“Which I never use when I'm working.”
“Establishing a mystique as a protective agent with only one name. Do you agree?”
“That I'm Aaron Stoddard? Yes.” He looked over at Jamie, to whom he'd long ago confided the truth about his identity. “Now that I'm no longer a protector, it doesn't matter if anybody knows who I really am. My mother's dead now. My stepfather has a heart condition. He'll probably be gone soon, also. My half-sister is the only relative I need to worry about. And you, of course,” he told Jamie. “I'll never stop protecting you.”
“What I meant was,” William said, “do you agree to abide by Duncan's wishes and accept ownership of Global Protective Services?”
“William, did anybody ever tell you you've got a pushy manner?”
“My second and third wives. But I tried not to take it personally.”
“Really, I'm sorry you came all this way.”
“You won't accept?”
“I made a promise, and I'm keeping it. From now on, Jamie's all I care about.”
“Duncan didn't indicate a second choice. GPS isn't a publicly traded company. There's no board of directors. No one except Duncan's heir can make decisions. If your refusal is absolute, ultimately the company will need to be dissolved.”
“I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that,” Cavanaugh said.
“Perhaps you should take a couple of days to consider the implications.”
“No,” Cavanaugh insisted.
“Can we speak privately?” Jamie interrupted.
Cavanaugh looked at her.
“Outside,” she told him.
11
Behind boulders on the ridge, the spotter studied the lodge through binoculars that were shielded to keep the sun from reflecting off their lenses.
“They could be inside for hours,” the sniper said.
“The backup team's in position now. The moment you're sure you've got the target in your sights, I'll tell them to cut the telephone line. The timing has to be right. If we do it sooner than we need to, he might try to use the phone, wonder why it doesn't work, and realize he's being set up.”
“In that case, tell them to get ready.” The sniper peered through his scope. “The target's on the back porch.”
12
Jamie closed the screen door after she and Cavanaugh stepped outside. “I want you to own Global Protective Services.”
“But I promised you I was out of the business.”
“I'm freeing you from that promise.”
13
“Beta, get ready to cut the phone line,” the spotter said into the radio.
“On your signal,” a voice replied.
“Stand by.” The spotter turned toward his partner. “Can you get the shot?
The man lay on his stomach, his left hand gripping the rifle's stock, his left forearm resting on his knapsack. His right hand clutched the rifle's grip, his finger at the trigger. The bolt-action Remington 700 was one of the most accurate sniper rifles. A favorite of the U.S. military as well as law-enforcement SWAT teams, it accurately delivered a .308 bullet up to 900 yards. The sights had one-minute-of-angle accuracy. The trigger was adjusted to a gentle two-pound pull. The powerful scope had a holographic sight with a red dot that indicated exactly where the bullet would strike the target. The state-of-the-art sound suppressor prevented the sniper from disclosing his position and drawing return fire.
But precise equipment was only one element of accurate long-distance shooting. Training, experience, steadiness, the ability to craft handmade ammunition and adjust sights based on conclusions about distance, temperature, altitude, and wind, the Zen control of breathing, temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate, the focus of a lifetime into one steady confident pull on the trigger—the accumulation of all these and more were what made a great shooter.
“I said, Can you make the shot?” Receiving no answer, the spotter peered through his binoculars and inhaled with annoyance when he saw the problem. “Damn it, the woman's in the way.”
14
“Sometimes, you don't listen to yourself,” Jamie said.
“That's because I don't enjoy one-sided conversations.”
“Angelo was talking about his llamas and his ostriches, and he made you laugh so hard, you said you missed him.”
“Just a figure of speech. Hey, we aren't going to start shopping for furniture or anything.”
“You do miss him. You miss all the agents you used to work with. You miss Global Protective Services and—”
“How can you be sure? I've never said anything about that.”
“Sometimes, I see a far-away look in your eyes, as if your mind's somewhere else, doing things in places a lot more exciting than here.”
“No.”
“You do have that look.” Jamie's hands were on her hips, her back to the sun-bright pasture and the aspen-covered eastern slope of the canyon. “It reminds me of tigers and lions in cages in zoos. The look in their eyes. The controlled frustration. It's like they know there has to be a better way, but they also know there's nothing they can do about it. Well, this is your chance to do something about it.”
“There's no place else I'd rather be, and no other person I'd rather be with.”
“You gave up a huge portion of your life for me,” Jamie said.
“But look at what I got in return.” Cavanaugh gestured toward the stream flowing through the pasture, sunlight glinting off it, the horses leaning down to drink.
“You still wear a gun and a knife.”
“The world's a dangerous neighborhood.”
“You still drive an armored Taurus.”
“A sturdy, dependable car. The far-away look you see in my eyes isn't longing. It's nervous relief that I don't live that way anymore. It's amazement that I ever did.”
“I don't understand.”
