The Protector

  Cavanaugh looked back at the row of monitors, where one of the images showed the Taurus at ground level. Able to see partway under the car, he frowned, noticing what appeared to be a shadow under the vehicle. He pointed. "Does that camera have a zoom lens?"

  "All of them do." Prescott twisted a dial, enlarging the image on the monitor. The shadow under the Taurus took the shape of a small box. Jesus, Cavanaugh thought, one of the crack addicts must have put it under there.

  He blinked as the Taurus exploded.

  * * *

  7

  The roar from the speaker was so loud that the entire room shook. On the screen, chunks of the Taurus crashed onto the concrete, smoke and fire swelling.

  Prescott gaped.

  A second explosion rocked the room. On a different monitor, the door through which Cavanaugh had entered the building blasted inward, smoke and flames filling the area at the bottom of the stairs. Three men rushed in, but although their hair was matted and their faces were beard-stubbled and filthy, their eyes had neither the blankness of the homeless nor the desperation of drug addicts. These men had eyes as alert as any gunfighter Cavanaugh had ever encountered.

  "Is there another way out of here?"

  Prescott kept staring at the screen, which showed one of the men aiming a pistol at the elevator door while the other two aimed pistols upward and stormed the stairs.

  "Prescott?" Cavanaugh repeated, drawing his weapon.

  Prescott kept staring at the screen.

  Cavanaugh grabbed him, turned him, and shook him, "For Christ's sake, listen to me. Is there another way out of here?"

  Instead of responding, Prescott lunged toward one of the electronic consoles and twisted a dial.

  "What are you doing?" Cavanaugh asked.

  Prescott stared toward a different screen.

  The two men came into view on an upper portion of the stairs. They stopped and aimed upward, looking as if they thought getting in had been too easy, that there had to be traps in the building.

  On the monitor that showed the entrance to the building, two other ragged men charged in through the fading smoke from the explosion. They, too, aimed pistols.

  They started up the stairs, then paused as had the pair above them. Wary, they glanced behind and below them, seeming to sense danger.

  "Have you got the stairwell booby-trapped, is that it?" Cavanaugh asked Prescott.

  But on the screen, nothing exploded in the stairwell. No hidden guns went off. No flames erupted from the walls. Even so, the gunmen were obviously disturbed about something. Various monitors showed the man watching the elevator, the two that had just paused on the stairs, and the pair halfway up, who stared apprehensively toward the top as if they knew they were walking into a death trap.

  Moisture dripped from their faces. At first, Cavanaugh thought it was from the rain they'd charged through.

  Then he realized it was sweat.

  One of the gunmen on the stairs suddenly started firing toward the upper level.

  Abruptly, the other gunmen on the stairs did the same. At the bottom, the ragged figure watching the elevator kept looking behind him, as if he'd heard a threatening sound. He spun toward the blown-apart door and fired toward the rain.

  "What the hell's gong on?" Cavanaugh asked.

  Prescott kept twisting the dial, mumbling to himself, as if something had malfunctioned. "Yes." He spun toward Cavanaugh. "There's another way out of here."

  Puzzled, Cavanaugh watched Prescott hurry toward the shelves of food. Then he frowned again at the monitors, seeing the gunmen continue firing up the stairs. Two furiously reloaded. The other pair spun to aim behind them. The man on the ground floor kept switching his aim between the elevator and the blown-open door.

  A noise in the room distracted Cavanaugh, a scrape as Prescott slid the shelves to the left, revealing a door.

  "Where does it lead?"

  "The warehouse."

  Recalling the army of crack addicts he'd seen when he'd arrived, Cavanaugh wondered how much he could count on Prescott to help. "Do you know how to handle that gun you pointed at me?"

  "No."

  Cavanaugh wasn't surprised. He picked up the .45 and found that Prescott had aimed it with the safety on. Worse, after Cavanaugh freed the safety and pulled back the slide half an inch, he saw that the firing chamber was empty. Releasing the magazine from the grip, he discovered that it did contain the usual seven rounds, however. After he shoved the magazine back into the grip, he racked a round into the firing chamber, ready for business.

