The Protector - David Morrell



PROLOGUE





State of Emergency





1
RIOT POLICE DISPEL PROTESTORS
St. Louis, Missouri, April 14 (AP)—What officials feared would be a third day of 
rioting ended this morning when two thousand armor-clad policemen used batons, 
pepper spray, and tear gas to dispel ten thousand protestors. The riots 
disrupting the World Trade Organization conference here had turned downtown St. 
Louis into what amounted to a war zone, with damage from fires and vandalism 
estimated at $15 million.
The protestors claim that WTO ignores environmental and labor abuses in 
undeveloped countries. Although similar demonstrations in Seattle four years 
earlier had alerted St. Louis authorities about what to expect, police still 
found themselves overwhelmed. "We prepared for six months," Police Chief Edward 
Gaines said at a press conference. "But these anarchists are even more organized 
than they were in Seattle. Thank God, we finally wore them down."





2
"Anarchists." The think-tank supervisor considered the word. "Nicely chosen."
"Al suggested the police chief include it in his statement," the Army general 
said.
"But the chief has no idea what really happened. A perfectly successful 
operation," the military analyst said.
Two lieutenant colonels and a tall, sinewy woman filled out the group. The "Al" 
(short for Alicia) to whom the general had referred wore a khaki pantsuit that 
resembled a uniform. She sat with the others in a darkly paneled drawing room. 
Their high-backed chairs were arranged before a large screen, onto which an 
overhead television projector beamed videotaped images of the crisis.
Highlights from NBC's coverage had just ended. Now a condensed version of CNN's 
began. The initial sequences showed the first day of rioting. Protestors 
stretched all the way from Busch Stadium and the Federal Courthouse to the huge 
America's Center, where the World Trade Organization was holding its conference. 
By nightfall, downtown St. Louis was paralyzed. On the screen, rioters smashed 
every window they came to. They overturned vehicles and set fire to them. Flames 
reflected off sidewalks covered with shattered glass.
The second day's edited sequences showed more protestors cramming the streets, 
damaging anything they could find. At a press conference, the mayor declared a 
state of emergency, ordering all civilians to avoid the downtown area.
But on the third day, the outnumbered police, joined by state troopers and the 
National Guard, organized a counterattack. The screen showed them using tear gas 
to funnel the rioters along Market, Chestnut, and other downtown streets toward 
Memorial Park. There, in the green space around the towering Gateway Arch, 
retreating protestors trampled a tent city they'd erected.
A reporter spoke urgently as a camera in a helicopter peered down on the rioters 
being pushed beyond the Arch. Protestors threw rocks and bottles at the 
relentlessly converging policemen. One bottle was filled with liquid and had a 
rag stuffed into it. As a young man lit and threw it, the camera whipped to show 
it crashing into flames. Gas masks, helmets, shields, and body armor made the 
police resemble "an army of Robocops," the reporter breathlessly announced. 
Ignoring the burning gasoline and the rocks, the police fired tear-gas 
canisters. So much haze spewed around the rioters, they could barely be seen.
A camera on a Mississippi barge now showed the action. The rioters stumbled from 
the haze. Bent over, coughing, they looked as frightened as they'd looked angry 
moments earlier. Police in gas masks emerged, pounding with batons, pushing with 
shields. Coughing harder, the protestors panicked and lurched in the only 
unimpeded direction available: the Mississippi. Thousands tumbled into the 
river, struggling to stay afloat as the dark figures of the police reached the 
bank and stood guard.
"I'm sure you noticed the man who threw the Molotov cocktail," the general said. 
"Some liberal commentators are claiming he's part of a group of agitators. The 
theory is that the corporations whose policies are under attack paid thugs to 
instigate the violence. The police fought back, and the legitimate protestors 
had to defend themselves, eventually becoming rioters and discrediting their 
cause."
"A conspiracy theory." The think-tank supervisor sighed. "There always has to be 
a conspiracy theory. But in this case, they happen to be correct. It's just not 
the conspiracy they imagine."
The general nodded. "And it was right there on television for everyone to see. 
On every network. As plain as day. But nobody noticed."
"As I said"—the military analyst made a congratulatory gesture to the four men 
and the woman seated near him—"a perfectly successful operation."





