The Protector (2003) (6 page)

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 motioned 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!"

When they didn't move, he fired the pistol over their heads. In the shadows, the muzzle flash was vivid, the ear-torturing roar making the group stumble back.

"
Run
!" Cavanaugh's own ears were punished as he fired twice more above their heads, and now terror made them move a little faster, desperate to get away from the madman with the gun.

The next time Cavanaugh fired over their heads did the trick. They broke into a full-sized panic and scrambled toward the exit. Bumping into one another, they charged out into the rain.

Chapter 10.

"Follow them!" Cavanaugh told Prescott.

To increase momentum, Cavanaugh fired one last time, so terrifying the group that, unheeding, they charged through the storm. There must have been thirty of them at least, scurrying for whatever shelter they could find. He urged Prescott to keep running with them. Hoping that the chaos would distract the assault team enough to make them hold fire, he felt the cold rain drench him as he and Prescott rushed down a concrete ramp and across a garbage-strewn parking area.

Scarecrows ran everywhere around them. Ahead, some ducked through a gap in a chain-link fence. Splashing through puddles, Cavanaugh led Prescott toward the hole. He put his hand on Prescott's head, protecting it as he shoved him through. Ducking after him, he felt frozen by more than the rain because, with just a few derelicts around them now, he and Prescott were obvious targets. The only things in their favor were the distance and the difficulty of aiming at moving targets from an elevated position.

Blam!

A shot from behind them tore up pavement. "Prescott, that warehouse ahead!"

Blam!

More pavement disintegrated. "Almost there, Prescott!"

Blam!

A chunk of pavement zapped past Cavanaugh's forehead. "Move it, Prescott!"

Cavanaugh couldn't allow himself to run as fast as he was able. He had to match Prescott's pace, shouting encouragement, grabbing Prescott's arm when the heavy man seemed in danger of faltering. Even so, Cavanaugh's lungs burned from exertion as they rounded the warehouse corner.

Shielded by the wall, Prescott bent over and shuddered, gulping air. "We did it," he managed to say. "I can't believe we--"

"Keep moving."

"But I have to catch my--"

"No time. Let's go." Cavanaugh tugged Prescott.

He studied the warehouse. Its windows weren't broken. Boxes were stacked inside. Still in business, he thought. As the rain lanced against him, he came to a door and tried it. Locked. Although it was only midafternoon, no lights glowed inside. He didn't see any movement. Not surprising on a Sunday afternoon.

He managed to yank Prescott into a half-run, bringing him to the front of the building, where they faced smaller buildings and then the storm-shrouded river. Although those other buildings had been maintained also, none showed any activity. There might be a watchman somewhere, but Cavanaugh didn't see him, and for sure, he wasn't going to shout to get the watchman's attention. That would also attract the assault team's attention. By now, they had to be converging on this area.

As the rain made Cavanaugh's clothes stick to his skin, causing him to shiver, he frantically considered and rejected options. He could pick the lock on a door and try to hide with Prescott in one of the buildings. But every door he saw had a barred window. All the assault team would need to do was look through each window. The splashes of water that he and Prescott couldn't possibly avoid leaving on the floor inside would tell their hunters which building they'd chosen to hide in.

With a hand on Prescott's arm, Cavanaugh moved along the deserted, rainy street. The seething dark clouds and the shadows from the warehouses turned afternoon into violent dusk. That'll give us some cover, he thought. But it won't be enough. Tensely aware that he and Prescott couldn't stay in the open, he looked for a hiding place. A Dumpster briefly attracted his attention, but it was full, and anyway, it would only be another trap. Eventually, the gunmen would check it.

"Have to rest," Prescott murmured. Fatigue and his weight outmatched his fear now, making him plod.

"Soon."

Thrusting him farther along the street, Cavanaugh reconsidered picking the lock on one of the doors. It would take a while for the assault team to discover which building he'd chosen. It would take them even longer to search inside and discover where he and Prescott were hiding. Meanwhile, he could use his cell phone to get help from Protective Services.

Possibly the explosion and the shots had caused someone in the area to phone the police, but the explosion might also have been attributed to thunder or a lightning strike. As for the shots, perhaps the storm had muffled them, or perhaps they were common in this run-down neighborhood. In any case, if the police did arrive, they'd be a complication more than a help. After all, since the gunmen had disguised themselves as crack addicts, could a few members of the assault team not also disguise themselves as police officers? Cavanaugh wouldn't know if he could trust them. It was safer to depend on Protective Services. He'd phone Duncan. A rescue team could arrive in ...

When? Fifteen minutes? Unlikely. A half hour? Maybe. But not guaranteed. And how would the rescue team be able to determine which of the several buildings was the one in which they were hiding?

We have to keep moving, Cavanaugh thought. He had his right hand on his pistol and his left on Prescott's soaked shirt, pulling him through the rain. Ahead, another chain-link fence caught his attention. But this one was intact. It had a stout metal gate with a lock. Next to it, a sign on a building read wilson brothers, construction contractors. Shivering from the cold, he led Prescott closer to the fence and saw two forklifts, a dump truck, a pickup truck, and a beat-up rust-colored sedan that looked to be twenty years old.

Please, let there be gas in it. Cavanaugh removed his lock picks from a slit beneath the collar of his soaked jacket. He felt increasingly vulnerable as he holstered his pistol, chose two picks that would fit the lock, and worked both of them, one applying torque while the other freed the lock's pins. Ten seconds later, he had the gate open.

No sooner had he tugged Prescott into the parking area and closed the gate than several men raced between two warehouses down the street. He heard their urgent footfalls and angry voices as he forced Prescott down behind the rust-colored sedan, barely noticing that the vehicle's color was due to actual rust and not paint.

He tried the driver's door and found it unlocked. The construction company must have thought the fence was sufficient protection for a car that looked like junk. The voices of the men sounded nearer. If they get to the fence, if they notice it isn't locked . . .

Rain misting his eyes, Cavanaugh opened the door. He slid into the passenger seat, faced the steering column, braced his feet against it, and used both hands to yank on the steering wheel, breaking the internal lock that kept the steering wheel from moving. He pulled the hood-release lever and scrambled into the rain, hurrying to lift the hood. A bundle of wires led into the engine compartment from the steering column. Knowing the wires he needed, he pulled a safety pin from under his collar, pierced the wires so they formed a circuit, and closed the pin over them. The engine started.

The sound made the men rush closer, their footsteps and voices more audible now.

No longer caring about making noise, Cavanaugh slammed the hood and shoved Prescott into the car. "Put on your seat belt!"

He rammed the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. "Roll down your window!"

Chapter 11.

The rusted car surprised Cavanaugh by rocketing forward with amazing energy. Somebody had obviously cared for the engine, even though the body had been allowed to go to hell.