The Protector

by David Morrell

  "Yes!"

  Now Cavanaugh stared past the paralyzed woman toward rain splashing a puddle beyond her.

  Don't move, lady.

  Cavanaugh stepped on the brakes, feeling their pulses through the pedal, judging their increasing frequency. At what he estimated was 98 percent stopping power, he kept his foot steady. Any more pressure and the brakes would lock, making it impossible for him to control the direction of the sedan. But as long as the brakes weren't locked, he could steer the car while reducing speed.

  He was so close to the paralyzed woman that he saw how huge the pupils of her eyes had become as he twisted the steering wheel to the right.

  No! Don't look at her! Look at the rain in the puddle beyond her!

  Cavanaugh felt the car threaten to slide out of control on the wet pavement. At once, the sedan shifted to the right the way he wanted. Continuing to stare toward where he wanted to go, toward the puddle, he twisted the steering wheel to the left now, veering around the woman, sensing her umbrella zip past him as his car reached the puddle and he released the brake.

  For a heart-skipping moment, as Cavanaugh jerked his gaze up toward his rearview mirror, he feared that the pursuing car would hit her, but the near miss had broken the woman's paralysis. She raced toward cars at the side just before the black car sped past her, splashing water from a puddle, drenching her.

  Wary of other pedestrians who might suddenly appear, Cavanaugh sped along the row heading toward the mall. He steered to the left, toward one of the mall's entrances, a group of glass doors beckoning on Prescott's side of the car.

  "Prescott, open your door! We're bailing out!"

  "But—"

  "Do it!" Cavanaugh skidded to a stop in front of the doors. He grabbed the Sig and the .45. "Now!"

  Behind him, he heard the black car speeding close as he and Prescott charged into the mall.

  * * *

  15

  Two levels high, the place was warm, dry, and bright, packed with shoppers, loud with conversations, but all Cavanaugh paid attention to was an electronics store immediately on his left.

  "In there!" he told Prescott.

  The black car would stop at the rusted sedan, Cavanaugh knew. The three passengers would rush into the mall. The driver would stay with the car and use his cell phone to keep in touch with the gunmen as they tried to find where Cavanaugh and Prescott had gone. That way, the driver could be alerted to speed to another section of the mall if Cavanaugh and Prescott tried to leave via other doors.

  Urging Prescott toward the electronics store, Cavanaugh shoved the .45 under his belt. Frantic to get out of sight before the gunmen rushed into the mall, he held the Sig close to him, hiding it. He ejected its empty magazine, put it in a pocket, shoved in a fresh one from the pouch on the left side of his belt, and pressed the lever that allowed the slide on top to snap forward, chambering a round. Moving, he did all this without thinking, with a sureness that came from hundreds of training exercises.

  A young clerk in the electronics store looked puzzled by the haste with which Cavanaugh and Prescott entered, water dripping from them. "May I help you?"

  Holding the Sig out of sight beneath his jacket, Cavanaugh tugged Prescott past the clerk, past harshly lit rows of televisions, video tape recorders, and DVD players. "What we're looking for is in the back of the store."

  The clerk hurried to follow. "If you'll show me what it is, I'll be glad to help."

  "Great." Cavanaugh and Prescott squeezed past customers, approaching a counter in the rear.

  The counter had a door on the left. Cavanaugh nudged Prescott past the counter and opened the door.

  "Sir!" the clerk said. "Customers aren't allowed in the storeroom!"

  "But this is what we're looking for." Pulling Prescott into the storeroom, Cavanaugh closed the door and locked it.

  "Sir!" a muffled voice objected.

  Cavanaugh spun toward palely illuminated shelves stacked with boxes containing VHS and DVD players. "Let's go, Prescott."

  Hearing the knob being turned and then someone pounding on the door, Cavanaugh headed toward a metal door on the opposite wall. He'd seen the outside of that door when he'd stopped at the mall's entrance. He knew that the law required exterior doors in commercial establishments to have locks that could be easily freed so that people wouldn't be trapped if there was a fire. This door was secured by a simple dead bolt.

  He twisted the lock's knob.

