The Protector

  "Ten years ago," came the other half of the sequence, the voice continuing to sound unsteady. "Your name is ..."

  "Cavanaugh. And yours is ..."

  "Daniel Prescott. Daniel. Not Dan."

  This exchange, too, was part of the sequence.

  More haggard faces studied him, an army of rags trying to decide if the newcomer was an enemy, a benefactor, or a target.

  Isolated drops of rain struck the greasy pavement.

  "Global Protective Services has a reputation for being the best," the voice said. "I expected a fancier car."

  "One of the reasons we're the best is we don't attract attention to ourselves and, more important, to our clients."

  Heavier drops struck the pavement.

  "I assume you can see me," Cavanaugh said. "As you wanted, I came alone."

  "Open the car doors."

  Cavanaugh did.

  "Open the trunk."

  He did that, too. The man evidently had a vantage point that allowed him to look into the vehicle.

  The dark clouds thickened. A few more drops of rain struck around him.

  Cavanaugh heard faint echoing metallic noises on the phone. "Hello?"

  No response.

  "Hello?" he asked again.

  More faint echoing metallic noises.

  Thunder rumbled closer.

  A few derelicts stepped from the warehouse. Like the others, they were scruffy and beard-stubbled, but the desperation in their eyes contrasted with the blankness and resignation Cavanaugh sensed in the others. Crack addicts, he assumed, so overdue for a fix that they'd try taking on a stranger who was unwise enough to visit hell. "Hey, I came here to help you," he said into the phone, "not to get soaked."

  More metallic noises.

  "I think we both made a mistake." He shut the trunk and the passenger doors. About to get into the car, he heard the trembly voice say:

  "Ahead of you. On the left. You see the door?"

  "Yes."

  It was the only door still intact. Closed.

  "Come in," the unsteady voice said.

  Cavanaugh got behind the steering wheel.

  "I said, 'Come in,' " the voice insisted.

  "After 1 move the vehicle."

  He drove along the cracked concrete parking area. Near the door, he turned the car in a half circle, facing it in the direction from which he'd come, ready to leave in a hurry if he needed to.

  "Entering," he said into his phone.

  He got out of the car, locked it with his remote control, and sprinted through the drizzle. Sensing movement with his peripheral vision, he glanced to his left along the warehouse, toward where more crack addicts stepped into the increasing rain and watched him. Wary of what might be behind the door (more crack addicts?), he put his phone into his jacket and did something that he hadn't planned: drew his pistol. As he turned the knob, he noted that although the lock was coated with grit, there was a hint of shininess underneath—the lock was new. But it wasn't engaged. Pulling the heavy, creaking door open, he ducked inside.

  * * *

  4

  As swiftly as the door's protesting hinges allowed, Cavanaugh closed it. No longer a silhouette, he shifted toward the deepest shadows and took account of where he was. At the bottom of a dusty concrete stairwell, metal steps led up. Cobwebs dangled from the railing. On the left, a motor rumbled behind an elevator door. The place smelled of must and gave off a chill.

  Aiming his pistol toward the stairs and then toward the elevator, he reached behind him to turn the latch on the sturdy lock and secure the door. But before he could touch it, the lock's bolt rammed home, triggered electronically from a distance.

  He concentrated to control his uneasiness. There wasn't any reason to suspect he was in danger. After all, Duncan had warned him that the potential client, although legitimate, had eccentricities.

  Prescott's merely being cautious, Cavanaugh tried to assure himself. Hell, if he's so nervous about his safety that he feels he needs protection, it's natural he'd make sure the door's locked. He's the one in danger, not me.

  Then why am 1 holding this gun?

  He pulled the phone from his jacket and spoke into it. "Now what?" His voice echoed.

  As if in response, the elevator opened, revealing a brightly lit compartment.

  Cavanaugh hated elevators—small sealed boxes that could easily become traps. There wasn't any way to know what might be on the other side when the door reopened.

  "Thanks," he said into the phone, "but I need some exercise. I'll take the stairs."

