The Protector

23

Cavanaugh deactivated the phone's speaker function and put the handset onto its cradle. Numb around his mouth, he looked at Prescott and the weapon Prescott aimed at him. "So?"

Drawing an unsteady breath, Prescott seemed to perform an astonishing act of will, mustering his resources, somehow looking more compact and solid in the process. He studied the numbers on the bedside clock-10:20. "She's lying about needing two hours to get there."

"That's right."

"She'll get there as soon as possible," Prescott said. "To set up a trap and make sure you're not setting up one."

"Right again. I keep telling you: You missed your true profession."

"There isn't much time," Prescott said.

"So what are you going to do, keep running, always looking over your shoulder, or end your problems tonight?"

Prescott stared at him or, rather, stared through him, as if Cavanaugh weren't there, as if Prescott peered at a bleak horizon that consisted of unending days and nights of being hunted.

At last, he stood. The dark of his goatee contrasted starkly with the pallor of his cheeks. Sweat oozed from his scalp. He looked as if the next two words were the hardest he'd ever spoken. "Let's go."