St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

asked.
    “Bingo,” Faroe said. “But you’re going to have to do it from somewhere else.”
    “Why?”
    “The feds,” Rand said.
    “But—” she began.
    “Now that feds of various stripes are hanging around,” Rand cut in, “we need a new place to hide. If one of those feds identifies you, and word gets back to Bertone, Camgeria is up that nasty creek without a paddle.”
    “Are you telling me that Bertone can get federal agents to do his dirty work for him?” Kayla asked in disbelief.
    “You need to understand something about investigators,” Faroe said calmly. “The dudes Grace just ran off—and even the FBI agents I’ll bet are hiding in the bushes out there—are feeding their findings back to some faceless desk officer in Washington, who is briefing some nameless senior official in the White House or at Langley or wherever.”
    Faroe took a sip of coffee.
    Kayla kept her mouth shut and waited.
    “That nameless senior official has an interface with Bertone,” Faroe continued. “Maybe Bertone is a major political contributor. Maybe he’s become so successful in the oil brokerage business that he can call in favors from somebody in the Energy Department. Maybe Bertone is playing the old boy network left over from his days as a spook. Doesn’t matter how he does it. The point is that he can.”
    “The point is,” Grace said to Kayla, “that we have to keep you under wraps in order to keep our assignment viable and you intact.”
    “Right now,” Faroe said, “Bertone’s working like a dirty bastard to find you. If he links you to us, he’ll have no choice but to eliminate you and St. Kilda Consulting—man, woman, and child.”
    Kayla looked as horrified as she felt.
    “The really bad thing,” Faroe added, “is that Bertone’s rich enough, powerful enough, and smart enough to get away with it.”
    Kayla wanted to argue.
    She couldn’t.
    Faroe looked at Rand. “Come with me to the bedroom. I’m loaning you something. The last time I left home without it, I ended up in the hospital.”

42
    Royal Palms
Sunday
8:05 A.M. MST
    J ust as Rand finished buttoning up his shirt, Kayla walked out of the bathroom and stalked to the living area of the St. Kilda bungalow. She was covered head to socks, face to fingertips. The sun-protective clothing and very wide-brimmed hat were stylish, colorful, cool on her skin, and concealed her identity quite thoroughly. The wide wraparound sunglasses added a final anonymous touch.
    “This is so not me,” Kayla said, flicking her fingers against the hat. “Do you have anything in the Stetson line?”
    “If I can shave”—and wear Faroe’s body armor—“you can sport a silly hat,” Rand said, cinching the hat under her chin. “Wear it until we lose our tail. Then you can strip and go as naked as my cheeks.” He grinned. “I’ll look forward to it.”
    Snickers came from the direction of the kitchen, where Faroe and Grace were eating breakfast.
    Kayla rolled her eyes. “This outfit is the kind of thing Elena Bertone would wear to protect her flawless complexion. Mine, in case you hadn’t noticed, is already desert leather.”
    Rand finished zipping her backpack and threw one strap over his shoulder. Then he ducked in under her hat brim and brushed his lips across hers. “I think your skin feels just fine,” he said in a low voice. “Now get a move on. You’re distracting me.”
    “Huh.” She ran both palms over his face. “All that smooth skin on your face is distracting me. Thank God Freddie left enough hair up top for me to get my fingers into.”
    Rand gave Kayla a kiss that really distracted her, then dragged her out a patio door.
    Kayla wasn’t sure what kind of escape vehicle she expected, but what she got wasn’t it. She stared.
    “Are you kidding?” she asked.
    “Think of it as a souped-up golf cart. Gas, not electric. It’s an ATV in disguise.”
    “That’s your story and you’re stuck with it.”
    Smiling, Rand tossed her backpack onto the shelf behind the seat where his stuff was, slid onto the bench, and checked the controls. Then he grabbed the Stetson Faroe had stashed on the floorboards and jammed it on his head.
    “Get aboard,” he said. “Faroe’s diversion won’t last long.”
    “He’s paranoid,” she muttered.
    But she got in.
    “He’s smart. There are probably a dozen feds out in the parking lot, with a dozen surveillance vehicles ready to roll out on our tail. Some will follow Faroe. Some