  As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he noticed a surveillance camera mounted discreetly under the stairs, facing the door. "I was told you wanted to disappear. It seems to me you've already done that."

  "Not enough," the unsteady voice said. This time, it came not from the phone but from a speaker hidden in the wall.

  Cavanaugh put away his phone. A vague pungent smell pinched his nostrils, as if something had died nearby. His pulse quickened.

  No matter how softly he placed his shoes, the metal stairs echoed loudly as he climbed.

  He came to a landing and shifted higher. The pungent smell became a little more noticeable. His stomach fidgeted as he faced a solid metal door. Hesitating, he reached for it.

  "Not that one," the voice said from the wall.

  Nerves inexplicably more on edge, Cavanaugh climbed higher and came to a door halfway up the stairs.

  "Not that one, either," the voice said. "Incidentally, am I supposed to feel reassured that you're coming with a gun?"

  "I don't know about you, but under the circumstances, it does a world of good for me."

  The voice made a sound that might have been a bitter chuckle.

  Heavy rain hit the building, sending vibrations through it.

  At the top, a final door awaited. It was open, inviting Cavanaugh into a brightly lit corridor, which had a closed door at the other end.

  This is the same as stepping into an elevator, he decided. The pungent smell seemed a little stronger. His muscles tightening, he didn't understand what was happening to him. A visceral part of him warned him to leave the building. Abruptly, he wondered if he could leave the building. Even though he always carried lock picks in his jacket's collar, he had the suspicion that they wouldn't be enough to open the downstairs door. Breathing slightly faster, he had to keep telling himself that he wasn't the one in danger—Prescott was, which explained what Cavanaugh hoped were merely security precautions and not a trap that had been set for him.

  He glanced up at a security camera in the corridor he was expected to enter. To hell with it, he thought, annoyed by the nervous moisture on his palms. If Prescott wanted me dead, he could have killed me before now. Regardless of the insistent pounding of his heart, a strong intuition told Cavanaugh to surrender to the situation. Something else told him to run, which made no sense, inasmuch as he didn't have a reason to believe he was in danger.

  Impatient with himself, he came to a firm decision and holstered his weapon. It's not going to do me any good in that corridor anyhow.

  Entering, he wasn't surprised that the door swung shut behind him, locking loudly.

  After the gloom of the stairwell, the lights hurt his eyes, but at least the pungent smell was gone. Managing to feel less on edge, he walked to the door at the end of the corridor, turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found himself in a bright room filled with closed-circuit television monitors and electronic consoles. Across from him, bricks covered a window.

  What captured his attention, however, was an overweight man in his forties who stood among the glowing equipment. The man wore wrinkled slacks and an equally wrinkled white shirt that had sweat marks and clung to his ample stomach. His thick sandy hair was uncombed. He needed a shave. The skin under his eyes was puffy from lack of sleep. The dark pupils of his eyes were large from tension.

  The man aimed a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol at him. Its barrel wavered.

  Cavanaugh had n
o doubt that if he had still been holding his pistol when he'd entered, the man would have fired. Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, he raised his hands in reassuring submission. Despite the big gun that was nervously aimed at him, the uneasiness Cavanaugh had felt coming up the stairs seemed of no importance compared to what this man must be feeling, for, outside of combat, Prescott was the most frightened man Cavanaugh had ever seen.

  * * *

  5

  "Please remember you sent for me," Cavanaugh said. "I'm here to help you."

  As Prescott continued to aim the Colt, his pupils got larger. The room became more sour with fear.

  "I knew your one-time-only phone number and the recognition code," Cavanaugh said. "Only someone from Protective Services could have had that information."

  "You could have forced those details from the person they were sending," Prescott said. As on the phone, his voice was unsteady, but now Cavanaugh understood that it wasn't an electronic effect—Prescott's voice shook because he was afraid.

  The door behind Cavanaugh swung shut, its lock ramming electronically home. He managed not to flinch. "I don't know who or what you feel threatened by, but I hardly think one man coming here would be the smartest way to get at you, not the way you've got this place set up. Logic should tell you I'm not a threat."

