The Protector

5

In a cash-not-unusual motel, Cavanaugh waited while Jamie closed the blinds. Then he put the contents of the briefcase on the bed. The first stuffed manila envelope contained five thousand dollars in twenties.

"I see you've been saving for a rainy day," Jamie said.

The second manila envelope contained a birth certificate, credit card, passport, and Pennsylvania driver's license for Samuel Murdock. The driver's license and passport had Cavanaugh's photograph. "A present from Karen five years ago." Memories of her made him pause. "As she reminded me, you never know when another identity might come in handy. I'm on the eastern seaboard a lot, so it's easy to come to Philadelphia once a year. I take the credit card from the safe-deposit box and use it to buy a few things so the account remains open. I also renew the driver's license."

"Why Philadelphia?"

"It's convenient. Halfway between New York and Washington, cities where I often work."

"Where do you get the bills for the credit card?"

"They're sent to a private mailbox-rental business here in Philadelphia."

"Which forwards them to a private mailbox you rent in Jackson Hole under the name of Sam Murdock but that you never told me about," Jamie said.

Because of his stitched shoulder, Cavanaugh resisted the urge to shrug. "A benign secret."

"I just love getting to know you better. Does Global Protective Services know about this other identity?"

"Nobody does."

"What's in the pouch?"

"A present for you."

"Gee."

Cavanaugh unzipped the pouch.

Jamie picked up what was inside. "What's that joke you once told me about the compliment men most like to hear from women? 'Oh, honey, I just love it when you tinker with engines and bring home electronics, power tools, and firearms.'"

The object Jamie held was a match to Cavanaugh's Sig Sauer 9-mm pistol. Like Cavanaugh's, it had been modified. Its factory-equipped sights had been replaced with a wide-slotted rear sight and a front sight with a green luminous dot that made aiming easy. All the interior moving parts had been filed and then coated with a permanent friction reducer to discourage jamming. The exterior had been comparably smoothed so there weren't any sharp edges to snag on anything. A flat black epoxy finish prevented light from reflecting.

Cavanaugh watched to make sure that Jamie followed the precautions he'd taught her. Because the Sig didn't have a safety catch, care was all the more necessary. Holding it with her right hand, keeping her index finger out of the trigger guard and the barrel pointed toward the bed, she used her left hand to ease back the slide on top, checking to see if the weapon had a round in the firing chamber. It did. She pressed a button at the side and released the magazine from the grip, grabbing the magazine as it dropped.

"Nice catch," Cavanaugh said.

After setting down the pistol, Jamie picked up the magazine and inspected the holes on the side that showed how many rounds were in it. "Seems to be full, but you never know until you check, right?"

"Right," Cavanaugh said. "It can be downright embarrassing if you assume an unfamiliar pistol has a full magazine and it turns out you're a round short when you absolutely need it." Jamie thumbed every round from the magazine, counting. "Eight," she said, confirming that for the model 225 the magazine had indeed been fully loaded. Some other types of 9-mm pistols held more ammunition, but their consequently large grips made them impractical as concealed carry weapons. In addition, pistols with a large magazine tended not to fit the average-sized hands of most shooters, making aiming difficult. "Careful you don't break a fingernail."

Giving him a caustic look, Jamie reinserted the rounds into the magazine, verifying that the spring in the magazine was functional. Then she picked up the handgun and pulled the slide fully back to eject the round in the chamber. She tested the slide several times to make sure it moved freely. "Could use a little Break-free," she said, referring to a type of pistol lubricant/cleaner.

"It ought to," Cavanaugh said. "It's been in that safe-deposit box for five years."

"The family that cleans firearms together stays together."

Jamie shoved the magazine into the Sig's grip, racked a round into the firing chamber, and pressed the decocking lever on the side. That meant there were now seven rounds in the magazine. To make up the difference, she released the magazine, picked up the round that she'd earlier extracted from the firing chamber, pressed it into the magazine, and reinserted the magazine into the grip, giving the pistol its maximum capacity.

For a moment, Jamie looked as if she thought she was done, and that worried Cavanaugh, because she wasn't, but then she picked up the spare magazine from the pouch, stripped the rounds from it, said, "Eight," and thumbed them back into the magazine. "You'll notice that not only didn't I break a fingernail but at no time did my fingers leave my hands. Should I mention that we ought to get replacements for both magazines? After having been fully loaded for several years, their springs will have metal fatigue."

"An A-plus," Cavanaugh said.