The Protector Read online

  "There's a big difference. You had me to call for help. But a man that desperate wouldn't trust anybody to come and get him.

  You said he's overweight. He'd be able to walk only so far. How did he expect to leave the area?"

  "Maybe he did call somebody," Cavanaugh said. "As soon as he was taken to a safe place, he would have killed the person who helped him—to keep that person from revealing where he was."

  Jamie's eyes darkened.

  "Or maybe he reached the nearest town and forced somebody to drive him. Or maybe ..." A sudden realization caught Cavanaugh by surprise. "He can't let anybody know how he's going to disappear."

  The agitation of Cavanaugh's emotions made him lightheaded again. He managed to stand. "Where are my clothes?"

  Jamie looked alarmed. "You'll fall on your face. What are you trying to—"

  "I just realized where Prescott went." He grabbed his cell phone, pressing numbers.

  On the other end, the phone buzzed.

  "Quick, help me get dressed. I'll need my Kevlar vest."

  The phone buzzed again.

  "Answer, answer," he pleaded to the person he was calling.

  The phone buzzed a third time.

  "We have to get to her."

  "Her?" Jamie asked.

  The phone buzzed a fourth time.

  A recorded female voice said, "Leave a name, a number, and a message. I'll return your call as soon as possible."

  Cavanaugh canceled the transmission.

  "Hurry. There's a woman here in Albany I think Prescott's going to kill."

  * * *

  8

  As Jamie drove quickly through Albany's sunset-tinted streets, Cavanaugh needed all his energy to explain. "We gave Prescott the name and phone number of a bank, along with an account number. After he laundered his money, he was supposed to wire a hundred thousand dollars to a document forger who lives here in Albany."

  Following Cavanaugh's directions, driving as fast as the speed limit allowed, Jamie rounded a curve and entered a park. The motion increased Cavanaugh's dizziness, but he didn't let Jamie suspect, for fear that she'd reduce speed. Nothing mattered except reaching their destination.

  "The forger had a Social Security number, a passport, a driver's license, a birth certificate, credit cards, an entire identity kit and new name ready for him." Cavanaugh took another deep breath. "All Prescott had to do was decide how he wanted to change his appearance: dye his hair or shave it, put on a fake mustache while he grew one, whatever. Once he made a preliminary attempt to alter his looks, the forger was going to take his photograph for the passport and the driver's license, and Prescott would be ready to start his new life. We'd planned to take him to her yesterday morning."

  "Who—"

  "Karen Atherton. I've been trying to remember if any of us mentioned her name to Prescott. I think Duncan did. Only her first name. But that, the name and phone number of her bank, and her account number would be all Prescott'd need to find her."

  Reducing her speed a fraction below the limit, Jamie passed a police car at the side of the road as she left the park. "How could her account number help him find her?"

  "Prescott's hidey-hole at the warehouse was filled with electronics. I'm guessing he's as skilled with computers as I am with weapons. Knowing the bank's name, armed with an account number ..." Cavanaugh's voice faltered. "Are you okay?"

  "Just getting my second wind." Cavanaugh forced himself to keep talking. "Armed with an account number, a hacker wouldn't take long to get Karen's name and address off the bank's Web site. But there's another way."

  Continuing to follow Cavanaugh's directions, Jamie entered an upscale residential district of spacious yards with towering trees in front of remodeled nineteenth-century homes. "How?"

  "He's one of the most natural elicitors I've ever come across."

  Jamie was familiar with the term: someone with the essential tradecraft ability to draw information from people without seeming to.

  "Pretend you work at the bank's account-information department," Cavanaugh said. "I'll pretend to be Prescott phoning you." He made himself sound impatient. "This is about account number five five seven six three. My wife and I got married three months ago. She called your department to change her name and address, but we haven't gotten any statements since then. I contacted the bank several times about this. Damn it, can't anybody down there help? The account should be for Karen Washburn.'"

