The Protector (2003) (49 page)

"Or he could be packing," Rutherford said, grabbing a phone, "in which case, there isn't much time to trap him."

Chapter 7.

On edge from tension and lack of sleep, Cavanaugh stood behind one of the three police cars that formed a barricade at the entrance to the dark street. Increasingly worried about Jamie, he'd phoned the hospital before he'd arrived, but there had still been no word about her condition. Next to him, Rutherford and his team used night-vision binoculars to scan the handful of shadowy, widely separated houses and then concentrated on the one at the end of the block. Perched on a bluff, its low-sprawling profile would have been silhouetted against the whitecaps of the ocean if not for the numerous outdoor lights that glared around the house's perimeter. Several of the windows were illuminated also.

"I still don't see any shadows moving behind the curtains," an agent said.

"Maybe Prescott's gone, and the lights are supposed to make us believe he's there," someone else said.

Despite dry clothes, Cavanaugh crossed his arms over his chest, trying to generate warmth, continuing to feel the chill of what had happened to Jamie--and another chill: fear. "You don't see movement because it's not in Prescott's nature to go near windows."

Movement attracted his attention, figures emerging from trees and shadows, policemen escorting a family up the street toward the protection of the barricade. Wakened with a phone call, warned not to turn on their lights, they had been directed to leave their house via a back door, where the heavily armed officers had been waiting.

"Is that the last of them?" Rutherford asked.

"Six houses. Six families. All clear," a detective told him.

Behind the barricade, next to an open van, equipment made scraping sounds as shadowy black-clad figures put on two-way-radio gear, equipment belts, armored vests, night-vision goggles, and helmets, ten members of a SWAT team looking like starship troopers while they checked their pistols and assault rifles.

Rutherford went over to them. Cavanaugh followed.

On the far side of the van, a middle-aged male civilian, one of Prescott's neighbors, showed the SWAT commander a diagram he'd made of the interior of Prescott's house. The muted red flashlight the commander used to study it couldn't be seen beyond the van.

"How recently were you in there?" the commander asked.

"Five weeks ago. Just before the previous owner moved. Jay and I were very close. It's a damned shame he got sick."

"Any construction work since then? Workmen showing up? That sort of thing?"

"None that I saw."

"Okay, so we've got a living room past the front door," the commander said. "Media room, spare bedroom, and bathroom to the right. To the left, the kitchen, two more bedrooms and bathrooms. A home office. Friggin' big house. These are French doors leading off the living room?"

"Yes. There's a terrace in back. A waist-high wall looks over the cliff to the water."

"What's this area in back of the garage?"

"Laundry room."

"And this next to it?"

"A darkroom. Jay and I like--" The man became more somber and corrected himself.
"Liked
to take photographs, until Jay got sick."

The commander showed the diagram to his team and explained the procedures they would use to enter. When there weren't any questions, he nodded to Rutherford. "Ready when
you
are."

"I need to emphasize we want him alive," Rutherford said.

So the government intends to make a deal with him, Cavanaugh thought.

"Is he armed?"

"To the best of our knowledge, he has an AR-15 converted to full automatic. He also has probably more than one 9-millimeter pistol."

"If he fires at us ..."

"You have tear gas. You have flash-bangs. If you absolutely need to defend yourselves, do your best to wound him."

"He also has a Kevlar vest," Cavanaugh said.

The SWAT team turned toward Cavanaugh and studied him as best they could in the shadows.

"You're the bodyguard?" the commander asked.

Cavanaugh ignored the reference. "I've had several run-ins with him. He's extremely dangerous."

The commander looked toward Rutherford. "You said the target was a biochemist."

"That's correct."

"A wanna-be who thinks he's a runner-and-gunner."

"And who's killed five people that we know of," Cavanaugh said. "He's intelligent. He has an aptitude for this. Don't underestimate him."

"We'll toss him so many flash-bangs, he won't hear for a week."

"Were you told about the weapon he developed?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Some kind of fear thing?"

"An aerosol-delivered hormone."

"Hormone?" The commander gave Cavanaugh a "Get real" look. "Most of my team's been doing this for seven years. A biochemist is almost a vacation after some of what we've rammed into. We've sort of gotten accustomed to being afraid. To handling it, I mean."

"I understand," Cavanaugh said.

The commander studied Cavanaugh
as
if he couldn't possibly have a background that allowed him to understand what members of a SWAT team felt.

"But unless you've experienced this thing, you can't realize how powerful it is," Cavanaugh said. "If you smell something pungent..."

"It'll be his bowels letting go when he panics at hell on earth storming into his house," the commander said.

"I think I should go in first," Cavanaugh said.

"What?"

Rutherford asked. "I know what to expect." Cavanaugh dreaded the emotions he would feel when he confronted the smell of the hormone, but he couldn't let these men go first. They had no idea of what would happen to them. "I've got a better chance to--"

"Look at yourself," the commander said. "As messed up as you are, you're in no shape to go in there. This guy already beat you once tonight, so what makes you think he won't do it again? I'm sure you're a good bodyguard, but this is a case where professionals should do the heavy lifting." The commander turned to his men. "Let's go."

