The Protector

4

As swiftly as the door's protesting hinges allowed, Cavanaugh closed it. No longer a silhouette, he shifted toward the deepest shadows and took account of where he was. At the bottom of a dusty concrete stairwell, metal steps led up. Cobwebs dangled from the railing. On the left, a motor rumbled behind an elevator door. The place smelled of must and gave off a chill.

Aiming his pistol toward the stairs and then toward the elevator, he reached behind him to turn the latch on the sturdy lock and secure the door. But before he could touch it, the lock's bolt rammed home, triggered electronically from a distance.

He concentrated to control his uneasiness. There wasn't any reason to suspect he was in danger. After all, Duncan had warned him that the potential client, although legitimate, had eccentricities.

Prescott's merely being cautious, Cavanaugh tried to assure himself. Hell, if he's so nervous about his safety that he feels he needs protection, it's natural he'd make sure the door's locked. He's the one in danger, not me.

Then why am 1 holding this gun?

He pulled the phone from his jacket and spoke into it. "Now what?" His voice echoed.

As if in response, the elevator opened, revealing a brightly lit compartment.

Cavanaugh hated elevators-small sealed boxes that could easily become traps. There wasn't any way to know what might be on the other side when the door reopened.

"Thanks," he said into the phone, "but I need some exercise. I'll take the stairs."

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he noticed a surveillance camera mounted discreetly under the stairs, facing the door. "I was told you wanted to disappear. It seems to me you've already done that."

"Not enough," the unsteady voice said. This time, it came not from the phone but from a speaker hidden in the wall.

Cavanaugh put away his phone. A vague pungent smell pinched his nostrils, as if something had died nearby. His pulse quickened.

No matter how softly he placed his shoes, the metal stairs echoed loudly as he climbed.

He came to a landing and shifted higher. The pungent smell became a little more noticeable. His stomach fidgeted as he faced a solid metal door. Hesitating, he reached for it.

"Not that one," the voice said from the wall.

Nerves inexplicably more on edge, Cavanaugh climbed higher and came to a door halfway up the stairs.

"Not that one, either," the voice said. "Incidentally, am I supposed to feel reassured that you're coming with a gun?"

"I don't know about you, but under the circumstances, it does a world of good for me."

The voice made a sound that might have been a bitter chuckle.

Heavy rain hit the building, sending vibrations through it.

At the top, a final door awaited. It was open, inviting Cavanaugh into a brightly lit corridor, which had a closed door at the other end.

This is the same as stepping into an elevator, he decided. The pungent smell seemed a little stronger. His muscles tightening, he didn't understand what was happening to him. A visceral part of him warned him to leave the building. Abruptly, he wondered if he could leave the building. Even though he always carried lock picks in his jacket's collar, he had the suspicion that they wouldn't be enough to open the downstairs door. Breathing slightly faster, he had to keep telling himself that he wasn't the one in danger-Prescott was, which explained what Cavanaugh hoped were merely security precautions and not a trap that had been set for him.

He glanced up at a security camera in the corridor he was expected to enter. To hell with it, he thought, annoyed by the nervous moisture on his palms. If Prescott wanted me dead, he could have killed me before now. Regardless of the insistent pounding of his heart, a strong intuition told Cavanaugh to surrender to the situation. Something else told him to run, which made no sense, inasmuch as he didn't have a reason to believe he was in danger.

Impatient with himself, he came to a firm decision and holstered his weapon. It's not going to do me any good in that corridor anyhow.

Entering, he wasn't surprised that the door swung shut behind him, locking loudly.

After the gloom of the stairwell, the lights hurt his eyes, but at least the pungent smell was gone. Managing to feel less on edge, he walked to the door at the end of the corridor, turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found himself in a bright room filled with closed-circuit television monitors and electronic consoles. Across from him, bricks covered a window.

What captured his attention, however, was an overweight man in his forties who stood among the glowing equipment. The man wore wrinkled slacks and an equally wrinkled white shirt that had sweat marks and clung to his ample stomach. His thick sandy hair was uncombed. He needed a shave. The skin under his eyes was puffy from lack of sleep. The dark pupils of his eyes were large from tension.

The man aimed a Colt.45 semiautomatic pistol at him. Its barrel wavered.

Cavanaugh had no doubt that if he had still been holding his pistol when he'd entered, the man would have fired. Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, he raised his hands in reassuring submission. Despite the big gun that was nervously aimed at him, the uneasiness Cavanaugh had felt coming up the stairs seemed of no importance compared to what this man must be feeling, for, outside of combat, Prescott was the most frightened man Cavanaugh had ever seen.