“Risking my life for people I didn't know and often didn't like. I used to say I had my professional standards. I wouldn't protect child molesters or drug traffickers, anyone who's an obvious monster. But what about the monsters who aren't as obvious? That stock analyst Angelo and I protected. He was in bed with the companies he was supposed to be making judgments about. He let greed mean more to him than the trust investors put in him. A lot of people counted on him for the security of their pensions, and all he had was contempt for them. I hated that man. Part of me was delighted when a ruined investor tried to attack him. Oh, Angelo and I made sure the analyst wasn't injured, but he sure was scared, and I was glad to see him scared. But that was wrong. A protector needs to be absolutely committed to his client. He needs to be willing, if necessary, to die for that client.”
Jamie's eyes reacted.
“Now that I'm away from it all,” Cavanaugh told her, “I realize how many of my clients weren't worth risking my life for. They were special only because they were rich or powerful or uncommonly attractive. What made them unique poisoned them.”
“Not all of them,” Jamie said. “You told me some clients were remarkable. ‘Saints,’ you called a few of them.”
For a moment, Cavanaugh did long for his former life. “There was one politician I thought could have made a difference. Unfortunately, his party chose somebody who looked good on TV. There was a billionaire who told me, ‘All my life I've been taking money out of the system. Now I'm putting it back.’ He had exciting plans for ways to use his money to improve education. But then he got cancer and died, and his heirs fought over his estate. There was an entertainer who spent significant portions of his time performing benefit concerts for children's hospitals.”
“What's the downside to that story?”
“Actually, there isn't one. The entertainer still performs benefit concerts, and the children's hospitals keep getting money.”
“Who'd want to hurt a man like that?”
“He has several obsessed fans. Plus, he had a manager who was furious because the entertainer fired the guy after discovering how much money was being s
kimmed from the hospital fund. In Mexico City, where the entertainer was performing one of his concerts, kidnappers tried to grab him for a ten-million dollar ransom.”
“You're right. The world is a dangerous neighborhood.” Jamie took a deep breath. “But maybe you're being given an uncommon opportunity to make things better. Maybe you could be the equivalent of that billionaire you mentioned.”
“I don't understand.”
“Maybe you could change the way Global Protective Services does business. Take from the rich. Give to the poor. By which I mean, hold your nose and protect people you dislike so the company can afford to protect people who deserve to be alive.”
Cavanaugh studied her. “It would mean the end of all this.” He gestured toward the canyon. He tried not to look at the helicopter and all it symbolized.
“We could come back whenever we wanted.”
“‘We’?”
“You don't think I'd let you go by yourself.”
“Maybe you're the one who's feeling restless.”
“Not for somebody else, believe me, lover. But maybe happiness isn't enough. Maybe human beings need to be useful.”
15
“She isn't moving.” The spotter stared through his binoculars at where the woman stood on the porch, her back to him.
“I can see his head.”
“Behind her? Bullshit. All I see are his hands gesturing to one side of her or the other. His head? No way. From this angle, the porch roof interferes.”
“I'm telling you, I see about an inch or so of his head.”
“A guaranteed kill?”
“No.”
“What about shooting through her?”
“Remember the JFK assassination?” the sniper asked.
“How the hell old do you think I am?”
“One bullet boomeranged all over the place, in several impossible directions, hitting Kennedy and Governor Connally.”
“Yeah, the magic, slip-sliding bullet—if somebody's dumb enough to believe Oswald was the only shooter.”
“What I'm saying is, I can hit her square in the neck on an angle that I think will go down and out the soft tissue and into his chest. But that bullet might just as easily hit the top of her spine and shatter or change angle, blast along a rib, and slam into the post beside her.”
“So you can't guarantee a kill.”
“Not even if the bullet does go through her neck and into his chest.”
“But he'd be down, and you've got other ammunition in that rifle. How fast can you chamber a fresh round?”
“A lot faster than that dick Oswald. Wait. She's stepping out of the way. I've got a shot. This'll be just like that time in Rome.”
“Beta,” the spotter said into the radio. “Cut the phone line.”
16
In the office, William pressed buttons on his cell phone, waited, but didn't get a response. Impatient, he stood, left the office, and crossed the communal room to enter the kitchen.
Mrs. Patterson was removing the pie from the oven. Angelo watched her.
“Smells like Thanksgiving,” Angelo said.
The phone rang.
William, who disliked pumpkin pie, glanced around at the stainless steel appliances in the otherwise rustic kitchen.
“Get your business done?” Mrs. Patterson asked.
“They're discussing it.” William turned his attention to the security monitors on the counter next to him.
The phone rang a second time.
Mrs. Patterson went to the wall next to the refrigerator and lifted the phone off its mount. “Hello? . . . Hi, Tina. How's little Brian's cold? I've been worried it'll turn into . . . Hello? . . . Tina?”
“Problem?” Angelo asked.
“The line went dead.”
“Are these men supposed to be on the property?” William inquired.
“What men?” Angelo turned.
“The ones on this television monitor.”
