The rattle of the M-16s sounded hollow beneath the surface. Keeping a tight grip on his weapon, Braddock fought against the weight of his pack and struggled upward. As he broke into the air, desperate to breathe, the multiple gunfire suddenly became loud enough to make his ears ring. Smoke and the smell of cordite swirled around him.
Muzzle flashes blinding him, he shouted, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" He barely recognized his voice, so severely had fear seized his throat, making his normally husky tone a shriek.
A bullet struck his left shoulder, slamming him backward into the water. Fangs seemed to pierce his neck. No! The swamp is my friend! The alligators, the—
When he scrambled upward again, resurfacing into the panic of screams and gunfire, a bullet blew the back of his head away.
* * *
PART ONE
Threat Assessment
* * *
1
Shoes and watches. Cavanaugh had learned a long time ago that one of the secrets of being a capable protective agent was to pay attention to shoes and watches. Loafers, for example. Somebody wearing them was unlikely to be a trained kidnapper or assassin because an experienced runner-and-gunner knew how easy it was to lose loafers in a chase or a fight. Only boots or lace-up shoes were acceptable. Thin soles were a further indication that someone was unlikely to be a serious threat, thick soles being mandatory in a fight. Of course, somebody wearing loafers or thin-soled shoes could still be a threat, but at least Cavanaugh would know he was dealing with an amateur.
Similarly, watches told Cavanaugh a lot. Many operators trained in the 1970s and '80s wore either Rolex diver's watches or Rolex pilot's watches. The rationale was twofold. First, those watches had a reputation for functioning under rugged conditions, an essential requirement for a runner-and-gunner. Second, in an emergency, a Rolex became portable wealth, easily sold for cash.
Not that everyone wearing a Rolex aroused Cavanaugh's suspicions. They had to be in their forties or older, fitting the age profile of someone who'd been trained during the seventies and eighties. Also, operators from that era tended to prefer sneakers, jeans, T-shirts, and windbreakers (often leather) for their casual street clothes. The windbreaker would be loose, capable of concealing a handgun. To the untutored eye, someone who fit that description wouldn't seem unusual, but to Cavanaugh, that person caused concern.
Operators trained in the 1990s and afterward had a different profile. They were younger, of course, and the watch they preferred was cheap and anonymous but capable of taking a beating, the sort of rubber-coated diver's watch that had a timer function and could be bought in any decent sporting-goods store. They preferred hiking boots (tough, thick soles), loose-fitting camping pants with baggy pockets (to conceal a weapon), a loose pullover (to conceal a weapon), and a fanny pack (to conceal a weapon). Given the poor fashion sense of most people on the street, anyone who matched this profile didn't stand out, except to a protective agent like Cavanaugh, who instantly placed them under suspicion.
Watches. So much could be revealed by them. Cavanaugh had once been on a protective detail in Istanbul. His assignment had been to help provide security for an American billionaire who had gone to Istanbul to negotiate a corporate merger, despite threats against the man's life because of his much-publicized financial support of Israel. Before the billionaire's jet arrived at Istanbul's airport, Cavanaugh had checked the busy concourse and the area outside. The variety of clothes that the crowd wore—traditional Arab robes as well as numerous types of Western dress— made it hard to find a telltale common denominator. But watches, Cavanaugh knew, seldom lied. When he noticed half a dozen men in their thirties who wore dissimilar but baggy clothes, who appeared not to have anything to do with one another but who all had similar thick-soled shoes and the same type of sturdy black rubber-coated athlete's watch, alarms went off inside him, warning him that he had to find another way to get his client out of the airport.
It wasn't something Cavanaugh did consciously. It was his reflexive way of seeing the world, much as the legendary security expert Col. Jeff Cooper advised everyone to maintain a state of vigilance that Cooper called "Condition Yellow" (White being the average person's lack of awareness, Orange being intense alertness in response to danger, and Red being a fight for one's life).
