"Kline said there was a neutralizer. Prescott has it. I need it." Cavanaugh opened the door and went into the living room, where Kline looked apprehensive. "Let's go."
"No," Rutherford said.
Cavanaugh thumbed open the Emerson knife, freed Kline from the chair, tied his wrists in front of him, and draped Kline's leather jacket over his hands. "We'll use the stairs and go out through the emergency exit. Jennifer, get the car. Meet us in back."
"I can't let you do this," Rutherford said.
"Two hours, John."
"Don't make me stop you."
"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"
Rutherford stared at him.
* * *
PART FIVE
Threat Escalation
* * *
1
While Jamie drove, Kline sat next to her. Cavanaugh was in the back, his pistol under a newspaper on his lap, ready to shoot through the rear of Kline's seat if Kline did anything to justify it.
A hundred miles west of Washington, the Virginia countryside was lush and hilly, with fewer towns and more fields and wooded areas as they went along. Occasional farmhouses, stone fences, and ponds were visible along the tree-lined two-lane road. The prevailing impression, though, was of large estates and horses grazing.
At four in the afternoon, there was little traffic. As Jamie guided the Taurus into a hollow, up a slight rise, and into another hollow, Cavanaugh asked Kline, "How far?"
"Another five minutes."
"You're certain the two men you left here to watch for me have gone?"
"You heard me phone and tell them to leave. You made it clear: You'll shoot me if you catch even a glimpse of them. I assure you, they've gone. I gave them no warning."
Jamie drove past a sign that read bailey's ridge. "Where's the town? I don't see any buildings."
"It's not a town," Kline said.
"Then what is it?"
"A site where a Civil War battle occurred."
Past the sign, a plaque showed a map and an historical note. Jamie stopped next to it.
The map was in bas-relief, dramatizing the contour of the wooded hills in the area. Arrows indicated where Union and Confederate soldiers had fought one another in a battle that had destroyed most of a farm owned by an Irish immigrant, Samuel Bailey, killing his wife and daughter. The battle had concluded when Bailey put on a fallen Union soldier's jacket, grabbed a rifle, and led a company of Northerners across a ridge above his farm, outflanking their opponents. Bailey went on to receive a field commission as a captain and to fight in numerous other battles, eventually dying from diphtheria, never again seeing his farm and the graves of his wife and daughter.
"Well, that's enough to ruin my day," Cavanaugh said.
"Mine already was ruined," Kline said. His wrists remained tied together beneath his leather jacket. "Two hollows from here, there's a lane on the right."
Jamie drove on, went up an incline, and descended into the first hollow.
"Take this lane," Cavanaugh told Jamie.
"No, that's not the one," Kline said. "I told you two hollows."
"I know what you told me," Cavanaugh said, "but we're trying this one."
Jamie pulled off the road. Flanked by dense bushes and trees, two shadowy weed-choked ruts in the dirt were blocked by a wooden gate, the white paint of which had faded to the color of dirty chalk. What attracted Cavanaugh's attention was that the weeds in the lane looked crushed, as if a vehicle had recently gone over them.
"I don't see a lock," Jamie said. After a cautious glance around, she got out of the car and unhooked a rusted chain from the gate, swinging it open. She drove through, stopped, and took another wary glance around before she returned to the gate and shut it behind her.
"It's so flimsy," Jamie said, getting back into the car, "if we have to when we come back, we can always ram through it."
"Park where the undergrowth conceals us from the road. We'll walk," Cavanaugh said.
After warning Kline to be quiet, Cavanaugh made him lead the way up a potholed lane that twisted through trees and bushes. He had his pistol out, following Kline at a careful distance.
Overhead branches shut out the sun. Then the branches opened, and the steep rise brought them to knee-high grass in a clearing where old weather-grayed picnic benches looked down on a valley half a mile wide. The area down there was completely devoted to pasture, no shade trees anywhere, which was odd if the pasture was intended for horses, Cavanaugh thought, but not odd if the trees had been leveled to create an unobstructed line of fire and to remove places in which an intruder might be able to hide.
