The Protector

10

"Follow them!" Cavanaugh told Prescott.

To increase momentum, Cavanaugh fired one last time, so terrifying the group that, unheeding, they charged through the storm. There must have been thirty of them at least, scurrying for whatever shelter they could find. He urged Prescott to keep ru

Scarecrows ran everywhere around them. Ahead, some ducked through a gap in a chain-link fence. Splashing through puddles, Cavanaugh led Prescott toward the hole. He put his hand on Prescott's head, protecting it as he shoved him through. Ducking after him, he felt frozen by more than the rain because, with just a few derelicts around them now, he and Prescott were obvious targets. The only things in their favor were the distance and the difficulty of aiming at moving targets from an elevated position.

Blam! A shot from behind them tore up pavement.

"Prescott, that warehouse ahead!"

Blam! More pavement disintegrated.

"Almost there, Prescott!"

Blam! A chunk of pavement zapped past Cavanaugh's forehead.

"Move it, Prescott!"

Cavanaugh couldn't allow himself to run as fast as he was able. He had to match Prescott's pace, shouting encouragement, grabbing Prescott's arm when the heavy man seemed in danger of faltering. Even so, Cavanaugh's lungs burned from exertion as they rounded the warehouse corner.

Shielded by the wall, Prescott bent over and shuddered, gulping air. "We did it," he managed to say. "I can't believe we-"

"Keep moving."

"But I have to catch my-"

"No time. Let's go." Cavanaugh tugged Prescott.

He studied the warehouse. Its windows weren't broken. Boxes were stacked inside. Still in business, he thought. As the rain lanced against him, he came to a door and tried it. Locked. Although it was only midafternoon, no lights glowed inside. He didn't see any movement. Not surprising on a Sunday afternoon.

He managed to yank Prescott into a half-run, bringing him to the front of the building, where they faced smaller buildings and then the storm-shrouded river. Although those other buildings had been maintained also, none showed any activity. There might be a watchman somewhere, but Cavanaugh didn't see him, and for sure, he wasn't going to shout to get the watchman's attention. That would also attract the assault team's attention. By now, they had to be converging on this area.

As the rain made Cavanaugh's clothes stick to his skin, causing him to shiver, he frantically considered and rejected options. He could pick the lock on a door and try to hide with Prescott in one of the buildings. But every door he saw had a barred window. All the assault team would need to do was look through each window. The splashes of water that he and Prescott couldn't possibly avoid leaving on the floor inside would tell their hunters which building they'd chosen to hide in.

With a hand on Prescott's arm, Cavanaugh moved along the deserted, rainy street. The seething dark clouds and the shadows from the warehouses turned afternoon into violent dusk. That'll give us some cover, he thought. But it won't be enough. Tensely aware that he and Prescott couldn't stay in the open, he looked for a hiding place. A Dumpster briefly attracted his attention, but it was full, and anyway, it would only be another trap. Eventually, the gunmen would check it.

"Have to rest," Prescott murmured. Fatigue and his weight outmatched his fear now, making him plod.

"Soon."

Thrusting him farther along the street, Cavanaugh reconsidered picking the lock on one of the doors. It would take a while for the assault team to discover which building he'd chosen. It would take them even longer to search inside and discover where he and Prescott were hiding. Meanwhile, he could use his cell phone to get help from Protective Services.

Possibly the explosion and the shots had caused someone in the area to phone the police, but the explosion might also have been attributed to thunder or a lightning strike. As for the shots, perhaps the storm had muffled them, or perhaps they were common in this run-down neighborhood. In any case, if the police did arrive, they'd be a complication more than a help. After all, since the gunmen had disguised themselves as crack addicts, could a few members of the assault team not also disguise themselves as police officers? Cavanaugh wouldn't know if he could trust them. It was safer to depend on Protective Services. He'd phone Duncan. A rescue team could arrive in…

When? Fifteen minutes? Unlikely. A half hour? Maybe. But not guaranteed. And how would the rescue team be able to determine which of the several buildings was the one in which they were hiding?

We have to keep moving, Cavanaugh thought. He had his right hand on his pistol and his left on Prescott's soaked shirt, pulling him through the rain. Ahead, another chain-link fence caught his attention. But this one was intact. It had a stout metal gate with a lock. Next to it, a sign on a building read wilson brothers, construction contractors. Shivering from the cold, he led Prescott closer to the fence and saw two forklifts, a dump truck, a pickup truck, and a beat-up rust-colored sedan that looked to be twenty years old.

Please, let there be gas in it. Cavanaugh removed his lock picks from a slit beneath the collar of his soaked jacket. He felt increasingly vulnerable as he holstered his pistol, chose two picks that would fit the lock, and worked both of them, one applying torque while the other freed the lock's pins. Ten seconds later, he had the gate open.

No sooner had he tugged Prescott into the parking area and closed the gate than several men raced between two warehouses down the street. He heard their urgent footfalls and angry voices as he forced Prescott down behind the rust-colored sedan, barely noticing that the vehicle's color was due to actual rust and not paint.

He tried the driver's door and found it unlocked. The construction company must have thought the fence was sufficient protection for a car that looked like junk. The voices of the men sounded nearer. If they get to the fence, if they notice it isn't locked…

Rain misting his eyes, Cavanaugh opened the door. He slid into the passenger seat, faced the steering column, braced his feet against it, and used both hands to yank on the steering wheel, breaking the internal lock that kept the steering wheel from moving. He pulled the hood-release lever and scrambled into the rain, hurrying to lift the hood. A bundle of wires led into the engine compartment from the steering column. Knowing the wires he needed, he pulled a safety pin from under his collar, pierced the wires so they formed a circuit, and closed the pin over them. The engine started.

The sound made the men rush closer, their footsteps and voices more audible now.

No longer caring about making noise, Cavanaugh slammed the hood and shoved Prescott into the car. "Put on your seat belt!"

He rammed the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. "Roll down your window!"