  While the gunmen searched the mall, Cavanaugh and Prescott rushed out into the rain. At the curb, the black car, its engine running, was parked behind the rusted sedan, as Cavanaugh expected. The skinhead driver stared toward the glass doors through which his companions had hurried, again as Cavanaugh expected.

  By the time the driver noticed movement next to him, Cavanaugh had run in a crouch through the gloom. Using the rusted sedan and the steam from it to conceal his approach, he drew the .45, which was useful to him now only as a blunt object he could afford to risk damaging, and slammed its barrel against the car's passenger window. Beads of safety glass burst inward over the startled skinhead as Cavanaugh aimed his Sig at him and saw that the man's cell phone and pistol were on the seat next to him, along with a Zippo lighter and a pack of cigarettes. The motor kept running.

  "Out!" Cavanaugh told him.

  With his gloved hands on the steering wheel, the frightened skinhead glanced toward the pistol on the seat.

  "Out!" Cavanaugh shouted.

  Terrified, the skinhead continued to stare at the pistol on the seat.

  Cavanaugh pulled the Sig's trigger and blew a hole in the ceiling.

  Flinching, the skinhead hurried from the car.

  "Run!" Cavanaugh fired above the driver's bare scalp, making him race faster through the rain as he headed along the side of the mall.

  "Prescott, get in!"

  As Prescott obeyed, Cavanaugh ran around to the open driver's door, but before he got in, he grabbed the cigarette lighter off the seat.

  He ignited it and threw it under the back of the sedan, where the lighter was protected from the rain and where gasoline from the perforated fuel tank had pooled. Immediately, vapor erupted into flames that spread along the bottom of the sedan. He hurried into the black car, put the gearshift into drive, and sped away.

  Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw the rusted sedan heave as its gas tank, filled mostly with fumes, detonated. It didn't explode, contrary to popular belief. No huge fireball. No roar as if tons of TNT had gone off. Just a whump and an energetic burst of flame. In fact, if the gas tank had contained mostly fuel, there wouldn't have been enough oxygen for it to explode. The car would have kept burning only on the outside.

  Taking one last look at his rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw three angry men charge out of the mall. It seemed to him that, like the skinhead driver, they wore gloves. Then he reached the street beyond the parking lot and couldn't see them any longer.

  He sped toward the ramp that led back to the highway. It was a luxury to have a car with an intact windshield and two functioning wipers.

  Prescott's bulky chest heaved. He clamped his hands to it.

  "Are you all right?" Cavanaugh accessed the highway, staying in the right lane, trying to blend with traffic. "You're not having a heart attack, are you?"

  "No. Just can't get my . . . Out of breath."

  "Out of condition," Cavanaugh said. "You've got to take better care of yourself." To calm Prescott, Cavanaugh prompted him to imagine a future scenario, one in which he'd be safe. "After we make you disappear, you'll have plenty of chances to get some exercise."

  "Exercise. Even that would be welcome."

  In the distance, yet another group of sirens wailed. Although Cavanaugh wanted to get to the Teterboro airport as fast as possible, he kept his speed under the limit so he wouldn't attract attention.

  "It's good to be somewhere dry." Again Cavanaugh was trying to calm Prescott.

  "And warm."

  "Yes." Cavanaugh's
wet clothes were cold against his skin. The driver had kept the car's heater on. Cavanaugh felt air from it waft over him.

  Prescott shivered.

  "Turn the heater up," Cavanaugh said. "Adjust the blower as high as it'll go."

  Hands shaking, Prescott fumbled at the controls on the dashboard. "You set fire to the car as—what, a distraction?"

  "Partly. The police will have to waste time while they deal with the fire and try to figure out what happened."

  "You said 'partly.' " Prescott's puffy forehead wrinkled. "You had another reason?"

  "Our fingerprints." Cavanaugh again checked his rearview mirror. "Originally, I planned to abandon the car in the parking lot. It wouldn't have been noticed for a while. We'd have had a chance to wipe our prints before we ran from the area and called for help. But then the other car showed up and . . . This way, with the fire, we don't have to worry about our prints. Believe me, the police would have dusted for them, and they would have been able to identify us. Not a good idea when you want to disappear and I want to stay invisible." "Cavanaugh." "What?"