  "Do you have extra ammunition?"

  "No."

  Cavanaugh wasn't surprised about that, either. Because the .45 needed to be cocked before it could be fired, he left the hammer back and the safety on, a method preferred by most professionals. After shoving it under his belt, he drew his Sig.

  He took one final look at the monitors, where he saw other ragged men rush into the stairwell, aiming pistols. Like the others, they suddenly hesitated, as if threatened by something the cameras didn't show in the stairway.

  The image that most caught Cavanaugh's attention, however, was one in the middle, where a beard-stubbled man in grimy clothes stood outside, beyond the wreckage of the Taurus, which was still in flames despite the downpour. Drenched, the man held a metal tube that was about four feet long and looked suspiciously like an antitank rocket launcher.

  "Prescott, is there a way to tell what's behind this door?"

  "The top row of monitors. On the right."

  The screen showed nothing but a shadowy metal catwalk.

  "Open the door! Get out of the way!"

  Wild-eyed, Prescott freed the lock and yanked the door open, veering toward the cover of the wall.

  Cavanaugh aimed through the opening but saw nothing except the catwalk he'd observed on the monitor. The suspended metal walkway stretched into the shadows. The warehouse rumbled from the rain.

  "Remember what I said about following orders?"

  Prescott could barely speak. "Yes."

  "Do you have a heart condition? Any serious illnesses that would keep you from moving fast?"

  Prescott squeezed out a "No."

  "Okay, when I run through this doorway, run after me! Stay close!"

  On the middle screen, the drenched, grimy man outside finished arming the antitank rocket launcher. It was short enough that he could easily manage it as he raised it to his shoulder and sighted upward through the rain toward the room's bricked-in window.

  "Now!" Cavanaugh said.

  Charging through the door, then aiming down toward the shadows below the catwalk, he heard his urgent footsteps on the catwalk's metal. An instant later, he was relieved to hear Prescott's footsteps clattering close behind him.

  Then all he heard was a ringing in his ears as the rocket exploded against the side of the building behind him. He felt the concussion, like hands slamming against his back, shoving him forward, and although he couldn't risk distracting himself by looking behind him, he imagined bricks flying into the room, smashing the monitors and electronic consoles.

  The shock wave knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the catwalk, his forehead banging against it as Prescott's heavy frame landed on him. The .45 under Ca-vanaugh's belt gouged into his side. For a moment, his vision turned gray.

  The catwalk swayed.

  * * *

  8

  Prescott moaned.

  The catwalk swung farther out.

  Cavanaugh's mind cleared. Inhaling painfully, he tried to squirm from under Prescott's weight. Smoke and dust from the explosion swirled over them.

  "Prescott."

  The big man coughed.

  Cavanaugh felt the force of it. "Are you hurt?"

  "Not sure. . . . Don't think so."

  The ringing in Cavanaugh's ears made Prescott sound far away, instead of on top of him. "We have to stand."

  "The catwalk," Prescott warned.

  Its back-and-forth motion made Ca
vanaugh feel he was in a plane being tossed in a storm. His Delta Force training had conditioned him not to feel off balance or nauseated. But Prescott was another matter. With no experience, he had to be nearly out of his mind with fright.

  Pigeons scattered in panic. Rain cascaded from holes in the roof.

  "Prescott, I'll take care of you. All you have to do is something simple."

  "Simple?" Prescott clung to him as a drowning man does to his rescuer.

  "Very simple." Cavanaugh imagined the gunmen running up the stairs, about to burst into the room, but he didn't dare communicate his urgency to Prescott.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Lift yourself."

  As the catwalk vibrated, Prescott tensed.

  "There's nothing to it." Cavanaugh strained to keep his voice calm. "Pretend you're doing a push-up."

  Prescott couldn't move.

  "Do it," Cavanaugh said. "Now."

  Prescott cautiously made an effort at straightening his elbows. An inch. Another inch.

