The Protector

9

They didn't need to discuss what they had to do next. Although they continued to wear their pistols, they'd taken off their Kevlar vests. Now, with disciplined speed, they shifted from the control room and entered a room adjacent to it. There, in the bunker's arsenal, their vests were on a table.

"You'll need this." Cavanaugh put a vest on Prescott. "In case a bullet intended for one of us heads in the wrong direction."

After buckling on their vests, the team grabbed AR-15 assault rifles from a row of weapons that included shotguns and more handguns.

In theory, the AR-15, which was the civilian version of the military's M-16, could be fired only on a semiautomatic setting, one shot with each pull of the trigger, complying with federal gun laws. But these had been modified so they could be fully automatic, numerous rounds rapidly discharging with a single pull of the trigger. If law-enforcement officers were about to examine the weapons, the automatic function could be disabled by turning a small lever on the side and pulling the lever out; an interior spring-loaded plug would then slip into place, thus making the weapon legal while at the same time concealing that it had been tampered with.

Looking ashen, Prescott reached for one.

"No," Chad said. "Leave the fireworks to us. You might shoot yourself in the foot."

"Or one of us," Tracy said.

"But what if I have to defend myself? I should at least know how to use one of those things."

"If the situation gets that desperate, God help us," Roberto said. "Don't touch a rifle unless we're down and there's no other choice. Brace the stock against your shoulder. Point the barrel at your target. Pull the trigger. If a shell gets stuck, yank back this knob on the side to free it."

"The AR-15 likes to kick up," Cavanaugh said. "If you're not careful, all you do is shoot toward the sky. Keep forcing the barrel down toward your target. Can you remember all that?"

"I hope I don't have to."

Chad ran to the kitchen to make sure the stove and oven were off. Everybody grabbed windbreakers to cover their Kevlar vests. At the exit, Duncan opened the door. As the group hurried along the echoing concrete passageway toward the cold mountain night, Cavanaugh heard the whump of the approaching helicopters getting louder.

"Good luck, Roberto." Tracy's blond hair shone briefly in the light that spilled from the closing door.

"They've got less than an hour's fuel, and my tank's full. I can outrun them." Roberto backed to the left, moving into the murky forest. "Adios."

"Come on, Prescott." His Kevlar vest feeling bulky on him, Cavanaugh headed to the right, hurrying through the darkness toward the underground garage, the entrance to which was recessed into the hill. "Stay close to me." He reached the garage and glanced toward the shadows behind him. "Prescott?"

Holding their AR-15s, Duncan, Chad, and Tracy glanced back also.

All Cavanaugh saw were the indistinct outlines of trees and bushes. "Prescott?"

The helicopters thundered closer.

"What happened?" Chad asked. "Where'd he go?"

"The last time I saw him was…" Duncan stared back toward the entryway. "Don't tell me he's still inside."

"I'll get the Jeeps," Tracy said.

"Prescott!" Cavanaugh yelled.

The concrete passageway prevented the helicopters from seeing the faint motion-triggered light that came on when Duncan rushed to the number pad next to the door.

"Prescott!" Cavanaugh scanned the dark trees. Behind him, he heard a muffled motor that Tracy activated, raising the garage door.

At the end of the passageway, another light appeared as Duncan hurried into the bunker.

"Maybe he's in the bushes," Chad said. "He got awfully upset when he saw those radar blips. It could be he's so scared, his bladder went crazy."

"Or his bowels." Cavanaugh said. "Or he got sick." Cavanaugh moved through the dark bushes, checking. "Prescott!"

Behind him, he heard Tracy drive the first Jeep up the ramp from the underground garage.

As the helicopters rumbled nearer, Cavanaugh suddenly realized that he hadn't heard Roberto take off with the chopper. Move, Roberto! he thought. If you don't lift off soon, you won't have a chance of getting ahead of them.

"Prescott!" Scraping branches, Chad continued to search through the undergrowth as Tracy got out of the Jeep and ran back into the garage.

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the night, Cavanaugh could see to avoid obstacles in the starlit darkness while he rushed past the bunker's entrance and made his way through evergreen branches, hurrying toward the helicopter pad.

"Prescott!"

At once, Cavanaugh saw that the camouflage net hadn't been retracted and the dark dragonfly silhouette of the helicopter still sat on the pad, its motor silent, its blades unmoving. His nostrils contracted from the sharp smell of aviation fuel. The night air was saturated with it.

Turning to run, he missed seeing a shadowy log and tripped over it, falling. Careful to keep the AR-15's barrel from jamming into the dirt, he rolled, his shoulder and his back absorbing the impact. He used the momentum of his roll to rise to a crouch, but not before he saw that what he'd tripped over wasn't a log.

Roberto lay motionless, a half-moon providing enough light for Cavanaugh to see Roberto's stark open eyes and the black pool of blood where the rear of his head had been bashed in.

Simultaneously, the darkness exploded into an eye-searing glare as the aviation fumes ignited. The flames reflected off the fuel pump's hose, which lay on the ground, spewing liquid through the forest. A long wall of fire burst up through the bushes and trees. The force of the heat thrust Cavanaugh backward.

Before he ran, he saw the blaze envelope the helicopter, the camouflage net vanishing in a crackling flash. The light from the flames was so intense that he saw individual needles on tree branches, the texture of bark on trunks. Sprinting toward the bunker, he heard his footsteps crush dead needles and then a roar as the fire erupted farther through the forest, chasing him.

"Prescott!"

Although the power of the fire's roar overwhelmed what Cavanaugh shouted, it wasn't loud enough to obscure the din of the rapidly approaching helicopters. Racing harder, Cavanaugh saw the two Jeeps that Tracy had driven from the underground garage. Holding their AR-15s, she and Chad stood next to the vehicles, staring in surprise at the rapidly spreading flames.

The next instant, Tracy and Chad disintegrated as something streaked from one of the helicopters and hit the two Jeeps, the detonation spewing chunks of metal and body parts in every direction.

The shock of what Cavanaugh had seen, in combination with the force of the blast, almost knocked him to the ground. His sanity felt threatened, the enormity of what had happened overwhelming him. But then he saw Duncan race from the bunker, and his conditioning took control. Tightening his grip on his assault rifle, he hurried in a crouch toward where Duncan gaped at the flames spreading quickly through the trees.

"Prescott's not inside!" Duncan swung to stare at the crater where the Jeeps had been. "Chad and Tracy-"

"Took that hit!"

"Son of a bitch!" The outrage on Duncan's face changed to alarm at the sound of something else shrieking from one of the helicopters toward the flames.