  "I don't know your first name."

  "I don't have one. Cavanaugh is the only name I go by. A work name. I never give my real name. It would endanger the people I protect."

  "A pseudonym?"

  "You know some of the trade jargon?" Relieved that Prescott's breathing was less agitated, Cavanaugh didn't mind distracting him by answering harmless questions. "One way for an opponent to get at a client would be to learn the identities of the client's protector's."

  "What would that accomplish?"

  "The opponent could discover where the protectors live, whether they have relatives and so on. You see the liability?"

  Prescott's ample chin wavered as he nodded. "The opponent could kill the bodyguards where they live, when they're off duty, when they're not as alert."

  "And the new team the client hires wouldn't be up to speed on how to maintain his security. The client becomes a viable target," Cavanaugh said.

  Prescott nodded again. "Or else the opponent kidnaps the bodyguards' relatives and puts pressure on the bodyguards to lessen the client's security."

  "You catch on quick. People close to me can't be threatened if the bad guys don't know who the people close to me are. Because the bad guys don't know who I am," Cavanaugh said.

  "You have a family?"

  "No," Cavanaugh replied, lying. "You referred to 'bodyguards.' That's not what I am."

  "Then...?"

  "The technical term is protective agent."

  "What's the distinction?"

  "Bodyguards are thugs. They're what mobsters use. Crude muscle."

  "But what you do, as you've proven, requires sophisticated talents. Thank you. What you went through to save me is the bravest thing I've ever seen."

  "No," Cavanaugh said. "Not brave."

  "I can't think what else to call it."

  "Conditioned."

  Between them, the skinhead's cell phone buzzed.

  * * *

  16

  Prescott flinched.

  The phone buzzed again.

  "Press the answer button," Cavanaugh said. "Then give it to me."

  Uneasy, Prescott obeyed.

  Steering expertly with his left hand, Cavanaugh held the phone against his right ear. "Pizza Hut."

  "Cute,"a sandpapery voice said.

  "Thanks."

  "Not the Pizza Hut thing. I meant about setting fire to your car and stealing ours."

  "I know what you meant."

  Prescott watched intently, trying to figure out what Ca-vanaugh was hearing.

  "This won't stop us. We'll keep coming," the voice said. "I expect that," Cavanaugh said into the phone. "You're not a cop. You'd have called for backup. Instead, you kept clear of police cars. You must be private security. Give it up. You're way out of your league."

  "Gee, I thought I'd done pretty good so far." "Did Prescott tell you who you're dealing with?" "He hasn't had time to tell me anything," Cavanaugh lied. The transmission was weak. The shots had made his ears ring enough that he had to press the phone tighter against his ear so he could distinguish what the voice said next.

  "If you don't know anything, we can cut you some slack. Give him to us, and we'll let you go."

  "Say it again, this time as if you mean it." The voice sounded weary. "You'd be dead now if you hadn't been near Prescott. This has to be the only time the guy we were after was a shield for his bodyguard." "Protector." "What?"

  "I'm not a bodyguard."

  "Whatever." The voice became harsher. "The next time I see you, you'd better pray you're close to Prescott. Otherwise, I'll put a bullet through your head. Does that sound like I mean it?" "Is that the reason you phoned? To make cheap threats?" The voice became silent.

  Cavanaugh suddenly understood what was going on. "Lots of cheese, right?" "What?"

  "Your pizza will be ready in fifteen minutes." Cavanaugh risked taking his eyes off the road long enough to press the disconnect button.

  A pickup truck loaded with junk drove past him. He lowered his window and tossed the phone into the back of the truck.

  "What are you doing?" Prescott asked.

  "Escobar's men didn't call just for the hell of it. They want to make certain we're with the phone."

  "But why would—"

  "The phone must have some kind of location transmitter in it. They'll follow it, hoping it leads them to us. Now it'll take them nowhere. For all I know, this car has a location transmitter also, but right now, there's nothing I can do about that."

