Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

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.

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.

Arizona Territorial 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.