David Morrell - The Protector

"Your hand's cold," Cavanaugh said.

"I was just going to say the same thing to you."

Cavanaugh looked down at his hands. They did feel cold, he realized. But not because he'd gotten soaked.

It's starting, he thought. He wrapped his hands around the warm Styrofoam cup, but the hands, which felt as if they belonged to someone else, trembled enough that some of the coffee almost spilled over.

"Your adrenaline will soon wear off," Duncan said.

"It already is."

"Do you want Dexedrine to make up for it?"

"No." Cavanaugh removed his hands from the cup and concentrated to steady them. "No speed."

Cavanaugh knew all too well the down effect that the central nervous system experienced after the high of adrenaline had made it possible to perform extraordinary acts of strength and endurance. Already, he felt uneasy urges to yawn, which had nothing to do with needing sleep but a lot to do with the uncomfortable release of muscle tension. Dexedrine would return his nervous system close to the high level at which it had functioned when he had rescued Prescott. But he hated to rely on chemicals and, as always, was determined to go through what amounted to adrenaline withdrawal in as natural a way as possible. He disliked having a client see him go through it: the slight unsteadiness, the yawns. There was always the chance that Prescott would misinterpret the unavoidable effect of being in violent action as a symptom of fear, just as earlier he had praised Cavanaugh for being brave, a virtue that Cavanaugh denied.

"No speed," Cavanaugh repeated.

After the control tower radioed clearance, the Bell 206L-4 helicopter rose from Teterboro Airport and headed north along the Hudson River. Because the airport was a facility for corporate, charter, and private aircraft, there hadn't been a need to go through metal detectors and similar security checks, thus making it easy for the team to take aboard their weapons, which they were licensed to carry in several states.

Like boats, cars, and firearms-to name a few items crucial to the security profession-no helicopter fulfilled every purpose. Swiftness had to be considered in relation to seating capacity, cargo space, and maneuverability, along with how far and high the helicopter could fly. Called the "Long Ranger," this sleek helicopter was designed to get neatly in and out of inaccessible or remote areas and was popular with emergency and law-enforcement agencies, although corporations liked it for its efficiency and comfort. It could accommodate seven occupants, including the pilot, who in this case was Roberto. It had a top speed of 127 miles per hour and a maximum fuel range of 360 miles, which meant that at peak performance, it could stay in the air for approximately three hours.

Its altitude capability was twenty thousand feet, but Roberto's flight plan called for him to stay four thousand feet above the river. The drizzle had become a mist, and now that the sky was clear, he was able to try to calm Prescott by giving him a view of the cliffs and woods along the New Jersey Palisades.

But Prescott showed no interest in the view, ignoring the ample Plexiglas windows, which Duncan explained were bullet resistant. The Long Ranger's seating arrangement was similar to that in the van: two rows of seats, one facing the other. While the seats in the armored van had been designed for their sturdiness in case of an attack, those that Duncan had ordered for the Kevlar-protected Long Ranger were remarkably comfortable, with footrests, armrests, a tilt-back function, and soft leather.

Wearing large coveralls that still managed to look tight on his stomach and chest, Prescott ignored the view, too busy answering Duncan's questions and explaining about Jesus Escobar.

Cavanaugh remained silent. Any remarks from him would contaminate the debriefing. The team needed to hear Prescott's problem in his own words.

In the low-noise, low-vibration cabin, Duncan finally directed his attention toward Cavanaugh. "Anything to add?"

"I got a fairly good look at the men in the two cars. I didn't see any Hispanics."

Roberto, who'd been listening from the pilot's seat, said over his shoulder, "So Escobar's an equal-opportunity employer. The same as blacks don't always hire only blacks."

"It would take somebody with Escobar's resources to mount that kind of attack," Cavanaugh said.

"The way it sounds to me," Chad said, "they'd put together a careful plan, with the kidnappers posing as crack addicts, blending with the neighborhood. If Mr. Prescott had left the warehouse, they were ready to make their move, or if they got tired of waiting, they were prepared to blast their way in and take him. When Cavanaugh showed up, they got nervous that he was part of an extraction team, so they felt they had no choice except to move up their timetable."

"I'll contact the DEA and tell them to plug their security leak," Duncan said.

"For God's sake, don't tell them I hired you to make me disappear," Prescott said. "Whoever Escobar has working for him will pass that information along."

"Not to worry," Duncan said. "I don't intend to create my own security leak. Relax and enjoy the ride."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Where you'll be safe."

The helicopter followed the Hudson River two hundred miles north, passing several waterfront towns and cities, some of which were crested with smog. Beyond Kingston, it headed west into the low, rolling Catskill Mountains. Thickly wooded, they had numerous scenic valleys.

"Look." Cavanaugh pointed toward a plume of smoke rising from a ridge to the north.

"Yes," Duncan said. "It's been a dry spring."

"I've been listening to radio chatter," Roberto said over his shoulder as he worked the helicopter's controls. "The rain didn't get this far, but the lightning did, and that's what started the fire. It's small. They've got it under control."

Duncan nodded and glanced toward the sky behind them. "Is anybody following us?"

The helicopter had been modified to accommodate a sophisticated array of electronic instruments, including a powerful radar system, which was capable of isolating any aircraft following their course.

Roberto tapped numbers on a keyboard and studied the radar screen. "Nada."

"Do it," Duncan said.

Roberto crested a peak and sank into a small valley that was especially dense with evergreens.

"Look down, Mr. Prescott," Chad said. "You'll find this interesting."

The helicopter sank lower into the valley. "What am I looking for?" Prescott said. "All I see are fir trees." "That's what you're supposed to see," Tracy said. "I still don't…" Prescott stared down through the Plexiglas. Working the chopper's controls, Roberto pressed a button. "See anything now?"

"No, I-careful. If you go any lower you'll crash into the trees. Good God."

Cavanaugh wasn't in a position to see what Prescott did. Nonetheless, he knew what was happening. What seemed to be a section of the forest-thirty square yards of it-started moving. All of a sudden, concrete appeared.

"What the…" Prescott said.

"The best camouflage net available," Duncan said. "Even as low as we came, it's hard to distinguish the illusion from the real thing."

The helicopter settled onto the concrete landing pad. After Roberto shut off the engine, the group unbuckled their seat belts, opened hatches, and stepped down.

"Careful," Cavanaugh said. Feeling the wind from the still-rotating blades, he made Prescott stoop.

The group went to the left, toward a closed electrical box on a post among the trees at the side of the landing pad.

Duncan unlocked and opened the box. "We have to wait a few moments for the blades to stop or else the downdraft will suck the camouflage net into the blades."