David Morrell - The naked edge

"It's actually very serious," she told William.

"Fairbairn wanted his close-quarters combat techniques to be simple," Cavanaugh said. "Easily taught. Easily remembered. When condensed to essentials, there are only a few moves. But just as important, Fairbairn's system ensures that the person making those moves doesn't get injured in the process."

Mrs. Patterson stopped admiring the Gulfstream's appointments and listened.

"A punch, for example." Jamie made a fist and pretended to hit the wall. "I'm going to hurt that person, no question about it. But I'm probably also going to hurt my hand. At the least, my fist will swell and throb and become useless if I try to keep punching. At the worst, I'll break bones, incapacitating me with pain and shock. I don't care how tough you are-you can't will yourself not to experience shock."

Cavanaugh added, "So Fairbairn asked himself, 'What are the parts of the body that can administer force with little risk of injury?'"

"Since we're talking about slaps, I assume one of them is the palm of a hand," William said.

"Yes, but when we say a slap, we're not talking about anything dainty," Cavanaugh told him. "We're talking about a slap that's as hard and fast as you can make it. The full force of your body. Your palm covers a lot of area, almost the entire side of someone's face. If you don't knock the opponent out, you'll daze him enough so that when you slap the opposite side of his face, he'll go down."

"What are the other parts of the body that Fairbairn decided were the best to use?" William asked.

"The feet, if you wear thick-soled shoes. You can stomp down hard and break somebody's toes. Fairbairn recommended a variation in which you stomp the side of your shoe all the way down your opponent's shin before you hit the toes."

"Ouch," William said.

"The knee," Jamie said.

"To the groin?" William asked.

"Definitely."

Mrs. Patterson kept listening.

"The elbows," Cavanaugh said. "You can break ribs with them but not hurt yourself."

"You can chop the edge of your hand against someone's throat and not hurt yourself," Jamie said.

William winced, imagining the damage to the other person.

Mrs. Patterson leaned forward.

"And you can shove the palm of your hand up under someone's chin, gouging their eyes with your fingers while you thrust back your opponent's head and…"

William looked more uncomfortable.

"Why didn't my husband teach me any of this?" Mrs. Patterson demanded. "He never taught me about the guns he kept around the house, either. He was a good husband, but he always treated me as if I was weak."

"Now's your chance to make up for lost time." Jamie motioned for Cavanaugh to stand. "Fairbairn recommended combinations."

She crossed her left arm over her chest and raised her right palm to the side of her face.

"I'm defenseless?" she asked William and Mrs. Patterson.

"Pretty much," William said while Mrs. Patterson nodded.

"That's what you want the opponent to think. The idea is to make him feel overly confident and then to engage his startle reflex when you do something he isn't expecting."

Cavanaugh pretended to strike at her stomach.

Her right hand swept down to knock the blow away. Her left hand whipped, palm outward, in a pretended slap across Cavanaugh's face. She mimicked a kick to his groin, and when he bent forward in pretended pain, she delivered a slow-motion palm thrust to his chin, fingers near his eyes, pushing his chin back.

"The slap would have so stunned him that he couldn't defend himself," Jamie concluded. "Fairbairn wrote a book: Get Tough. We'll find a copy for you."

"Which reminds me, I have something for both of you," William said.

They watched with interest as William opened a drawer in a storage compartment that resembled a side table.

He took out a briefcase. "You told me to arrange to have a bug-out bag delivered from GPS headquarters and put on the plane, but I confess I haven't the faintest idea what a bug-out bag is."

"It's something you need when you bug-out," Cavanaugh said.

"What?"

"An emergency kit for when you expect you'll be on the run. Most operators have a bug-out bag stashed somewhere."

Cavanaugh opened the case and revealed knives, nine millimeter ammunition, an extra magazine, an easy-to-conceal SIG Sauer 229 pistol, lock picks, a miniature flashlight, an ample supply of twenty-dollar bills, fake ID, small rolls of duct tape, and assorted seemingly non-tactical items such as safety pins and zip ties, the thin, supple plastic strips that were used to bundle wires or close garbage bags.

"What are they for?" William asked.

"Pinning things and tying things."

William gave him an unamused look. "Right. And I suppose the duct tape is for sealing leaky pipes."

"Or veins."

"Some day, you'll need to teach me about that." William turned to Jamie. "This is for you." He handed her a black plastic case the size of a laptop computer. SIGARMS was stenciled on it.

"How thoughtful," Jamie said. "Everybody wants to give me firearms."

"You'll also need this." William handed her a holster.

"No," Cavanaugh said.

Jamie looked at him.

"You're not in danger if you're not with me," he said.

"You're suggesting…"

"Stay with Mrs. Patterson. Keep away from me."

"The attack team might still try to find where I am and use me to get at you," Jamie said.

"You'll be well guarded."

"See this ring on my finger," Jamie said. "I'm in this as much as you are, babe. There's no way I'm going to hide while you're out making yourself a target."

"It's the safest thing for you."

"I don't give a damn about what's safe for me. If this were reversed, if I were the target, would you hide?"

"Of course not. But that would be-"

"Different? How? Because I'm a woman and you're a man?"

"You know I don't think that way. It's just… if we do this together, if things go wrong and something happens to you… I couldn't bear losing you."

"You think I could bear losing you? You won't get a better, more motivated protector than me."

"I know."

"And I'm good at it, as you often told me. Together?"

Cavanaugh's emotions made it difficult for him to speak. "Yes. Together." PART THREE:

Oaxaca, Mexico.

The movie star surprised Dominic by being polite and compliant, not at all what he was used to when protecting celebrities. Her name was Shana Lane. Twenty-one, with a knock-'em-dead figure, she'd had five hit movies, one of them good enough to earn her an Oscar nomination. But then she disappeared for a long, hot summer. After police, private investigators, and the media looked everywhere, she finally turned up drugged out of her mind, staggering down the main drag of a small town in Nova Scotia, Canada, where she was on her way, she thought, to buy a race horse. Nobody, including herself, was ever able to figure that out. The authorities did some investigative backtracking and found the cottage where she was staying with her boyfriend.

A possessive boyfriend, who was also a crack addict. They returned to Los Angeles after paying fines and listening to a judge's lecture about the pointlessness of wasting a talented life. But despite Shana's determination to clean up her life and sever their relationship, the boyfriend persisted in wanting to see her. He showed his love and determination by burning her BMW and strangling her cat, then vanished and waited until the police became weary of guarding her.

That was where Dominic came in. For an enormous fee paid by a movie studio desperate to protect its investment, Dominic and five other protectors went to Shana's film location in Mexico. Working in shifts of two, they made sure the boyfriend didn't show up. They made sure of something else-that, in keeping with the plot line of a movie about drug smugglers, Shana didn't get tempted to go back to sampling the real stuff.