Innocent as Sin

70

Over Phoenix

Sunday

Abruptly beige suburbs gave way to beige desert. Paved roads became dirt tracks. Power lines strode on silver legs across the sand and creosote. The helicopter dropped, slid under the lines, and popped up again.

The pilot’s grin told Kayla that he liked flying on the edge.

The sweat on Foley’s face told her that he didn’t.

She didn’t like it either, but anything that happened now had to be better than what would come when Bertone got his hands on her.

Don’t think about that.

When the moment is right, I’ll crawl through the cuffs and…

Whatever it takes.

She kept repeating it silently, a mantra of fear and determination.

The helicopter swung to the right, then to the left, hard arcs that turned Foley’s skin a nasty shade of green. The pilot either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He kept playing tag with the desert, skids brushing the tops of the taller bushes, rotor sending out billows of grit, skating on the edge of disaster with a wide smile.

Keep it up, flyboy. Foley will hurl all over your windshield.

The idea made her lips curl in a grim smile.

The pilot made a tight arc around a rumple of dry, rocky hills. A paved road appeared below. The helicopter followed it, then dropped eight feet to a butterfly-soft landing in an asphalt parking lot.

The front doors of the Arizona Territorial Gun Club rose in a dark rectangle from the side of a hill. Wide concrete steps climbed to it like a shrine.

Kayla surged to her feet, turned her back on the cargo door, and fumbled it open. She half fell, half rolled out, twisted, and somehow managed to hit the asphalt feetfirst. She took off, running as fast as she could with her hands cuffed behind her. Even if she didn’t get free, she’d buy some time.

A black Humvee shot up the private road toward the club.

She spun and raced toward what looked like an obstacle course, chewing up as much time as she could.

Anytime now, St. Kilda.

Plan C is looking real good.