Sick, he opened the left rear door, rounded the back of the car, opened the right rear door, and then came forward to open the passenger door. Again he stood next to the headlights, hoping that instead of revealing him, they gave him cover.
But he suspected that his worst fears were about to come true, that the plan wasn't going to work.
Please, God, help me get Jamie back, he thought.
At once, Grace said something that changed everything and gave him hope. "Where's Prescott?"
Why would she say that? Cavanaugh wondered. With all the doors open, Prescott would be visible to someone on the side. A sniper, seeing the car's interior, would use a walkie-talkie or similar two-way radio setup to tell Grace that Cavanaugh hadn't brought help.
"He's half-unconscious on the front seat." The bit about opening the doors was a bluff, Cavanaugh realized, his pulse speeding with hope. She wants me to think there's a sniper in the trees. But there isn't. Otherwise, Grace would have been told where Prescott was and that he was the only person in the car.
"Drag the bastard out."
"Not until I see my wife."
Looking impatient, Grace raised a hand from one of her crutches and motioned to someone hidden among the collapsed walls of the chapel.
Two figures rose and emerged into the headlights. One shoved the other. The one doing the shoving was a solidly built woman. Except that her short hair was dark in contrast with Grace's blond hair, she and Grace looked remarkably similar in height and physique, perhaps because they had both belonged to the same female special-ops training group that Prescott had referred to.
The person being shoved was Jamie. Her hands were tied in front of her. She lurched forward, stooped, as if in pain. When she looked up, Cavanaugh saw blood on her face. Anger made his muscles feel on fire. He wanted to scream.
"Drag Prescott out," Grace said.
Cavanaugh went to the passenger door and made sure that Prescott had followed orders—the metal tube remained on the seat. When he hauled Prescott from the car, Prescott landed so hard, he moaned.
With equal force, Cavanaugh tugged him around to the front of the car. In the headlights, in full view of Grace and the woman pushing Jamie, Cavanaugh kicked him several times in the side, feeling his shoe collide with the bullet-resistant vest under Prescott's shirt. While the vest protected his vital organs, Prescott would nonetheless have felt the shock of the impact. Again Prescott groaned. He rolled with the fourth kick and came to a stop, clutching himself.
"On your feet," Cavanaugh said. "There's no way I'm dragging you all the way over there."
Cavanaugh undipped the Emerson knife from the inside of his pants' pocket, thumbed the blade open, and slashed the duct tape around Prescott's ankles, freeing it. The moment he folded the blade and reclipped the knife inside his pocket, he yanked Prescott upward. Prescott's head jerked from the force with which he was raised. Cavanaugh stood behind him, holding his shoulders, trying to steady him as Prescott listed to one side and then the other.
"You want him, you got him," Cavanaugh told Grace.
"What do you think you're doing?" Grace demanded. "That's not Prescott."
"The hell he isn't."
"Prescott doesn't look like—"
"He lost weight as part of his disguise. I'll prove it's him. Hey, jerkoff, say something to her."
Prescott kept swaying.
Cavanaugh drove a kidney punch into the back of Prescott's bullet-resistant vest. To save his knuckles, he held back the force of the impact at the last second, when Grace wouldn't be able to see the blow.
Prescott groaned and bent forward.
"I told you to say something to her!"
"Uh ..." Seeming in pain, Prescott raised his head. "How's it..." He coughed, as if something inside him were broken. "How's it going, Al?"
"It is him." Grace said. "Jesus, look at his face. What did you do to him?"
"Gave him some payback for what he did to my friends. Now it's your turn to give him some payback. Let my wife go. I'll let Prescott go."
Balanced on her crutches, Grace looked at her companion and nodded.
The companion pushed Jamie past the car. Silhouetted by the headlights, Jamie stumbled forward.
"Your turn," Grace said.
Cavanaugh shoved Prescott ahead. As if he were a marionette being manipulated by the strings of a spastic puppeteer, Prescott listed this way and that, his legs barely able to support him.
"Jamie, just a little farther." Cavanaugh watched her stagger toward him. "You're going to be fine. All you have to do is reach me."