3
ARMY RANGERS DIE ON TRAINING MISSION 
Camp Rudder, Florida, April 24 (AP)—The commander of Camp Rudder, headquarters 
for the Army Sixth Ranger Training Battalion, confirmed that fifteen Army 
Rangers had drowned in a swamp two nights earlier while on a training exercise. 
The announcement had been delayed, he said, so that family members could be 
notified.
"We're still trying to determine what happened," Lt. Col. Robert Boland said. 
"We train in that area all the time, but we almost never have problems. Granted, 
last night was unusually cold for this time of year, and recent rains had made 
the water unusually high. But these men were Rangers. At this stage in their 
training, they'd already been taught to endure much more difficult conditions. 
All we know is they didn't make radio contact when they were supposed to."





4
The swamp is my friend, Braddock insisted to himself.
Holding his M-16 above his head, wading through the cold chest-high water, 
pulling his combat boots out of muck, he repeated the mantra his survival 
instructors had drilled into him long ago when he'd joined the Rangers.
The swamp is my friend.
A lot had happened since then. Braddock had been through combat in Grenada, 
Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan, and in numerous unpublicized missions, often in 
jungles. Now he was an instructor, and as he slogged through the darkness, 
leaning slightly forward to compensate for his sixty-pound pack, he hoped that 
every man in his squad had made "The swamp is my friend" their mantra, as well.
The alligators are my friends.
The snakes are my friends Don't think.
Just repeat it and believe it.
Ignoring what felt like a sunken log that shifted under him, nearly causing him 
to lose his balance, Braddock focused on those words to live by, hoping that his 
men would also.
They'd been in the swamp for three hours, with another two to go. You're more 
than halfway through, Braddock wanted to assure them, but he couldn't. This 
exercise was being conducted under strict voice silence. Even their radio 
transmissions every half hour to their companion squad a quarter mile away were 
voiceless, composed of electronic pulses. As a further deprivation, none of them 
wore night-vision goggles, on the theory that sophisticated equipment was a 
luxury they shouldn't rely on.
The darkness is my friend.
This night had been chosen because it didn't have a moon. As a bonus, thick 
clouds from yesterday's storm lingered, blotting out the stars. Hulks of dead 
trees loomed in the darkness, gray against black, only the slightest gradations 
at the lowest end of the light spectrum providing an indication of Braddock's 
surroundings. Under such sightless conditions, the streaks of green-and-black 
camouflage grease on their faces might have seemed unnecessary, but Braddock had 
warned them to plan for every contingency, saying that even on a night mission, 
camouflage grease was mandatory.
His drenched, cold uniform clung to his legs, hips, and chest. He saw a slight 
glow ahead as the squad's scout checked a luminous compass and shifted 
direction, the other men following. Braddock would have to discipline him for 
that, confine him to barracks, make him run extra miles. I shouldn't have seen 
the glow from the compass, he thought. A sniper out there would have seen it, 
too.
Despite the insect repellant Braddock wore, mosquitoes settled on his face, 
drawing blood, making him itchy. He ignored them. Insects are my friends.
He listened to the ripple of water as his squad waded onward through the barely 
visible dead trees. His upraised M-16 cramped his arms. The fetid swamp rose to 
his neck. Under the water, something nudged against his left side. He smelled 
rotting vegetation.
He shivered.
That troubled him. Accustomed to much worse conditions, Braddock accused himself 
of starting to lose his edge.
A gray mist drifted over him, a pungent odor beginning to irritate his nostrils. 
