Innocent as Sin

72

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday

Kayla lashed out with her heel at the pilot’s kneecap. Her soft shoes muffled the blow, but the man still staggered, swore, and hit her with the butt of his AK-47 hard enough to make darkness spin around her. He drew the butt back to hit her again, harder.

A big hand slapped the weapon away. “Enough,” Bertone said. “She has to be able to talk.”

Bertone bent, put his shoulder in Kayla’s stomach, and stood easily, taking her weight. With one arm clamped around her thighs, he ran toward the club’s double-story front doors like he was carrying no more than an AK-47 over his shoulder.

Kayla’s head bounced against Bertone’s back while he trotted up the broad fan of steps leading to the club. At first she thought the roaring in her ears was blood returning to her head. Then she realized the sound came from a helicopter she couldn’t see; she could only hear the rotors slicing air and the engine howling, going away.

Bertone unlocked the club’s big doors, kicked them open, and rushed inside before a stray shot could kill Kayla.

Or an intentional one.

It’s what he would have done if he wanted to keep her from giving away a quarter of a billion dollars.

The sound of the helicopter faded.

“Take my Humvee,” Bertone told the pilot. “Kill whoever they left.”

The pilot set off at a run for the parking lot, slapping his pockets, reassuring himself that he had extra ammo.

Behind him, the front door of the fortress slammed shut.