The Attitude Adjuster: Three Cavanaugh/Protector Stories Read online

  THE ATTITUDE ADJUSTER

  (THREE CAVANAUGH/PROTECTOR STORIES)

  by

  David Morrell

  He calls himself Cavanaugh. No first name, and even “Cavanaugh” isn’t his actual last name. He’s a protector. If you refer to him as a bodyguard, which he regards as a synonym for a thug, you won’t like his reaction. His hatred of bullies compelled him to enlist in Special Forces, where he was accepted into Delta Force. Now as a civilian, he runs Global Protective Services, the world’s best security company. His goal? To defend the helpless, to keep predators from their prey.

  Following Cavanaugh’s missions in The Protector and The Naked Edge, Rambo-creator David Morrell presents three short stories that explore the psychology of a warrior compelled to risk his life for strangers. “Most people muddle through their lives,” Cavanaugh tells a client. “All I can do is hope that if I keep them from dying a while longer, maybe they’ll find a way to justify remaining alive.”

  In “Blue Murder,” Cavanaugh matches wits with an assassin determined to kill a bestselling female novelist. In “The Controller,” Cavanaugh and his wife, Jamie, confront the dilemma of how to protect a billionaire who refuses to take advice. In “The Attitude Adjuster,” they discover that the Internet can be as dangerous an enemy as a stalker.

  For this special collection, New York Times bestselling author David Morrell includes an introduction in which he describes his training as a protective agent.

  “The best thriller writer of this or any generation.”

  —Providence Journal

  “David Morrell has written more good thrillers than just about anyone else alive.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  "A master storyteller."

  —James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of Bloodline

  Introduction copyright © 2012 by David Morrell, all rights reserved

  “Blue Murder” first appeared in Pages magazine, January/February 2003, copyright ©2003 by David Morrell, all rights reserved

  “The Controller” first appeared in The Rich and the Dead, edited by Nelson DeMille, Grand Central Publishing, 2011, copyright © 2011 by David Morrell, all rights reserved

  “The Attitude Adjuster” first appeared in These Guns for Hire, edited by J. A. Konrath, Bleak House Books, 2006, copyright © 2006 by David Morrell, all rights reserved

  Other short stories in the David Morrell Short Fiction E-series include “They,” “My Name Is Legion,” “The Interrogator,” and “The Architecture of Snow.”

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Blue Murder

  The Controller

  The Attitude Adjuster

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  In my introduction to my short story, “The Interrogator,” I describe the espionage training that I received for my various spy novels, including The Brotherhood of the Rose, The Fraternity of the Stone, and The League of Night and Fog. Part of that training involved being a student at the G. Gordon Liddy Academy of Corporate Security, which had a brief existence in 1986 and consisted of three weeks of classes (day and night, including weekends) taught by former members of the CIA, FBI, DEA and other government agencies. A locksmith, a bomb technician, a polygraph expert, a nationally known medical examiner, a mother-and-daughter private investigation team, an airline-security expert who used to work for Israel’s Mossad—these were other members of the faculty. Plus, a former member of military intelligence whose specialty was assuming identities. And—very important in terms of the short stories you’re about to read—a retired U.S. marshal.

  The U.S. Marshals Service is one of the three groups in the U.S. federal government that specialize in protecting people. The other two are the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security Service. The famous Witness Relocation Program, sometimes erroneously called the Witness Protection Program, is the responsibility of the Marshals Service. The man who taught the protective-agent syllabus at the Liddy Academy had been part of the security detail that guarded John Hinckley Jr. after he shot President Reagan in 1981.

  For three full days, I listened in awe as this remarkable man explained the ethics of being a protector, the unusual mindset that motivates someone to step in the way of a bullet or a knife or any other kind of threat intended for a stranger, a criminal, and sometimes even an enemy. Why would someone swear to sacrifice his life if necessary in order to keep a stranger alive? The unique relationship between a protector and a principal (otherwise known as a client) fascinated me. Through selflessness, a protector has the power of life and death over someone whom the protector might barely know and might not even like. But it isn’t a protector’s job to judge—the mission is to defend.

  That was the first of many opportunities I found to broaden my understanding of protective agents and their unusual code of ethics. Over the years, I received personal training from several of them and eventually wrote three novels about the subject: The Fifth Profession, The Protector, and The Naked Edge. The latter two books feature an intriguing man named Cavanaugh (no first name and “Cavanaugh” isn’t his actual last name) who’s obsessed about the difference between protectors and bodyguards and who, along with his wife Jamie, is prepared to give up his life for the ethics of his profession. I grew so fond of this couple that, over the years, when an editor asked me to contribute a short story to a magazine or an anthology, I always looked for a way to use them, and in the three stories you’re about to read, I found a way to do so. The plot of “Blue Murder” didn’t allow me to include Jamie. Hence she’s all the more welcome when she appears in “The Controller” and “The Attitude Adjuster.” Apart from their devotion to the safety of others, I enjoy writing about Cavanaugh and Jamie because there aren’t a lot of married couples in thrillers, and these two obviously like each other’s company.