As angry as Cavanaugh felt, he gave them credit. When they separated into two groups and shifted past the barricade, heading through the trees and shadows on each side of the street, they looked as trained and experienced as any SWAT group he'd seen. In a very few seconds, they were invisible.

Slowly, one by one, the lights went off in Prescott's house.

"What the ..." someone said.

"Maybe he's finally going to bed."

"Or the lights are on timers," a detective said.

"You've got to stop this," Cavanaugh told Rutherford.

In the van, a policeman with headphones murmured, "The commander says they'll wait ten minutes and see what else happens. If the target is, in fact, going to bed, all the better--Prescott'll be nice and sleepy when they burst in."

Colder, Cavanaugh stared at the outdoor lights of the now-dark house. He felt the apprehension he'd have suffered if he'd been with the SWAT team.

Ten minutes passed. At 4:40, the man with the headphones leaned from the van. "They're entering."

Cavanaugh watched dark figures emerge from the shadows. Rapidly, they reached the glare of the outdoor lights. Racing across the front lawn, two of them carried a compact battering ram, whose handles they gripped and crashed against the front door, breaking it in. Cavanaugh assumed that the other half of the team was using a similar battering ram to smash in through the back. Weapons ready, the helmeted men charged inside. Strobe lights flashed behind the curtained windows. A siren blared.

The shooting and screaming started.

Chapter 8.

"My God, what's happening?" Rutherford said. "What's that siren? What are those strobes?"

"Prescott," Cavanaugh said.

The shooting and screaming worsened.

"Call for backup!" Rutherford yelled to the radio operator in the van. He drew his pistol. "We've got to get in there! We've got to help them!"

"They're shooting each other," Cavanaugh said.

"What?"

"Anything that moves! If you go in there, they'll shoot you, too!"

"But we can't just let--"

The shooting stopped. The screams diminished as the siren persisted. The strobes continued to flash behind the windows, their pulse so rapid that it made Cavanaugh nauseated to look at them.

"For God's sake, don't go in there until I tell you," he said. "Somebody give me a pistol!"

"You're not authorized."

Cavanaugh grabbed a flashlight from the van. As he did, he noticed a pump-action shotgun lying on a table and grabbed it also.

"Hey!" the radio operator said.

Before anyone could stop him, Cavanaugh hurried past the barricade. He reached the rustic house on the right and moved from tree to tree through the darkness, darting across the big lots toward a utility pole that Prescott's outdoor lights illuminated against the night sky.

The pole was to the right of Prescott's house, and the closer Cavanaugh came to the strobes and the siren, the more he slowed. When he reached the final house on the right, he veered along its murky side and crept through its narrow backyard, where a waist-high stone wall separated him from a cliff that dropped to the ocean. The siren almost overwhelmed the pounding of the surf as Cavanaugh came to a tall redwood fence that separated this property from Prescott's. Past the fence, the utility pole stood next to Prescott's house. A large gray transformer capped it.

Cavanaugh considered climbing the fence, dropping to the ground, and searching for the exterior breaker box, which would usually be next to the electrical meter. A switch inside the box would shut off the power to the strobes and the siren. But the thought of raising his head over that fence and not knowing what might confront him made him hesitate. Besides, he took for granted that the box would be locked and that Prescott would have rigged some kind of device to incapacitate anybody who might try to open it and cut off power to his house. Given the time pressure, there was only one choice.

He pumped a shell into the shotgun's firing chamber, aimed at the transformer on top of the pole, and pulled the trigger, absorbing the recoil against his shoulder. With a roar, a ten-inch gap appeared in the transformer, buckshot reaming it. But the siren and the strobes persisted. He pumped out the empty shell, chambered a full one, and fired a second time, the roar of the shotgun accompanied by a roar and flash from the transformer, sparks falling as the strobes and the siren stopped.

Prescott's house became totally dark.

Wary, Cavanaugh shifted through shadows along the fence and crouched at its end, peering around it toward the front of Prescott's barely visible house.

Hurried footsteps sounded along the street.

Urgent voices came nearer.

Suddenly, Rutherford crouched next to him. "Okay, since you know so much about this, now what?"

"Before anybody goes in, we have to break all the windows."

"Break all the--"

"So the
breeze
from the ocean can clear the air inside, get the smell of the hormone out of the house. Otherwise, anybody who goes in will panic enough to start firing at shadows, and anybody still alive in there will do the same."

Two FBI agents joined them. Across the street, police officers and other agents took cover among murky trees and bushes.

The only sound became the muffled pounding of waves at the bottom of the cliff.

A moan drifted out the front door.

"Tony?" Rutherford shouted to the SWAT commander.

No answer.

"Tony, can you hear me in there?"

Still no answer.

That didn't mean anything, Cavanaugh knew. If Tony was all right, he might not want to give his position away by answering the shout.

Again, a moan drifted from the front door.

Rutherford pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. "Anything from their radios? Over."