The Protector Page 18

  "In the first-aid kit. Don't tell me your stitches are coming loose."

  Instead of answering, Cavanaugh took Jamie's blazer from a hanger at the back of the room. Puzzled, she watched him reverse the jacket so he could examine the lining along its right side.

  "Hey," she objected as he used the scissors to cut the thread that attached the lining to the hem.

  He took three lead sinkers and sewed them under the lining. Then he sewed one of the chamois cloths to the waist level of the lining. "Any bulges?"

  "You could have been a tailor."

  "I've got all kinds of skills you'd be surprised about."

  After she put on the belt and the holster, Cavanaugh removed the magazine from the pistol, ejected the round in the firing chamber so there wouldn't be any accidents, and shoved the pistol into the holster.

  Jamie put on the blazer.

  He walked around her, assessing. "Good. I can't tell the pistol's there."

  "Why did you alter the blazer?"

  "Do you remember how I showed you to draw a pistol?"

  "You made me practice often enough."

  "Then I bet you can figure out the answer."

  A patient sigh. "It's a good thing my Wellesley sorority sisters can't see me now." She flipped back the right side of the blazer and drew the pistol. As she raised it, her left hand joined her right, her thumbs over one another, pointing along the side of the barrel. Knees slightly bent for balance and leaning slightly forward, she aligned the sights, aiming at an imaginary target across the bedroom.

  "Love your style," Cavanaugh said.

  "The lead sinkers give the side of the blazer a little weight so it'll stay back when I flip it. The chamois cloth helps the blazer glide over the holster."

  "Another A-plus." Cavanaugh picked up her windbreaker and began to modify that, as well. "I can do that."

  "No, this is work I can manage with my injured shoulder. You have your own work."

  Jamie eyed him suspiciously. "What work are you talking about?"

  * * *

  8

  Wearing the gloves and coveralls they'd bought at the hardware store, Jamie sat behind the Taurus, attaching fog lamps to the back.

  "If I could get down there and do that without pulling these stitches, I'd gladly take your place," Cavanaugh said.

  "Somehow, you don't sound convincing. Fog lamps are supposed to be on the front. Why am I putting them here?"

  "These aren't ordinary fog lamps. They're one-hundred-watt quartz halogens with a candlepower of four hundred and eighty thousand. We'll run the wires to a toggle switch we'll put on the dashboard. Once we get the lamps pointing up toward eye level, we can blind any driver coming after us."

  He opened the hood and removed the air filter that had come with the Taurus. "The standard filter's okay, but this K and N improves pickup."

  He used the plumber's tubing along with hose clamps to alter the intake system. "This'll get more air to the engine and add horsepower. I phoned a specialty car-parts store in Daytona Beach and ordered a high-speed computer chip to replace the one the car came with."

  "Anything else we have to do?"

  "Get heavy-duty shocks. Rig the ignition so we can start it easily if we don't have the key. But first, you have to crawl into the trunk," Cavanaugh said.

  "What?"

  "That wasn't a kinky proposal. We just need to get some measurements."

  "Actually, doing it in the trunk sounds intriguing."

  "Not with this shoulder."

  "I wasn't planning to do it with your shoulder. What are the measurements for?"

  "A half-inch plate of steel to stop bullets from going through the trunk and into the car."

  * * *

  9

  "Hold still."

  "Your hands are cold," Cavanaugh said.

  "Quit complaining and relax. This'll be over before you know it."

  "You never said that to me before. Reminds me of the teenaged girl in a sex-education class."

  "Sex-education class?"

  "Yeah, the teacher said, 'Don't ruin your life for fifteen minutes of pleasure,' and the teenaged girl asked, 'Fifteen minutes? How do you make it last that long?'"

  "Stop moving," Jamie said. "There. How was that?"

  "Didn't feel a thing."

  "See? I'm getting good at this." Using sterilized scissors and tweezers, Jamie snipped and removed another stitch. "Looks clean. No sign of infection." She cut and took out another stitch. "You'll have a scar to add to your collection."

