The Protector

9

Rusted metal buckled. The end of the catwalk scraped downward against the wall, tilting, forming a slide, down which Cavanaugh and Prescott struggled not to fall.

"Grab the railing!" Cavanaugh yelled.

For once, Prescott didn't need prompting. Even in the gray light, it was obvious how white his knuckles were from the force with which he gripped the railing.

Metal protesting, the catwalk tilted lower, more steeply.

"Pretend the railing's a rope!" Cavanaugh ordered. "Climb down hand over hand!"

With a shuddering clang, the end of the catwalk slammed to a halt on the shadowy second floor. The force with which it struck almost yanked Cavanaugh's hands off the railing.

He and Prescott hung at a forty-five-degree angle.

Cavanaugh worried about the gunmen in the room above. He hoped that the shadows made him and Prescott hard to aim at. But what about the man who'd shouted from below?

"Prescott, forget trying to climb down! Dig your heels against the metal and slide!"

Prescott's face was stark.

"Now!" Cavanaugh said. "Watch me!"

He used his shoes as brakes while he slid down on his hips, using his hands on the railing to guide him. Gratified, he heard scrapes behind him as Prescott did his best to follow.

Gunshots reverberated through the warehouse. Bullets from the room they'd left blew chunks from the wall.

At once, Prescott needed no further encouragement. He slid down so rapidly that his shoes bumped against Cavanaugh. In turn, Cavanaugh slid faster, feeling the seat of his pants threaten to tear as Prescott's shoes bumped harder against him, and Cavanaugh slid even faster.

He tumbled onto the wet floor, rolling free just before Prescott slammed to a halt. But before Cavanaugh could check that Prescott was all right, he drew his weapon and crouched, on guard against the man who'd yelled from below the catwalk.

A wall seemed to move. Immediately, Cavanaugh realized it was derelicts cowering in the shadows. He saw huge boxes where they slept and garbage bags filled with God knew what. The stench of urine and feces was overwhelming.

A few crack addicts stepped forward. From above, gunshots made them scramble back into the shadows. Bullets whacked the floor.

The gunmen can't see us, Cavanaugh thought. They're shooting blindly. If I return fire, they'll see my muzzle flashes and know where to aim.

Water from the roof fell around him. He looked behind him, noticed a door, and dragged Prescott to his feet.

But when Cavanaugh tested the door, he found that it was locked. Mentally cursing, he searched for another way out, saw a stairway that led down to the ground level, and tugged Prescott toward it. For all he knew, gunmen would be waiting down there, but he had to take the chance.

It had been less than twenty minutes since he and Prescott had met. He had no idea who Prescott was or why these men wanted to kill him. He wasn't even sure he'd have accepted the assignment after he'd finished questioning Prescott and made a risk assessment. For one thing, he had only Prescott's word that he wasn't a drug trafficker or any of the other monsters Cavanaugh refused to protect. But none of that mattered any longer. The attack had made Cavanaugh's choice for him. He and Prescott were now protector and protected.

As he guided Prescott down the stairs into deeper shadows, he rapidly did a tactical reload, taking the partially depleted magazine from his pistol, pocketing it, and inserting a full one from his belt.

The stench became more nauseating. Prescott moved so frantically that his footsteps echoed loudly. No! Cavanaugh thought. They'll hear us and shoot! He could only hope that the rumble of the rain on the roof would obscure the noises they made.

His hope was ill-founded. Shots roared from above, blasting more chunks from the wall. Hurrying Prescott to the bottom, Cavanaugh froze at the sight of another cluster of derelicts. He aimed, unable to distinguish those who were truly homeless from those who might be a threat. Most had already cowered from the shots on the floor above and the sudden descent of strangers into their midst. The sight of Cavanaugh's pistol made them cower even more.

A few others, however, had the look of jackals waiting for their prey to become distracted.

But none drew handguns or assault rifles, even though they would have a good chance against one armed man and the client he was doing everything possible to protect.

Cavanaugh heard loud, angry voices above him and the sound of the catwalk scraping, as if some of the gunmen were trying to descend the way Cavanaugh and Prescott had. The rest of the assault team would be charging down the stairs toward the outside door. They would race through the rain, burst into the warehouse, scatter its ragged occupants, and continue hunting. Meanwhile, some of the assault team would rush to the opposite side of the warehouse, in case Cavanaugh and Prescott tried to escape in that direction, but the gunmen couldn't possibly have moved fast enough to reach there yet.

Aiming toward the ragged men, Cavanaugh motioned for Prescott to follow him toward where a rusted door lay next to an opening on the river side of the warehouse. But then he realized that even if part of the assault team hadn't had time to reach that side, a few marksmen could be watching from upper windows, ready to fire through the broken glass.

We wouldn't have a chance, he thought. Rain gusted through the opening. Gray light beckoned. A tugboat's horn blared from the river. So close. Again Cavanaugh imagined the gunmen bursting into the warehouse, scattering its ragged occupants, hunting for…

Scattering?

"Prescott, follow me back to where we were."

"But aren't we leaving?"

"When I tell you." Cavanaugh led Prescott into the middle of the area.

He faced the ragged men. "I've got a job for everybody."

They looked baffled. A few even looked as frightened of the word job as they were of the pistol in his hand.

Thunder rumbled.

"Your first step on the road to self-sufficiency."

They looked more baffled.

"It requires no skills, and if everything goes as planned, I'll send a truck here tomorrow with food and clothes for all of you. You can't ask for a better deal than that."

They looked at Cavanaugh as if he spoke an incomprehensible language.

"So what do you think? Are you ready to start working?"

They kept staring.

"Great," Cavanaugh said. "Now this is all you have to do. You see that opening over there? It leads toward other warehouses and then the river. What I want you to do is… Prescott."

"What?"

"Put your hands over your ears."

No questions this time. Prescott obeyed.

"What I want everybody to do," Cavanaugh told the group, "is keep thinking of the food and clothes you'll get tomorrow and"-Cavanaugh raised his pistol-"run in that direction."

They stared blankly.

"Run!"

When they didn't move, he fired the pistol over their heads. In the shadows, the muzzle flash was vivid, the ear-torturing roar making the group stumble back.

"Run!" Cavanaugh's own ears were punished as he fired twice more above their heads, and now terror made them move a little faster, desperate to get away from the madman with the gun.

The next time Cavanaugh fired over their heads did the trick. They broke into a full-sized panic and scrambled toward the exit. Bumping into one another, they charged out into the rain.