  "The unexpected is the most brilliant tactic." Prescott's grip on the .45 was as unsteady as his voice. "Besides, your logic works against you. If one man isn't much of a threat, how can one man provide adequate protection?"

  "You didn't say you wanted protection. You said you wanted to disappear."

  Sweat marks spreading under his arms, Prescott studied Cavanaugh warily.

  "My initial interviews are always one-on-one," Cavanaugh said. "I have to ask questions to assess the threat level. Then I decide how much help the job requires."

  "I was told you used to be in Delta Force." Prescott licked his dry, fleshy lips.

  "That's right."

  The classic special-operations physique involved muscular shoulders that trimmed down to solid, compact hips, upper-body strength being one of the goals of the arduous training.

  "Lots of exercise," Prescott said. "Is that what you think qualifies you to protect somebody?"

  Trying to put Prescott at ease, Cavanaugh chuckled. "You want my job stats?"

  "If you want to convince me you're here to help. If you want to work for me."

  "You've got this turned around. When I interview potential clients, it's not because I want to work for them. Sometimes, I don't want to work for them."

  "You mean you have to like them?" Prescott asked with distaste.

  "Sometimes, I don't like them, either," Cavanaugh said. "But that doesn't mean they don't have a right to live. I'm a protector, not a judge. With exceptions. No drug traffickers. No child abusers. Nobody who's an obvious monster. Are you a monster?"

  Prescott had a look of incredulity. "Of course not."

  "Then there's only one other standard that'll help me decide if I want to protect you."

  "Which is?"

  "Are you willing to be compliant?"

  Prescott blinked sweat from his eyes. "What?"

  "I can't protect someone who won't take orders," Cavanaugh said. "That's the paradox of being a protector. Someone hires me. In theory, that person's the boss. But when it comes to protection, I'm the one who gives the orders. The employer has to react to me as if I'm the boss. Are you willing to be compliant?"

  "Anything to keep me alive."

  "You'll do what I say?"

  Prescott thought and then fearfully nodded.

  "So, okay, here's your first order: Put that damned gun away before I ram it down your throat."

  Prescott blinked several times, stepping back as if Cavanaugh had slapped him. He held the gun steadier, frowned, and slowly lowered it.

  "An excellent start," Cavanaugh said.

  "If you're not who you say you are, do it right now," Prescott said. "Kill me. I can't stand living this way."

  "Relax. Whoever your enemies are, I'm not one of them."

  Cavanaugh surveyed the room. To the right, in a corner, past the electronics and the monitors, he saw a cot, a minifridge, a sink, and a small stove. Beyond was a toilet, a showerhead, and a drain. The type of food on the shelves made clear that Prescott didn't worry about being overweight: boxes of macaroni and cheese, cans of ravioli and lasagna, bags of chocolates, candy bars, and potato chips, cases of classic Coke. "How long have you been here?"

  "Three weeks."

  Cavanaugh noticed books on a shelf below the food. Most were nonfiction, on subjects as various as geology and photography. One had a photo of a naked woman on the cover and seemed to be a sex book. In contrast, another volume was The Collected Poems of Robinson Jeffers, with a few books about Jeffers next to it. "You like poetry?" Cavanaugh asked.

  "Soothes the soul." Prescott's tone was slightly defensive, as if he suspected that Cavanaugh might be mocking him.

  Cavanaugh picked up the book and opened it, reading the first lines he came to. " 'I built her a tower when I was young— Sometime she will die.'"

  Prescott looked more defensive.

  "Knows how to grab my attention." Cavanaugh set down the book and continued scanning the place. Videotapes sat next to a small television. Prescott's taste had no consistency: a Clint Eastwood thriller, an old Troy Donahue-Sandra Dee teenage-romance tearjerker. . . .

  "I've seen worse places to go to ground." Cavanaugh thought about it. "Homeless people and crack addicts as your cover. Smart. How'd you know about this warehouse? How'd you set up this room?"

