
The bird took off in a flash of color and intensity.
Rand blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said to Mary. “I’m okay.”
She looked at him intently, nodded.
Then he heard the helicopter.
“No way,” Mary said, grabbing his forearm again.
“Why not? Bertone owns more than fifty aircraft.”
“In Africa.”
“Not all of them.”
The sound of the chopper was loud, but still low and far enough away that Rand couldn’t see it. He turned and looked at the bank building. There was room for a good pilot to set down on the front lawn.
Mary followed his glance. “We’d still have her covered.” She touched the belly pack at her waist. “If the pilot lands, I can put ten in the turbine.”
Rand stared at the building. Certainty washed over him in an icy wave. “Not if he lands on the roof.”
He ran for the front door while Mary punched the radio and started giving staccato updates.
An instant later the helicopter dropped down onto the roof and landed, still under full power. The cargo door of the aircraft slid back.
Rand reached the lobby just as the helicopter took off. It banked steeply and sped off to the east. The pilot was lean and blond.
Not Bertone.
Just before the cargo door slid closed, Rand saw two figures inside the bay. One was lying flat. The other flipped a bird at him.
Then there was nothing but the fading sound of rotors.
“Shit. If I’d had my rifle…” Mary said in a low voice. But all she had was a pistol and the radio was yammering. When Rand started toward the parking lot, her strong hand clamped down on his forearm, holding him. “Faroe wants to know what kind of helo, ID numbers, all of it,” she said quickly.
“Hind, Mi-24. Russian. Bertone imports them for firefighting.”
“Sweet.”
“Oh, yeah, Bertone’s a sweetheart.”
And he’s a dead man walking.
Rand wrenched his arm free and ran toward the rental SUV. “Where are you going?” Mary called after him. He didn’t answer.
65
Phoenix
Sunday
1:50 P.M. MST
Rand fought Sunday-afternoon traffic on Scottsdale Road, cursing and wheeling from lane to lane until he almost overran a police cruiser and had to clean up his act. He wanted to smash his fist through the windshield. Instead, he concentrated on being a good citizen and courteous driver.
The cruiser finally turned onto the freeway.
Rand put the accelerator on the floor.
As he raced under the 101 Freeway, headed north toward Cave Creek and Pleasure Valley, his cell phone went off. He fished it out and punched up the speaker.
“What?” he demanded.
“What the hell are you doing?” Faroe shot back.
“Driving.”
“Don’t piss me off. Where are you going?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Then I already know. Sky house, right?”
Rand didn’t answer.
“Make sure you can do the time for any crime you commit,” Faroe said.
“I’ll bury it deep.”
Faroe’s end was silent for a moment. Then a low curse and “In your place I’d do the same. Let me know if I can help.”
“Did the cops find anything at the bank?”
“Negative, so far. They’re trying to trace the helicopter.”
“They won’t find a thing. The pilot wasn’t Bertone.”
“You sure? He used to fly helos before he could afford to hire someone else for the dirty jobs.”
“Too lean. Long hair, wrong color.”
“Damn. One of our guys works a regular job at the FAA regional center,” Faroe said. “He may be able to get a line on the bird.”
“They’ll stay under the radar. If I see the helo at the house, I’ll tell you, but I doubt that it’s there.”
“So why are you going?”
“Remember? You don’t want to know.”
“You met Mary. We’re getting her the tools of her trade as I speak. Keep it in mind.”
“I will.”
Rand punched the call off and drove hard until he turned onto the county road that led to the gated entrance to Andre Bertone’s house. He stopped on a high hilltop short of the gate and stared at the mansion on top of the mesa. From here he could see the garage and someone washing the bulletproof limo that drove Elena everywhere she and the kids wanted to go. He could also see the helipad.
Empty.
He wasn’t surprised. Foley had left more wreckage behind than even Bertone’s diplomatic passport would clean up.
But Elena was still there.
Maybe Bertone was, too.
Be there, you bastard.
He grabbed the cell phone and punched up Faroe’s number.
“Where do you want Mary?” Faroe asked.
“Not yet. I need a helo. I’m going to test Kayla’s certainty that Elena is a good mother.”
“Huh.” Faroe breathed out hard. “You want the helo open or stealth?”
“Bells and whistles all the way,” Rand said. “Hell, bring in a news chopper.”
“Okay.”
“What?” Rand asked, confused.
“I told you yesterday.”
“Tell me again.”
“The camera crew from The World in One Hour put the squeeze on a local network affiliate for a weather and traffic chopper. They’re doing background shots of Phoenix, the businesses Bertone owns, and as much of the Bertone house as they can legally get.”
“Thank you, God,” Rand said.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re going to hell.”
“You know anyone who isn’t?”
“No. I’m on a hilltop about a half mile south of the castle. If I can’t get inside, is the helo pilot good enough to pick me up?”
“Ask Martin. You have his cell?”