  Cavanaugh crawled from under Prescott's bulk. He shoved his handgun into its holster and rose to a crouch, gripping the metal railings as the catwalk shuddered. Now that the dust had lessened, gray light through the broken windows was enough to help his eyes adjust to the shadows. He stared toward the wreckage-filled room they'd escaped from and saw where the catwalk was attached to the wall.

  Its corroded bolts were half out.

  He wondered how long it would take the gunmen to break into the room.

  "Prescott, you're doing fine. Now all you have to do is stand."

  "Can't."

  The catwalk trembled. Cavanaugh could barely keep his balance. Rain coming through holes in the roof fell around him.

  "Then crawl," he said.

  "What?"

  "Crawl. Now."

  He tugged Prescott, inching him forward.

  "More. A little faster."

  Cavanaugh gave another tug, and Prescott crawled farther along. Water splashed his hand.

  "Feel sick," Prescott said.

  "Save it for when we get off this thing." Cavanaugh hoped to transport Prescott's mind into a future scenario.

  "Off this thing," Prescott murmured.

  "That's right. Keep crawling. Faster. We'll soon be at the other door."

  Cavanaugh peered through the shadows ahead and saw that the catwalk's bolts were halfway out of the opposite wall, too.

  Metal creaked.

  From below, a man shouted, "Look! On the catwalk!"

  In the room where Prescott had been hiding, an explosion blew away the door through which Cavanaugh had entered. As gunmen charged in, Cavanaugh drew his pistol and fired three times, sending the assault team for cover. He fired three more times, hoping to keep the gunmen down long enough for him and Prescott to reach the opposite door. But as Prescott flinched from the roar of the shots, his sudden movement jerked the catwalk. The bolts popped from the wall they approached.

  The catwalk plunged.

  * * *

  9

  Rusted metal buckled. The end of the catwalk scraped downward against the wall, tilting, forming a slide, down which Cavanaugh and Prescott struggled not to fall.

  "Grab the railing!" Cavanaugh yelled.

  For once, Prescott didn't need prompting. Even in the gray light, it was obvious how white his knuckles were from the force with which he gripped the railing.

  Metal protesting, the catwalk tilted lower, more steeply.

  "Pretend the railing's a rope!" Cavanaugh ordered. "Climb down hand over hand!"

  With a shuddering clang, the end of the catwalk slammed to a halt on the shadowy second floor. The force with which it struck almost yanked Cavanaugh's hands off the railing.

  He and Prescott hung at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Cavanaugh worried about the gunmen in the room above. He hoped that the shadows made him and Prescott hard to aim at. But what about the man who'd shouted from below?

  "Prescott, forget trying to climb down! Dig your heels against the metal and slide!"

  Prescott's face was stark.

  "Now!" Cavanaugh said. "Watch me!"

  He used his shoes as brakes while he slid down on his hips, using his hands on the railing to guide him. Gratified, he heard scrapes behind him as Prescott did his best to follow.

  Gunshots reverberated through the warehouse. Bullets from the room they'd left blew chunks from the wall.

  At once, Prescott needed no further encouragement. He slid down so rapidly that his shoes bumped against Cavanaugh. In turn, Cavanaugh slid faster, feeling the seat of his pants threaten to tear as Prescott's shoes bumped harder against him, and Cavanaugh slid even faster.

  He tumbled onto the wet floor, rolling free just before Prescott slammed to a halt. But before Cavanaugh could check that Prescott was all right, he drew his weapon and crouched, on guard against the man who'd yelled from below the catwalk.

  A wall seemed to move. Immediately, Cavanaugh realized it was derelicts cowering in the shadows. He saw huge boxes where they slept and garbage bags filled with God knew what. The stench of urine and feces was overwhelming.

  A few crack addicts stepped forward. From above, gunshots made them scramble back into the shadows. Bullets whacked the floor.

  The gunmen can't see us, Cavanaugh thought. They're shooting blindly. If I return fire, they'll see my muzzle flashes and know where to aim.