  Jamie took a second to realize what the intimidated bank clerk would probably say. " 'No, sir, Karen Atherton.'"

  " That was her name before we got married. The address is Four four four Crestview Lane.'"

  " 'No, sir. Two five six Morgan Avenue.'"

  " That's where she used to live. That's why her bank statements haven't been getting to us. Would you make sure the changes get made?'" Cavanaugh lapsed out of the impatient tone. "See how easy it is?"

  "Prescott's shrewd enough to manipulate people that way?"

  "Hell, he manipulated me. What makes me feel especially foolish is I kind of liked him. At the warehouse, he was scared to death, but he never allowed himself to lose control. He did everything I told him to. At the bunker, he wouldn't have started the fire unless he felt absolutely cornered. It's difficult to imagine the amount of courage he needed to try to kill us."

  "Courage?" Jamie looked confused. "You sound almost as if you admire him."

  "Admire him? I hate him more than I've ever hated anybody in my life."

  The weight of Cavanaugh's statement made them go quiet for a moment.

  "The house is just around the corner," he said.

  Jamie turned onto another street with big yards, stately trees, and majestic old homes. A lawn mower droned.

  "There," Cavanaugh said. "That Victorian."

  It had two and a half stories, with peaks, gables, and a long, wide porch, painted white, the trim gray.

  "Park down the street." Cavanaugh eased down so he wouldn't be noticed. "Far enough away that if Prescott's in there, he won't see the car."

  "Why is there a ramp next to the porch steps?" Jamie asked as she passed the house.

  "Karen's in a wheelchair. She's crippled from a car accident."

  "And yet she chooses to live in a two-and-a-half-story Victorian?"

  "Actually, the house suits Karen fine. It has a reconditioned elevator that dates back to the 1920s. She gets from floor to floor with no trouble. She's even able to use the toilet and climb in and out of the bathtub by herself, which is why the answering machine bothered me—normally, she's able to answer the phone." "Unless she's out of the house." "A possibility. But what if she isn't?"

  "Call the police. Tell them you think a neighbor's in danger."

  "The police have a sophisticated caller ID system. They'd trace the call to your cell phone, even though you've got the number blocked. If something's wrong in there, they'd link you to it."

  "Then use a pay phone."

  "How seriously would the police treat that?" Cavanaugh asked. "Would they decide the call was a prank? Would they hurry over, or would they wait until a patrol car was in the neighborhood? If they didn't get an answer, would they barge inside to make sure everything was okay? And if everything was okay but they got a look around, they might start wondering what Karen did with the high-tech printing equipment and the blank documents. No. Karen might be in danger right now. There's no time to try to convince the police. I have to do this."

  "You make her sound more important to you than just someone you work with."

  "She's the sister of a friend I had in Delta Force."

  Jamie looked as if that wasn't a compelling reason.

  "His name was Ben," Cavanaugh said. "He bled to death while I carried him back from a mission."

  Jamie studied him.

  "Karen was his only family. I promised I'd take care of her."

  "Then we'd better make good on your promise." Jamie executed a U-turn at the end of the block and parked facing the house.
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  She and Cavanaugh got out of the car.

  "You can't come with me." His Kevlar vest felt heavy under his shirt and sport coat.

  "But..."

  "If Prescott's in there things could turn ugly fast."

  "I can help."

  "If we had a pistol for you"—Cavanaugh had taught Jamie how to use one—"maybe you could. But I can't let you risk your life when you don't have a way to protect yourself. I'll be so preoccupied that I can't protect you, either. The best thing you can do is stay in the car with the cell phone in your hand. If I call and yell for help ..."

  "I'll floor the accelerator and get to the house. If I have to, I'll drive up onto the porch."

  "Good." Cavanaugh smiled and held her, careful with his shoulder.

  "You were talking about bravery a minute ago. I don't understand how . . . Aren't you afraid going in there?"

  "Afraid for Karen. She's all I'm thinking about."

