ABOVE NEVADA
SEPTEMBER 17
6:28 P.M.

Take one quiet orbit close enough for me to read the serial numbers on the helo in back of the barn,” Zach said to the pilot. “Do it fast.”

The plane began shedding altitude. It hit the layer of air where the heat of day met the coming chill of night. The plane jumped around, a drop of water in a searing skillet.

Even with motion-compensated binoculars, getting numbers wasn’t easy. He stared through the lenses and memorized the numbers on the helo.

“Got it,” Zach said. “Take us up again.”

The plane began to climb back into twilight while Zach punched number one on his speed dial.

“Faroe,” said a deep voice.

“We’ve got trouble,” Zach said. “There’s a Jet Ranger parked behind the whorehouse barn, which is about three thousand feet from the cribs. Two black Suburbans are parked with the helo. Looks to me like somebody brought in another security outfit.”

“Who?”

“Trace these helo serial numbers,” Zach said, speaking distinctly as he repeated what he’d seen through the binoculars.

“I’ll get back to you,” Faroe said.

Zach switched to the pilot’s frequency. “We’re going to land.”

“Where?”

“On the highway.”

“What about traffic?” the pilot asked.

“It’s taken care of.”

The pilot took the plane higher.

“I told you to land,” Zach said.

“Do you want to walk away from it?”

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and let me do my job.”

Zach switched back to his sat/cell. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “How long can it take to run the numbers on a—”

His sat/cell rang. “Who are they?” Zach demanded.

“Red Hill International,” Faroe said.

“The high-ticket security outfit out of Las Vegas?”

“The same.”

“They have a pretty good rep,” Zach said. “What are they doing working for an arsonist and shooter?”

“Best guess? They’re getting hosed by a lying client.”

“God knows that never happens in this business,” Zach said sarcastically. “The really bad news is that friendly fire kills just as dead as the other kind.”

“The ambassador is talking to General Meyer of Red Hill as we speak.”

“Screw talking. I’m taking this bird down,” Zach said. “Jill isn’t armed to go up against Red Hill.”

“Neither are you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Zach disconnected and switched frequencies to talk to the pilot. “Take me down.”

“Which part of the highway?”

“The cop car with the flashing lights is the upwind end of the runway.” Zach pulled his duffel from behind the seat and took out a long-barreled pistol and spare magazines. “The downwind end is behind us, where the RV is parked across the highway. From the dust I’ve seen in the headlights, I’m guessing we’ll get occasional gusts of wind from southwest to northeast.”

Not good news for a landing.

“I’ve noticed.” The pilot’s voice was flat.

He turned the plane into the wind and lined up with the highway. He dropped into a zone where the air wasn’t quite as bumpy.

But it was still a long way from smooth.

“I’m glad St. Kilda will be the one explaining this to the FAA,” the pilot said.

“Engine trouble, what can I tell you?” Zach said. “Put me as close as you can to the ranch entrance.”

That meant a really short landing. The pilot hissed a word not approved by the FAA.

“Can you do it?” Zach asked.

“Tighten your harness” was all the pilot said.

Zach looked at the buildings coming closer with every second. Jill wasn’t anywhere in sight.

She’d already gone in.

Be smart, Jill, Zach prayed silently. Turn around and run like hell to the Escalade.

But he knew she wouldn’t. Worse, he knew it wouldn’t make any difference if she did.

Red Hill wasn’t a bunch of amateurs.