Innocent as Sin

74

Arizona Territorial Gun Club

Sunday

Bertone stood at the front door, waiting to hear the AK-47 speak again. He listened intently. And listened.

Silence.

Apparently the pistol had had the last word.

With a curse for the incompetents he was surrounded by, Bertone turned back toward the lobby of the gun club. Foley stood ten feet away. His pistol was pressed hard against Kayla’s neck. Her skin was pale, the pulse in her neck was hammering, and her eyes open, watching, always watching. She had been a great deal of trouble to Bertone, slowing him down, wasting time, mocking him with her silence. He was looking forward to killing her.

After he got the password.

“What happened?” Foley asked nervously.

“Obviously the fool got in the way of some bullets.”

Kayla’s smile was a mean curve in her dirty, bruised face.

“Now what?” Foley asked.

Kayla eased away from the pistol muzzle digging into her neck.

Bertone shrugged. “I can fly the helicopter better than he can.”

“But-” Foley began.

“Shut it.”

Foley flinched and shut up.

Bertone sorted through probabilities, possibilities, and miracles with the speed of the highly intelligent gambler he was. The odds of getting himself and an unwilling Kayla to the helicopter out front without being picked off were smaller than the odds of taking out whoever had killed the pilot when he came after Kayla.

Then Bertone would fly the helicopter to Mexico and work on Kayla at his leisure.

Without a word, he strode out of the lobby. A few moments later he was back with an M-16.

“You take the front,” he said to Foley, handing him the weapon. “It’s on full automatic.” He put one hand in Kayla’s hair, twisted hard, yanked. “She comes with me.”