The Protector

8

Prescott moaned.

The catwalk swung farther out.

Cavanaugh's mind cleared. Inhaling painfully, he tried to squirm from under Prescott's weight. Smoke and dust from the explosion swirled over them.

"Prescott."

The big man coughed.

Cavanaugh felt the force of it. "Are you hurt?"

"Not sure… Don't think so."

The ringing in Cavanaugh's ears made Prescott sound far away, instead of on top of him. "We have to stand."

"The catwalk," Prescott warned.

Its back-and-forth motion made Cavanaugh feel he was in a plane being tossed in a storm. His Delta Force training had conditioned him not to feel off balance or nauseated. But Prescott was another matter. With no experience, he had to be nearly out of his mind with fright.

Pigeons scattered in panic. Rain cascaded from holes in the roof.

"Prescott, I'll take care of you. All you have to do is something simple."

"Simple?" Prescott clung to him as a drowning man does to his rescuer.

"Very simple." Cavanaugh imagined the gunmen running up the stairs, about to burst into the room, but he didn't dare communicate his urgency to Prescott.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Lift yourself."

As the catwalk vibrated, Prescott tensed.

"There's nothing to it." Cavanaugh strained to keep his voice calm. "Pretend you're doing a push-up."

Prescott couldn't move.

"Do it," Cavanaugh said. "Now."

Prescott cautiously made an effort at straightening his elbows. An inch. Another inch.

Cavanaugh crawled from under Prescott's bulk. He shoved his handgun into its holster and rose to a crouch, gripping the metal railings as the catwalk shuddered. Now that the dust had lessened, gray light through the broken windows was enough to help his eyes adjust to the shadows. He stared toward the wreckage-filled room they'd escaped from and saw where the catwalk was attached to the wall.

Its corroded bolts were half out.

He wondered how long it would take the gunmen to break into the room.

"Prescott, you're doing fine. Now all you have to do is stand."

"Can't."

The catwalk trembled. Cavanaugh could barely keep his balance. Rain coming through holes in the roof fell around him.

"Then crawl," he said.

"What?"

"Crawl. Now."

He tugged Prescott, inching him forward.

"More. A little faster."

Cavanaugh gave another tug, and Prescott crawled farther along. Water splashed his hand.

"Feel sick," Prescott said.

"Save it for when we get off this thing." Cavanaugh hoped to transport Prescott's mind into a future scenario.

"Off this thing," Prescott murmured.

"That's right. Keep crawling. Faster. We'll soon be at the other door."

Cavanaugh peered through the shadows ahead and saw that the catwalk's bolts were halfway out of the opposite wall, too.

Metal creaked.

From below, a man shouted, "Look! On the catwalk!"

In the room where Prescott had been hiding, an explosion blew away the door through which Cavanaugh had entered. As gunmen charged in, Cavanaugh drew his pistol and fired three times, sending the assault team for cover. He fired three more times, hoping to keep the gunmen down long enough for him and Prescott to reach the opposite door. But as Prescott flinched from the roar of the shots, his sudden movement jerked the catwalk. The bolts popped from the wall they approached.

The catwalk plunged.