David Morrell - The Protector

"He was on your left, but he might have moved! I'm telling you, don't try to come out!"

"I'm not!" Jamie shouted. "But I've got an idea! When I tell you, get ready to shoot!"

"Whatever you're thinking, don't do it! It's too risky!" "Give me twenty seconds!"

What the hell is she going to try? Cavanaugh wondered.

Wary, he looped the strap of his MP-5 over his left shoulder. Then he gripped the MP-5 that he'd taken from the man he'd shot. His rationale for using the dead man's weapon was that the man wouldn't have risked leaving cover and stalking along the side of the mansion unless he'd had an acceptable amount of ammunition, but there wasn't time to remove the magazine and make sure.

Cavanaugh backed from the corner. That was where his shouts had come from. It was where Grace and the gunman would expect him to show himself. Certain that his heart would burst from the rate at which it was pounding, he shifted back twenty feet from where he'd been. There the wreckage remained low enough that if he stood, he could shoot over it.

Yet again, he glanced warily behind him. If Grace did decide to try outflanking him, how long would it take her to crawl or hobble around the mansion?

Jamie shouted from the open door, "Get ready!"

Whatever she's planning, it had better work, Cavanaugh thought.

"Count to five!" Jamie shouted. "Now!"

Baffled, Cavanaugh did so.

One. Two.

He set the submachine gun's selection lever to semiautomatic fire.

Three. Four.

Two explosions startled him. They came from the direction of the barn. Christ, they're throwing grenades at the open door, Cavanaugh thought. Furious, he surged up and fired at the wreckage to the right and the left of the door. Two more blasts went off, the fierce bangs accompanied by eye-searing flashes. Not grenades! Cavanaugh realized. Jamie's throwing flash-bangs over the back of the door.

Two further detonations shook the rubble. Smoke rose. So did the wounded gunman, who clutched his ears and rushed to get away.

Cavanaugh steadied his aim and shot three times. The bullets were all aimed at center of mass, but while one hit the man's back, the other went wild and hit his neck. The third missed entirely. No matter. So much blood flew from the man's neck, Cavanaugh knew he'd bleed to death within seconds.

"He's down!" Cavanaugh shouted to Jamie.

Bang!

Bang!

Bright, ear-torturing explosions on the far side of the barn told Cavanaugh that Jamie was now throwing flash-bangs toward the Explorer.

Bang!

Cavanaugh raced toward the front of the mansion and tried to control his frenzied breathing as he peered around its corner. Then he raced along the front and reached the corner on the right side of the mansion. Again, he checked carefully before he risked showing himself.

Bang!

Even at a distance of seventy-five yards, the flashes of the detonations around the Explorer were punishing to Cavanaugh's eyes. Reasoning that Grace must surely be immobilized by them, Cavanaugh took the chance of racing into the open, staying wide of the ruins, trying to get a view of the other side of the Explorer.

The driver's door was open. He saw Grace lurching inside, her left leg bleeding. He fired at the door, but instead of punching through and hitting her, the bullet made the walloping sound of a projectile hitting armor. Grace yanked the door shut. Her short blond hair and high cheekbones were vivid behind the windshield as she rammed a key into the ignition and started the engine.

Cavanaugh fired at the windshield but only starred it, realizing that the glass was bullet-resistant. He fired again as Grace floored the accelerator and steered from behind the station wagon, rocketing the Explorer toward him.

He fired a third time, starring more glass. Cavanaugh knew that most bullet-resistant glass couldn't withstand five rounds within an eight-inch radius. After that, the glass would disintegrate, allowing bullets to penetrate it. So he held his ground and fired a fourth time, but now Grace was racing so close to him that her glacial blue eyes seemed intensely huge.

When Cavanaugh pulled the trigger a fifth time, he felt the firing pin click on empty. He cursed, hurled the weapon at the windshield, and dove to the side an instant before Grace would have struck him. As the Explorer roared past, throwing up dust, he rolled across the dirt, feeling the MP-5 strapped to his shoulder dig into his bare skin.

Instead of speeding along the lane toward the road from which Cavanaugh had entered the valley, Grace twisted the steering wheel sharply and curved back in Cavanaugh's direction.

Surging to his feet, he unstrapped the MP-5 from his shoulder, but Grace was too close for him to have time to shoot.

He darted to the left.

Grace steered in that direction.

He darted to the right.

Grace pursued him.

At the last moment, Cavanaugh feinted to the left, then dove to the right. Feeling the rush of air from the Explorer speeding past him, he struck the ground, winced, and came to his feet, expecting Grace to turn sharply and come at him again.

Instead, the Explorer sped toward the rear of the valley. As its roar diminished, Cavanaugh heard something else: an approaching rumble. Gaining in intensity, it made a rapid whump , whump, •whump sound. A helicopter. Grace had used her cell phone to call for reinforcements, Cavanaugh thought. Then he realized, No, she'd stay if the chopper was one of hers. She's trying to get away from whoever's in it.

Cavanaugh ran to the Taurus, grabbing a rock along the way. On recent American cars, the steering-wheel locks were sturdy enough that he couldn't break them by pressing his shoes against the steering column and tugging on the wheel as he had when he'd rescued Prescott from the warehouse. Now he was forced to yank the unlocked door open, unclip the Emerson knife from his pocket, thumb the blade open, and shove it into the ignition slot, using the rock to hammer the butt of the knife's handle, ramming the tip of the blade solidly into the slot. He closed the knife's handle halfway and twisted violently, gaining torque from the ninety-degree position of the handle. The blade's metal was extraordinarily hard, designed for this kind of brutal use. After one more fierce twist, Cavanaugh felt the ignition lock break, freeing the wheel.

Moving faster, he reached under the dashboard and pulled down a hidden Radio Shack switch box that he'd installed when he and Jamie had modified the Taurus: a standard precaution in case they didn't have the ignition key. The switch box was connected to the starter wires. A press of a button and the engine started.

The passenger door banged open. Cavanaugh raised the Emerson knife to defend himself, only to lower it when Jamie dove inside.

"Go!" she yelled. "Go!"

Cavanaugh floored the accelerator, feeling the tires bite into dirt, racing after the Explorer.

As Jamie slammed the door, Cavanaugh saw the Explorer disappear among trees ahead.

"Have you still got the pistol I took from Edgar?" Cavanaugh asked.

"Wouldn't be without it." Jamie's breathing was rapid, loud. "Roll down your window. Watch for places where Grace might ambush us."

As the Taurus rushed past trees and dense, shadowy undergrowth, Jamie said, "A lot of choices."

The lane crested a wooded ridge, leaving the valley. At the bottom, it twisted, then straightened, ending at a T-intersection with a gravel road. Dust swirling on the right showed where Grace had turned.

Cavanaugh veered onto the gravel and hurried after her. Light filtered through the haze, reflecting off it, making it harder for him to see. He drove as quickly as he could and still have time to stop if an obstacle blocked his way. A breeze thinned the dust, allowing him to go faster. Then the air was clear enough for him to see that he approached an intersection with a paved road.