David Morrell - The Protector

"Out!" Cavanaugh told him.

With his gloved hands on the steering wheel, the frightened skinhead glanced toward the pistol on the seat.

"Out!" Cavanaugh shouted.

Terrified, the skinhead continued to stare at the pistol on the seat.

Cavanaugh pulled the Sig's trigger and blew a hole in the ceiling.

Flinching, the skinhead hurried from the car.

"Run!" Cavanaugh fired above the driver's bare scalp, making him race faster through the rain as he headed along the side of the mall.

"Prescott, get in!"

As Prescott obeyed, Cavanaugh ran around to the open driver's door, but before he got in, he grabbed the cigarette lighter off the seat.

He ignited it and threw it under the back of the sedan, where the lighter was protected from the rain and where gasoline from the perforated fuel tank had pooled. Immediately, vapor erupted into flames that spread along the bottom of the sedan. He hurried into the black car, put the gearshift into drive, and sped away.

Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw the rusted sedan heave as its gas tank, filled mostly with fumes, detonated. It didn't explode, contrary to popular belief. No huge fireball. No roar as if tons of TNT had gone off. Just a whump and an energetic burst of flame. In fact, if the gas tank had contained mostly fuel, there wouldn't have been enough oxygen for it to explode. The car would have kept burning only on the outside.

Taking one last look at his rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw three angry men charge out of the mall. It seemed to him that, like the skinhead driver, they wore gloves. Then he reached the street beyond the parking lot and couldn't see them any longer.

He sped toward the ramp that led back to the highway. It was a luxury to have a car with an intact windshield and two functioning wipers.

Prescott's bulky chest heaved. He clamped his hands to it.

"Are you all right?" Cavanaugh accessed the highway, staying in the right lane, trying to blend with traffic. "You're not having a heart attack, are you?"

"No. Just can't get my… Out of breath."

"Out of condition," Cavanaugh said. "You've got to take better care of yourself." To calm Prescott, Cavanaugh prompted him to imagine a future scenario, one in which he'd be safe. "After we make you disappear, you'll have plenty of chances to get some exercise."

"Exercise. Even that would be welcome."

In the distance, yet another group of sirens wailed. Although Cavanaugh wanted to get to the Teterboro airport as fast as possible, he kept his speed under the limit so he wouldn't attract attention.

"It's good to be somewhere dry." Again Cavanaugh was trying to calm Prescott.

"And warm."

"Yes." Cavanaugh's wet clothes were cold against his skin. The driver had kept the car's heater on. Cavanaugh felt air from it waft over him.

Prescott shivered.

"Turn the heater up," Cavanaugh said. "Adjust the blower as high as it'll go."

Hands shaking, Prescott fumbled at the controls on the dashboard. "You set fire to the car as-what, a distraction?"

"Partly. The police will have to waste time while they deal with the fire and try to figure out what happened."

"You said 'partly.' " Prescott's puffy forehead wrinkled. "You had another reason?"

"Our fingerprints." Cavanaugh again checked his rearview mirror. "Originally, I planned to abandon the car in the parking lot. It wouldn't have been noticed for a while. We'd have had a chance to wipe our prints before we ran from the area and called for help. But then the other car showed up and… This way, with the fire, we don't have to worry about our prints. Believe me, the police would have dusted for them, and they would have been able to identify us. Not a good idea when you want to disappear and I want to stay invisible." "Cavanaugh." "What?"

"I don't know your first name."

"I don't have one. Cavanaugh is the only name I go by. A work name. I never give my real name. It would endanger the people I protect."

"A pseudonym?"

"You know some of the trade jargon?" Relieved that Prescott's breathing was less agitated, Cavanaugh didn't mind distracting him by answering harmless questions. "One way for an opponent to get at a client would be to learn the identities of the client's protector's."

"What would that accomplish?"

"The opponent could discover where the protectors live, whether they have relatives and so on. You see the liability?"

Prescott's ample chin wavered as he nodded. "The opponent could kill the bodyguards where they live, when they're off duty, when they're not as alert."

"And the new team the client hires wouldn't be up to speed on how to maintain his security. The client becomes a viable target," Cavanaugh said.

Prescott nodded again. "Or else the opponent kidnaps the bodyguards' relatives and puts pressure on the bodyguards to lessen the client's security."

"You catch on quick. People close to me can't be threatened if the bad guys don't know who the people close to me are. Because the bad guys don't know who I am," Cavanaugh said.

"You have a family?"

"No," Cavanaugh replied, lying. "You referred to 'bodyguards.' That's not what I am."

"Then…?"

"The technical term is protective agent."

"What's the distinction?"

"Bodyguards are thugs. They're what mobsters use. Crude muscle."

"But what you do, as you've proven, requires sophisticated talents. Thank you. What you went through to save me is the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"No," Cavanaugh said. "Not brave."

"I can't think what else to call it."

"Conditioned."

Between them, the skinhead's cell phone buzzed.

Prescott flinched.

The phone buzzed again.

"Press the answer button," Cavanaugh said. "Then give it to me."

Uneasy, Prescott obeyed.

Steering expertly with his left hand, Cavanaugh held the phone against his right ear. "Pizza Hut."

"Cute,"a sandpapery voice said.

"Thanks."

"Not the Pizza Hut thing. I meant about setting fire to your car and stealing ours."

"I know what you meant."

Prescott watched intently, trying to figure out what Ca-vanaugh was hearing.

"This won't stop us. We'll keep coming," the voice said. "I expect that," Cavanaugh said into the phone. "You're not a cop. You'd have called for backup. Instead, you kept clear of police cars. You must be private security. Give it up. You're way out of your league."

"Gee, I thought I'd done pretty good so far." "Did Prescott tell you who you're dealing with?" "He hasn't had time to tell me anything," Cavanaugh lied. The transmission was weak. The shots had made his ears ring enough that he had to press the phone tighter against his ear so he could distinguish what the voice said next.

"If you don't know anything, we can cut you some slack. Give him to us, and we'll let you go."

"Say it again, this time as if you mean it." The voice sounded weary. "You'd be dead now if you hadn't been near Prescott. This has to be the only time the guy we were after was a shield for his bodyguard." "Protector." "What?"

"I'm not a bodyguard."

"Whatever." The voice became harsher. "The next time I see you, you'd better pray you're close to Prescott. Otherwise, I'll put a bullet through your head. Does that sound like I mean it?" "Is that the reason you phoned? To make cheap threats?" The voice became silent.

Cavanaugh suddenly understood what was going on. "Lots of cheese, right?" "What?"

"Your pizza will be ready in fifteen minutes." Cavanaugh risked taking his eyes off the road long enough to press the disconnect button.

A pickup truck loaded with junk drove past him. He lowered his window and tossed the phone into the back of the truck.