St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

return. Even the bag of diamonds passed directly to the Siberian. Then it all went from sugar to shit.”
    Kayla waited, not sure she wanted to know, but certain she should.
    “The sun moves real fast in that part of the world. Either my lens caught it, or Reed’s binoculars. The Siberian picked up asniper’s rifle and drilled Reed. I grabbed Reed and an assault rifle and took off for the Rover. I drove us to the helicopter that was waiting. Before we could take off, a rebel helicopter strafed us. I brought it down, but it was too late. Too fucking late. I buried Reed in the savanna he loved.” Rand met Kayla’s eyes and said, “I’ll bury Bertone, too.”
    “What if you bury yourself?”
    “Then Reed won’t be alone anymore. Win-win.” At least, it had been until last night.
    “Well, you’re honest,” Kayla said, shoving the covers aside. “One-night stand it is.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You love Reed more than you love your own life.” She began dressing with short, sharp motions. “Sorry if I diverted you from your hair-shirt shrine.”
    “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. Bertone needs killing.”
    “You aren’t a murderer.”
    “You don’t know me very well.”
    “You don’t know yourself very well,” she retorted, pulling on a T-shirt. “You don’t understand what it will cost you to drop Bertone in cold blood.”
    “Obviously it will cost me you,” Rand said.
    “It will cost you yourself . But then you don’t care about that, do you? You hate yourself for living when Reed didn’t.”
    “Kayla—”
    A shadow showed against the bedroom curtains. Rand shot to his feet and lifted the curtain aside just enough to look out.
    Three men with drawn pistols were charging the St. Kilda compound from the direction of the golf course. Brakes shrieked as two cars and a pale green van blocked the driveway and parking areas.
    “Shit! We’ve got to—” Rand said.
    The blare of loudspeakers shut out the rest of his words. “EVERYONE STAY PUT! THIS IS A FEDERAL RAID!”
    Rand went through the bungalow at a run, checking that locks and bolts were in place.
    “What should we do?” Kayla asked.
    “Stay out of sight until we’re told otherwise.”

39
    Royal Palms
Sunday
6:25 A.M. MST
    G et that camera crew awake and shooting now, ” Faroe snarled into the telephone.
    “Okay, I’m on it,” Martin said. “You want us in the open?” “Whatever it takes to get sound and action.”
    Faroe hung up and went out the front door, shutting it behind him. He met the raiding party on the front stoop of the bungalow. The lead agent, a heavyset man in a dark green Border Patrol uniform shirt, carried a pistol at high port arms.
    “What the hell is this?” Faroe demanded.
    The next bungalow’s door opened silently. A camera lens poked out the partly open door, as did a directional mike.
    The agent saw only the tall, hard-looking man blocking the door of the bungalow he’d been ordered to search.
    “Out of the way, sir,” the agent said. “We’re conducting an immigration employment verification action of this establishment.”
    Faroe pointed toward the resort’s main building. “Well, shithowdy, cowboy, the kitchen is over there and the groundskeeper headquarters are about a quarter mile back the way you came from.”
    “Stand aside, sir.”
    “This is a private room,” Faroe said distinctly. “Nobody here is undocumented.”
    “Get out of the way, sir, ” the agent barked, “or you will be subject to arrest.”
    Behind Faroe the door opened. Grace stood there, tying a red silk robe over the mound of her pregnancy.
    “No, he won’t step aside, Officer.” Her voice had the snap of a judge used to ruling a courtroom—and the cops in it. Her dark eyes went to the officer’s name tag. “Agent Morehouse, you’re very close to overstepping whatever authority you believe you have.”
    “Pardon me, ma’am, but who the hell are you to question my authority?”
    “My name is Grace Silva Faroe,” she said. “I retired six months ago as a federal judge in the Southern District of California. That district includes San Diego, a place where the Border Patrol was and is very active.”
    “I know what the Southern District is,” Morehouse said curtly. “Step aside, both of you. Now.”
    “Not yet,” Grace said, each word distinct. “You need a specific warrant to enter private residences. Under the law, rented hotel rooms have the same privileges and