  David Morrell

  BLUE MURDER

  “Do you carry a gun?” the woman asked.

  “That’s a very personal question,” Cavanaugh replied.

  “I carry one.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that on Good Morning, America. Now just you and I and several million viewers share your secret.”

  “I have a good reason.”

  “For carrying a gun or for telling everyone about it on national television?”

  They were in the rear of a black Cadillac, whose driver was following a carefully chosen indirect route to their Los Angeles destination. Tinted windows muted the glare of passing headlights. The glass was bullet resistant.

  “You saw the notes this creep sent me,” the woman continued. “You heard the phone messages. The bastard even snuck onto my property in Connecticut and shot my dog. Don’t worry. I know how to use a firearm. Even before the threats started, I carried one. It’s good publicity. A female thriller writer who’s as tough as the bad guys she writes about.”

  She pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta from beneath her jacket, cradling it in her lap.

  Cavanaugh became very still.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “If I pay someone to protect me, I want to make sure I get my money’s worth. I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.”

  “We barely know each other.” Cavanaugh noted that the pistol’s safety was on. Nonetheless, he continued to be still. “And if I were you, Ms. Ryder, I’d get a different handgun.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. This has a fifteen-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. I could take down a small army with this.”

  “Except that your bullets hit to the left of where you’re aiming.”

  “Have you been spying on me? Jus
t how the hell do you know that?”

  “A magazine that big makes the pistol too large for the size of your hand. You need to stretch your finger to reach the trigger. That nudges the barrel to the left.”

  Amanda Ryder took a harder look at him. Cavanaugh was six feet tall. In one of her thrillers, she might have described him as “ruggedly good-looking,” although he wasn’t so handsome that he attracted attention. He was in his mid-thirties and had average-length brown hair. His sport coat, turtleneck, and slacks were anonymously casual. The only two things that might have seemed noteworthy to a discerning eye were that his shoes had sturdy soles and that his shoulders looked strong.

  “I’m told you used to be in Delta Force. Jonathan’s right. I need somebody like you to protect me,” Amanda said. The reference was to Jonathan Kramer, one of the last remaining independent publishers now that international conglomerates dominated the business. Jonathan’s company, Kramer House, released Amada Ryder’s two bestsellers each year.

  “But I’m not sure I want the assignment,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Not sure? Of all the . . . Then why in God’s name are you here?”

  “Because Mr. Kramer asked me to meet with you.” Six months earlier, Cavanaugh had protected Amanda’s publisher when Arab terrorists got the impression that a novel Kramer House was about to release contained anti-Islamic passages. The crisis had passed when the novel turned out to have a small section depicting an American diplomat learning the positive aspects of Islam prior to being sent to the Middle East. That serious novel about international relations had sold a meager five thousand copies, which was why the best-selling thrillers of Amanda Ryder were important enough for her publisher to pay Cavanaugh to assess her situation.

  “Anyway,” Cavanaugh continued, “as it is, you’ve got plenty of security.” He pointed ahead toward a black Cadillac, a match to the vehicle they were being chauffeured in. A third black Cadillac followed.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Amanda said.

  “On that subject, you and I agree.”

  “Almost there,” she ordered the driver. “Make the switch.”

  The heavyset man behind the steering wheel spoke into a walkie-talkie, then slowed, allowing the Cadillac that followed to pass them and shift into the middle slot.

  “So what do you think?” Amanda asked Cavanaugh.

  “The old shell game. Which car are you in? The one in the middle seems the probable choice,” Cavanaugh agreed.

  “But you don’t look impressed.”

  “I don’t like conspicuous vehicles. At Global Protective Services, we use cars so popular they’re anonymous. Tauruses. The ones the Ford racing team uses. High-performance engines with suspensions to match. Armored., with bullet-resistant windows.”

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Taurus.”

  “I’ve had numerous clients who’ve experienced the reverse effect.”

  The convoy turned a corner onto brightly lit Hollywood Boulevard. After years of neglect, an ambitious urban-renewal program had returned many of the boulevard’s theaters, night spots, and restaurants to their former glory. Ahead was a soft blue, art-deco façade and a nineteen-thirties-style neon sign that announced THE BLUE MURDER BOOK STORE AND CAFÉ.

  A group of women hurried inside as the convoy reached a poster announcing that America’s favorite thriller novelist, Amanda Ryder, creator of the globe-trotting investigative journalist Abigail Adams, would be reading from her work and signing her new novel at seven this evening.

  Avoiding the numerous tourists on the street, the convoy steered toward a parking lot in back, where another neon sign indicated Blue Murder’s back door.

  As the vehicles stopped, Amanda’s cell phone rang. Scowling at the name on the phone’s screen, she jabbed a button and told whoever was calling, “That publicity release you wrote was crap. Your mother’s in the hospital? Well, you were hired to raise my numbers, and you didn’t. Now you’ll have plenty of time to visit your mother. You’re fired.”

