The Protector (2003) (37 page)

Cavanaugh fired at the windshield but only starred it, realizing that the glass was bullet-resistant. He fired again as Grace floored the accelerator and steered from behind the station wagon, rocketing the Explorer toward him.

He fired a third time, starring more glass. Cavanaugh knew that most bullet-resistant glass couldn't withstand five rounds within an eight-inch radius. After that, the glass would disintegrate, allowing bullets to penetrate it. So he held his ground and fired a fourth time, but now Grace was racing so close to him that her glacial blue eyes seemed intensely huge.

When Cavanaugh pulled the trigger
a fifth
time, he felt the firing pin click on empty. He cursed, hurled the weapon at the windshield, and dove to the side an instant before Grace would have struck him. As the Explorer roared past, throwing up dust, he rolled across the dirt, feeling the MP-5 strapped to his shoulder dig into his bare skin.

Instead of speeding along the lane toward the road from which Cavanaugh had entered the valley, Grace twisted the steering wheel sharply and curved back in Cavanaugh's direction.

Surging to his feet, he unstrapped the MP-5 from his shoulder, but Grace was too close for him to have time to shoot.

He darted to the left.

Grace steered in that direction.

He darted to the right.

Grace pursued him.

At the last moment, Cavanaugh feinted to the left, then dove to the right. Feeling the rush of air from the Explorer speeding past him, he struck the ground, winced, and came to his feet, expecting Grace to turn sharply and come at him again.

Instead, the Explorer sped toward the rear of the valley. As its roar diminished, Cavanaugh heard something else: an approaching rumble. Gaining in intensity, it made a rapid
whump
,
whump, *whump
sound. A helicopter. Grace had used her cell phone to call for reinforcements, Cavanaugh thought. Then he realized, No, she'd stay if the chopper was one of hers. She's trying to get away from whoever's in it.

Cavanaugh ran to the Taurus, grabbing a rock along the way. On recent American cars, the steering-wheel locks were sturdy enough that he couldn't break them by pressing his shoes against the steering column and tugging on the wheel as he had when he'd rescued Prescott from the warehouse. Now he was forced to yank the unlocked door open, unclip the Emerson knife from his pocket, thumb the blade open, and shove it into the ignition slot, using the rock to hammer the butt of the knife's handle, ramming the tip of the blade solidly into the slot. He closed the knife's handle halfway and twisted violently, gaining torque from the ninety-degree position of the handle. The blade's metal was extraordinarily hard, designed for this kind of brutal use. After one more fierce twist, Cavanaugh felt the ignition lock break, freeing the wheel.

Moving faster, he reached under the dashboard and pulled down a hidden Radio Shack switch box that he'd installed when he and Jamie had modified the Taurus: a standard precaution in case they didn't have the ignition key. The switch box was connected to the starter wires. A press of a button and the engine started.

The passenger door banged open. Cavanaugh raised the Emerson knife to defend himself, only to lower it when Jamie dove inside.

"Go!" she yelled. "Go!"

Chapter 7.

Cavanaugh floored the accelerator, feeling the tires bite into dirt, racing after the Explorer.

As Jamie slammed the door, Cavanaugh saw the Explorer disappear among trees ahead.

"Have you still got the pistol I took from Edgar?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Wouldn't be without it." Jamie's breathing was rapid, loud. "Roll down your window. Watch for places where Grace might ambush us."

As the Taurus rushed past trees and dense, shadowy undergrowth, Jamie said, "A lot of choices."

The lane crested a wooded ridge, leaving the valley. At the bottom, it twisted, then straightened, ending at a T-intersection with a gravel road. Dust swirling on the right showed where Grace had turned.

Cavanaugh veered onto the gravel and hurried after her. Light filtered through the haze, reflecting off it, making it harder for him to see. He drove as quickly as he could and still have time to stop if an obstacle blocked his way. A breeze thinned the dust, allowing him to go faster. Then the air was clear enough for him to see that he approached an intersection with a paved road.

Where the gravel road continued, there wasn't any dust cloud. Grace must have turned right or left onto the pavement, but an equal number of dusty tire tracks went each way and made it impossible to follow her trail. "Pick a direction," Cavanaugh said. "Left," Jamie said.

Checking for oncoming traffic, Cavanaugh skidded left onto the pavement and pressed hard on the gas pedal, urging the Taurus up to a hundred. Trees and fields became a blur. Cresting a hill, he was forced to reduce speed so he wouldn't be caught by surprise if Grace tried to ambush him on the other side. At the bottom of the hill, he stopped at another intersection. Here, the road was paved in all four directions.

"Pick a direction."

"Left again," Jamie said.

"Any particular reason?"

"Not much."

"Then left we go."

At the next paved intersection, with the Explorer nowhere in view, Cavanaugh stopped at the side of the road. His hands were so tight on the steering wheel that it took him a few moments to unclench them.

Sweating, he stared straight ahead. Next to him, Jamie trembled, just as he trembled.

"You did good back there," he finally said.

Jamie's voice was hoarse. "Thanks."

"Kept cool." He felt sick. "Didn't panic."

"Wanted to."

"I know the feeling." Sweating more, Cavanaugh kept staring straight ahead. "A neat trick, using the flash-bangs."

