The Protector

13

Their mass being equal, two cars can bang at each other's side for quite a while, and if the drivers are skilled, neither car will be forced off the road. The trouble is that the car banging at Cavanaugh's rusted sedan was bigger and heavier. The laws of physics were in its favor. Eventually, its weight would shove Ca-vanaugh's sedan onto the shoulder.

He could have shot the driver, but as the attacking car veered out of control, there was too much risk that it would strike cars behind it and kill their occupants. Moreover, the bullets could go through the driver and continue toward cars on the opposite side of the highway, possibly killing someone over there.

But there was another way to use the.45.

"Prescott, put your hands over your ears."

Cavanaugh's own ears had been ringing incessantly since he'd started shooting. Now he prepared himself for them to hurt even more.

Pressing the accelerator hard, he surged forward. Abreast of the attacking car's engine, he shoved the.45 out the window, aimed at the front hood, and fired seven times, emptying the pistol as quickly as he could pull the trigger. Under the hood, the fan disintegrated. The radiator exploded. Oil and carbon dust blew from the engine, erupting from the holes that his bullets had made in the hood of the engine. Steam from the radiator burst from the front of the car.

The slide on top of the.45 stayed back, indicating that the pistol was empty. At once, Cavanaugh pulled the weapon back into the sedan so the gunmen would know the shooting was over, so they wouldn't return fire. As it was, they had plenty to concern them without disobeying Escobar's orders and endangering Prescott's life by shooting at the driver of the vehicle Prescott was in. The power of the.45 had damaged the engine enough that the attacking car rapidly lost speed. Falling back, enveloped by more oil vapor and steam, the crippled vehicle angled toward the left shoulder.

The car behind Cavanaugh tried to compensate by speeding close to him and slamming the sedan's back bumper. Apart from sending a shudder through the sedan, this had no effect on Cavanaugh's ability to control the vehicle. Although the tactic looked dramatic, it accomplished little. When the pursuing car hit Cavanaugh's bumper a second time, all he had to do was touch the brake pedal a little, and the car behind him was reduced to doing little more than pushing him. That the attacking driver thought ramming would work told Cavanaugh that his opponent didn't have much experience with car fighting.

There was only one effective maneuver in a car fight. But first Cavanaugh had to get into position. He veered unexpectedly onto the right shoulder and pressed the brakes, applying most but not all of their force. He could tell how much force he was applying by judging the speed of the brake pulses through the pedal. Ninety-eight percent pressure gave him stopping power while at the same time allowing him to continue to control the vehicle's steering. One hundred percent would have meant that the swiftly accelerating pulses had abruptly stopped and the brakes locked, turning the sedan into little more than a couple of tons of skidding metal.

He dropped behind the pursuing car, released the brakes, and came up behind it, still on the highway's shoulder. Aiming his left front fender, he tapped the side of the opposing car's right rear fender in the so-called precision immobilization technique. The PIT maneuver required virtually no force, just a kiss of the left front fender.

Again, physics took over. The opposing car spun 180 degrees, rear to front, the startled occupants staring back toward Cavanaugh, face-to-face with him. At the same time, the car shifted sideways, to the right, pivoting onto the highway's shoulder. But as it continued to spin, it moved so far to the right that it crashed against a barrier at the side of the highway. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh steered onto the highway and sped forward.

"Prescott, look behind us. Are there any other cars going off the road? Any accidents?"

Prescott peered back in amazement. "No. My God, some cars are sliding, but they're holding the road. No other accidents. I can't believe you did it. You got us away from them."

"No," Cavanaugh said.

"But-"

"The PIT maneuver barely damages the other car," Ca-vanaugh said.

"The what?"

"Unless that car broke something when its side struck that barrier, those men'll soon come after us again." Cavanaugh stared toward the fuel indicator on the dashboard. The needle was now at one-quarter. "Plus, we've got too many bullet holes in the gas tank. We'll soon be on empty."

In the distance, a new group of sirens wailed.

Cavanaugh checked the rearview mirror: no sign of the second car pulling onto the highway. He peered ahead through the rain and saw an exit ramp. He was far enough along the highway that the men in the car behind him might not notice the rusted sedan leaving. Or so he hoped.

The sirens wailed louder.

"Time for a change of plan." Cavanaugh took the exit ramp, came to the bottom, saw a shopping mall on the left, and headed toward its crowded parking lot. People in other cars gaped at the smashed front end of Cavanaugh's car.

"Prescott, use your shirtsleeve. Wipe everything you touched. Smudge your fingerprints."

Counting on the rain to obscure his movements, Cavanaugh entered the expansive parking lot, but every space in the row he chose was filled. Cursing, he steered through puddles toward the next row, where all the spaces were also full.

Sure, he thought. A rainy Sunday afternoon. How do people pass the time? They go to the shopping mall.

Cavanaugh tried the next row, and the next, and the next. All were filled with vehicles.

In the distance, the sirens stopped, presumably at the car whose engine Cavanaugh had disabled.

The black car suddenly steered into the row Cavanaugh was headed along and sped toward him. Through the car's flapping windshield wipers, the three passengers and the skinhead driver glared at him.

Cavanaugh braked, put the car in reverse, and started backing away, but not before a man on the passenger side lowered the window and leaned out into the rain, aiming a pistol with a silencer on it. Cavanaugh didn't hear the shot, but he did hear the bullet's impact against the radiator.

Steam rose from the puncture. Whump. A second bullet hit the radiator. The assault team had learned from the way Cavanaugh had disabled the first car by firing the.45 at the engine and the radiator. The pistol the passenger used wasn't large enough to be a.45. It wouldn't damage the engine as much, but it would definitely play hell with the radiator.

Backing swiftly, Cavanaugh swung the steering wheel, pivoting the sedan 180 degrees. In the limited space, on wet pavement, he couldn't execute the backward half spin as neatly as he was capable of doing. His right front fender glanced off a parked van's taillight, sending a shudder through the sedan. Even so, in a rush, he corrected the steering and now faced the mall instead of the pursuing car. He rammed the gearshift into forward and sped along the row.

But as rain suppressed the steam from the radiator, Cavanaugh felt his chest cramp when a woman holding an umbrella stepped from between cars. She walked halfway across the open area and froze at the sight of Cavanaugh's car rocketing toward her.