As the water felt colder, he shivered harder. But the numbness in his legs and 
the tightness in his chest didn't matter. More important things occupied him.
Any second now, Braddock thought.
His sense of timing was perfect. Overhead, flares burst. Haloed by smoke, their 
harsh light pierced the darkness. Brad-dock's men stared up in surprise, the 
descending glares reflecting off the scummy water. Although Braddock had known 
about the flares, he'd been under orders not to tell his men.
Anticipate.
Don't be surprised by anything.
Part of the point of the exercise was to make Braddock's already-stressed unit 
feel unexpectedly threatened. At once, three fighter jets streaked over the 
skeletal trees, their approach so swift that only after the jets passed could 
they be heard, their thunder deafening. Braddock wore a waterproof electronic 
location transmitter so that the pilots knew where not to shoot. Ahead, the jets 
fired rockets and 50-mm tracer bullets into the swamp. Two hundred yards away, 
the night became alive with explosions and fire.
"Jesus," somebody said.
No! Braddock mentally shouted. You're not supposed to talk!
"What the—" somebody else demanded. "Don't they know we're here?"
Braddock surged through the water toward the second man and glared. Shut your 
mouth, Braddock's eyes said.
Smoke from the flares drifted over them, smelling of cordite and dead things, 
almost making Braddock gag.
"Christ, those rockets almost hit us," a third man said.
Braddock splashed urgently toward him, glowering him into silence. Damn it, keep 
control. Obey orders, he wanted to shout.
The water seemed colder. As another soft thing nudged against Braddock's left 
side, he shivered harder. His heart pounded. His breathing quickened.
"Nobody mentioned anything about rockets," a fourth man said, his voice 
wavering.
Furious, Braddock surged toward him, then stopped as the descending flares 
hissed into the water, spewing more smoke, darkness overcoming everyone. 
Braddock shivered so hard that his teeth chattered.
At the same time, his stomach felt on fire. Unaccountable fear crept up his 
torso, cramping his muscles, spreading heat around his heart. His breath came so 
fast, he couldn't control it. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three. 
Exhale, one, two, three. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three.
But his chest kept heaving, refusing to obey. He didn't understand. After the 
numerous combat missions he'd been through, this was nothing. The swamp is my 
friend. The darkness is my friend. What's happening to me? he wanted to scream.
One of his men—the toughest of his trainees—did scream. "Something bit me!"
No! The man sounded as out of control as a civilian would have been. It didn't 
make sense.
"A snake!"
A log—or something—bumped against Braddock's side.
"An alligator!"
"Something's under my—"
Suddenly, one of Braddock's men fired full-auto at the darkness, muzzle flashes 
illuminating ripples in the water, bullets shredding dead trees, men screaming 
as they, too, fired at the night. A bullet seared Braddock's right arm. He lost 
his balance and fell back, greasy water flooding into his mouth and up his nose.
The rattle of the M-16s sounded hollow beneath the surface. Keeping a tight grip 
on his weapon, Braddock fought against the weight of his pack and struggled 
upward. As he broke into the air, desperate to breathe, the multiple gunfire 
suddenly became loud enough to make his ears ring. Smoke and the smell of 
cordite swirled around him.
Muzzle flashes blinding him, he shouted, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" He barely 
recognized his voice, so severely had fear seized his throat, making his 
normally husky tone a shriek.
A bullet struck his left shoulder, slamming him backward into the water. Fangs 
seemed to pierce his neck. No! The swamp is my friend! The alligators, the—
When he scrambled upward again, resurfacing into the panic of screams and 
gunfire, a bullet blew the back of his head away.





