David Morrell: The naked edge

"You still drive an armored Taurus."

"A sturdy, dependable car. The far-away look you see in my eyes isn't longing. It's nervous relief that I don't live that way anymore. It's amazement that I ever did."

"I don't understand."

"Risking my life for people I didn't know and often didn't like. I used to say I had my professional standards. I wouldn't protect child molesters or drug traffickers, anyone who's an obvious monster. But what about the monsters who aren't as obvious? That stock analyst Angelo and I protected. He was in bed with the companies he was supposed to be making judgments about. He let greed mean more to him than the trust investors put in him. A lot of people counted on him for the security of their pensions, and all he had was contempt for them. I hated that man. Part of me was delighted when a ruined investor tried to attack him. Oh, Angelo and I made sure the analyst wasn't injured, but he sure was scared, and I was glad to see him scared. But that was wrong. A protector needs to be absolutely committed to his client. He needs to be willing, if necessary, to die for that client."

Jamie's eyes reacted.

"Now that I'm away from it all," Cavanaugh told her, "I realize how many of my clients weren't worth risking my life for. They were special only because they were rich or powerful or uncommonly attractive. What made them unique poisoned them."

"Not all of them," Jamie said. "You told me some clients were remarkable. 'Saints,' you called a few of them."

For a moment, Cavanaugh did long for his former life. "There was one politician I thought could have made a difference. Unfortunately, his party chose somebody who looked good on TV. There was a billionaire who told me, 'All my life I've been taking money out of the system. Now I'm putting it back.' He had exciting plans for ways to use his money to improve education. But then he got cancer and died, and his heirs fought over his estate. There was an entertainer who spent significant portions of his time performing benefit concerts for children's hospitals."

"What's the downside to that story?"

"Actually, there isn't one. The entertainer still performs benefit concerts, and the children's hospitals keep getting money."

"Who'd want to hurt a man like that?"

"He has several obsessed fans. Plus, he had a manager who was furious because the entertainer fired the guy after discovering how much money was being skimmed from the hospital fund. In Mexico City, where the entertainer was performing one of his concerts, kidnappers tried to grab him for a ten-million dollar ransom."

"You're right. The world is a dangerous neighborhood." Jamie took a deep breath. "But maybe you're being given an uncommon opportunity to make things better. Maybe you could be the equivalent of that billionaire you mentioned."

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you could change the way Global Protective Services does business. Take from the rich. Give to the poor. By which I mean, hold your nose and protect people you dislike so the company can afford to protect people who deserve to be alive."

Cavanaugh studied her. "It would mean the end of all this." He gestured toward the canyon. He tried not to look at the helicopter and all it symbolized.

"We could come back whenever we wanted."

"'We'?"

"You don't think I'd let you go by yourself."

"Maybe you're the one who's feeling restless."

"Not for somebody else, believe me, lover. But maybe happiness isn't enough. Maybe human beings need to be useful."

"She isn't moving." The spotter stared through his binoculars at where the woman stood on the porch, her back to him.

"I can see his head."

"Behind her? Bullshit. All I see are his hands gesturing to one side of her or the other. His head? No way. From this angle, the porch roof interferes."

"I'm telling you, I see about an inch or so of his head."

"A guaranteed kill?"

"No."

"What about shooting through her?"

"Remember the JFK assassination?" the sniper asked.

"How the hell old do you think I am?"

"One bullet boomeranged all over the place, in several impossible directions, hitting Kennedy and Governor Connally."

"Yeah, the magic, slip-sliding bullet-if somebody's dumb enough to believe Oswald was the only shooter."

"What I'm saying is, I can hit her square in the neck on an angle that I think will go down and out the soft tissue and into his chest. But that bullet might just as easily hit the top of her spine and shatter or change angle, blast along a rib, and slam into the post beside her."

"So you can't guarantee a kill."

"Not even if the bullet does go through her neck and into his chest."

"But he'd be down, and you've got other ammunition in that rifle. How fast can you chamber a fresh round?"

"A lot faster than that dick Oswald. Wait. She's stepping out of the way. I've got a shot. This'll be just like that time in Rome."

"Beta," the spotter said into the radio. "Cut the phone line."

In the office, William pressed buttons on his cell phone, waited, but didn't get a response. Impatient, he stood, left the office, and crossed the communal room to enter the kitchen.

Mrs. Patterson was removing the pie from the oven. Angelo watched her.

"Smells like Thanksgiving," Angelo said.

The phone rang.

William, who disliked pumpkin pie, glanced around at the stainless steel appliances in the otherwise rustic kitchen.

"Get your business done?" Mrs. Patterson asked.

"They're discussing it." William turned his attention to the security monitors on the counter next to him.

The phone rang a second time.

Mrs. Patterson went to the wall next to the refrigerator and lifted the phone off its mount. "Hello?… Hi, Tina. How's little Brian's cold? I've been worried it'll turn into… Hello?… Tina?"

"Problem?" Angelo asked.

"The line went dead."

"Are these men supposed to be on the property?" William inquired.

"What men?" Angelo turned.

"The ones on this television monitor."

Three shots made Cavanaugh flinch. From behind him. From the opposite end of the porch. From the kitchen was all he had time to think as his startle reflex engaged. Even the most seasoned operators, accustomed to bullets being fired near them, couldn't control that reflex. He grabbed Jamie and lunged sideways, seeking the only available cover: the lodge's wall. Simultaneously, he felt something snap past him and wallop onto the porch's floor, tearing up splinters.

Two shooters. One in the kitchen. One on the ridge.

He kept lunging, holding Jamie tightly, turning so his back led the way as they crashed through the screen that covered his office window. The window was raised. His head grazed past the wooden frame. He fell, holding Jamie, banging onto the floor.

"Cavanaugh!" Angelo yelled. Then William and Mrs. Patterson also shouted his name. He heard footsteps rushing toward the office.

But all he cared about was Jamie. "Are you all right?"

She didn't answer.

"Jamie!"

"I'm okay. Got the wind knocked out of me."

Cavanaugh rolled from under her, scanning her body, looking for blood.

"What happened?" she wanted to know.

Angelo and the others charged into the office. "Cavanaugh?"

He drew his pistol from under his shirt. "The kitchen? Who shot-"

"I did. Three bullets into the wall." Angelo's pistol was in his hand. "Men on the grounds. The phone line's been cut. I didn't know how else to warn you in time."

"The eastern slope. Sniper," Cavanaugh said.

"I didn't hear any shots from up there."

"He must be using a sound suppressor. William, I hope you know how to handle a gun."

"Not even in my worst nightmares."