In Condition Yellow, then, observing shoes, watches, and other indicators, Cavanaugh got out of a taxi at Columbus Circle and walked into Central Park. The time was around two in the afternoon. The route he took through the trees avoided paths and was intended to let him know if he was being followed. He exited at West Seventieth Street and crisscrossed blocks at random, heading south, eventually climbing the steps from Columbus Avenue and starting across the huge open area in front of Lincoln Center.
One benefit of this cautious frame of mind was that it kept him solidly in the moment, appreciative of each second, not only aware of the crowd that was typically in front of Lincoln Center but also aware of the unusually clear sky, of the pleasant feel of the sun on this splendid May afternoon. He crossed to the famous fountain, sat with his back to it, and considered what was going on around him. Two young men threw a Frisbee back and forth. Students, presumably from nearby Juilliard, sat on benches, reading textbooks. Busy-looking people crossed back and forth from the various buildings. Couples chatted. Turning, Cavanaugh saw a businessman sitting behind him on the edge of the fountain. The man had a briefcase in his lap and glanced at his watch.
Out of habit, Cavanaugh shifted so he could pay closer attention. The man was in his thirties, of medium height and weight, with short dark hair. Any number of businessmen fit that profile. His black suit looked expensive and fit him perfectly. No place to hide a weapon. The man's black briefcase also looked expensive and was shiny enough to be brand-new. When the man crossed his legs, Cavanaugh was able to study one of his shoes. A sturdy black Oxford, so new that the sole was barely scraped. And as for the watch . . .
Cavanaugh didn't mind that it was one of those shiny types with all sorts of dials and buttons. True, a certain level of businessman preferred to be unostentatious, but others liked to indulge themselves with gadgets, and a watch capable of being a tinier while it also indicated the hour, minute, and second in two different time zones could be amusing for a certain type of mind. No, what bothered Cavanaugh was that the watch was so thick, the shirtsleeve around it had to be unbuttoned, looking sloppy in contrast to the man's otherwise-impeccable appearance.
The man checked his watch again, then directed his attention to the left, toward the entrance to Avery Fisher Hall, one of the buildings in the complex.
At that moment, Cavanaugh sensed someone coming toward him and peered up at a tall, slender man who had a slight mustache and a wide-brimmed hat that Cavanaugh knew hid thinning gray hair. Although the man was in his fifties, he exuded the wiry strength of someone much younger. His shoes were so polished that they reflected the movement of people walking past. His gray pinstriped suit gave the impression of a uniform. His white shirt was heavily starched. The only colors were the red and blue of his tie, which didn't relieve his pallor.
"Duncan." Cavanaugh smiled and shook hands with him. "You look pasty. You need to get outside more."
"Bad for my health." The brim of Duncan's hat cast his face in shadow. His last name was Wentworth, and because he'd spent much of his life outdoors as a member of Special Forces and later as the head instructor for Delta Force, he'd had three operations for serious skin cancer. "You're far too tan. Put on more sunblock."
"Yeah, the ozone layer's getting thinner. One more thing to worry about." Cavanaugh glanced again toward the man in the black suit sitting behind him on the edge of the fountain. "Anyway, it's too nice a day to be indoors. I figured since you were supervising the new security arrangements at Lincoln Center, we could meet here instead of at your office." He referred to the Madison Avenue headquarters for Global Protective Services, a security agency Duncan had established when he'd left Delta Force. After only five year
s, the agency had branches in London, Paris, Rome, and Hong Kong, with another soon to open in Tokyo. Its reputation had spread because of the quality of the protective agents Duncan hired, all of them having been special-operations personnel, many of them Duncan's former students.
"How are your injuries?" Duncan asked.
"Healed."
"The ambassador sends his regards."
"He's very lucky."
"Yes. To have had somebody as good as you running interference for him."
Cavanaugh couldn't resist grinning. "Anytime you start buttering me up, it means you want something."
Duncan gave him a "guilty as charged" look. "Do you think you're ready to go back to work?"