PART ONE
Threat Assessment





1
Shoes and watches. Cavanaugh had learned a long time ago that one of the secrets 
of being a capable protective agent was to pay attention to shoes and watches. 
Loafers, for example. Somebody wearing them was unlikely to be a trained 
kidnapper or assassin because an experienced runner-and-gunner knew how easy it 
was to lose loafers in a chase or a fight. Only boots or lace-up shoes were 
acceptable. Thin soles were a further indication that someone was unlikely to be 
a serious threat, thick soles being mandatory in a fight. Of course, somebody 
wearing loafers or thin-soled shoes could still be a threat, but at least 
Cavanaugh would know he was dealing with an amateur.
Similarly, watches told Cavanaugh a lot. Many operators trained in the 1970s and 
'80s wore either Rolex diver's watches or Rolex pilot's watches. The rationale 
was twofold. First, those watches had a reputation for functioning under rugged 
conditions, an essential requirement for a runner-and-gunner. Second, in an 
emergency, a Rolex became portable wealth, easily sold for cash.
Not that everyone wearing a Rolex aroused Cavanaugh's suspicions. They had to be 
in their forties or older, fitting the age profile of someone who'd been trained 
during the seventies and eighties. Also, operators from that era tended to 
prefer sneakers, jeans, T-shirts, and windbreakers (often leather) for their 
casual street clothes. The windbreaker would be loose, capable of concealing a 
handgun. To the untutored eye, someone who fit that description wouldn't seem 
unusual, but to Cavanaugh, that person caused concern.
Operators trained in the 1990s and afterward had a different profile. They were 
younger, of course, and the watch they preferred was cheap and anonymous but 
capable of taking a beating, the sort of rubber-coated diver's watch that had a 
timer function and could be bought in any decent sporting-goods store. They 
preferred hiking boots (tough, thick soles), loose-fitting camping pants with 
baggy pockets (to conceal a weapon), a loose pullover (to conceal a weapon), and 
a fanny pack (to conceal a weapon). Given the poor fashion sense of most people 
on the street, anyone who matched this profile didn't stand out, except to a 
protective agent like Cavanaugh, who instantly placed them under suspicion.
Watches. So much could be revealed by them. Cavanaugh had once been on a 
protective detail in Istanbul. His assignment had been to help provide security 
for an American billionaire who had gone to Istanbul to negotiate a corporate 
merger, despite threats against the man's life because of his much-publicized 
financial support of Israel. Before the billionaire's jet arrived at Istanbul's 
airport, Cavanaugh had checked the busy concourse and the area outside. The 
variety of clothes that the crowd wore—traditional Arab robes as well as 
numerous types of Western dress— made it hard to find a telltale common 
denominator. But watches, Cavanaugh knew, seldom lied. When he noticed half a 
dozen men in their thirties who wore dissimilar but baggy clothes, who appeared 
not to have anything to do with one another but who all had similar thick-soled 
shoes and the same type of sturdy black rubber-coated athlete's watch, alarms 
went off inside him, warning him that he had to find another way to get his 
client out of the airport.
It wasn't something Cavanaugh did consciously. It was his reflexive way of 
seeing the world, much as the legendary security expert Col. Jeff Cooper advised 
everyone to maintain a state of vigilance that Cooper called "Condition Yellow" 
(White being the average person's lack of awareness, Orange being intense 
alertness in response to danger, and Red being a fight for one's life).
In Condition Yellow, then, observing shoes, watches, and other indicators, 
Cavanaugh got out of a taxi at Columbus Circle and walked into Central Park. The 
time was around two in the afternoon. The route he took through the trees 
avoided paths and was intended to let him know if he was being followed. He 
exited at West Seventieth Street and crisscrossed blocks at random, heading 
south, eventually climbing the steps from Columbus Avenue and starting across 
the huge open area in front of Lincoln Center.
One benefit of this cautious frame of mind was that it kept him solidly in the 
moment, appreciative of each second, not only aware of the crowd that was 
typically in front of Lincoln Center but also aware of the unusually clear sky, 
of the pleasant feel of the sun on this splendid May afternoon. He crossed to 
the famous fountain, sat with his back to it, and considered what was going on 
around him. Two young men threw a Frisbee back and forth. Students, presumably 
from nearby Juilliard, sat on benches, reading textbooks. Busy-looking people 
crossed back and forth from the various buildings. Couples chatted. Turning, 
Cavanaugh saw a businessman sitting behind him on the edge of the fountain. The 
man had a briefcase in his lap and glanced at his watch.
Out of habit, Cavanaugh shifted so he could pay closer attention. The man was in 
his thirties, of medium height and weight, with short dark hair. Any number of 
businessmen fit that profile. His black suit looked expensive and fit him 
perfectly. No place to hide a weapon. The man's black briefcase also looked 
expensive and was shiny enough to be brand-new. When the man crossed his legs, 
Cavanaugh was able to study one of his shoes. A sturdy black Oxford, so new that 
the sole was barely scraped. And as for the watch . . .
Cavanaugh didn't mind that it was one of those shiny types with all sorts of 
dials and buttons. True, a certain level of businessman preferred to be 
unostentatious, but others liked to indulge themselves with gadgets, and a watch 
capable of being a tinier while it also indicated the hour, minute, and second 
in two different time zones could be amusing for a certain type of mind. No, 
what bothered Cavanaugh was that the watch was so thick, the shirtsleeve around 
