St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

said.
    “Don’t have to. We have those local private investigators hanging in the neighborhood, passing themselves off as repo guys from a car dealer. They can work in close to Gabriel’s house. We’ll stay here and work at a distance.”
    “Binoculars?” Kayla asked.
    “Telephoto camera,” Hamm said, passing it over the seat. “Tourists like to hang out here on the weekend, watch the funny locals.”
    He opened the glove box and dug out a Diamondback baseball cap that matched the one he was wearing. He tossed it to Rand, who ditched the Stetson, grumbled about being a Mariners fan, but put the cap on anyway.
    Hamm’s cell phone rang discreetly, the sound of a cardinal chirping. He answered and listened.
    “There’s something happening at the house,” Hamm said. “A van. Driver’s a white guy with red hair.” Then, into the phone, “Go ahead, slide in a little closer. Guadalupe is always crawling with repo guys in tow trucks.”
    Hamm listened some more. Then he relayed more information. “The van says ‘Arizona Territorial Gun Club.’”
    Kayla said something under her breath.
    “What,” Rand demanded.
    “Steve Foley is a redhead,” she said, “and he’s a member of that club.”
    “What kind of place is it?” Rand asked. “Antique weapons and pistols at dawn?”
    “More like Rambo’s wet dream,” Hamm said, flipping through his mental files. “High-tech all the way.”
    “Steve likes to think of himself as a sports shooter,” Kayla said, “but here in Arizona, that could mean anything from a nervous grandmother to a Wyatt Earp wannabe.”
    “You know where the club is?” Rand asked Hamm.
    “At the edge of the desert, on tribal land.”
    “No feds allowed?” Rand asked.
    Hamm shrugged. “Every tribe’s treaty rights are different. I’ve never been invited, so I’ve never been inside the club. Just hearsay from those who have.”
    “Steve is always talking about the club’s ‘Tire City’ and their close-quarters course, whatever they are.”
    Hamm and Rand exchanged glances.
    Tire City.
    The term sent a chill through Rand. Modern urban warriors practiced close-quarters combat in open-roofed buildings with walls constructed of discarded auto tires filled with dirt. He had a mental image of the kind of place Kayla was describing, concrete block buildings, gravel canyons, and indoor labyrinths of movable shooting galleries with overhead observation platforms. Foley’s gun club was a fortress in the desert, remote and bristling with firearms.
    “What does ‘Tire City’ mean?” Kayla asked.
    “It’s slang for simulation bunkers,” Rand said. “Close-quarters courses are run-and-shoot ranges. Usually such places are reserved for advanced training in law enforcement or military counterterrorism units.” He smiled thinly. “Think of it as a kind of live-fire Disneyland for the well-armed adult.”
    “That would be Steve,” Kayla said.
    “Sweet,” Rand said.
    She shrugged. “As far as gun laws are concerned, Arizona is the last wild frontier. We have an open-carry law.”
    “Meaning?” Rand asked.
    “You can still walk most of our streets with a sidearm, so long as you display it openly. I’ve seen guys in the Costco parking lot with pistols on their hips.”
    “Really sweet.” Rand smiled grimly. “Hide behind the camera, Kayla.” Then, to Hamm, “Get closer to that club van. Go real slow, like a gringo looking for his drug dealer.”
    Hamm started to object, then remembered Faroe’s orders: Rand was the boss.
    “There are four males in the carport area,” Hamm said, slowly driving closer, “including the redhead from the van. My spotter says they’re moving something from the club van to the back of a beat-up, solid-sided blue panel truck.”
    Hamm made a right and a left. The town square gave way to a tired little subdivision of one-story houses with satellite dishes and swamp coolers on the roof.
    “Coming up.”
    Kayla focused the camera on the sidewalk and made a startled sound.
    “What?” Rand said.
    “Where’s the Oh Shit Bar when I need it?” she said. “That’s Steve Foley. Next to him is Gabriel. I don’t recognize the other two.”
    “Slouch down.” Rand enforced the command by pulling her facedown into his lap. “Hamm, eyes front when we go by.”
    “Yessir.”
    Whatever Kayla said was muffled by Rand’s lap.
    Hamm passed the house slowly, seeming to pay no attentionto it. Rand lounged with his shoulder against the door,