The Protector (2003) (47 page)

Facing Prescott, continuing to hold his pistol, Cavanaugh backed toward Jamie, helped her to stand, and continued backing toward the car.

"Are you okay?" he asked her again. "Do you need a doctor?"

Prescott remained on the ground, holding himself where the bullet had struck the vest and no doubt bruised him.

From behind Cavanaugh and Jamie, the Taurus's headlights cast their silhouettes. Its engine kept idling.

"I don't think anything's broken," Jamie managed to say.

Cavanaugh reached the Taurus and guided her toward the passenger door.

Suddenly, Jamie trembled harder against him. Cavanaugh's legs felt weak. A pungent smell coming from the car filled his nostrils and sent his heart racing. His mouth became drier. His breath rate soared.

The
metal tube on the seat,
he realized. Prescott twisted the cap before I dragged him out of the car!

As the hormone spewed from the Taurus, Cavanaugh grabbed the tube off the seat and hurled it toward Prescott.
Toward where Prescott had been.
While Cavanaugh had been distracted, Prescott had scrambled out of sight.

As Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, urging her into the Taurus, a shot from the darkness slammed her against him.

"No!" The hormone crammed his lungs. Terror overwhelmed him. Unable to stop shaking, he held Jamie with one hand while he used the other to fire toward where he'd seen a muzzle flash. He thought he saw a blurred shadow ducking behind Grace's car. Exposed in the glare of its headlights, he shot at Grace's car, trembling, missing the right headlight, shooting twice more. The lamp exploded, the right side of the car going dark. But before he could shoot at the other headlight, Prescott returned fire, the bullet passing so close that it made a snapping sound over Cavanaugh's head.

Aware that the open passenger door was useless as a shield against a bullet, Cavanaugh lifted Jamie urgently into the passenger seat, appalled by the blood spreading along the right side of her chest.

A bullet punched a hole in the windshield.

Cavanaugh bent over her. The Taurus's engine now provided effective cover as he ripped her blouse open. Her lung wheezed. The pungent smell of the hormone almost made him gag as he grabbed the roll of duct tape from where Prescott had dropped it. Frantic, trembling harder, he tore off a section and pressed it over Jamie's chest, sealing the entrance wound. Her lung stopped wheezing.

He tore off a second piece and pressed it over the exit wound on her back. Flinching from several more bullets whacking through the windshield, he crawled over Jamie and slammed the passenger door. Then he hunched behind the steering wheel, yanked the Taurus into reverse, and tried to put strength into his legs, flooring the accelerator. As the tires spewed up grass and the car rocketed backward, he released the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel a quarter turn. The car pivoted 180 degrees and suddenly faced away from Prescott. Desperate, Ca-vanaugh yanked the gearshift into drive and sped away, the force of his acceleration slamming the rest of the doors.

Hunched to avoid making his silhouette a target, he was so busy concentrating on his driving that he could barely fumble for the buttons that lowered the windows. He managed to get some of them down a few inches, starting to clear the air, when a bullet blew a hole in the rear windshield. As glass flew, he hunched farther down, shaking as if he had a fever. Then Prescott lowered his aim, his bullets hitting the trunk. Obviously, he hoped that they would plow through both seats and strike Cavanaugh. Instead, they walloped against the sheet of steel that Cavanaugh had installed against the back of the trunk.

Speeding toward the dark trees at the end of the meadow, Cavanaugh felt no confidence from knowing that Prescott had almost emptied his pistol. Prescott still had Grace's weapon and her companion's.

Looking in the rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw the remaining headlight on Grace's car bob into motion, the Sable pursuing.

The son of a bitch, Cavanaugh thought, fumbling to secure his seat belt. I promised to protect him!

The Taurus's headlights entered the trees, revealing a sudden downward turn that Cavanaugh's impaired reflexes barely anticipated.

I gave him my word I wouldn't hurt him!