  "Beauty marks."

  After removing the final stitches, Jamie surveyed her work. "Damn, I'm good. The wound's still healing. Here's a bandage to remind you to be careful."

  "Oh, I'll be careful." It had been ten days since the fire at the bunker. There had been many things to do, but mostly Cavanaugh had allowed himself to rest and heal, the effort testing his patience. Despite his banter with Jamie, which he felt he owed her, his mood had been dark. In his dreams and often while awake, he suffered vivid mental images of Roberto's bashed-in head, of Chad and Tracy being blown apart, of Duncan's bullet-mutilated face. He remembered gaping at Karen in her wheelchair, her hands clamped against her chest, her face contorted in the rigid aftermath of a death frenzy, the cause of which he was still powerless to explain. But this much Cavanaugh knew beyond question: Prescott was to blame.

  "We're as organized as we're going to get. It's time to come back from the grave."

  * * *

  10

  The sturdy black man rounded a curve and jogged faster along a straightaway through the suburban Washington park. He wasn't alone. At 6:30 a.m. other joggers were out preparing themselves for the day's stress. Because of a slight chill in the air, the man wore navy leggings and a sweatshirt. The white man who jogged up next to him wore a similar outfit, except the color was gray.

  They passed bushes and trees and ducks in a pond. When it was obvious that the white man stayed next to him longer than was usual for a stranger, the black man looked over and almost broke his stride.

  "Am I having a religious experience?" the black man asked. His name was John Rutherford. He'd been raised as a Southern Baptist. "Seeing visions? Receiving visitations from the dead?"

  "Seeing's believing," Cavanaugh said.

  "Yeah, but Thomas still doubted. He wasn't satisfied until he put his hand in the wound in Christ's side."

  "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't know you well enough to let you get that familiar. Anyway, I don't have a wound in my side."

  The almost-healed wound in Cavanaugh's shoulder ached from running on concrete, but by keeping the sway of his arms to a minimum, he avoided tearing it.

  "I heard you were missing," Rutherford said. "Probably dead."

  "These pesky rumors. Where'd you hear this one?" As Ca-vanaugh kept pace with Rutherford, sweat slicked his forehead.

  "The second in command at Protective Services told me. We were going to offer an assignment to your firm."

  Cavanaugh nodded. The government had several superb protective-agent organizations, including the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the Diplomatic Security Service, but sometimes personnel shortages required that outside organizations be brought in.

  "Seems you, Duncan, and three other operatives dropped off the face of the earth, along with a client," Rutherford said. "One of your safe sites was destroyed."

  "Did the second in command tell you which client and which safe site?"

  "No way." Rutherford's breath was slightly labored as he and Cavanaugh rounded another curve. "If he'd told me that much, I wouldn't have trusted your firm to work for us. I think the only reason he told me as much as he did was to find out if I'd heard anything."

  "And had you?" A dark stain formed on Cavanaugh's sweatshirt.

  "Not a whisper."

  They came near the pond again and passed more ducks.

  "So what's the story?" Rutherford asked.

  "Can you keep a secret?"

/>   "If I couldn't, the Bureau would have booted me out a long time ago."

  The question was rhetorical, the answer expected. Cavanaugh wouldn't have risked meeting with Rutherford if their history hadn't proven that Rutherford could be trusted.

  "Provided it isn't illegal and it won't destroy my career, I'll keep any secret you want."

  "The rumors are right. I'm dead," Cavanaugh told him. "You never saw me. You never talked to me."

  Rutherford didn't reply for a moment. Sweat dripped from his chin as they reached a straightaway. "What about Duncan and the others?"

  "If you see them, you are having a visitation."

  "Killed?"

  "A couple of times over."

  "Who were the other protectors?"

  "Chad, Tracy, and Roberto."

  "God help them," Rutherford said. "I worked with them all. I knew I could trust them with my life. What happened to your client?"

  "That's the problem." Cavanaugh's anger rose. "He's the reason Duncan, Chad, Tracy, and Roberto are dead."

