The Protector (2003) (44 page)

"You didn't come here to do that. Otherwise, you'd have pulled the trigger by now."

"Then why
did
I come here?"

"To talk to me." Cavanaugh struggled to control his breathing.

Again, the only sounds were the surf and the idling engine.

"Keep your hands on your knees. Keep looking at the water," Prescott said.

As the breeze strengthened, Cavanaugh heard footsteps on pebbles. To his right, a solid-looking figure appeared in his peripheral vision, coming around to a boulder a careful distance from him. Prescott had a jacket over his hands, concealing what Cavanaugh assumed was a handgun. "You seem to be alone."

"You had plenty of time to watch the garage. You know I was the only person keeping tabs on the Porsche."

"What did you put on the car's handle?"

"You had
that
good a look at me?"

"I hid small video cameras at the top of various support beams in the garage. They're tiny. Battery-powered. Barely noticeable. The Internet's crammed with advertising for them: 'Check up on your baby-sitter. See your neighbor's teenaged daughter sunbathing.' I watched the images on monitors in a van on the garage's lower level."

"Then you're aware I don't have help."

"What
did you put on the car's handle?"

"A knockout chemical that works on skin contact."

"Why are you doing this alone? Why didn't you tell the government where you'd found me?"

"Because the government would make a deal with you, in exchange for your testimony against the military officials who hired you to develop the hormone."

"You learned about that?"

"I assume the only reason you're not using it on me now is that the breeze coming ashore would carry it away before it did anything to me."

"Who told you about it?"

"A man who called himself Kline. He led the team that tried to kidnap you."

"I know who Kline is." Prescott's voice hardened.

"You don't need to worry about him anymore. He's dead."

"Because of you?"

"No. A woman I call Grace was responsible for that."

"Grace?"

"Five feet ten. Blue eyes. Short blond hair. Looks like she goes to the gym a lot. Could be attractive if she weren't so disagreeable."

"1 know Grace also. Her real name's Alicia."

"Seems too feminine for her."

"If you're a female trained in an experimental special-ops program, I suspect you lose some of your femininity."

The sun was almost gone. As shadows turned to dusk, Cavanaugh understood why Prescott had left his car's engine idling. The headlights were on, glaring at them. Prescott wanted to avoid depleting the car's battery.

"She's the one who gave me the knockout chemical I put on your door handle."

"I'm pleased you said that."

"Oh?"

"I doubt your skills extend to laboratories and formulas. Someone must have given you the knockout chemical. It goes against your claim to be working alone."

"I'm not working with Grace, believe me."

"Convince me."

"I have . . ." With effort, Cavanaugh broke his rule of never revealing personal details. "A wife."

"You told me you didn't have a family."

"Imagine that," Cavanaugh said. "Normally, I keep her away from my business. But after what happened at the bunker, she was the only person I could call for help. She came to Carmel with me. Yesterday, Grace kidnapped her. If I don't deliver your corpse, my wife will"--the word caught in his throat--"die."

"A powerful incentive to kill me."

"To the contrary." Spray from the surf sprinkled Cavanaugh's face, but his cheeks were so fear-numbed, he barely felt it. "If I delivered your body, what motive would Grace have to release my wife? Grace has every reason to hate me. I crippled her and eliminated her team." "Crippled her?"

"Shot her leg. Put her on crutches. Her controllers have practically disowned her."

"Yes, all of that would definitely have annoyed her," Prescott said.

"So I suspect that if I deliver your corpse, she'll use my wife to pay me back for all the trouble I've caused her." "Likely."

"I want you to help me," Cavanaugh said. The surf pounded. The engine idled. The headlights glared. "Excuse me?" Prescott asked.

"I have a way to solve both our problems." Cavanaugh's chest cramped.

"Keep talking."

"My wife means more to me than anything else in the world." "More than your five dead friends?"

"More than
anything.
If something happened to her, I don't know how I could . . . Help me get her back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me. I'll never harm you. I'll never allow anyone else to harm you, either."

"You'll be my protector again?" Prescott scoffed. "And just how am I supposed to help you?"

"By solving
your
problem at the same time I solve
mine.
I phone Grace and tell her I've got you but that I'm keeping you alive until she releases my wife. I arrange for an exchange. You walk to Grace while my wife walks to me. What Grace doesn't realize is, you're not my prisoner--you're my ally." "Why won't she suspect?"

"Because she knows I came all this way to get you. Because she believes you and I are enemies." "And aren't we?" "Not if you help me."

"What's to keep her from shooting me the moment I step into view?"

"She'll want the personal satisfaction of being close to you before she harms you. But just in case, you'll be wearing a Kevlar vest I've got in my car. Grace has seen you only when you're heavy. Because you've lost so much weight, the bulk of the vest will make you look closer to the way you used to be. It won't attract attention. It won't make her suspicious. I'll pretend to rough you up before I shove you over to her. I'll subdue her suspicions even further by making it look as if your hands are tied. But the binding won't be secure, and the moment you're close enough ... Do you know how to use that pistol you've got under your jacket?"