A wooden sign attached to a post had faded yellow letters that might once have been orange: welcome to bailey's ridge.
"Looks like one of the locals tried some kind of tourist thing several years ago," Cavanaugh said.
He glanced down at indentations in the long grass, where a vehicle had recently been parked. Then he motioned for Kline to walk along a furrow in the grass toward the picnic benches. A trampled area around one of the benches attracted his attention, as did cigarette butts, the paper of which looked fresh.
"This was where your men watched for me, right?" Cavanaugh asked. He peered down at the paved road that went through the pasture. "From here, they could see pretty much everything that happened down there. Yesterday, what made you think I'd use the next lane?"
"It's the only area where the trees have been cut back from the road. Until a month ago, a chain-link fence used to be there. The dirt was disturbed when they ripped the poles out. The sanitiz-ers tried to smooth the dirt and put in bushes, but it's obvious the landscape's been changed. Every other lane that seems to go nowhere is made of dirt and has weeds and potholes. That lane's as smooth and weed-free as can be. Beyond the trees, it becomes paved."
"How did Prescott and his controllers get permission to block off a historic site?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Prescott didn't need permission. This property's historic, but it isn't owned by the government. It's his."
"Is it safe to go down there?"
"Nobody's around. The lab was abandoned as soon as the project was terminated."
"But where's the lab?"
Kline pointed toward the valley.
"I don't see anything except a burned-out farmhouse," Cavanaugh said.
* * *
2
"The first time Bailey's farmhouse was destroyed was in 1864," Kline explained as they drove along the road through the pasture, approaching the burned structure. "After your Civil War, the new owner—an industrialist who'd made a fortune selling munitions to the government—bought most of the land around here and had a mansion built where Bailey's house had stood. The original cellar was incorporated into the design. Stones from the original house were used in the walls."
"You should have been a historian."
"My father was." Kline's voice was filled with regret.
They reached the scorched, collapsed building and got out of the Taurus.
Despite the devastation of the burned timbers and the blackened stones from the fallen walls, Cavanaugh was able to get an idea of how impressive the mansion had been in its heyday. He imagined pillars and two long porches, one above the other, people standing on them, waving, as horse-drawn carriages brought brightly dressed visitors. "It's a shame Prescott's controllers had to destroy it."
"They didn't destroy it," Kline said. "Prescott did."
Cavanaugh and Jamie looked at him.
"Prescott's controllers confined him to the mansion when they terminated his project," Kline said. "A man doesn't devote himself to researching fear unless he identifies with it. If he's paranoid, he's going to become more so when he sees signs all around him that people consider him a liability."
"Fear's his primary emotion," Cavanaugh agreed. And now, thanks to him, it's mine, he added silently.
"To protect himself, Prescott did something his controllers could never have anticipated, given how proud he was of t
his property," Kline said. "One night when his fear became especially intense and he was certain he was about to be killed, he burned the mansion down. Because he looked so heavy and out of shape, his controllers had misjudged him, putting a few guards on him, while the majority were devoted to keeping intruders such as myself off the property. In the confusion caused by the flames, he was able to slip away into the darkness. The fire was only half of his tactic, however. He also released the hormone as the mansion burned. Under its influence, the guards panicked and shot at what they thought were attackers coming through the flickering shadows. Several got killed by their own men—another mess that had to be cleaned up. The shots brought the guards from the perimeter. Meanwhile, Prescott stole one of their vehicles and smashed through a fence at the back of the property. He abandoned the vehicle in a nearby town, where he had a car stored in a garage that he'd rented under another name."
"Just goes to show—paranoia's a survival trait," Jamie said.
"Where's Prescott's lab?" Cavanaugh asked.
"In back," Kline said.
They rounded the jumble of scorched timbers and stones and approached a similar ruin, but this one looked as if it had been a barn.