  "He got careless? He forced you to expose yourselves needlessly?"

  "He turned against us."

  Rutherford slowed, left the path, stopped among bushes, and waited for Cavanaugh to do the same. They faced each other. "The man you were protecting ..."

  "Deliberately attracted the bad guys to us. Then he bashed Roberto's head in and shot Duncan. After Chad and Tracy got blown up, he left me to die in a burning building."

  Rutherford's chest heaved as he caught his breath and tried to make sense of the unthinkable. "He worked for the bad guys?"

  "No. He was running from the bad guys."

  "Then why did he ..."

  "Because we showed him how to get a new identity and disappear. He figured if he got rid of us, his escape plan was safe. One less chance of the bad guys finding him."

  "There's a special place in hell for a man like that. What's his name?"

  "Daniel Prescott."

  "Never heard of him."

  "He owns D.E Bio Lab."

  "Never heard of that, either."

  "The Drug Enforcement Administration had a contract with him. He was doing research on the physical basis for addiction. Instead, he found an easily manufactured substance that causes addiction."

  Rutherford looked mystified. "I work closely enough with the DEA. I'd know about this."

  "Jesus Escobar got wind of what Prescott had discovered and tried to grab him. When a DEA protective team couldn't keep Escobar away, Prescott came to us for help."

  Rutherford looked even more mystified. "Impossible. Escobar got killed two months ago. His cartel's in disarray. They're not organized enough to go after anybody."

  Cavanaugh felt as if the ground were swaying beneath him.

  "It must have been another cartel that wanted Prescott," Cavanaugh said, not believing it. The ground seemed more unsteady, his shifting sense of reality making him dizzy.

  "I'd know about that, too," Rutherford said.

  "A second group wanted Prescott. They handled themselves like special ops."

  "The military? Why would they be involved in this?" "I was hoping you could help me find out."

  * * *

  11

  While Jamie idled the car, Cavanaugh pressed numbers on a pay phone at the side of a shopping mall's parking lot. The setting sun cast his shadow.

  On the other end, the phone rang three times.

  "Hello?" Rutherford's deep voice said.

  "This is the Peking Duck restaurant. I'm calling to confirm that someone at your phone number just ordered a hundred and twenty-six dollars' worth of takeout," Cavanaugh said.

  "The MSG you put in that stuff gives me a headache." Rutherford sounded as if he had one.

  "Makes me feel bloated," Cavanaugh said. The exchange was the all-clear signal they'd agreed upon.

  "There's absolutely no indication that Prescott or his lab had anything to do with addiction research for the Drug Enforcement Administration. That's not even something they normally get into. It's National Institutes of Health stuff."

  Traffic noises in the parking lot forced Cavanaugh to press the phone harder against his ear. "You think NIH is where I should go next?"

  "No. Go to the source."

  "If you're talking about Prescott's lab, I spent the day at George Washington University's library. I couldn't find anything about the lab in print or on the Internet."

  "I did. There wasn't any indication of what it does, but it's at—"

  A pickup truck with a noisy muffler went by. "What? I didn't hear the next part."

  "I said the lab's at a place called Bailey's Ridge in Virginia."

  "Where's that?"

  Rutherford gave him directions, then added, "Sorry I couldn't have helped more."

  "You helped plenty. Thanks. I'll send over that Chinese food."

  "Don't bother. I wasn't kidding about MSG and headaches."

  "I'll call you tomorrow. By then, I'll have more questions."

  "Fine with me."

  "Same number. Same time." Cavanaugh hung up the phone, wiped his prints from the receiver, and got into the Taurus.

  "Learn anything?" Jamie asked.

  "Yeah, somebody had a gun to his head. Get us out of here before a bunch of cars rush toward this pay phone, looking for us."

  * * *

  12

  "We had a prearranged code, a signal to let each of us know the other was okay," Cavanaugh said. Apprehension made his veins feel swollen as he studied traffic behind them.

  Jamie listened tensely as she drove.