"Every morning, I practice at an indoor range in Monterey."

Cavanaugh didn't bother to point out that shooting a target was quite different from mustering the resolve to shoot a human being. As Prescott had repeatedly demonstrated, he had no hesitation about killing. "The moment you're close enough to Grace, you break the bindings on your hands, draw your pistol, and shoot her."

"Easy to say. But suppose she has help?"

"In fact, she does. One other operator. She claims she's been so disowned that she can't find more help than that."

"She could be lying."

"We pick a trade-off spot we can get to before
they
can. That way, we can watch for surprises. No matter what happens, you've got me to protect you."

"You're actually serious about this?" Prescott asked.

"Grace hates you so much, she'll never stop hunting you. You'll never feel safe. You'll always hear footsteps behind you. If you want to keep your new identity, you've got to stop her. Help me get my wife back, and I'll help you get rid of Grace."

"And afterward? If we're successful, if you get your wife back, you won't do anything to harm me?"

"That's right," Cavanaugh said.

"In spite of what I did to your team? That's one hell of a leap of faith. Give me a reason to believe you."

"I'll give you the best reason in the world," Cavanaugh said. "My word."

For the first time, Cavanaugh took his gaze away from the dark horizon. In the glare of the headlights, he turned and looked squarely at Prescott, at the almost unrecognizable mannish features, the pronounced cheeks and jaw, the goatee, the shaved head, and the developed shoulders.

"I give you my word. Help me get my wife back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me."

"Your
word?"
Prescott made it sound like a brand-new concept.

"And my love for my wife."

"How do I know this wife even exists? How can I be sure this isn't some trick?"

"I could have shot you in the parking lot outside the exercise club. I kept you alive because we need each other."

Prescott's dark eyes reacted.

"But if that's not good enough, will you believe Grace?" Cavanaugh asked. "The phone at the motel where I'm staying has a speaker function. When I call Grace and you hear her voice, when she talks about my wife, will you believe me then?"

Chapter 22.

His handgun aimed beneath the jacket in his hands, Prescott followed Cavanaugh into the motel room, then told him to lock the door and close the curtains. Cavanaugh moved carefully, keeping his hands away from his sides, even though he had left his pistol and his Emerson knife in the Taurus, as Prescott had instructed.

With the curtains closed, Prescott put his jacket on a chair, revealing that he'd followed Cavanaugh's example, even to the extent that his pistol was the same kind he'd seen Cavanaugh carrying: a Sig Sauer 225.

"This is how we met," Cavanaugh said, "with you pointing a handgun at me."

The pupils of Prescott's eyes were as huge and dark as they'd been at the warehouse.

"Remember the conversation we had about adrenaline?" Cavanaugh asked.

Prescott nodded, drawing his tongue along his lips. "At the bunker."

"I told you that someone who masters adrenaline, who prefers the 'fight' option, can't be called brave. But someone like you, who somehow functions in spite of being afraid, who wants to run away but instead faces his threats head-on, is brave."

"Don't flatter me. All I want is to be free of my enemies."

Cavanaugh pointed toward the bureau. "I'm going to open this drawer and show you something."

"Do it slowly."

Using only the fingertips of his left hand, Cavanaugh pulled out the drawer. "Bras. Panties. I gave up cross-dressing a long time ago."

"What?" Prescott's cheeks turned red.

"In the bathroom, you'll find a woman's toilet kit. Hair spray. Lipstick. Facial cream. A dinky razor. I don't want you to have any doubt that I'm traveling with a woman."

"All right, I'm convinced," Prescott said, uncomfortable. "The question is, Has she been kidnapped?"

From his shirt pocket, Cavanaugh removed the piece of paper Grace had given him. He went over to the bedside phone, touched 9 for an outside line, touched the button to activate the phone's speaker function, then called the cell phone Grace had said she'd be using.

Sitting on beds across from each other, he and Prescott, who still had the pistol aimed at Cavanaugh, listened to a buzz.

A second buzz.

Just as Cavanaugh started to worry that Grace would be out of touch, a stern female voice answered, "Hello."

Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, as if to ask, Do you recognize it?

Prescott's lips became pale.

The cell phone reception had some static. Good, Cavanaugh thought. She won't notice the slightly hollow sound a speaker phone causes.

"It's me," Cavanaugh said.

"I hope you're calling with good news."

"I've got Prescott."

"Dead?"

"I want to hear my wife's voice."

"I asked you if he's dead."

"And
I
said I want to hear my wife's voice."

Cavanaugh heard more static, then muffled, annoyed voices in the background.

At once, Grace's sharp voice returned, saying, "Tell him you're okay."

No response.

"For Christ's sake,
tell
him!"

"I'm"--Jamie's pain-tight voice made Cavanaugh's throat ache in sympathy--"all right."

"There," Grace intruded. "She's fine. Now what about Prescott?"