The Protector

3

Cavanaugh got out of the car, a two-year-old Ford Taurus that Global Protective Services had supplied. Apart from its special modifications, including a race-car engine and a suspension to match, it had been chosen because its dusty gray color and ubiquitous design made it so nondescript, it was almost invisible among other sedans. Sunday afternoon, however, it was the only vehicle in this abandoned industrial area of Newark, New Jersey. He scanned the graffiti-covered warehouse: a sprawling three-story structure that had most of its windows smashed. Rust-streaked doors hung open, revealing what at first appeared to be garbage but turned out to be a city of homeless people. As far as was visible into the building, battered cardboard boxes provided shelter. Black plastic bags held whatever possessions the inhabitants treasured.

Dark clouds cast a cold shadow. On the river behind the warehouse, boat engines droned. A tug blew its horn. Thunder rumbled. Cavanaugh pressed his right elbow reassuringly against the 9-mm handgun holstered on the belt beneath his jacket. The Sig Sauer 225 held eight rounds in the magazine and one in the firing chamber. Not a massive amount of firepower, not the sixteen rounds that a Beretta was capable of holding, but he'd found that a pistol containing that much ammunition was slightly large for his hand, affecting the accuracy of his aim, nine well-placed shots being better than sixteen that went astray because of a poor grip. Plus, as the federal air marshals had decided in the late 1980s, the Sig Sauer 225's lighter weight and thin, compact design made it an ideal concealed carry weapon. But just in case, he had two other eight-round magazines in a pouch on the left side of his belt, beneath his jacket.

A chill wind strengthened, redolent of approaching rain. At the gaping entrances to the warehouse, a few grizzled faces squinted out.

Cavanaugh took his cell phone from his jacket and pressed the "good for today only" numbers Duncan had given to him.

As the phone rang on the other end, more grizzled faces appeared, some apprehensive, others assessing.

On the other end, the phone rang a second time.

"Yes?" a man's trembly voice asked, sounding like he was in an echo chamber.

Cavanaugh supplied his half of the recognition sequence. "I didn't realize the warehouse was closed."

"Ten years ago," came the other half of the sequence, the voice continuing to sound unsteady. "Your name is…"

"Cavanaugh. And yours is…"

"Daniel Prescott. Daniel. Not Dan."

This exchange, too, was part of the sequence.

More haggard faces studied him, an army of rags trying to decide if the newcomer was an enemy, a benefactor, or a target.

Isolated drops of rain struck the greasy pavement.

"Global Protective Services has a reputation for being the best," the voice said. "I expected a fancier car."

"One of the reasons we're the best is we don't attract attention to ourselves and, more important, to our clients."

Heavier drops struck the pavement.

"I assume you can see me," Cavanaugh said. "As you wanted, I came alone."

"Open the car doors."

Cavanaugh did.

"Open the trunk."

He did that, too. The man evidently had a vantage point that allowed him to look into the vehicle.

The dark clouds thickened. A few more drops of rain struck around him.

Cavanaugh heard faint echoing metallic noises on the phone. "Hello?"

No response.

"Hello?" he asked again.

More faint echoing metallic noises.

Thunder rumbled closer.

A few derelicts stepped from the warehouse. Like the others, they were scruffy and beard-stubbled, but the desperation in their eyes contrasted with the blankness and resignation Cavanaugh sensed in the others. Crack addicts, he assumed, so overdue for a fix that they'd try taking on a stranger who was unwise enough to visit hell. "Hey, I came here to help you," he said into the phone, "not to get soaked."

More metallic noises.

"I think we both made a mistake." He shut the trunk and the passenger doors. About to get into the car, he heard the trembly voice say:

"Ahead of you. On the left. You see the door?"

"Yes."

It was the only door still intact. Closed.

"Come in," the unsteady voice said.

Cavanaugh got behind the steering wheel.

"I said, 'Come in,' " the voice insisted.

"After 1 move the vehicle."

He drove along the cracked concrete parking area. Near the door, he turned the car in a half circle, facing it in the direction from which he'd come, ready to leave in a hurry if he needed to.

"Entering," he said into his phone.

He got out of the car, locked it with his remote control, and sprinted through the drizzle. Sensing movement with his peripheral vision, he glanced to his left along the warehouse, toward where more crack addicts stepped into the increasing rain and watched him. Wary of what might be behind the door (more crack addicts?), he put his phone into his jacket and did something that he hadn't planned: drew his pistol. As he turned the knob, he noted that although the lock was coated with grit, there was a hint of shininess underneath-the lock was new. But it wasn't engaged. Pulling the heavy, creaking door open, he ducked inside.