Rand punched off. After a few moments the pilot banked right and darted away, taking up a position where his engine could still be heard as a dull roar rather than a howling scream.
“Where is your husband?” Rand asked.
Real tears ran down Elena’s face and mingled with those of the child she was comforting. She drew a deep, breaking breath.
“The club,” she said in a low voice.
“What club?”
“The Arizona Territorial Gun Club.”
“Is it open now?” Rand asked.
“No. Andre keeps it closed on Sunday, except for special groups. The holy day, you understand?”
“Yeah. I understand. Irony is his middle name. How can I get in?”
“You can’t. Andre has the only keys. A chain-link fence surrounds the thirty acres.”
Rand hit the speed dial again.
Faroe didn’t answer on the first ring.
Or the second.
Or the third.
Jesus, Joe, now isn’t the time to take a coffee break.
“Faroe here.” His voice was soft, almost secretive.
“Bertone’s at the Arizona Territorial Gun Club. The helo was headed in that direction.”
“Indian land,” Faroe said. “The Hokams. Small, but mighty in the law.”
“That leaves out the local cops. How about the feds?”
“They probably could bootstrap some jurisdiction, but St. Kilda can’t help you right now. Everybody in Phoenix suspected of associating with St. Kilda has been rounded up and detained by the local police.”
Rand hissed something beneath his breath.
“The badges are being nice about it,” Faroe said. “Grace is doing a professional job of educating a sharp but still fairly confused watch commander.”
“Bottom line?”
“Right now we can’t move without getting our asses thrown in the slammer.”
“Mother of all fuckups,” Rand said.
“It’ll do.”
“Tell the news helo to pick me up. If someone with a badge cares, I can provide probable cause for any search warrant any kind of police agency wants to run past a judge.” Rand looked at Elena. “I’m sure Elena Bertone will be willing to discuss the matter with whichever state or federal judge the cops decide to wake up from his Sunday-afternoon nap.”
Elena nodded agreement and rocked her daughter, comforting both of them.
“If anyone with a badge and a gun wants to come and play at Tire City,” Rand said, “Kayla and I will be the ones in blue jeans. Don’t shoot us.”
“Roger.”
Rand punched out and turned to Elena. “Where does Bertone keep his guns?”
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.
Over Phoenix
Sunday
Martin handed Rand a headset, plugged it into a junction box, and made room for him on the jump seat.
“What’s up?” the producer asked.
“Foley kidnapped Kayla,” Rand said. Two pistols dug into his back when he sat down. He’d hoped for something with more firepower, but he’d had to settle for the Bertones’ bedside artillery. “He’s headed to Bertone’s gun club. The man himself is either there or will be soon.”
“Where to?” the news pilot asked.
Rand looked at the name sewed to the pilot’s pocket. Lopez. “Know where the Hokam Reservation is?”
“Sure. Little vest-pocket holding to the east. Casino, failed dog track, and some kind of fortress.”
“Get us to the fortress as fast as you can. Life or death.”
“Roger.”
The helo leaped up from the estate’s helipad, banked hard, and headed flat out to the east. The pilot talked to Phoenix Air Control. A few seconds later the bird went up like a bullet, then leveled. Rooftops and streets raced by several hundred feet below. The pilot’s face and hands were relaxed, steady, and his eyes never stopped checking gauges and airspace.
“Where’d you learn to fly a bird?” Rand asked Lopez.
“California and Afghanistan.”
“Then you know how to shoot, too.”
“Yeah,” Lopez said, reading dials.
“Got a piece?”
“This is Arizona. What do you think?”
“Keep it handy,” Rand said.
“Always do.”
Rand’s phone rang. “Yeah?”
“This is Steele. Do you have a computer with an uplink?”
Rand looked at Martin, who had a laptop with a satellite connection. “I can use someone’s.”
“I e-mailed you a URL for the gun club and satellite photos of the area. There is only one road, one entrance. The perimeter is chain-link fencing with razor wire. It looks like a military installation.”
Without a word, Rand took Martin’s computer and called up his St. Kilda e-mail number. “Got it.”
Rand zoomed in on the sat photos. Steele was right. The gun club could have been a military bunker.
“Anything else needed?” Steele asked.
“A few warrants and cooperative badges.”
“We’re working on that.”
“Then how about a miracle,” Rand muttered.
“They’re back-ordered.”
The connection ended.
Rand studied the Arizona Territorial Gun Club’s web page. It showed outdoor pistol courses and the roofless tactical shooting house nestled against some barren desert hills. Beyond the outside shooting areas, two huge doors led into the hill itself. He studied the interior photos of the club, orienting himself to the layout of indoor firing lanes, a firearms and souvenir store, and a lounge for members interested in shooting bull as well as live ammo.