St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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.

65
    Phoenix
Sunday
1:50 P.M. MST
    R and fought Sunday-afternoon traffic on Scottsdale Road, cursing and wheeling from lane to lane until he almost overran a police cruiser and had to clean up his act. He wanted to smash his fist through the windshield. Instead, he concentrated on being a good citizen and courteous driver.
    The cruiser finally turned onto the freeway.
    Rand put the accelerator on the floor.
    As he raced under the 101 Freeway, headed north toward Cave Creek and Pleasure Valley, his cell phone went off. He fished it out and punched up the speaker.
    “What?” he demanded.
    “What the hell are you doing?” Faroe shot back.
    “Driving.”
    “Don’t piss me off. Where are you going?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    “Then I already know. Sky house, right?”
    Rand didn’t answer.
    “Make sure you can do the time for any crime you commit,” Faroe said.
    “I’ll bury it deep.”
    Faroe’s end was silent for a moment. Then a low