Meanwhile, Prescott wavered toward Jamie and her companion.
Abruptly, he collapsed to his knees.
Cavanaugh went to him and yanked him to his feet. "Keep moving, damn it. People are expecting you. I've got better things to do than hang around, waiting for you to put one foot in front of the other."
Again, he shoved Prescott, who seemed even more controlled by a spastic puppeteer.
As Prescott tottered nearer to Grace and her companion, they seemed appalled by his grotesque appearance.
Jamie stumbled closer, her green eyes now distinct in the headlights.
For a second time, Prescott halted, about to collapse.
"Move!" Cavanaugh went to him, once more shoving him. They were now midway between the cars.
As Prescott reeled forward, Jamie and Prescott passed each other. Lips bleeding, she looked horrified by the damage that had apparently been done to Prescott's features.
Almost over, almost free, Cavanaugh thought, praying. For all he knew, Grace would shoot at him now that he seemed preoccupied with Jamie. Everything depended on the next few seconds.
"Let's go home," he told Jamie. About to put an arm around her, he motioned for her to keep moving toward the car.
But activity beyond Prescott caught Cavanaugh's attention. Balancing on one crutch, Grace raised the other crutch to strike Prescott across the face as he lurched in her direction. Meanwhile, Grace's companion aimed a handgun at Prescott.
I gave my word, Cavanaugh thought.
As Grace swung the crutch, Prescott fell to avoid the blow. The crutch whistled over his head. He hit the ground, his hands out of sight beneath him.
Now he's snapping the duct tape, grabbing the pistol under his jacket, Cavanaugh thought.
Grace balanced herself to swing the crutch again.
The moment Prescott rolled to get away from it, his movement much quicker than his presumed dazed condition would have allowed, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.
Three shots from three different weapons were so near in time, they were almost indistinguishable as Grace's companion shot Prescott in the chest. Shuddering, Prescott shot Grace in the head while the crutch hurtled toward him, whacking the ground beside him. Cavanaugh heard screaming as his bullet hit Grace's companion in the chest, jolting her backward. A fourth shot, this one again from Prescott, stopped the screaming when the bullet hit the woman's face and dropped her.
The smell of cordite hung in the air, wisps of it floating in the headlights.
Ears ringings, nerves on fire, Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, relieved to see that she'd dropped to the ground the moment the shooting started. "Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He spun toward Prescott. "Are you okay?"
Lying on the ground, needing to catch his breath from the bullet's impact against the Kevlar vest, Prescott didn't answer right away. Presumably, he also needed to adjust to the realization that the crisis was over, that he didn't have to continue to be terrified. "Yes."
"I kept my word," Cavanaugh said. "I helped you. I protected you. Because you helped me, you have nothing to fear from me. As much as I hate you, I'll never come after you again."
Prescott nodded, continuing to lie on the ground and catch his breath.
"If you didn't remember to wipe your fingerprints from the cartridges before you loaded them, find the empty
shell casings and take them with you," Cavanaugh said.
"I remembered."
"Use Grace's car to get away from here. When you abandon it, remember to wipe your prints from everything you touch."
"I won't forget."
"Then our business is finished."
Facing Prescott, continuing to hold his pistol, Cavanaugh backed toward Jamie, helped her to stand, and continued backing toward the car.
"Are you okay?" he asked her again. "Do you need a doctor?"
Prescott remained on the ground, holding himself where the bullet had struck the vest and no doubt bruised him.
From behind Cavanaugh and Jamie, the Taurus's headlights cast their silhouettes. Its engine kept idling.
"I don't think anything's broken," Jamie managed to say.
Cavanaugh reached the Taurus and guided her toward the passenger door.
Suddenly, Jamie trembled harder against him. Cavanaugh's legs felt weak. A pungent smell coming from the car filled his nostrils and sent his heart racing. His mouth became drier. His breath rate soared.
The metal tube on the seat, he realized. Prescott twisted the cap before I dragged him out of the car!
As the hormone spewed from the Taurus, Cavanaugh grabbed the tube off the seat and hurled it toward Prescott. Toward where Prescott had been. While Cavanaugh had been distracted, Prescott had scrambled out of sight.
As Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, urging her into the Taurus, a shot from the darkness slammed her against him.
"No!" The hormone crammed his lungs. Terror overwhelmed him. Unable to stop shaking, he held Jamie with one hand while he used the other to fire toward where he'd seen a muzzle flash. He thought he saw a blurred shadow ducking behind Grace's car. Exposed in the glare of its headlights, he shot at Grace's car, trembling, missing the right headlight, shooting twice more. The lamp exploded, the right side of the car going dark. But before he could shoot at the other headlight, Prescott returned fire, the bullet passing so close that it made a snapping sound over Cavanaugh's head.
Aware that the open passenger door was useless as a shield against a bullet, Cavanaugh lifted Jamie urgently into the passenger seat, appalled by the blood spreading along the right side of her chest.
A bullet punched a hole in the windshield.
Cavanaugh bent over her. The Taurus's engine now provided effective cover as he ripped her blouse open. Her lung wheezed. The pungent smell of the hormone almost made him gag as he grabbed the roll of duct tape from where Prescott had dropped it. Frantic, trembling harder, he tore off a section and pressed it over Jamie's chest, sealing the entrance wound. Her lung stopped wheezing.
He tore off a second piece and pressed it over the exit wound on her back. Flinching from several more bullets whacking through the windshield, he crawled over Jamie and slammed the passenger door. Then he hunched behind the steering wheel, yanked the Taurus into reverse, and tried to put strength into his legs, flooring the accelerator. As the tires spewed up grass and the car rocketed backward, he released the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel a quarter turn. The car pivoted 180 degrees and suddenly faced away from Prescott. Desperate, Ca-vanaugh yanked the gearshift into drive and sped away, the force of his acceleration slamming the rest of the doors.
Hunched to avoid making his silhouette a target, he was so busy concentrating on his driving that he could barely fumble for the buttons that lowered the windows. He managed to get some of them down a few inches, starting to clear the air, when a bullet blew a hole in the rear windshield. As glass flew, he hunched farther down, shaking as if he had a fever. Then Prescott lowered his aim, his bullets hitting the trunk. Obviously, he hoped that they would plow through both seats and strike Cavanaugh. Instead, they walloped against the sheet of steel that Cavanaugh had installed against the back of the trunk.
Speeding toward the dark trees at the end of the meadow, Cavanaugh felt no confidence from knowing that Prescott had almost emptied his pistol. Prescott still had Grace's weapon and her companion's.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw the remaining headlight on Grace's car bob into motion, the Sable pursuing.
The son of a bitch, Cavanaugh thought, fumbling to secure his seat belt. I promised to protect him!
The Taurus's headlights entered the trees, revealing a sudden downward turn that Cavanaugh's impaired reflexes barely anticipated.
I gave him my word I wouldn't hurt him!
Trees scraping the car, Cavanaugh struggled with the steering wheel and entered another sudden turn. Looking in his rearview mirror again, he saw the occasional flash of a headlight through gaps in the trees. The car sped closer.
With Jamie wounded and the hormone shocking his nervous system, Cavanaugh knew that Prescott had the advantage. As if to prove the point, a sharp downward turn almost toppled Jamie off the seat. Cavanaugh had to reduce speed again so he could take his right hand off the steering wheel, grab Jamie, and secure her safety belt.
The murky trees vanished, the Taurus's headlights illuminating another meadow. In the rearview mirror, the single headlight rushed closer. Cavanaugh heard the impacts of more bullets hitting the steel plate in the trunk.
Racing across the gloomy meadow, he fumbled for the toggle switch that he'd clipped to the bottom of the dashboard. Instantly, he squinted from a glare in his rearview mirror, the fog lamps that Jamie had installed in back blazing toward Prescott's car. One-hundred-watt quartz halogens, they were tilted up to blind a pursuing driver, a candlepower of 480,000 hitting Prescott's windshield.
Cavanaugh sped farther across the meadow. Checking his rearview mirror, he saw the fog lamps gleaming so brightly toward Prescott's car that its remaining headlight wasn't visible. He imagined Prescott raising a hand to shield his eyes, reducing speed, trying to regain his sight.