  "A joke about a Chinese restaurant and MSG. At the start of the conversation, we both said what we were supposed to. At the end, though, when I told John I was going to send him Chinese food, he was supposed to say, 'Don't bother. I've already got plans for dinner.' Instead, he complained about the MSG again."

  "Did he give you information?" Jamie checked the rearview mirror.

  "Yes. The location of Prescott's lab. We've got to assume it's a trap."

  "Somebody forced him to do it."

  "No question." Cavanaugh's hands sweated. "But John knew he wasn't betraying me—because he warned me by not supplying all of the code."

  "Will whoever's holding him prisoner ..."

  "Kill him?" Cavanaugh felt his breath rate increasing. "Once the trap was set, they'd have no further use for him. But I managed to buy him some time."

  "How?"

  "I told him I'd call him again tomorrow. The same hour. The same number. With more questions. Whoever's got him will keep him alive for a while longer now—in case the trap doesn't work. So they have a way to stay in touch with me."

  Jamie looked over at him, assessing. "I've got a lot to learn from you."

  "Look, we need to talk." Cavanaugh peered down at his hands, working to keep them steady. "We always talk."

  "Not about everything."

  "Now here it comes. You're going to tell me this is getting too dangerous and you want me to go back to Wyoming, where I'll be safe. Don't bother. You opened the door on this. You invited me in, and I'm not leaving. I proved I can help. I proved I'm dependable, that I've got the right instincts and won't fall apart. If you want to keep this relationship, that's the price you pay. No more secrets. No more separations. Two years ago, I'd have been killed if not for you. I owe you, and, by God, I intend to pay you back."

  "Agreed."

  "What?"

  "You don't owe me anything, but I won't argue with the rest of what you said. I'm not asking you to leave."

  "Then ..."

  "I need to warn you about something."

  "Warn me?"

  "I told you something happened to me. In Karen's basement. In the fire."

  Puzzled, Jamie waited for him to continue.

  "I lost control."

  "Anybody would have. You had a lot to deal with."

  "No," Cavanaugh said. "Stress has always been second nature to me. It made me feel alive. Except. . ." His
mouth felt dry. "Maybe now it doesn't."

  Jamie looked at him more closely.

  "For five years in Delta Force and another five with Protective Services, I thrived on action," Cavanaugh said. "Physical sensations most people find terrifying were a pleasure to me. I couldn't wait for my next hit of adrenaline. I loved the rush."

  Cavanaugh worked to keep his breath rate under control.

  "I once protected a Fortune Five Hundred executive who was a nicotine and caffeine junkie. He smoked two packs of unfil-tered cigarettes and drank fourteen cups of strong coffee each day. He called the cigarettes and coffee 'rocket fuel.' He said the speed they gave him made him think better and faster and clearer. He loved the high they gave him. One morning in Brussels, while I was standing watch outside his hotel suite, I heard a noise, as if something had fallen and broken. I had another protector working with me, so while he radioed for backup and kept guarding the corridor, I hurried into the suite, where I found the client on the floor. The noise I'd heard was a breakfast cart he'd upset when he fell." "Was he dead?"

  Cavanaugh had the eerie feeling that with each sentence, he was speaking a little faster.

  "At first, I thought he was. But then I saw he was blinking. His pupils were huge. I ran to the phone and called a doctor we had on retainer. Then I hurried back to the client. I didn't think he'd been poisoned—the threat he was afraid of was kidnapping, not assassination. But I had to ask him anyhow. 'Do you think you've been poisoned?' He thrashed his head no. 'Do you think you're having a heart attack?' I asked. Again he thrashed his head no. 'Stroke,' he said. 'Dizzy. Room's spinning. Floor's tilting.' I felt his pulse. A hundred and fifty. So then I knew what was wrong with him, although I waited for the doctor to tell me for sure." "And what was wrong with him?"

  Cavanaugh felt throbbing at his temples. "A massive nicotine and caffeine overdose. He'd been supercharging himself for so many years that eventually his body reached a limit to the speed it could take. The doctor had to give him a downer and ordered him into a detox program." "Did the detox work?"