Taking another glance over his shoulder, Cavanaugh noticed that the man in the black suit looked more intense as he checked his watch yet again and continued staring toward Avery Fisher Hall. The open cuff around the thick watch became more bothersome.
At once, the man saw something that made him sit rigidly. With the briefcase on his lap, he placed his hands on the buttons that would open it.
"Excuse me a minute," Cavanaugh said to Duncan. He stood and rounded the fountain, following the man's gaze toward Avery Fisher Hall and a red-haired woman who had just stepped out. In her thirties, well dressed and pleasant-looking, she was with a man, whom she gave a "see you later" kiss on the cheek. Then she started across the open area. In ten seconds, she would pass through the crowd and be close to where the man in the black suit sat staring at her.
Cavanaugh came up on his blind side as the man opened the briefcase just enough to reach inside it.
The woman came closer and glanced in the man's direction, amazing Cavanaugh, inasmuch as most people never noticed anything around them. She froze as the man dropped the briefcase, revealing a pistol in his hand.
Several things happened almost at once. The woman screamed, the man moved toward her, and Cavanaugh darted behind him, shoving his arm into the air. He wrenched the pistol from the man's hand, dragged him backward, tipped him into the fountain, and pressed his head underwater.
Duncan came over to him. "Yes, you're certainly feeling better."
"Are you just going to stand there enjoying yourself, or would you mind calling a cop?"
Duncan pulled out a cell phone. "Don't you think you should let him breathe?"
"Not really, but I guess we'll never hear his story otherwise."
"She told him she wanted a divorce—something like that— and he couldn't take the rejection, of course," Duncan said.
"Of course. But I want to know why he dressed up. He doesn't normally wear a suit. You can tell, because his watch is too big for the cuff on a dress shirt."
"If you don't let him breathe pretty soon, you'll never know."
"Spoilsport." Cavanaugh pulled the man's face from the water, watched him splutter, and demanded to know about the suit.
With a little more submersion, the man was persuaded to explain. After shooting his wife, who had indeed asked for a divorce and who'd been going to meet him at her lawyer's office, he had planned to shoot himself. The black suit, like the shoes, was new. He had left instructions that they were to be his burial clothes.
"Just when you think you've heard everything," Cavanaugh said.
But there was more. The man had kept checking his watch because he'd known when to expect his wife to leave work and go to her appointment with her attorney. One of the three dials on his watch indicated the current time. Another dial showed the amount of time that had elapsed since she'd told him she wanted a divorce; a third counted down the remaining seconds that she'd had to live.
Cavanaugh shoved the man's head underwater again.
"So what do you think?" Duncan asked.
"About?"
"Are you ready for another assignment?"
* * *
2
The Warwick Hotel had recently been renovated, but its marble and dark wood lobby still evoked the tradition and character of a Manhattan landmark. Cavanaugh turned left and entered the hotel's quiet bar, where an attractive woman with green eyes and an intriguing expression sat at a corner table. He approved of her choice of location—her back to an inside wall, away from the bar's numerous windows—although if he'd believed she was in any danger, he wouldn't have let her appear in public in the first place.
Her name was Jamie Travers, and until recently, she had lived in seclusion with him at his ranch in the mountains near Jackson Hole, Wyoming, from where he had periodically set out on security assignments, taking care that her weapons training was up-to-date and that colleagues in need of R and R were there to watch over her when he had to go away. Two years earlier, she had testified about a gangland killing she'd witnessed. The mob boss who'd gone to prison had put out a contract against her. Twice, despite police protection, she'd nearly been killed, prompting Cavanaugh, who admired her determination, to step in and arrange for her to disappear. The contract had finally ended when the man who'd ordered it choked to death while eating spaghetti and meatballs in a federal prison. Despite the seeming innocence of the mob boss's death, Jamie had been convinced that Cavanaugh had had something to do with it, but he continued to deny any involvement, even though he had once told her that the only way to stop the mob boss from being a threat was to kill him. "Kismet" was all Cavanaugh would say about the supposed accident. Shortly afterward, they had married. Now they continued to base their lives in Wyoming, but for its beauty, not its seclusion.
