The Protector

The companion pushed Jamie past the car. Silhouetted by the headlights, Jamie stumbled forward.

"Your turn," Grace said.

Cavanaugh shoved Prescott ahead. As if he were a marionette being manipulated by the strings of a spastic puppeteer, Prescott listed this way and that, his legs barely able to support him.

"Jamie, just a little farther." Cavanaugh watched her stagger toward him. "You're going to be fine. All you have to do is reach me."

Meanwhile, Prescott wavered toward Jamie and her companion.

Abruptly, he collapsed to his knees.

Cavanaugh went to him and yanked him to his feet. "Keep moving, damn it. People are expecting you. I've got better things to do than hang around, waiting for you to put one foot in front of the other."

Again, he shoved Prescott, who seemed even more controlled by a spastic puppeteer.

As Prescott tottered nearer to Grace and her companion, they seemed appalled by his grotesque appearance.

Jamie stumbled closer, her green eyes now distinct in the headlights.

For a second time, Prescott halted, about to collapse.

"Move!" Cavanaugh went to him, once more shoving him. They were now midway between the cars.

As Prescott reeled forward, Jamie and Prescott passed each other. Lips bleeding, she looked horrified by the damage that had apparently been done to Prescott's features.

Almost over, almost free, Cavanaugh thought, praying. For all he knew, Grace would shoot at him now that he seemed preoccupied with Jamie. Everything depended on the next few seconds.

"Let's go home," he told Jamie. About to put an arm around her, he motioned for her to keep moving toward the car.

But activity beyond Prescott caught Cavanaugh's attention. Balancing on one crutch, Grace raised the other crutch to strike Prescott across the face as he lurched in her direction. Meanwhile, Grace's companion aimed a handgun at Prescott.

I gave my word, Cavanaugh thought.

As Grace swung the crutch, Prescott fell to avoid the blow. The crutch whistled over his head. He hit the ground, his hands out of sight beneath him.

Now he's snapping the duct tape, grabbing the pistol under his jacket, Cavanaugh thought.

Grace balanced herself to swing the crutch again.

The moment Prescott rolled to get away from it, his movement much quicker than his presumed dazed condition would have allowed, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

Three shots from three different weapons were so near in time, they were almost indistinguishable as Grace's companion shot Prescott in the chest. Shuddering, Prescott shot Grace in the head while the crutch hurtled toward him, whacking the ground beside him. Cavanaugh heard screaming as his bullet hit Grace's companion in the chest, jolting her backward. A fourth shot, this one again from Prescott, stopped the screaming when the bullet hit the woman's face and dropped her.

The smell of cordite hung in the air, wisps of it floating in the headlights.

Ears ringings, nerves on fire, Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, relieved to see that she'd dropped to the ground the moment the shooting started. "Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He spun toward Prescott. "Are you okay?"

Lying on the ground, needing to catch his breath from the bullet's impact against the Kevlar vest, Prescott didn't answer right away. Presumably, he also needed to adjust to the realization that the crisis was over, that he didn't have to continue to be terrified. "Yes."

"I kept my word," Cavanaugh said. "I helped you. I protected you. Because you helped me, you have nothing to fear from me. As much as I hate you, I'll never come after you again."

Prescott nodded, continuing to lie on the ground and catch his breath.

"If you didn't remember to wipe your fingerprints from the cartridges before you loaded them, find the empty shell casings and take them with you," Cavanaugh said.

"I remembered."

"Use Grace's car to get away from here. When you abandon it, remember to wipe your prints from everything you touch."

"I won't forget."

"Then our business is finished."

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.