The Protector (2003) (3 page)

Shoulder-long glossy brunette hair made the beige pantsuit and the emerald blouse she wore perfect choices. Admiring his wife, he moved a chair so that he could sit in the corner with her. The location allowed him to survey both entrances to the room as well as the pedestrians passing the windows along Fifty-fourth Street and the Avenue of the Americas.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

'Perrier and lime."

He tasted it, savoring the lime. "How was your afternoon? Enjoying being a tourist?"

"Love it. I haven't been to the Museum of Modern Art in so long. It was like seeing an old friend. And how was
your afternoon?"

He told her.

"You accepted another assignment?" Jamie looked surprised.

"We planned to fly home the day after tomorrow, so this won't interfere with much, especially since you're seeing your mother again tomorrow. I didn't think you'd mind going home ahead of me. I'll join you in a week."

"But you're barely healed from the last job you did."

"This one's easy."

"That's what you said the last time."

"And the money's good."

"I've got more than enough money for both of us," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh nodded. His protective agent's income allowed them to stay at the Warwick, which was comfortable without being palatial. But if they'd used Jamie's money, which came from the sale of a promising dot-corn company she'd founded during the Internet frenzy of the 1990s, they'd have stayed in a master suite at the Plaza or, at the very least, the St. Regis.

"Why don't you let me take care of you?" she asked.

"Foolish male pride."

"You said it. I didn't."

He shrugged. "People need protecting."

"And that's what you do. I shouldn't have bothered asking." She hooked an arm around one of his. "So what makes this job easy?"

"The client doesn't want anybody to shield him."

"Oh?" Jamie looked surprised again. "What
does
he want?"

"The same
as you
did. To disappear."

Chapter 3.

Cavanaugh got out of the car, a two-year-old Ford Taurus that Global Protective Services had supplied. Apart from its special modifications, including a race-car engine and a suspension to match, it had been chosen because its dusty gray color and ubiquitous design made it so nondescript, it was almost invisible among other sedans. Sunday afternoon, however, it was the only vehicle in this abandoned industrial area of Newark, New Jersey. He scanned the graffiti-covered warehouse: a sprawling three-story structure that had most of its windows smashed. Rust-streaked doors hung open, revealing what at first appeared to be garbage but turned out to be a city of homeless people. As far as was visible into the building, battered cardboard boxes provided shelter. Black plastic bags held whatever possessions the inhabitants treasured.

Dark clouds cast a cold shadow. On the river behind the warehouse, boat engines droned. A tug blew its horn. Thunder rumbled. Cavanaugh pressed his right elbow reassuringly against the 9-mm handgun holstered on the belt beneath his jacket. The Sig Sauer 225 held eight rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. Not a massive amount of firepower, not the sixteen rounds that a Beretta was capable of holding, but he'd found that a pistol containing that much ammunition was slightly large for his hand, affecting the accuracy of his aim, nine well-placed shots being better than sixteen that went astray because of a poor grip. Plus, as the federal air marshals had decided in the late 1980s, the Sig Sauer 225's lighter weight and thin, compact design made it an ideal concealed carry weapon. But just in case, he had two other eight-round magazines in a pouch on the left side of his belt, beneath his jacket.

A chill wind strengthened, redolent of approaching rain. At the gaping entrances to the warehouse, a few grizzled faces squinted out.

Cavanaugh took his cell phone from his jacket and pressed the "good for today only" numbers Duncan had given to him.

As the phone rang on the other end, more grizzled faces appeared, some apprehensive, others assessing.

On the other end, the phone rang a second time.

"Yes?" a man's trembly voice asked, sounding like he was in an echo chamber.

Cavanaugh supplied his half of the recognition sequence. "I didn't realize the warehouse was closed."

"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.

Chapter 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.