Shoulder-long glossy brunette hair made the beige pantsuit and the emerald blouse she wore perfect choices. Admiring his wife, he moved a chair so that he could sit in the corner with her. The location allowed him to survey both entrances to the room as well as the pedestrians passing the windows along Fifty-fourth Street and the Avenue of the Americas.
"What are you drinking?" he asked.
'Perrier and lime."
He tasted it, savoring the lime. "How was your afternoon? Enjoying being a tourist?"
"Love it. I haven't been to the Museum of Modern Art in so long. It was like seeing an old friend. And how was your afternoon?"
He told her.
"You accepted another assignment?" Jamie looked surprised.
"We planned to fly home the day after tomorrow, so this won't interfere with much, especially since you're seeing your mother again tomorrow. I didn't think you'd mind going home ahead of me. I'll join you in a week."
"But you're barely healed from the last job you did."
"This one's easy."
"That's what you said the last time."
"And the money's good."
"I've got more than enough money for both of us," Jamie said.
Cavanaugh nodded. His protective agent's income allowed them to stay at the Warwick, which was comfortable without being palatial. But if they'd used Jamie's money, which came from the sale of a promising dot-corn company she'd founded during the Internet frenzy of the 1990s, they'd have stayed in a master suite at the Plaza or, at the very least, the St. Regis.
"Why don't you let me take care of you?" she asked.
"Foolish male pride."
"You said it. I didn't."
He shrugged. "People need protecting."
"And that's what you do. I shouldn't have bothered asking." She hooked an arm around one of his. "So what makes this job easy?"
"The client doesn't want anybody to shield him."
"Oh?" Jamie looked surprised again. "What does he want?"
"The same as you did. To disappear."
* * *
3
Cavanaugh got out of the car, a two-year-old Ford Taurus that Global Protective Services had supplied. Apart from its special modifications, including a race-car engine and a suspension to match, it had been chosen because its dusty gray color and ubiquitous design made it so nondescript, it was almost invisible among other sedans. Sunday afternoon, however, it was the only vehicle in this abandoned industrial area of Newark, New Jersey. He scanned the graffit
i-covered warehouse: a sprawling three-story structure that had most of its windows smashed. Rust-streaked doors hung open, revealing what at first appeared to be garbage but turned out to be a city of homeless people. As far as was visible into the building, battered cardboard boxes provided shelter. Black plastic bags held whatever possessions the inhabitants treasured.
Dark clouds cast a cold shadow. On the river behind the warehouse, boat engines droned. A tug blew its horn. Thunder rumbled. Cavanaugh pressed his right elbow reassuringly against the 9-mm handgun holstered on the belt beneath his jacket. The Sig Sauer 225 held eight rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. Not a massive amount of firepower, not the sixteen rounds that a Beretta was capable of holding, but he'd found that a pistol containing that much ammunition was slightly large for his hand, affecting the accuracy of his aim, nine well-placed shots being better than sixteen that went astray because of a poor grip. Plus, as the federal air marshals had decided in the late 1980s, the Sig Sauer 225's lighter weight and thin, compact design made it an ideal concealed carry weapon. But just in case, he had two other eight-round magazines in a pouch on the left side of his belt, beneath his jacket.
A chill wind strengthened, redolent of approaching rain. At the gaping entrances to the warehouse, a few grizzled faces squinted out.
Cavanaugh took his cell phone from his jacket and pressed the "good for today only" numbers Duncan had given to him.
As the phone rang on the other end, more grizzled faces appeared, some apprehensive, others assessing.
On the other end, the phone rang a second time.
"Yes?" a man's trembly voice asked, sounding like he was in an echo chamber.
Cavanaugh supplied his half of the recognition sequence. "I didn't realize the warehouse was closed."