  * * *

  9

  The sun cast long shadows. Cavanaugh's concentration made Karen's house seem bigger than the others—more so, the closer he came. There wasn't a lane behind it, only the backs of other houses—no place for him to try to sneak up from behind without attracting suspicion from the neighbors, who would probably phone the police about him. Thus his only choice was to go in through the front, as if visiting.

  He noticed that despite the approaching dusk, there weren't any lights in the house. That could be a bad sign, or it could mean Karen wasn't at home, that a friend had come to drive her somewhere, to a movie perhaps. That would explain why Karen hadn't answered the phone.

  But then, wouldn't Karen have left some lights on or have put them on timers so that the house wouldn't be dark when she returned? he wondered.

  He reached the front of the house and proceeded up the sidewalk, passing the carefully mowed lawn on his way to the wide porch. At the sight of any suspicious movement beyond the front windows, he was prepared to draw his weapon and take cover.

  Mounting the porch steps, he felt naked, but because he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't honor his promise to his dead friend, he forced himself to keep going. Putting his right hand under his sport coat, resting it on his pistol, he peered through the glass that formed the top third of the front door.

  All he saw were the shadows of a corridor. On impulse, he turned the knob and pushed, surprised to find that the door swung open. Did it make sense that a woman in a wheelchair would leave her door unlocked?

  He drew his pistol and eased inside. His wounded shoulder hurt as he raised his weapon with two hands and sighted along it, checking the dusky corridor, the stairs that flanked it, a room on the right and a room on the left.

  Careful to minimize noise, he reached behind him and closed the door. Holding his breath, he listened but heard only silence. The house felt empty, but that impression meant nothing.

  Where to start? Cavanaugh needed to think for only a moment before knowing the room he had to check first. He started slowly along the corridor, taking small steps that allowed him to be sure of his balance, all the while aiming with both hands. He focused his vision so that the wide notch in the sight over the pistol's hammer framed the post on top of the barrel. That post had a luminous tritium dot that glowed green in the dark. Invisible from in front of the weapon, the dot was vivid to Cavanaugh, and without hampering his night vision, it helped him line up the sights in the deepening shadows.

  He passed a closed door on his right—the entrance to the elevator he'd told Jamie about—reached the end of the corridor, and scanned a kitchen that included a brick fireplace and a modern stove that imitated an old-fashioned cast-iron one. Turning to a door on his left, he stayed out of the line of fire, twisted the knob (hating the slight scrape of metal), and pulled.

  The house became quiet again.

  Remaining to the side, Cavanaugh inhaled—one, two, three—held his breath—one, two, three—and exhaled—one, two, three—working to control his heartbeat and his breath rate.

  At once, he pivoted into view and pointed his weapon down the stairs to the basement. The shadows below were darker than in the kitchen but seemed to remain constant.

  Knowing that Karen kept a flashlight in a drawer to the right of the corridor, Cavanaugh quietly pulled it out. He crouched and used his left hand to raise the flashlight above his head, pointing it down the stairs. When he turned on the light, anyone down there would be tempted to fire at its beam, assuming it was center of mass. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh would be able to shoot at the muzzle flash.

  But no one fired.

  Again, he listened. Again, the house became silent.

  When he started down, he made a step creak. The sound sent a spark along his nerves. Inhale—one, two, three. Hold it—one, two, three. Exhale—one, two, three.

  He continued down.

  Unexpectedly, Cavanaugh's leg felt unsteady. Then his stomach began to feel jittery. Just athletic reflexes, getting ready for action, he told himself. Just my heart pounding out more blood.

  But at the same time, a vaguely pungent smell pinched Cavanaugh's nostrils, seeming to make his heart race even faster. It was somehow familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd encountered it before, and he didn't dare distract himself by trying to jog his memory. He had to concentrate on whatever he might find beyond his flashlight beam at the bottom of the stairs.

  Halfway down, moving with greater care to keep his balance, he felt his legs become more rubbery. The pungent smell was a little stronger. His hands shook, making it difficult to sight along his weapon.