  Water from the roof fell around him. He looked behind him, noticed a door, and dragged Prescott to his feet.

  But when Cavanaugh tested the door, he found that it was locked. Mentally cursing, he searched for another way out, saw a stairway that led down to the ground level, and tugged Prescott toward it. For all he knew, gunmen would be waiting down there, but he had to take the chance.

  It had been less than twenty minutes since he and Prescott had met. He had no idea who Prescott was or why these men wanted to kill him. He wasn't even sure he'd have accepted the assignment after he'd finished questioning Prescott and made a risk assessment. For one thing, he had only Prescott's word that he wasn't a drug trafficker or any of the other monsters Cavanaugh refused to protect. But none of that mattered any longer. The attack had made Cavanaugh's choice for him. He and Prescott were now protector and protected.

  As he guided Prescott down the stairs into deeper shadows, he rapidly did a tactical reload, taking the partially depleted magazine from his pistol, pocketing it, and inserting a full one from his belt.

  The stench became more nauseating. Prescott moved so frantically that his footsteps echoed loudly. No! Cavanaugh thought. They'll hear us and shoot! He could only hope that the rumble of the rain on the roof would obscure the noises they made.

  His hope was ill-founded. Shots roared from above, blasting more chunks from the wall. Hurrying Prescott to the bottom, Cavanaugh froze at the sight of another cluster of derelicts. He aimed, unable to distinguish those who were truly homeless from those who might be a threat. Most had already cowered from the shots on the floor above and the sudden descent of strangers into their midst. The sight of Cavanaugh's pistol made them cower even more.

  A few others, however, had the look of jackals waiting for their prey to become distracted.

  But none drew handguns or assault rifles, even though they would have a good chance against one armed man and the client he was doing everything possible to protect.

  Cavanaugh heard loud, angry voices above him and the sound of the catwalk scraping, as if some of the gunmen were trying to descend the way Cavanaugh and Prescott had. The rest of the assault team would be charging down the stairs toward the outside door. They would race through the rain, burst into the warehouse, scatter its ragged occupants, and continue hunting. Meanwhile, some of the assault team would rush to the opposite side of the warehouse, in case Cavanaugh and Prescott tried to escape in that direction, but the gunmen couldn't possibly have moved fast enough to reach there yet.

  Aiming toward the ragged men, Cavanaugh motio
ned for Prescott to follow him toward where a rusted door lay next to an opening on the river side of the warehouse. But then he realized that even if part of the assault team hadn't had time to reach that side, a few marksmen could be watching from upper windows, ready to fire through the broken glass.

  We wouldn't have a chance, he thought. Rain gusted through the opening. Gray light beckoned. A tugboat's horn blared from the river. So close. Again Cavanaugh imagined the gunmen bursting into the warehouse, scattering its ragged occupants, hunting for . . .

  Scattering?

  "Prescott, follow me back to where we were."

  "But aren't we leaving?"

  "When I tell you." Cavanaugh led Prescott into the middle of the area.

  He faced the ragged men. "I've got a job for everybody."

  They looked baffled. A few even looked as frightened of the word job as they were of the pistol in his hand.

  Thunder rumbled.

  "Your first step on the road to self-sufficiency."

  They looked more baffled.

  "It requires no skills, and if everything goes as planned, I'll send a truck here tomorrow with food and clothes for all of you. You can't ask for a better deal than that."

  They looked at Cavanaugh as if he spoke an incomprehensible language.

  "So what do you think? Are you ready to start working?"

  They kept staring.

  "Great," Cavanaugh said. "Now this is all you have to do. You see that opening over there? It leads toward other warehouses and then the river. What I want you to do is ... Prescott."

  "What?"

  "Put your hands over your ears."

  No questions this time. Prescott obeyed.

  "What I want everybody to do," Cavanaugh told the group, "is keep thinking of the food and clothes you'll get tomorrow and"—Cavanaugh raised his pistol—"run in that direction."

  They stared blankly.

  "Run!"