Trees scraping the car, Cavanaugh struggled with the steering wheel and entered another sudden turn. Looking in his rearview mirror again, he saw the occasional flash of a headlight through gaps in the trees. The car sped closer.

With Jamie wounded and the hormone shocking his nervous system, Cavanaugh knew that Prescott had the advantage. As if to prove the point, a sharp downward turn almost toppled Jamie off the seat. Cavanaugh had to reduce speed again so he could take his right hand off the steering wheel, grab Jamie, and secure her safety belt.

The murky trees vanished, the Taurus's headlights illuminating another meadow. In the rearview mirror, the single headlight rushed closer. Cavanaugh heard the impacts of more bullets hitting the steel plate in the trunk.

Racing across the gloomy meadow, he fumbled for the toggle switch that he'd clipped to the bottom of the dashboard. Instantly, he squinted from a glare in his rearview mirror, the fog lamps that Jamie had installed in back blazing toward Prescott's car. One-hundred-watt quartz halogens, they were tilted up to blind a pursuing driver, a candlepower of 480,000 hitting Prescott's windshield.

Cavanaugh sped farther across the meadow. Checking his rearview mirror, he saw the fog lamps gleaming so brightly toward Prescott's car that its remaining headlight wasn't visible. He imagined Prescott raising a hand to shield his eyes, reducing speed, trying to regain his sight.

I lost him, Cavanaugh thought. I need to get Jamie to a hospital.

She moaned.

Dear God, please don't let her die.

Another section of trees loomed. At once, the Taurus shook as Prescott's car slammed it from behind. The force was so great and surprising that Cavanaugh was thrust forward, jerking against his safety belt. Jamie's head jolted back and forth. No!

Instead of easing back because he couldn't see, Prescott had used the blazing fog lamps as a target. His eyes almost useless, able to see
only
the fog lamps at the back of the Taurus, Prescott had rushed toward them. Colliding with the back of the Taurus, he was now so close that the fog lamps reflected off the front of Prescott's car. Their light filled the inside of the Taurus, gleaming off the rearview mirror, blinding Cavanaugh.

Cavanaugh flicked up the rearview mirror, deflecting the glare. Fighting to control the steering wheel, he felt Prescott's car again strike the back of the Taurus. Prescott evidently hadn't learned anything from the chase away from the warehouse. The vehicle Cavanaugh had stolen had been struck repeatedly from behind--with little effect. Bumpers got damaged. Passengers got jolted. But the car remained capable of moving.

Again, Prescott's car struck the Taurus, its closeness neutralizing the glare of the fog lamps. Or maybe he's trying to smash the lamps, Cavanaugh thought. Needing to reduce his speed to enter the looming dark trees, Cavanaugh felt the constant pressure of Prescott's car against his and realized what Prescott was doing. Jesus, he's trying to push me so I can't control my steering. He's trying to shove me into the woods.

Despite the risk, Cavanaugh had no choice except to increase speed. While he did, the reduced glare behind him indicated that Prescott had, in fact, managed to destroy one of the fog lamps. Then Cavanaugh had time to think only about braking and steering through the trees. Skidding around the first turn, he banged a fender. A bullet blasted through a window. Others struck the steel in the trunk. Then one hit the remaining fog lamp, and the glare behind the Taurus vanished. The only illumination back there was Prescott's single headlight.

Abruptly, the trees opened, and Cavanaugh swerved to the right, entering the darkness of the Pacific Coast Highway. His tires squealed as he pressed a trembling foot on the accelerator and sped north toward Carmel.

Jamie moaned again.

"Stay alive," he begged.

Behind him, Prescott skidded onto the narrow highway. To Cavanaugh's left, moonlight glowed off the ocean. To his right, tree-covered hills receded into the distance. No lights of cars or houses beckoned. He raced around a curve and had trouble coming out of it. The steering felt mushy, as if something was broken. Then Cavanaugh feared that the problem was his tires. If Prescott had managed to shoot one of them, it wouldn't have exploded, but it would have started leaking air, going soft.

