Innocent as Sin

29

Phoenix

Saturday

Is this car registered in your name?” Rand asked.

Kayla blinked. It had been a long time since he’d spoken.

“Yes.”

There was silence again while he eased the Explorer into traffic on southbound Interstate 17, heading deep into the Phoenix metro area. Without warning he cut across lanes, accelerated, cut across more lanes, slowed down, and watched the mirrors.

Nobody had speeded, slowed, changed lanes, or done anything to tickle his suspicions.

“Then we’ll have to get rid of it,” Rand said.

She stared at him. “My car? I can’t afford another one.”

“You don’t have to. But from here on out, you’ve dropped off the scope of your everyday life. You won’t go to your new apartment. You won’t go to the ranch. You won’t drive your car. You won’t talk on your cell phone.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

Silence.

A lot of it.

“You aren’t kidding.” She sighed. “Is all this really necessary?”

“Bertone wants you. You want him to get you?”

She shuddered.

“That’s what I thought,” Rand said. “Remember the handcuffs. It will help you stay focused.”

“You can be a cold bastard,” she said.

“It can be a cold world.”

“I didn’t mean that as a slam,” she said. “It just-surprised me. Then I remember your painting and know I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done. Were you always that way?”

“No.”

Rand turned off the freeway onto Scottsdale Road and headed south on Resort Row. Four minutes later, he drove through the impressive entrance of the Royal Palms.

“St. Kilda Consulting must have a lot of money,” Kayla said.

He didn’t answer.

A few minutes later he drove into a small parking area reserved for a cluster of three resort bungalows. A man stepped out of the shadows. He carried a flashlight big enough to light up the Explorer’s interior. After a look in the cargo area, he snapped off the light and walked over to open Kayla’s door.

“Good evening,” he said. “They’re waiting for you in Bungalow One.”

He was polite, crisp, and terribly British.

Rand got out and pitched the keys to the guard. “Dump this at one of Scottsdale Air Park’s long-term lots. I want anybody interested in Kayla to think she could have jumped a private jet and disappeared.”

“Right, Mac,” the guard replied. “I’ll bring the ticket to you, Miss Shaw. You can pick the car up when it’s safe.”

“Thanks.” She looked at Rand. “When will it be safe?”

When Bertone’s dead.

But all Rand said was, “You’ll know.”

He guided her down the soft, sandy path toward the lighted bungalow, then up the short stairway that led across the central patio to the first bungalow’s door. Rand raised his hand to knock, then stopped.

“Last chance,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “There’s a Gulfstream executive jet at Scottsdale Air Park. You could be in Cabo San Lucas in two hours. You’d be safe.”

“Forever?” she asked.

“Nobody’s safe forever. But you would be safe until we get a choke hold on Bertone.”

Kayla took a deep breath and stared off into the night. Beyond the soft lights from the bungalows, she could just make out the rolling landforms of a green, manicured golf course that ran out to the edge of the desert. Calm, peaceful, normal in the faint glow of city lights and starlight. She shook her head.

“What does that mean?” Rand asked.

“It looks so ordinary out there.”

“Death is damned ordinary.”

She made a sound that might have been laughter. “You’re one of a kind, McCree. A real sweet-talking man. You’re just trying to make this sound irresistible to me, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “If it all goes from sugar to shit, I don’t want you standing there, watching me with a surprised look on your face.”

Like Reed, dying.

“Lead on, McCree,” Kayla said.