David Morrell - The Protector

As the mustached man moaned on the floor, Jamie stepped over him, easing into a chair across from Rutherford. "Don't mind me. Go on with what you were saying while I try to convince myself that I'm still alive."

Cavanaugh's hands had been steady as long as he'd had something to do. Now he had to concentrate to keep them from shaking. "Yes, what happened next?"

"After these guys worked me over enough to prove they meant business, they put a gun to my head and gave me a choice-either I'd tell them why I wanted Prescott or they'd kill me." Rutherford held the wet washcloth to his bruised cheek. "I explained I didn't want Prescott. A friend of mine did. They gave me the same choice-tell them who my friend was or they'd kill me. I didn't use your name. All I said was 'a man who'd been part of Prescott's security.'"

Cavanaugh nodded.

"That got them extremely interested," Rutherford said. "They couldn't wait to get their hands on you."

"Sure. They thought I might know where Prescott had gone."

"I told them you were trying to find him, too, that you didn't know anything more than they did."

"But they didn't buy it?" Cavanaugh asked.

"No way. They put the gun to my head again and ordered me to tell you Prescott's lab was at a place called Bailey's Ridge in Virginia."

"And now four of them, including Kline, are at Bailey's Ridge, arranging a trap for me?"

"They left as soon as your phone call was over," Rutherford said.

Jamie leaned forward. "When nobody shows up, they'll wonder what went wrong. They'll come back here and hope you make contact again, as you promised."

"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "They'll want to set another trap."

Rutherford reached for the phone.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Cavanaugh reached to stop him.

"Getting help."

"No."

"But the Bureau can-"

"We don't know who else is involved in this."

Rutherford hesitated.

"You said Kline might have an informant in the Bureau," Cavanaugh said. "Suppose Kline got word we were waiting for him. This'd be the last place he'd come near."

When the intercom buzzed, Cavanaugh waited a few seconds, then pressed the button. "Yes?"

The security guard's voice was tinny. "Mr. Kline and another gentleman to see you."

"Send them up." Cavanaugh released the button and went back into the living room.

"Two of them," Rutherford said. "The other two must have stayed at Bailey's Ridge in case you showed up."

Jamie glanced at her watch. "Just past noon. Earlier than you expected."

"After being on a stakeout all night, Kline must really be annoyed that I didn't do what I said I would. Now he wants another heart-to-heart with John. Are we ready for guests?" Cavanaugh directed his question toward the skinhead and the mustached man, who were tied to chairs. It had taken the men an hour to regain consciousness. Insistent questioning had revealed only that they were contract operators and knew nothing about why Prescott was important.

On two occasions, the skinhead's cell phone had rung, Kline angrily checking in. Cavanaugh had rehearsed with the two captives, making sure they knew exactly how to respond if either of their cell phones rang. With his pistol to the skinhead's temple, Cavanaugh had watched the man's eyes as he spoke into his phone. If Cavanaugh had detected even the slightest attempt to warn Kline, he'd have shown keen displeasure.

The skinhead now wore a baseball cap to hide his gashed scalp. "I asked you"-Cavanaugh tapped the cap-"if you're ready to receive guests."

The skinhead winced and nodded.

"I'll see you in a few minutes," Jamie said. Following instructions that they'd worked out earlier, she left the apartment. Rutherford locked the door.

Cavanaugh nervously imagined her moving along the corridor, opening the door to the stairwell near the elevator, and waiting behind it. When Jamie heard the ding of the elevator, she would count to twenty, the length of time they had calculated it took to walk from the elevator to Rutherford's condo. Then she would open the door and step from the stairwell, fumbling in her purse for what was presumably the key to her unit, never once looking down the hallway at the two men outside Rutherford's door. The men would notice her, but with no reason to be suspicious of a trap-after all, they were the ones setting a trap-they would soon be distracted by what happened when Rutherford's door opened. Jamie had looked steady as she left, having used the intervening time to practice visualization techniques that Cavanaugh taught her, imagining possible variations to the scenario they had planned, replaying them in her mind, preparing herself not to be surprised. To give her more confidence, she wore the Kevlar vest under her blouse and jacket. It made her look overweight, her clothes too tight, but her appearance was the last thing she was worried about.

"Okay," Cavanaugh told the skinhead, aiming his pistol at him. "Be a good host."

Rutherford had already freed the man's ankles and wrists. Now he untied the ropes that held the hostage to the chair. "Remember," Cavanaugh told the man. "You'll be the first one in our line of fire." He motioned for him to cross the living room. Following, he watched the man go down the corridor and pause at the front door.

"Now all you have to do is make sure you don't give us a reason to shoot you," Cavanaugh said.

Rutherford took his position in the kitchen, ready with a pistol.

Sweat trickling down his sides, Cavanaugh waited.

Fifteen seconds. Thirty. Fifty. Cavanaugh recalled how slowly the elevator had seemed to rise. That the men hadn't yet knocked on the door didn't mean something was wrong, he tried to assure himself. Be patient. Everything's going to be-

Knock, knock. Pause. Knock, knock. That was the pattern John had heard the team agree on-the code that signaled it was okay to open the door.

Cavanaugh's stomach constricted as he motioned for the skinhead to let them in.

At that point, the start of a carefully rehearsed sequence, Cavanaugh stepped back into the living room, out of sight of the doorway. The skinhead would be very aware that Rutherford was aiming at him from the kitchen. Having opened the door, the skinhead would say, "He hasn't called," then turn and walk toward the living room, directly into Cavanaugh's line of fire. Meanwhile, Rutherford would have taken cover beside the refrigerator. Only when the men came inside and started along the corridor would Rutherford again show himself, aiming at them through the kitchen archway. The second man would notice Rutherford about the same time the first man noticed Cavanaugh in the living room. Simultaneously, Jamie would have come up behind them, drawing her pistol, saying, "Into the living room," which she did now.

Caught by surprise in a three-way vise, their weapons beneath their jackets, the men had little choice but to comply.

"On the floor," Rutherford said. "Hands behind your head."

"Now," Cavanaugh said.

The skinhead did what he was told, sinking chest-down onto the carpet. The other two hesitated only briefly before they imitated him, putting their hands behind their heads. Jamie stepped in, locking the door.

"Was anybody else in the hallway?" Cavanaugh asked, aiming at the men. "Did they see your pistol?"

"Two people got off the elevator as I came in here. My pistol was next to my purse. Nobody saw it."

Cavanaugh felt a measure of relief. John had assured him that the people who lived in the building were mostly professional types, not likely to be home early in the afternoon on a weekday. Even so, someone coming along the hallway at the wrong time had been a liability Cavanaugh couldn't plan for.

"Cute," the first man said, peering up from the carpet. He was of medium height, wiry, with a thin face and military-style hair. Cavanaugh recognized the sandpapery voice. "We've spoken before. On this guy's cell phone." Cavanaugh meant the skinhead. "After I took the car from him outside the shopping mall." "You figured out the phone contained a homing device." Like the skinhead, the man had a European accent. "We followed it for hours, until we realized you'd thrown it into the back of a passing pickup truck."