"I was so furious. I just told myself I wasn't going to die down there."

"Anger's a good motivator." Cavanaugh's hand shook as he wiped his grit-covered mouth. "Especially when it comes to dealing with fear."

"1 brought you a present," Jamie said.

"Oh?" Dazed, Cavanaugh glanced down. Next to the Sig Sauer she'd placed on the seat was an equipment belt that she must have removed from one of the dead men in the corridor. The belt had a holstered Beretta and an extra magazine filled with ammunition.

"Thoughtful."

"The way to my loved one's heart. Who has the other Sig? Grace?"

"Probably," Cavanaugh said. "And the car keys. And my cell phone. And my wallet, with the ID Karen made for me."

"Reach under the seat."

Puzzled, Cavanaugh did what he was told and held up Jamie's purse. "I'll be damned."

The purse's zipper remained closed. Jamie checked inside. "Doesn't look like they got to it yet. I still have my wallet and cell phone."

Behind them, the sound of the helicopter descended into the valley.

Jamie glanced in that direction. "Can't be reinforcements for Grace. Otherwise, she wouldn't have run."

Cavanaugh nodded. "I'm betting it's John and a team from the Bureau."

Jamie looked relieved. "Then let's hurry back and tell them what we know."

Cavanaugh didn't move.

"What's the matter? If we don't go back, they'll issue arrest warrants for us," Jamie said. "Hell, they probably want to arrest us as it is. We took Kline away from John, and now Kline's dead. So are all those men back there. And the doctor. We've got to explain what happened."

"Can't go back."

"What?"

"Can't trust the FBI. Somebody there worked for Kline. Somebody informed against John. If I tell what I know, I might be helping the wrong people get their hands on Prescott."

"But John'll find the informant."

"How long will
that
take, and what if he doesn't? I need the antidote. For that matter, even if John
does
find the informant, even if it is safe to tell the FBI what I know, that doesn't solve anything, either. Prescott won't be punished."

"I don't understand."

"The government would protect him. Sure, they'd be appalled by the illegal research. Prescott's controllers would be quietly and severely punished. But not Prescott. Since the weapon exists and the damage has been done, the Defense Department would want to know everything about it, just to have it as an option. In the name of national security, they'd hide him some place comfortable, where they'd have access to his information. Prescott would get a new identity, a new life, everything he wanted in the first place."

Jamie stared at him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"When we first started this, people were after you," Jamie said. "They wanted to kill you. I figured that if I helped you find whoever was hunting you, we could get free of it all. We could go back to Wyoming. We could have our lives back."

"Believe me, that's exactly what I want. With everything in me, I want to go back to the way things used to be."

"Then why can't we?"

"Karen. Duncan. Chad. Tracy. Roberto. They won't be Prescott's last victims. He's paranoid enough that he'll kill again and again if he thinks anybody's looking at him wrong, if he fears his safety's being threatened. He has to be stopped."

Both of them were silent now. The only sound was a pickup truck clattering through the intersection ahead.

"You're going to need plausible deniability," he finally said.

"What?"

"We didn't take Kline. I did. I forced you to go along with me. That's your story. Play the victim."

"You think anybody's going to believe that?" Jamie asked.

"Make

them believe it. Get yourself out of this." "You're telling me ..."

"Go back."

"Split

up?" Jamie asked. "You almost got killed because of me. I can't let you risk your life anymore."

"I'm here because I want to be."

"But I can't go after Prescott and worry about you."

"I've handled myself very well."

"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "You have."

"I'm staying."

Cavanaugh peered down at his unsteady hands. Another pickup truck clattered through the intersection.

He nodded.

"So what does that nod mean? Where does that leave us?" Jamie asked.

"Somewhere near West Virginia."

"Not funny."

"I've run out of jokes." Cavanaugh studied her grimy arms and blouse, then pressed the trunk-release button. Their suitcases were back there. "We'd better put on some fresh clothes."

"You're going to need more than fresh clothes."

Jamie's intense gaze made him look down at himself. He was covered with soot from head to foot. His pants were in rags. His chest was a chaos of scratches. Blood and sweat mingled with the soot.

"We've still got some bottled water in the backseat. I'll wash my face, then put on a cap, a shirt, and pants to hide the rest of this until we reach a motel."

"You reek of cordite," Jamie said.

"Some people think it's sexy."

*

PART SIX

Threat Reprisal

Chapter
1.

The motel on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was two hours north, far enough that if Rutherford ordered a search for them, it wasn't likely to be successful, especially since Rutherford didn't know Jamie's name or the kind of car they drove.

Harrisburg, the state capital, had another advantage. It was large enough to have numerous video-rental stores. The Clint Eastwood movie, whose title Cavanaugh had remembered but kept secret when Grace had read the list of Eastwood thrillers, wasn't hard to find. But the Troy Donahue/Sandra Dee film was another matter. After Cavanaugh and Jamie checked into the motel, they needed to visit almost every one of Harrisburg's video stores before they got their hands on a tape of A Summer
Place.

"Star-crossed lovers at a resort town in Maine." Jamie read from the back of the VHS box after they returned to the motel.