"The fire Prescott set didn't spread this far," Kline said. "A few days later, his controllers were responsible for this one. It was part of their sanitizing. An efficient way to get the job done."
"The lab's underground?"
"Under the barn." Kline pointed toward where blackened wreckage had been moved to form a path across the barn's concrete floor. He indicated a hatchlike slab. "That's the entrance."
"You and your men cleared this? Weren't you afraid of being caught?"
"By whom? I told you the property had been abandoned. There's no reason to guard this place. There's nothing here for Prescott's controllers to worry about."
Kline suddenly groaned. As Cavanaugh gaped, Jamie screamed, seeing blood fly from Kline's forehead. A faraway shot echoing, Kline toppled face-forward into the dirt.
It happened so suddenly and so unexpectedly that Cavanaugh was momentarily controlled only by his startle reflex. Until now, after the tension of what had happened in Rutherford's condo, he had managed to keep his nervousness at bay. This was supposed to have been a fact-finding mission, not a confrontation. Now the unaccustomed fear that Prescott's hormone had created in him and that he had struggled to subdue took possession of him again. But his fear for Jamie was even greater. His muscles responding like tightly wound springs abruptly released, he dove toward her, pushing her down with him next to the barn's wreckage.
A bullet kicked up dirt beyond their heads, but this time, the shot was close and loud, almost simultaneous with the bullet's impact.
A second shot tore up dirt near their feet. Cavanaugh felt the sharp vibration through the ground.
At the mansion, charred boards scraped against each other, shifting, creating gaps. Blackened rocks toppled. The ruin had seemingly come to life, portions of it able to move, assuming independent shapes. One by one, black-clad figures rose from ashes, soot, and grime, their faces streaked with carbon. They aimed assault weapons.
One of the camouflaged men fired a burst at the ground next to Jamie. Dust flew. The ground shook. The roar was overwhelming.
Then the shooting stopped, and in the sudden silence, which was broken only by the ringing in Cavanaugh's ears, he managed to control his trembling arms and raise them in surrender.
Pale, breathing rapidly, Jamie imitated him.
Slowly, unsteadily, they came to their feet.
"If they wanted us dead"—his mouth dry, his words like paste, Cavanaugh murmured, doing his best to assure her— "they'd have shot us by now." He hoped he was convincing, that his voice didn't sound hollow. Heat seared his stomach.
Stepping from the mansion's ruin, the dark camouflaged figures continued to aim their weapons, which Cavanaugh recognized now as MP-5 submachine guns. Like the men who'd rappelled from the helicopters the night of the attack on the bunker, these men obviously had special-operations training. One of them stared past Cavanaugh prompting Cavanaugh to glance apprehensively in that direction.
From the woods at the back of the valley, the speck of a vehicle emerged. As it sped closer, crossing a field, it threw up dust. Then it reached the paved road, the dust drifting in the breeze, and even with the ringing in his ears, Cavanaugh could hear its engine getting louder. The vehicle was now close enough for Cavanaugh to recognize it as a big four-wheel-drive SUV, a Ford Explorer. With the sun angled in its direction, he saw the shapes of two people beyond the windshield: a broad-shouldered driver and a tall blond woman in her thirties, whose oval face and high cheekbones might have been attractive if her eyes hadn't been the coldest he'd ever seen.
As the Explorer skidded to a halt, the woman got out. She was around five ten, the same as Jamie. Her face had an athlete's tan and no makeup. Her hair was like an athlete's also, too short to be combed back. Her eyes were the blue of a glacier. She wore sturdy walking shoes, khaki pants, a matching jacket, and a beige shirt that gave her a military appearance.
While the camouflaged figures approached with their weapons, the woman told her driver, who was built like a weight lifter, "Search them."
The muscular man enjoyed his work, prodding Cavanaugh more forcefully than necessary, then pawing Jamie.
