It was called the Brass Club.
The web page mentioned an exclusive set of private tactical shooting areas attached to the club room, but showed no photos.
That’s where Bertone will take her. Nice and quiet, with heavy soundproofed walls and plenty of privacy for an old-fashioned round of torture.
The thought made his gut lurch. Kayla was smart and quick thinking. Bertone was merciless.
He would peel her like a ripe banana.
“How long?” Rand asked the pilot harshly.
Lopez held up two fingers.
Rand called up the aerial maps and photos again. He located the perimeter fence and the guard shack that blocked the road into the club. Tracing recognizable landforms, he looked forward through the windscreen. The facade of the clubhouse rose several miles away, straight-lined and glistening, out of place in the dusty, unruly Arizona desert.
“There’s a dry wash with steep sides about two hundred yards south of the clubhouse, at the bottom of the slope,” Rand said to the pilot. “See it?”
The pilot gave a thumbs-up.
“Drop me there,” Rand said. “Then haul ass back upstairs and fall back to one mile.”
“We can’t get good coverage from a mile away,” Martin protested. “Faroe said there might be some great bang-bang footage.”
“You stay in range and you’ll get more bang-bang than you want,” the pilot said. “This helo isn’t armor-plated.”
“Hey,” the cameraman cut in, “no biggie. I was in Fallujah. After that, this is a piece of cake.”
The pilot shot him a you dumb fuck look and shook his head. When it came to bullets and death, there was no such thing as a piece of cake.
“That club has more firepower in its vaults than the whole Iraqi insurgency,” Rand said. “Hang back until the cops and agents come pouring in. It shouldn’t be long.” I hope. “Then you can come in close and get all the footage you need.”
The pilot went into a sharp descent and stayed low, approaching from the west and then swinging around the hill, keeping well out of rifle range.
Martin leaned forward, lifting field glasses to scan the club.
Rand grabbed the glasses.
“What the-” began Martin. A look at Rand’s eyes stopped the producer’s protest. “Okay. Okay. They’re yours. Enjoy them.”
The field glasses brought everything close. The Russian-made helicopter that had snatched Kayla and Foley from the roof of the bank building had set down in the empty parking lot. The only other vehicle was a black Humvee.
Bertone.
Rand raked the ground with the glasses. Suddenly Kayla leaped into focus, running hard into the desert away from either helicopter. Handcuffed, she was no match for the long-haired man closing in on her, his arms pumping, swinging free as his legs ate up the ground. An AK-47 was slung across his back. He grabbed her, slapped her hard, and began dragging her back to the club at a trot.
“Can you cut them off?” Rand asked the pilot, pointing. He knew the answer but he had to ask anyway.
“Not before he could bring us down with that AK-47 or kill her or both.”
Shit.
“After you drop me, keep an eye on their helo,” Rand said curtly. “If it takes off, follow. Get on the emergency frequency and tell the cops.”
“What about you?” asked the pilot. “Want me to pick you up before we tail them?”
“If they get airborne, I’m already dead.”
The pilot leaned on the stick and adjusted the cyclic control. The helicopter dropped, flared, and settled into a sand-bottomed wash that was twenty yards across.
“Luck, man,” the pilot said as Rand stepped out onto the skid.
The instant Rand’s feet hit soft sand, the overhead rotor churned up a blinding boil of dust. He crouched and fought through the grit while the helicopter lifted off and spun in midair, using the walls of the wash as cover for its retreat.
He was running before the dust settled. He figured he had less than a minute.
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.
Arizona Territorial Gun Club
Sunday
Rand hugged the dirt bank of the ravine until he found a break in its wall. He scrambled out through the dry, crumbling wash and onto the slope below the clubhouse. Crouching in the lacy shadow of a bush, he scanned the area for movement.
The scattered boulders on the slope were covered with dark desert varnish and traces of lichen. A spring bloom of desert wildflowers was already fading.
Nothing moved but a breeze.
He pulled one of the pistols from his waistband and automatically checked the magazine. Eight bright cartridges gleamed in the sunlight, with one more already in the chamber. He replaced it and pulled out the other pistol. Same count. A total of eighteen bullets against Arizona Territorial Gun Club’s arsenal.
He’d get better odds in a state lottery.
Eyes narrowed, he studied the slope, picking out the best cover. Then he was moving again, keeping low, running hard. He paused behind shoulder-high rocks to check the ridgeline for anything alive.
Where the hell are they?
They had to hear the helo land and take off. They had to send someone after me.
Or are they torturing Kayla right now, figuring to get what they need out of her before anyone can stop them?
Ice twisted in his gut.
He sprinted toward the next bit of cover. A bullet screamed off a rock to his left, showering him with chips and grit. Instantly he dodged, ducked behind a different rock, and looked in the direction the bullet had come.
A white man with long, wild hair reared up from his cover behind a boulder and savagely hammered on the action of an AK-47. The usually reliable weapon obviously had a problem.
Next time, clean it better, Rand thought grimly.