  Adrenaline's my friend, he told himself. My legs are jittery because they're ready to spring into action. My heart's racing so my muscles will have plenty of blood. My stomach's hot because of all the chemical changes my body's going through, the glucose and fatty acids my liver's working to produce so I'll have instant energy. My lungs are heaving so I'll have plenty of oxygen when I need it.

  He knew that what he felt was a so-called fight or flight response. But flight meant panic, and never once in his life, especially when he'd been in combat, had he ever felt the urge to flee.

  Except now.

  What's happening to me? Cavanaugh thought, reaching the bottom of the stairs. As the pungent smell made his nostrils contract even harder, a deep part of his mind squirmed and shouted, urging him to race back up the stairs, to get out of the house before . . .

  Before what?

  Inhale—one, two, three. Hold it—one, two, three. Exhale— one, two, three.

  But Cavanaugh couldn't maintain the rhythm. No matter how strongly he tried, his breath rate became so rapid that it verged on being out of control. He felt light-headed. Flashlight wavering, he aimed it and his pistol along the dark corridor that matched the one above him. He remembered a light switch on his left, but he didn't turn it on, wanting the flashlight to blind anyone he might confront in the darkness. His wounded shoulder ached while he kept his left hand, the one with the flashlight, outstretched from his body so that if anyone shot at it, he wouldn't take the bullet in a vital area. Because his position was reversed relative to the upstairs corridor, his unsteady flashlight revealed that the closed elevator door was now on his left. Another closed door awaited beyond it—and two closed doors on his right.

  The pungent smell increased with each unwilling step he took along the corridor. His stomach now felt so jittery that he feared he would vomit. His legs wanted to buckle. His body threatened to sink to the floor, his back to the wall, his knees to his chest, his arms around them, trembling.

  Appalled by how his emotions wanted to betray him, he mentally cursed himself. Sweat soaking his clothes, he strained to remember every insult his instructors had barked at him, every command, every painfully acquired lesson.

  Damn it, adrenaline's my friend!

  Forcing his mind to focus on Karen, on the promise he'd made, Cavanaugh took another hesitant step along the dark corridor. Abruptly, he recalled why the pungent
smell was vaguely familiar to him. The warehouse. He'd come across a less noticeable form of it in the abandoned building where Prescott had been hiding. When he'd sensed it on the stairs leading up to Prescott's hidey-hole, misgivings had tempted him not to go any farther and to return to his car instead. His uneasiness had been modest compared to the apprehension with which he now struggled. If not for his training and willpower, he wouldn't have been able to continue up the warehouse stairs.

  Prescott!

  The bastard's been here!

  Cavanaugh smelled something else. Searching for its source, he angled his trembling flashlight toward the floor ahead of him. The farther door on the left led to a storage room. On the right, the farther door led to a bathroom. The one immediately on his right led to Karen's workroom, where she kept her digital cameras, her computers and special printers.

  It was toward the bottom of the latter door that Cavanaugh tilted the flashlight, sickened by the sight of smoke leaking from its bottom and a slight flicker beyond it. He touched the doorknob, which felt slightly warm. A panicked part of his mind screamed, Run! But another part shouted, Karen! and made him shove the door in.

  The fire almost blinded him. But that wasn't what Cavanaugh stared at. Flanked by flames that leapt among photographic equipment, computers, and printers, Karen faced him. Slumped in her wheelchair, the once pixielike redhead was motionless, her hands to her chest, her eyes as wide as any Cavanaugh had ever seen, her features contorted in horror. Her cheeks were so pale that her freckles appeared scarlet. She was only forty years old, but the twisted expression on her face made her look twice that.

  Cavanaugh shoved the flashlight into a sport-coat pocket and rushed toward her, but the flames reached her before he could get near enough to pull her away. Not that it would have mattered if he'd reached her. Karen remained motionless in her wheelchair, unresponsive to the blaze that consumed her.