The Protector

11

The rusted car surprised Cavanaugh by rocketing forward with amazing energy. Somebody had obviously cared for the engine, even though the body had been allowed to go to hell.

"Roll down your window!" Cavanaugh shouted again to Prescott, and Prescott-conditioned by now-instantly obeyed.

"Slide toward the floor!" Cavanaugh drew his pistol.

As the car struck the fence, headlights shattering, the fence slamming open to the right, Cavanaugh fired repeatedly through Prescott's open window at two nearby gunmen. They'd been coming to check the fence. As it slammed open, they'd halted in openmouthed shock and now lurched back from the impact of Cavanaugh's bullets.

The slide on his pistol stayed open. The magazine was empty. But as he steered violently to the left to get away from other gunmen suddenly appearing, he couldn't free his hands to reload the Sig with the remaining magazine on his belt. He'd have to rely on the.45 he'd taken from Prescott.

He pulled it from under his belt and dropped it on the seat, but as things were, he didn't have time to shoot anyhow. He was too busy trying to control the car. It fishtailed on the wet, oily pavement. The rain struck the windshield so hard that he could barely see the narrow street ahead. With his left hand, he fumbled for the windshield-wiper control on the steering wheel, twisted it, and discovered that only the wiper on the driver's side was functional. It only had one speed: ultrafast.

As the wiper flipped hysterically back and forth, a bullet shattered the sedan's rear window and went through the roof just above Cavanaugh's head. He sank low, trying to peer over the dashboard at the rain-obscured street, trying also to make himself a minimal target, even though he knew that the bullets aimed at the trunk had a good chance of plowing through the trunk, through the backseat, and through the front seat, possibly hitting him.

He didn't care if the assault team shot at the gas tank, which the gauge on the dashboard told him was three-quarters full. True, the bullet holes would cause him to lose fuel, but unless the gunmen were using tracer rounds, which they weren't, there wasn't any risk that the fuel would explode. That impossible phenomenon of bullets igniting gasoline happened only in urban myth. If anything, the fuel in the tank could help him by slowing any bullets that hit it and preventing them from plowing through the seats.

The better tactic would be for the assault team to shoot at Ca-vanaugh's tires. But even then, the damage would be much less than what might generally be expected. A blast from a shotgun or a volley from an automatic rifle could blow a tire apart. But if a tire was hit by one or two bullets from a handgun, the tire usually retained air for about five miles, a distance that would give Cavanaugh a chance to elude the assault team. If necessary (he'd been forced to do this a couple of times), he would keep driving on a wheel's metal rim.

Another bullet smashed through the rear window. This one blew through the front windshield. Cavanaugh heard it zip past. He felt the air forced away strike his cheek. But he couldn't think about how close it had come, and he couldn't think about Prescott huddling as near to the floor as the bulky man could press himself.

What Cavanaugh concentrated on was trying to see past the rain and the blur of the superquick windshield wiper as he drove faster. A long black car sped from a side street and skidded to a stop, blocking the narrow intersection ahead. Men jumped out into the storm and aimed pistols from behind the vehicle. But before they could shoot, they realized that instead of trapping Cavanaugh, they'd trapped themselves, for Cavanaugh didn't have time to stop. Their look of confidence changing to one of panic, they bolted toward buildings on either side.

"Prescott, brace yourself! There's going to be a hell of a bump."

As Cavanaugh sped toward the car blocking the intersection, he saw enough through the rain to be certain that there wasn't space on either side of the car for him to swing around it. That left only two choices. The first was to yank the lever for the parking brake and twist the steering wheel a quarter turn, spinning the car 180 degrees, facing it in the opposite direction: the so-called bootlegger's turn. He would then release the parking brake and speed from the barricade.

But that wouldn't solve anything, because the new direction would only lead back to the gunmen chasing them. Besides, the slippery pavement would make it difficult to execute the maneuver with precision. That left choice number two.

Cavanaugh checked the speedometer. Sixty. Too fast. Sweating, he eased his foot off the accelerator and tried to keep his moist hands firmly at ten o'clock and two o'clock on the steering wheel, his fingers spread for maximum grip.

It was obvious that if he hit the car straight on, he would probably kill Prescott and himself-an irresistible force against an immovable mass. But there was a way to survive the crash. What he had to do was change the relationship between the force and the mass.

"Here it comes, Prescott! Hold on!"

Reducing his speed to forty-five miles an hour, Cavanaugh stared past the frantic windshield wiper toward the vehicle spread sideways in front of him. He aimed toward where the vehicle had the least weight-the trunk end, which was on his right. He focused on the rear fender. At the same time, he turned so far to the right that only the area around his left headlight would strike the car's fender.

The impact sent a shock wave of punishment through him. Prepared for his head to jerk back, he hunkered down, bracing his head against the seat. Even then, the jolt to his neck was painful.

Instead of 100 percent force hitting 100 percent mass, the precise way in which Cavanaugh rammed the other vehicle reduced both factors by two-thirds. More glass shattered. Metal crumpled. The opposing car pivoted in front of Cavanaugh, its trunk end swerving out of the way, creating a gap through which Cavanaugh increased speed, stomping his foot on the accelerator.

Behind him, the assault team overcame their shock enough to fire at the receding vehicle. Cavanaugh stayed low, hearing bullets whump against the back of the car, some of them going through the now-almost-nonexistent front windshield. One bullet whacked into the dashboard. Another blew away the spastic windshield wiper.

As rain lashed through the gap where the windshield had been, Cavanaugh continued speeding down the narrow street. He heard sirens in the distance.

"Prescott, are you all right?"

No answer.

Between gusts of wind, Cavanaugh saw a looming intersection and eased his foot onto the brake pedal so he could make a turn. The slippery pavement caused the tires to slide as if on ice. He released his foot from the brake, simultaneously applying less force to the accelerator, letting the engine act as a brake. Even so, the intersection was behind him before he could make the turn.

"Prescott, talk to me! Are you all right?"

Huddled close to the floor, Prescott moved.

"Glad to know you're still with us."

As the distant sirens wailed louder, another intersection loomed, and this time, Cavanaugh was able to control his speed enough to stop the tires from gliding as he turned to the right.

Not a target at the moment, he felt marginally elated as he asked Prescott, "Are you hit?"

"No."

"Then get up here and make yourself useful."

"Don't feel so good."

"I've had better days, too. Look, I need to concentrate on driving. Take my phone from my jacket and call this number." Cavanaugh dictated it. "Then give me back the phone so I can get help."

"Yes, help," Prescott said.

"And then," Cavanaugh said, "you're going to tell me who the hell those guys are and why they're so eager to kill you."