Innocent as Sin

64

Phoenix

Sunday

When Rand came through the front door, the lobby guard was on the phone and the radio at the same time.

“I told you to stay the hell out of the way,” the guard growled. “No, not you,” he said to the phone, then held the receiver against his shoulder.

“Some friends of mine are outside,” Rand said quickly. “Two of them are in shorts and T-shirts checking the executive parking structure. Another man is keeping an eye on the opposite exits. Some more friends are on the way. Don’t shoot them by mistake.”

The guard squinted at Rand for a few seconds. “Are you some kind of badge?”

“We’re private. Kayla hired us to protect her.”

“Looks like you fucked up.”

“Let me upstairs.”

The guard shook his head. “I don’t care if you’re a friggin’ FBI undercover. Nobody goes inside. My boss chewed hard when he found out I’d called in the local police. Then I told him a girl was missing.”

“She is.”

“You’d better not be screwing me here, or I’ll have your ass for kicking practice.”

Rand grabbed what was left of his temper and held on. “We’re staying on public property, but if we see Kayla in trouble, we’re going to trespass the hell all over your shiny shoes. You don’t like that, find her before we do!”

The guard pointed at the door with a long index finger. “We’ll do a floor-by-floor as soon as the PD arrives. Now get the hell out of my face.”

Rand glanced again at the elevators, but knew the guard was just looking for an excuse to take him down. With a ripe curse, Rand strode across the lobby and out the front door before he or the guard lost it. The front door opened.

Sunlight poured over Rand like fire.

A fourth car had arrived. The woman trotting toward him was trim and lithe, carrying two radios. She gave one to Rand.

“Jeff and Barney are in the garage,” she said. “They found a Range Rover that comes back to your brunch date, Foley.”

“Tell them to sit on it. Don’t let it move.”

“Already done. Faroe has the back covered. We’ll find the woman.”

“What we’ll find is a hostage situation and a bunch of cops who will take five hours to get organized.”

He spun and glared up at the shiny glass skin of the building, looking from pane to pane, hoping to see something better than his fear. The woman answered the radio phone. Faroe reported that the back side of the building was secure.

No one had seen Kayla.

Rand saw his brother’s face, covered with blood, no more pain, no fear, just a slow sliding away into death.

Only it was Kayla’s face, Kayla sliding away.

“Suck it up,” the operator said to him, gripping his forearm with surprisingly strong fingers, “or get out of the way.”

He stared into her serious brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Mary. I’m a sniper.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“Trying to keep you from going ballistic.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“The true warrior fights best when he reminds himself that he is already dead,” Mary said.

“Faroe’s favorite saying,” Rand said bitterly. “But what does the warrior do when his fear is for someone else?”

There was no answer but the one Mary had already given him.

Suck it up.

He looked away from the building, trying to find something, anything, that would allow him to focus. There was a tree nearby, bare branches. A fiercely colored hummingbird dashed in and sat for a moment, looking right and left, searching for flowers or competitors or females. Sunlight flashed on the bird’s green feathers and brilliant red gorget.

Anna’s hummingbird. A species noted for pushing the edges of its territory, its limitations.

Good luck, bird. You’ll need it.

The bird took off in a flash of color and intensity.

Rand blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said to Mary. “I’m okay.”

She looked at him intently, nodded.

Then he heard the helicopter.

“No way,” Mary said, grabbing his forearm again.

“Why not? Bertone owns more than fifty aircraft.”

“In Africa.”

“Not all of them.”

The sound of the chopper was loud, but still low and far enough away that Rand couldn’t see it. He turned and looked at the bank building. There was room for a good pilot to set down on the front lawn.

Mary followed his glance. “We’d still have her covered.” She touched the belly pack at her waist. “If the pilot lands, I can put ten in the turbine.”

Rand stared at the building. Certainty washed over him in an icy wave. “Not if he lands on the roof.”

He ran for the front door while Mary punched the radio and started giving staccato updates.

An instant later the helicopter dropped down onto the roof and landed, still under full power. The cargo door of the aircraft slid back.

Rand reached the lobby just as the helicopter took off. It banked steeply and sped off to the east. The pilot was lean and blond.

Not Bertone.

Just before the cargo door slid closed, Rand saw two figures inside the bay. One was lying flat. The other flipped a bird at him.

Then there was nothing but the fading sound of rotors.

“Shit. If I’d had my rifle…” Mary said in a low voice. But all she had was a pistol and the radio was yammering. When Rand started toward the parking lot, her strong hand clamped down on his forearm, holding him. “Faroe wants to know what kind of helo, ID numbers, all of it,” she said quickly.

“Hind, Mi-24. Russian. Bertone imports them for firefighting.”

“Sweet.”

“Oh, yeah, Bertone’s a sweetheart.”

And he’s a dead man walking.

Rand wrenched his arm free and ran toward the rental SUV. “Where are you going?” Mary called after him. He didn’t answer.