Already, Prescott was gaining distance on him. When Cavanaugh entered another curve, the faulty steering forced him to go slower. Rushing behind him, Prescott rammed the Taurus's back end, sending a shudder through Jamie, making her gasp. Cavanaugh didn't dare think about her. All he could allow himself to focus on was trying to drive.

The mushy steering got worse. Passing the lights of houses, Cavanaugh hoped he had a chance. On a straightaway, he floored the accelerator, attempting to gain distance, but the softening tire kept the Taurus from responding.

Headlights appeared. As a minivan sped past, Prescott again rammed Cavanaugh, backed off, sped closer as if to ram him again, then veered unexpectedly into the left lane, about to come abreast of the Taurus.

No! Cavanaugh thought.

As he'd learned from Cavanaugh, Prescott tapped his right front fender against Cavanaugh's left rear fender. Aided by Cavanaugh's faulty steering, the so-called precision immobilization technique caused the Taurus to spin to the left. While Prescott's car rushed safely onward, Cavanaugh found himself gaping in the direction from which he'd just come. Headlights flashing, the Taurus hit a guardrail next to a low bridge, broke through, listed down a slope, turned onto its side, its roof, its other side, and righted itself as it dropped. Cavanaugh felt a sickening shock as the car struck water.

Chapter 4.

"Jamie!"

She'd been jerked against her seat when the car flipped and fell. Now she groaned beside him.

Stunned, Cavanaugh tried to clear his mind. As the Taurus began to submerge, the pressure of the water against the side made it impossible to open the door until the car was filled with water and the pressure was equalized. During the chase, he'd managed to lower the windows a few inches. Now he touched the button that would take the driver's window down all the way. Hoping to shove Jamie through the gap and then go after her, he was dismayed when the window didn't budge.

Cold water soaked his shoes as he undipped the Emerson knife from inside his pants pocket and slammed its butt against the safety glass on the driver's side, shattering the middle of the window into pellets. He pounded the knife's butt against the rest of the window, trying to clear its edges, when a dark shape made him stop. Moonlight, in combination with the Taurus's fading headlights, revealed that the dark shape was a boulder.

Turning toward the passenger window, Cavanaugh saw a boulder on that side also. The Taurus had landed upright in the water in a trough between shelves of rock. On each side, there was no way to get out through a broken window, no matter if in front or back.

Kick through the front windshield, Cavanaugh thought. Instantly he became aware that when the car had rolled, its roof had been pushed down, crushing the windshield and the window over the trunk, making the space too narrow for him to squeeze Jamie through.

The cold water now reached Cavanaugh's knees. As the Taurus continued sinking, the headlights and the lights on the dashboard flickered. Trembling from the cold, Cavanaugh pulled Jamie into an upright position, trying to give her air for as long as possible. His feet felt numb.

Doors. Blocked by boulders.

Windows. Can't get through them.

The roof.

Cavanaugh thumbed the Emerson knife open, slashed at the roof's liner, and yanked it down. The roof was buckled inward. Its support struts had widened, creating enough space for someone to squeeze through, provided a gap could be created in the roof itself.

Gripping the knife so its blade pointed in the same direction as his thumb, Cavanaugh stabbed upward into the metal. Among operators, the Emerson knife had a worldwide reputation as a hard-use tool. Its edge was razor-sharp and chisel-ground, its metal astonishingly strong, its point engineered for maximum durability. Its serrations were designed to cut along metal. It could pierce a car door, and Cavanaugh knew of instances in which it had struck through the fibers of a Kevlar vest.

Indeed, its sharpness, its strength, and the force with which he hit the roof caused the blade to go through. He sawed, withdrew the knife, pounded it into the roof again, sawed, and withdrew the knife, straining to cut a hole. As the cold water reached his groin, he punched the knife into the roof again and again, the impact of the blows jarring his arm and his shoulder, radiating through his body.