I lost him, Cavanaugh thought. I need to get Jamie to a hospital.
She moaned.
Dear God, please don't let her die.
Another section of trees loomed. At once, the Taurus shook as Prescott's car slammed it from behind. The force was so great and surprising that Cavanaugh was thrust forward, jerking against his safety belt. Jamie's head jolted back and forth. No!
Instead of easing back because he couldn't see, Prescott had used the blazing fog lamps as a target. His eyes almost useless, able to see only the fog lamps at the back of the Taurus, Prescott had rushed toward them. Colliding with the back of the Taurus, he was now so close that the fog lamps reflected off the front of Prescott's car. Their light filled the inside of the Taurus, gleaming off the rearview mirror, blinding Cavanaugh.
Cavanaugh flicked up the rearview mirror, deflecting the glare. Fighting to control the steering wheel, he felt Prescott's car again strike the back of the Taurus. Prescott evidently hadn't learned anything from the chase away from the warehouse. The vehicle Cavanaugh had stolen had been struck repeatedly from behind—with little effect. Bumpers got damaged. Passengers got jolted. But the car remained capable of moving.
Again, Prescott's car struck the Taurus, its closeness neutralizing the glare of the fog lamps. Or maybe he's trying to smash the lamps, Cavanaugh thought. Needing to reduce his speed to enter the looming dark trees, Cavanaugh felt the constant pressure of Prescott's car against his and realized what Prescott was doing. Jesus, he's trying to push me so I can't control my steering. He's trying to shove me into the woods.
Despite the risk, Cavanaugh had no choice except to increase speed. While he did, the reduced glare behind him indicated that Prescott had, in fact, managed to destroy one of the fog lamps. Then Cavanaugh had time to think only about braking and steering through the trees. Skidding around the first turn, he banged a fender. A bullet blasted through a window. Others struck the steel in the trunk. Then one hit the remaining fog lamp, and the glare behind the Taurus vanished. The only illumination back there was Prescott's single headlight.
Abruptly, the trees opened, and Cavanaugh swerved to the right, entering the darkness of the Pacific Coast
Highway. His tires squealed as he pressed a trembling foot on the accelerator and sped north toward Carmel.
Jamie moaned again.
"Stay alive," he begged.
Behind him, Prescott skidded onto the narrow highway. To Cavanaugh's left, moonlight glowed off the ocean. To his right, tree-covered hills receded into the distance. No lights of cars or houses beckoned. He raced around a curve and had trouble coming out of it. The steering felt mushy, as if something was broken. Then Cavanaugh feared that the problem was his tires. If Prescott had managed to shoot one of them, it wouldn't have exploded, but it would have started leaking air, going soft.
Already, Prescott was gaining distance on him. When Cavanaugh entered another curve, the faulty steering forced him to go slower. Rushing behind him, Prescott rammed the Taurus's back end, sending a shudder through Jamie, making her gasp. Cavanaugh didn't dare think about her. All he could allow himself to focus on was trying to drive.
The mushy steering got worse. Passing the lights of houses, Cavanaugh hoped he had a chance. On a straightaway, he floored the accelerator, attempting to gain distance, but the softening tire kept the Taurus from responding.
Headlights appeared. As a minivan sped past, Prescott again rammed Cavanaugh, backed off, sped closer as if to ram him again, then veered unexpectedly into the left lane, about to come abreast of the Taurus.
No! Cavanaugh thought.
As he'd learned from Cavanaugh, Prescott tapped his right front fender against Cavanaugh's left rear fender. Aided by Cavanaugh's faulty steering, the so-called precision immobilization technique caused the Taurus to spin to the left. While Prescott's car rushed safely onward, Cavanaugh found himself gaping in the direction from which he'd just come. Headlights flashing, the Taurus hit a guardrail next to a low bridge, broke through, listed down a slope, turned onto its side, its roof, its other side, and righted itself as it dropped. Cavanaugh felt a sickening shock as the car struck water.
* * *
4
"Jamie!"
She'd been jerked against her seat when the car flipped and fell. Now she groaned beside him.
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