You'll pay for that, Cavanaugh thought, trying to use anger to balance his fear.
The driver found their pistols under their jackets and nodded at their nonreflective flat-black coating, evidence of the expert gunsmith work that had been done on them. The way he put them into his baggy hiking pants, it was obvious he intended to keep them as his own. He took their extra magazines and Ca-vanaugh's cell phone. He undipped the Emerson knife from the inside of Cavanaugh's front pants pocket, approved of that weapon also, and clipped it into his own pocket. He also took Jamie's car keys.
"Your names," the woman said.
"Sam Murdock." Cavanaugh gave her the name on the ID Karen had manufactured for him.
"Jennifer," Jamie said, using the false name Cavanaugh had assigned her at Rutherford's condo. Her ID was with her purse, which she'd left under the Taurus's front seat.
"Sam Murdock?" The woman studied the wallet the driver tossed to her. "That might be what it says here, but your professional name is Cavanaugh."
"I don't know what—"
"You're with Global Protective Services. You're the one who went to the warehouse to get Prescott."
So Kline was right, Cavanaugh thought. Somebody at Protective Services betrayed me. I was followed to the warehouse.
"Prescott?" Cavanaugh frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The woman nodded to her driver, who plunged a fist into Cavanaugh's stomach.
Gasping, Cavanaugh sank to his knees. His breath had been so knocked out of him that his vision turned gray for a moment as he struggled to inhale.
"You came here to see the lab," the woman said. "Fine. I'll show it to you."
She took what looked like a pager from her belt and pressed a button.
Behind Cavanaugh, a motor droned. He turned in that direction. Hydraulic poles tilted the concrete slab up, revealing steps that descended into darkness.
"The shots will attract attention," Cavanaugh found enough breath to say.
"Not around here. Prescott owns most of the land. The locals have been told he enjoys target shooting. Now go down to the lab, or else Edgar will throw you," the woman said.
"I'll take the first option, thanks."
Cavanaugh managed to stand. Nodding to Jamie, who looked paler and searched his eyes for assurance, he went down the steps with her.
"We stripped this place clean," the woman said, voice echoing. "Totally gutted it."
The armed men removed Surefire flashlights from their equipment belts. A little longer and thicker than a heavyweight boxer's index finger, the compact black tubes gave off an amazing amount of light for their size, revealing a long concre
te corridor that had numerous openings on each side. The air was stale.
"We destroyed all the scientific equipment, the computers, and the files," the woman said. "We carted away the furniture. We disassembled the heating and air-conditioning systems. We even removed the lighting fixtures, the sinks and toilets, the carpeting, the false ceilings, the doors, and the wall panels." Taking a flashlight from one of the men, the woman aimed it at the ceiling, where insulated wires dangled from holes in which fluorescent lamps had presumably once been anchored. She pointed the flashlight in a different direction and showed wires projecting from small rectangular holes in the wall where light switches had been. "It doesn't get cleaner than this. No one could possibly guess what these rooms were used for. Hell, if the barn was still standing, you could put hay or animals down here."
"Then why would you care if anybody wandered onto the property?" Cavanaugh's voice reverberated. "There's nothing here to bother anybody and get you in trouble."
"That's exactly right. There's nothing here but bare rooms. I'm not sure you get the point," the woman said.
The armed men stepped closer, aiming the flashlights at Cavanaugh's and Jamie's eyes, backing them into the room.
"We're not here protecting anything. My men haven't been lying motionless under that rubble merely to demonstrate their skill and patience. We've been waiting."
Cavanaugh didn't react.
"But not just for anybody."
Cavanaugh still didn't react.
"For you."
* * *
3
Now Cavanaugh did react, but not in a way that the woman expected. Relying on his training, he said, "I need to know your name."
"What?"
"If we're going to reach an understanding, it helps me to know your name. To relate. To build a position of trust."
"Amazing," the woman replied.
"In that case, I bet I can guess your last name: Grace."
The Protector Page 22