  "Why didn't you kill this car's driver?" Prescott asked.

  "What?" Cavanaugh frowned at the unexpected question.

  "Back at the mall, you took a chance when you told him to run. He might have reached for his weapon," Prescott said.

  "A dead man in the car would have slowed us. I'd have had to pull him from behind the steering wheel. The other men might have found us before we could drive away."

  "Would you have killed him if he hadn't been in the car?" Prescott asked.

  "If he gave me a reason. Otherwise . . . I'm a protector, not a killer."

  The rain lessened.

  Cavanaugh took his phone from his jacket and pressed the recall button.

  "Global Protective Services." Duncan's voice was tense.

  The phone remained in scrambler mode. "I had to switch cars. We're in a black Pontiac."

  "Can you make it to the Holiday Inn near the airport? I'm here with some of your friends."

  "Good," Cavanaugh said. "I can always use friends."

  * * *

  PART TWO

  Threat Avoidance

  * * *

  1

  The rain had lessened to a drizzle by the time Cavanaugh, following Duncan's instructions, reached the Holiday Inn on Route 17, a half mile from Teterboro Airport. Duncan waited under the carport at the motel's entrance. He wore a raincoat and hat. His hands were in the coat's pockets, one of them, no doubt, holding a pistol. His trim mustache emphasized how pinched his lips were. With his straight military posture and intense eyes, he exuded a focus that made Cavanaugh pleased to rely on him.

  The moment Cavanaugh drove under the carport and stopped next to Duncan, a gray van suddenly appeared behind them.

  Prescott flinched. "They caught us."

  "No," Cavanaugh said. "It's fine."

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw two men and a woman, all three familiar to him, all wearing rain slickers, step from the van. They kept their hands beneath the slickers, presumably on weapons, while they scanned the area around them, paying particular attention to the highway beyond the parking lot. Five seconds later, everything looking satisfactory, one of the men approached Cavanaugh's side of the car.

  With that all-clear sign, Cavanaugh pressed the car's unlock button.

  Instantly, Duncan opened the passenger door and looked in. "Mr. Prescott?"

  Prescott looked dumbfounded.

  "
I'm Duncan Wentworth. Global Protective Services. We spoke on the phone. Come with me, please."

  Before Prescott seemed aware of it, Duncan had guided him from the car. Meanwhile, the woman and the remaining man flanked Prescott, Duncan leading the way, escorting him to the van.

  Cavanaugh got out of the car.

  "How ya doing?" The trim man who waited on the driver's side chewed gum.

  "Better than I was a half hour ago."

  "You can relax now. Leave the show to us."

  "Looking forward to it. The car might have a location transmitter."

  "By the time they find it, it'll be far from the airport. They'll never suspect how you got away."

  "The pistol on the seat belongs to the assault team." Cavanaugh pulled the .45 from under his belt. "This belongs to Prescott. I have no idea where else it's been."

  The man, whose name was Eddie, nodded. The rule was, you never kept a weapon whose history you didn't know. If you were caught with it, ballistics might prove that the weapon had been used in various shootings. The police would have every reason to believe you were implicated in them.

  "These pieces'll soon be in pieces in a sewer," Eddie said.

  Amused by the pun, Cavanaugh stepped aside and let Eddie get behind the steering wheel. "They all wore gloves."

  Eddie tightened his own gloves. "No way to use fingerprints to identify them. So it won't matter if I wipe down your prints."

  "The only places we touched are in the front seat."

  "Makes it easier. Ciao."

  As the black car drove from the hotel's carport into the drizzle, Cavanaugh got into the van and closed the hatch.

  "Hey, Cavanaugh." The driver, who was Hispanic, put the vehicle into gear and proceeded from the carport. The drizzle made a hissing sound on the roof.

  "Hey, Roberto." Cavanaugh knew the goateed man only by his first name and assumed it was an alias. "How are the tropical fish?"

  "They ate each other. I'm getting a better hobby."

  "What kind?"

  "Model airplanes. The kind with a motor, so the planes can actually fly. I'm gonna rig them so they have aerial dogfights and shoot at each other and stuff."