Rand didn’t bother to say good-bye. He just cut out, called Martin, and waited for the okay man to answer.
66
Over Phoenix
Sunday
1:54 P.M. MST
All Kayla could see was the shiny tops of Foley’s loafers. All she could hear was the hammering noise of a helicopter in flight. She knew she was bruised and scraped from Foley’s rough handling, but she couldn’t feel anything except the adrenaline flooding her body. Her thoughts came with unnatural speed and clarity.
Can’t run now.
Foley is the weak link.
Bertone is the stone killer.
Work on Foley.
She groaned and pushed away from the gun barrel jolting against her skull. Even Foley was smart enough not to shoot in a moving helicopter.
“Hold still, bitch!” he yelled.
The pilot winced and yanked off his headphones.
Kayla pulled her hair free of Foley’s grasping fingers and shouldered herself into a sitting position against the helicopter’s side. Behind her back, handcuffs wrapped her wrists like obscene bracelets.
No weapons within reach.
No purse.
No cell phone.
Not even a nail file.
The flat tract houses of Phoenix raced by in giddy beige curves as the pilot maneuvered to avoid power poles, telephone lines, and freeway overpasses. He was flying so low the skids nearly cl
ipped roof tiles.
She wondered what Bertone would do if she died in a crash.
At least it would be quick. Maybe I should get my hands in front, do a Flight 93, and bring down this bird.
Or maybe not.
There’s still a chance to get out alive after we land. Small, but still a chance. That’s more than Flight 93 had.
Foley unhooked his harness and started to go after his prisoner.
The pilot grabbed his shoulder, shoved, and said, “Nyet!” loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.
The helicopter swayed and shimmied.
Foley sat down hard.
Kayla leaned her head against the vibrating metal of the helicopter and thought hard.
What is Foley’s weakness? Greed?
Hell, yes.
Stupidity?
Depends.
Would he believe I’d be his sex slave in order to survive?
In my place, would he do it?
Hell, yes.
Then he’ll believe it when I do.
With feral eyes, Kayla watched the men and waited for a chance to knee Foley in the balls and break his nose with her forehead. Her dad had taught her to fight only as a last resort-and then to fight hard, mean, and dirty.
All she wanted was a chance.
Just one.
67
Phoenix
Sunday
2:10 P.M. MST
The gate guards had been changed. Bertone was obviously digging deep for people with no previous loyalties or ties-except to him. The man on duty looked Uzbek, was sweating like a turkey on a spit, and smelled like a crowded Paris bus in summer. His hand was on the butt of his pistol, a Tokarev that looked as tough and hard-used as the guard himself.
Rand rolled the window down.
“Your business?” the guard demanded in heavily accented English.
“I’m here at Mrs. Bertone’s invitation. I won the art contest last night. She said she wanted to talk to me about some other paintings.”
“Wait.”
The guard retreated, called the house, spoke, listened, and hung up. When he walked back to the car, his hands were at his side.
“You need appointment,” he said. “Mrs. Bertone too busy with the United States senator to talk some painter. Come tomorrow.”
“Huh.”
The guard stared at Rand blankly. “Leave.”
“Well, hell, could you just open up the gate so I can pull through and turn around?” Rand asked.
The guard narrowed his eyes. “Use road there.” He pointed to the curbed semicircle in front of the shack that would allow vehicles to reverse direction.
“Oh. Got it.”
Rand glanced across at the exit from the estate, which had no gate. It was protected by a strip of tire shredders. He reversed, keeping an eye on the guard, then started into the turnaround.
The guard walked back toward the shack to get out of the desert’s brutal sun.
Rand cramped the wheels hard right, hopped the curb, and accelerated quickly toward the tire shredders. At the last second he found a gap between two ranks of the shredders and swung the left-side tires into it. The tires on both right wheels blew out. The SUV lurched hard to the right. He yanked the steering wheel, fought the pull, and straightened out the vehicle.
With a grind of steel on pavement, he accelerated up the hill. As he rounded the first curve in the long driveway, he heard the hard metal slap of a bullet hitting the tailgate just below the SUV’s rear window.
Then he was out of range and out of sight.
At the garage he crammed the nose of the SUV into the passageway that led to the house. Inside the garage, a driver was leaning on a Cadillac with congressional plates, chatting with the man outside washing the limo. The big black Humvee Bertone loved to drive wasn’t there.
Both men stared when Rand bailed out of the rental SUV and raced toward the house.
Outside the servants’ entrance to the kitchen, he nearly knocked over a round-faced maid in a classic black dress and white apron. She was emptying trash.
“Mr. Bertone,” he said curtly. “Take me to him.”
The maid’s eyes got big. She was so startled she forgot to speak English. “No es aqui.”
Rand wanted to doubt her, but she was too off-balance, too frightened, to tell anything but the truth.
He’d settle for second best.
“Mrs. Bertone,” he said curtly. “Where is she?”