17
Three shots made Cavanaugh flinch. From behind him. From the opposite end of the porch. From the kitchen was all he had time to think as his startle reflex engaged. Even the most seasoned operators, accustomed to bullets being fired near them, couldn't control that reflex. He grabbed Jamie and lunged sideways, seeking the only available cover: the lodge's wall. Simultaneously, he felt something snap past him and wallop onto the porch's floor, tearing up splinters.
Two shooters. One in the kitchen. One on the ridge.
He kept lunging, holding Jamie tightly, turning so his back led the way as they crashed through the screen that covered his office window. The window was raised. His head grazed past the wooden frame. He fell, holding Jamie, banging onto the floor.
“Cavanaugh!” Angelo yelled. Then William and Mrs. Patterson also shouted his name. He heard footsteps rushing toward the office.
But all he cared about was Jamie. “Are you all right?”
She didn't answer.
“Jamie!”
“I'm okay. Got the wind knocked out of me.”
Cavanaugh rolled from under her, scanning her body, looking for blood.
“What happened?” she wanted to know.
Angelo and the others charged into the office. “Cavanaugh?”
He drew his pistol from under his shirt. “The kitchen? Who shot—”
“I did. Three bullets into the wall.” Angelo's pistol was in his hand. “Men on the grounds. The phone line's been cut. I didn't know how else to warn you in time.”
“The eastern slope. Sniper,” Cavanaugh said.
“I didn't hear any shots from up there.”
“He must be using a sound suppressor. William, I hope you know how to handle a gun.”
“Not even in my worst nightmares.”
“You're about to learn.”
18
“You dumb bastard. After all your bragging, you missed!” the spotter said.
“Hey, it wasn't my fault! How was I to know somebody'd start shooting down there? How was I to know the target would—”
“Quit making excuses! How are you going to fix this?”
“Wait for another shot.”
“Now that he knows he's a target, you think he's just going to waltz outside and show himself?” the spotter demanded.
“To get to the car maybe. Or the helicopter. Hell, he's got to do something. He knows he's stuck. He can't phone for help. Sooner or later—”
“He's got food. Water. He can stay there for days. But we didn't come prepared for a damned siege.”
“So you make mistakes, too, huh?”
“And you're one of them. Do this right!”
With a sigh of impatience, the shooter reached into his backpack and selected a box of ammunition. He worked the Remington's bolt and ejected the two remaining rounds from the rifle. Then he inserted four rounds from the fresh box of ammunition. Each cartridge had a red tip.
“Tracers?”
“Incendiaries. I brought them in case this turned out to be a night shoot. For the same reason, I also brought an infrared scope. If he tries to leave when it's dark, I'll get him.”
“But it won't be dark for another four hours!”
“Doesn't matter.” The shooter steadied his aim toward a large white tank beside a shed about fifty yards from the lodge. “I'll get the target out of the lodge if I shoot one of these babies into that propane tank. Hell, the explosion will probably level the place.”
“No. Don't.” The spotter was appalled.
“What's the matter?”
“The neighbors in the other valleys are used to hearing shots on this property. But an explosion would attract every police officer and emergency crew from here to Jackson.”
“Yeah, there's that, I suppose. Okay, I've got another way.” The shooter switched his aim toward the lodge. “Tell Beta the target'll be outside in fifteen minutes.”
19
Heart pounding, Cavanaugh raced across the communal room and tugged open a door next to the battered uprigh
t piano. He pulled out an AR-15, the semi-automatic civilian version of the M-16.
He gave it to Angelo, along with a loaded thirty-round magazine. “Watch the front.”
“Got it.”
“Wait. Take this.” Cavanaugh grabbed a walkie-talkie off a shelf and tossed it to him.
As Angelo hurried toward the front windows, Cavanaugh took out another AR-15. “I'll watch the east and try to locate the sniper. Mrs. Patterson, get down in the basement.”
“No. Tell me how to help.”
“Stay out of sight.”
“I'm not going to hide.” Fear made her voice tremble. “There's a revolver in a kitchen drawer. You taught me how to use it.”
“Stay behind cover!” Cavanaugh yelled as she ran toward the kitchen. “Keep your walkie-talkie close! Jamie?”
“I'll take the back,” she said.
With no AR-15s remaining, Cavanaugh gave her a Ruger Mini-14, a streamlined semi-automatic rifle favored by ranchers. He stared into her eyes, praying she wouldn't be killed.
“You can count on me,” she said.
He touched her hand. “I know.” He felt his throat tighten as she grabbed a box of ammunition and hurried away.
“William, come with me.”
Cavanaugh tugged the attorney back into the office.
“The good news is, the log walls of this building are so thick, we don't need to worry about bullets coming through.”
“You're implying that in most houses bullets can come through walls? Dear God, what's the bad news?”
“The windows are the only target the sniper now has. He'll focus on them.”
“Then how are we supposed to look out there and see if anybody's attacking?”
“Stay to the side. Keep your face from the opening. Peer out at an angle.” Cavanaugh spoke those words into his walkie-talkie. “Mrs. Patterson, did you hear that?”