  Amanda broke the connection and holstered her handgun beneath her jacket. “What are they waiting for?” she demanded to the driver.

  The driver picked up his walkie-talkie and ordered someone, “Get started.”

  Doors on the middle Cadillac opened. Its driver stepped out to assist the back seat’s occupant. Cavanaugh had met Amanda in her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel after she’d finished a day of interviews. Most of her entourage had already been waiting in the Cadillacs. Thus, he wasn’t prepared for what he now saw.

  A woman who could have been Amanda Ryder’s twin got tensely out of the middle car. Like Amanda, she was in her thirties and exceptionally attractive. Like Amanda, she had long straight blond hair that fell back behind her shoulders, evoking Veronica Lake’s femme fatale look in noir movies of the nineteen forties. Her gray linen suit and gleaming white blouse, accentuated by pearls, were identical to what Amanda wore.

  “Let’s see if my number one fan’s hanging around,” Amanda murmured.

  The driver and the decoy nervously entered the building. Twenty seconds later, the driver came out and gave the all-clear sign to the third car.

  “You don’t look impressed by that, either,” Amanda told Cavanaugh.

  “Actually, I’m amazed. This woman—”

  “My assistant.”

  “—was chosen for the job because she resembles you?”

  “Well, she certainly wasn’t chosen for her brains. Even with the resemblance, it took a lot of effort and money to make the match as close as it is.”

  “What amazes me even more is, since you’re setting her up to take a bullet in your place, why don’t you provide her with more protection?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “I’m not paying for this. Jonathan is.”

  The driver of the first car joined the driver of the second car and walked to the third car, where they formed a corridor while the third driver opened the door for her.

  “Wait,” Cavanaugh said. “I might as well be useful.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to work for me,” Amanda said.

  “Call this a favor to Mr. Kramer.” Cavanaugh got out of the Cadillac, scanned the shadowy parking lot, assessed the low rooftops, studied the numerous cars, and hated the entire set-up. “We should have gotten out in front of the store. The street is well lit. There are fewer places to hide. Anybody standing still would look conspicuous.”

  Cavanaugh joined the corridor that the drivers had formed, noting with approval that they kept their backs to Amanda, watching for a potential attack as they hurried with her into the store’s back office.

  “Someone like me should have been here ahead of time to study the people coming in and check for warning signs,” Cavanaugh told Amanda.

  A gray-haired, fiftyish woman, presumably the store’s manager, fluttered. “Welcome to Blue Murder, Ms. Ryder. We’re all terribly excited to—”

  “Count the draw,” Amanda told her look-alike assistant.

  When the uneasy decoy opened the door to the main part of Blue Murder, excited conversations came to a halt. The sudden silence was interrupted by intense applause as the fans out there thought they were seeing the real Amanda Ryder.

  Five seconds later, the assistant shut the door. “Looks to be about two hundred.”

  “Two hundred?” Shocked, Amanda spun toward the manager. “Weren’t you told I don’t make an appearance for less than four hundred people?”

  “We did everything we could. We put up signs, sent out notices, paid for ads in the newspapers, and promoted it in our online newsletter. But with competition from cheaper-priced stores on the Internet, people don’t want to pay full price for hardbacks and—”

  “I risked my life to come here for a lousy two hundred people?”

  “They’re eager to hear you speak.”

  “My royalties would only be a thousand dollars. No way.” Amanda motioned fiercely for everybody to leave.

  The apprehensive look-alike opened the
door to see if the parking lot remained safe. Her solitary guard followed.

  “No,” Cavanaugh told the others. “We all go out first to provide cover.”

  “Quit wasting my time,” Amanda told him. “We already know the creep isn’t there.”

  With a caustic look, Cavanaugh led the other men outside, where they formed a corridor, permitting the look-alike to get safely into the middle Cadillac.

  “See.” Amanda stepped into view and pushed past them, heading toward the rear car. “He’s nowhere around.”

  As Cavanaugh hurried to catch up to her, a bullet whacked the brick wall above Amanda’s head. Hearing a shot echo across the parking lot, Cavanaugh dropped her to the pavement a moment before a second bullet struck the wall. Ears ringing, he dragged her into the rear Cadillac. A third bullet slammed the wall, chunks flying. Only then did the drivers overcome their shock, two of them ducking back into the store while the third man ran to get behind the steering wheel of Amanda’s car.

  “I’m driving,” Cavanaugh told him. Outside the Cadillac, he took the keys and shoved the man into the passenger seat. He hurried into the front seat, rammed the gearshift into reverse, sped backward, hit the brakes, and twisted the steering wheel, spinning the car 180 degrees in the so-called bootlegger’s turn. Now facing the exit, he shoved the gearshift into drive and raced from the parking lot. If a hostile car had been blocking his way, he knew how to crash through by hitting the side of the rear fender and pivoting the car away from him. But the exit was clear, except for traffic on the side street, which parted as Cavanaugh blared the Cadillac’s horn. He slid smoothly into the sudden gap between vehicles and sped along the side street, away from Hollywood Boulevard.