  "I did it a year ago," Prescott said. "Whatever your trouble is, you saw it coming?" "Not this particular trouble." "Then why did you ..." "I always take precautions," Prescott said. "You're not making sense." "In case," Prescott told him.

  "In case of what?" Movement on a TV monitor abruptly caught Cavanaugh's attention. "Wait a second."

  * * *

  6

  "What's wrong?" Prescott spun toward the monitor.

  On the screen, a gray image showed a dozen ragged men plodding through the rain, converging on the Taurus.

  "Jesus," Prescott said.

  "Crack addicts are amazing," Cavanaugh said. "No matter what it is, if it's left alone, they'll try to steal it. I once knew a guy who stole forty pounds of dog food from his father so he could buy crack. What's more amazing, his drug dealer took the dog food, rather than demanding money. For all I know, the drug dealer ate it."

  On the screen, the ragged men, drenched with rain, tugged at the side-view mirrors or used chunks of metal to pry at the hubcaps.

  "Have you got a way to hear what's going on outside?" Cavanaugh asked.

  Prescott flipped a switch on a console. Immediately, the sound of rain came through an audio speaker.

  Cavanaugh heard the distant scrape of metal as the ragged men worked in the downpour to try to disassemble his car. "Get a job, guys."

  He took the car's remote control from his jacket pocket. It was more elaborate than usual, equipped with half a dozen buttons.

  Prescott looked puzzled as Cavanaugh pressed one of the buttons.

  Suddenly, the audio speaker filled the room with an ear-torturing siren that came from the Taurus and made the men drop their makeshift burglary tools, fleeing like drenched versions of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  Cavanaugh pressed the button again, and the siren stopped.

  "Are you ready to get out of here?" he asked Prescott.

  "To?" Prescott looked apprehensive.

  "Somewhere safer than this, although, Lord knows, this place is safe enough. After my team arrives, after we get organized, we'll give you a new identity and relocate you. But first I need to know what kind of risk level we're talking about. Why are you so frightened?"

  Prescott opened his mouth to answer, then frowned at the monitor.

  Four of the men were back, heading for the Taurus.

  "A
t least they get points for persistence," Cavanaugh said.

  He pressed another button on the remote control.

  Gray vapor spewed from under the wheel wells. Despite the rain, it blossomed, enveloping the crack addicts. Coughing and cursing, they stumbled back. Bent over as if they were going to be sick, they pawed at their eyes and staggered away.

  Cavanaugh pressed the button again, and the vapor stopped spewing from the wheel wells.

  "What on earth was that?" Prescott asked.

  "Tear gas."

  "What?"

  "The car's modified the way the best Secret Service vehicles are. It's armor-plated and—" A new image on the monitor made him stop. "Amazing. With their ambition, if these guys were in politics, they could run the world."

  On the screen, two more crack addicts approached the Taurus.

  "Turn down the volume on that speaker," Cavanaugh told Prescott.

  Confused, Prescott did what he was told.

  As the men came closer to the Taurus, Cavanaugh pressed another button on the remote control.

  Small black canisters catapulted from under the wheel wells. Shaped like miniature soup cans, they exploded with numerous roars that shook the speaker, even though its volume had been reduced. The multiple flashes of the explosions were so bright that the camera had trouble maintaining its contrast level.

  When the smoke cleared, the two crack addicts lay on the concrete.

  "My God, you killed them," Prescott said.

  "No."

  "But they were so close to the grenades."

  "Those weren't grenades."

  On the screen, the two men began to squirm.

  "I used flash-bangs," Cavanaugh said.

  "Flash-bangs?"

  "Sort of like grenades, except they don't throw shrapnel. But they blind and deafen for a while. Those guys are going to have a whale of a headache."

  On the screen, the two crack addicts struggled upright, holding their ears.

  "But this car can be equipped to launch grenades if the mission calls for it," Cavanaugh said. "And it can be modified for machine guns under the headlights. All the best dictators and drug lords have those extras. In a more luxurious car than a Taurus, of course. Believe me, Mr. Prescott, we can take care of you."