“En la casa.” She pointed toward the glass wall of the great room that looked out on Pleasure Valley and the Valley of the Sun. “Con Senator Rogers.”
Rand sprinted past her to the front door. Unlocked. He shoved it open, turned left in the atrium, and palmed his phone on the belt clip. Without looking he hit number one on the speed dial and came to a stop just outside the great room.
“Faroe here.”
“Send in the helo,” Rand said.
He punched out without waiting for confirmation. When he strode into the great room, Elena was facing toward the atrium. She looked puzzled for a moment before she recognized him. The handsome white-haired man sitting on the couch with her turned to see what had caught her attention. He looked more annoyed at the interruption than she was.
“Mr. McCree, I think it was,” Elena said, a touch of disdain in her voice.
Rand nodded.
“I was not expecting you,” she said. “The senator and I are in the midst of a tête-à-tête, a private conversation.”
“What I have to say to you tête-à-tête is more important to your children than whatever bullshit you’re trading with the politician.”
“Who is this man?” The senator stood up and faced the intruder as he walked farther into the room.
The politician would have been more impressive if he hadn’t been in shorts and a pink golf shirt.
Elena didn’t rise. “He’s a struggling artist who thinks winning a prize gives him the right to be rude to me. He will regret the impertinence.”
“How did he get past the guard?” the senator asked.
“I have no idea. I’ll call security and have him removed.” She reached for a white telephone on a table at her end of the couch.
The pulse beating in the open throat of her silk shirt put the lie to her cool voice. Some things even a good actress couldn’t hide.
“Don’t bother,” Rand said. “Your guards are scrambling right now.”
He stepped in front of the senator and looked out the tall glass wall toward the south. A brightly painted helicopter was closing in at high speed. Already he could see the camera blister on its nose.
“But,” Rand said, turning back with a feral smile, “you might tell your men to keep their guns out of sight. That kind of publicity will undercut all the social climbing you’ve done up to now.”
“Guns-my children-” She leaped to her feet.
“Your children are fine,” Rand said. “If you want them to stay that way, shut up and listen to me.”
White-faced, Elena sank back onto the couch.
“Now see here, young man,” the senator began.
“No, you see,” Rand said to the senator. “Her husband kidnapped my fiancée. If Elena wants her kids to avoid the shit storm that’s coming down, she’ll listen to me.”
“You’re nuts,” the politician said, reaching past Elena for the phone.
“How would you act if you were on camera, Senator?” Rand asked. “Think about it, because a news chopper is coming in right now. Elena can be gracious about it and help me, or she can look like a gangster’s moll on the six o’clock news.” He turned on Elena. “How would your children like that, Mrs. Bertone?”
She put a hand on her neck to cover the telltale hammering of her pulse. “Whatever you want. Just keep my children out of it.”
“That’s up to you,” Rand said.
The sound of a helicopter’s big blades beat through the windows. The craft was close enough that everyone could see the network logo
on its red, yellow, and blue side. The pilot flared and took up station fifty yards off the pool, his camera aimed directly at the front of the house. Technically, he wasn’t violating anybody’s airspace.
Yet.
“I don’t understand,” she said in a strained voice.
“That’s a good story,” Rand said. “You stick with it when the reporters start screaming, asking what you think about the thousands of people who were slaughtered so that you could sit on your pampered ass in the sky castle you designed.”
Her eyes widened. She hugged herself and made a low sound.
Rand kept pushing. He didn’t like it, but it was the least of what he would do to get to Bertone while Kayla was still alive.
“It’s over,” he said flatly. “Your husband’s a gunrunner. The World in One Hour can prove it. Bertone is going down. Hard. Your only choice is whether you and the children go down with him.”
“What the hell is going on?” the senator demanded as he backed away from the windows like they were on fire.
Rand gave him a sideways look. “Senator, you better get the hell out of here. The good citizens of your district won’t like finding out how you were caught in a tête-à-tête with an international gunrunner’s arm candy. Blood, money, and sex make great headlines.”
“This is outrageous!” the senator said.
“No,” Rand shot back. “What’s outrageous is that Kayla Shaw was kidnapped by Andre Bertone, who will torture her to get the magic word that will unlock a quarter of a billion dollars and start a war to overthrow a duly elected government half a world away.”
“Elena?” the senator asked.
“Please go, Senator,” Elena said. “Please. It is not good for you to be…here, now.”
“All I’m doing here is talking about donations and campaign strategy.” The senator gave Rand a cold look. “And if you imply anything else to the media, I’ll have your balls.” He switched his glare to Elena. “Where is Andre? He’ll cut through this bullshit.”
Elena looked blankly at the senator. “Andre is not here.”
“Well, get him here.” The senator glared at the helicopter. “Get him on the phone!”
The chopper’s rotor wash whipped up waves on the lap pool. The engine roar made the panes of glass in the wall vibrate.
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