it had to be unbuttoned, looking sloppy in contrast to the man's 
otherwise-impeccable appearance.
The man checked his watch again, then directed his attention to the left, toward 
the entrance to Avery Fisher Hall, one of the buildings in the complex.
At that moment, Cavanaugh sensed someone coming toward him and peered up at a 
tall, slender man who had a slight mustache and a wide-brimmed hat that 
Cavanaugh knew hid thinning gray hair. Although the man was in his fifties, he 
exuded the wiry strength of someone much younger. His shoes were so polished 
that they reflected the movement of people walking past. His gray pinstriped 
suit gave the impression of a uniform. His white shirt was heavily starched. The 
only colors were the red and blue of his tie, which didn't relieve his pallor.
"Duncan." Cavanaugh smiled and shook hands with him. "You look pasty. You need 
to get outside more."
"Bad for my health." The brim of Duncan's hat cast his face in shadow. His last 
name was Wentworth, and because he'd spent much of his life outdoors as a member 
of Special Forces and later as the head instructor for Delta Force, he'd had 
three operations for serious skin cancer. "You're far too tan. Put on more 
sunblock."
"Yeah, the ozone layer's getting thinner. One more thing to worry about." 
Cavanaugh glanced again toward the man in the black suit sitting behind him on 
the edge of the fountain. "Anyway, it's too nice a day to be indoors. I figured 
since you were supervising the new security arrangements at Lincoln Center, we 
could meet here instead of at your office." He referred to the Madison Avenue 
headquarters for Global Protective Services, a security agency Duncan had 
established when he'd left Delta Force. After only five years, the agency had 
branches in London, Paris, Rome, and Hong Kong, with another soon to open in 
Tokyo. Its reputation had spread because of the quality of the protective agents 
Duncan hired, all of them having been special-operations personnel, many of them 
Duncan's former students.
"How are your injuries?" Duncan asked.
"Healed."
"The ambassador sends his regards."
"He's very lucky."
"Yes. To have had somebody as good as you running interference for him."
Cavanaugh couldn't resist grinning. "Anytime you start buttering me up, it means 
you want something."
Duncan gave him a "guilty as charged" look. "Do you think you're ready to go 
back to work?"
Taking another glance over his shoulder, Cavanaugh noticed that the man in the 
black suit looked more intense as he checked his watch yet again and continued 
staring toward Avery Fisher Hall. The open cuff around the thick watch became 
more bothersome.
At once, the man saw something that made him sit rigidly. With the briefcase on 
his lap, he placed his hands on the buttons that would open it.
"Excuse me a minute," Cavanaugh said to Duncan. He stood and rounded the 
fountain, following the man's gaze toward Avery Fisher Hall and a red-haired 
woman who had just stepped out. In her thirties, well dressed and 
pleasant-looking, she was with a man, whom she gave a "see you later" kiss on 
the cheek. Then she started across the open area. In ten seconds, she would pass 
through the crowd and be close to where the man in the black suit sat staring at 
her.
Cavanaugh came up on his blind side as the man opened the briefcase just enough 
to reach inside it.
The woman came closer and glanced in the man's direction, amazing Cavanaugh, 
inasmuch as most people never noticed anything around them. She froze as the man 
dropped the briefcase, revealing a pistol in his hand.
Several things happened almost at once. The woman screamed, the man moved toward 
her, and Cavanaugh darted behind him, shoving his arm into the air. He wrenched 
the pistol from the man's hand, dragged him backward, tipped him into the 
fountain, and pressed his head underwater.
Duncan came over to him. "Yes, you're certainly feeling better."
"Are you just going to stand there enjoying yourself, or would you mind calling 
a cop?"
Duncan pulled out a cell phone. "Don't you think you should let him breathe?"
"Not really, but I guess we'll never hear his story otherwise."
"She told him she wanted a divorce—something like that— and he couldn't take the 
rejection, of course," Duncan said.
"Of course. But I want to know why he dressed up. He doesn't normally wear a 
suit. You can tell, because his watch is too big for the cuff on a dress shirt."
"If you don't let him breathe pretty soon, you'll never know."
"Spoilsport." Cavanaugh pulled the man's face from the water, watched him 
splutter, and demanded to know about the suit.
With a little more submersion, the man was persuaded to explain. After shooting 
his wife, who had indeed asked for a divorce and who'd been going to meet him at 
her lawyer's office, he had planned to shoot himself. The black suit, like the 
shoes, was new. He had left instructions that they were to be his burial 
clothes.
"Just when you think you've heard everything," Cavanaugh said.
But there was more. The man had kept checking his watch because he'd known when 
to expect his wife to leave work and go to her appointment with her attorney. 
One of the three dials on his watch indicated the current time. Another dial 
showed the amount of time that had elapsed since she'd told him she wanted a 
divorce; a third counted down the remaining seconds that she'd had to live.
Cavanaugh shoved the man's head underwater again.
"So what do you think?" Duncan asked.
"About?"
"Are you ready for another assignment?"





2
The Warwick Hotel had recently been renovated, but its marble and dark wood 
lobby still evoked the tradition and character of a Manhattan landmark. 
Cavanaugh turned left and entered the hotel's quiet bar, where an attractive 
woman with green eyes and an intriguing expression sat at a corner table. He 
approved of her choice of location—her back to an inside wall, away from the 
bar's numerous windows—although if he'd believed she was in any danger, he 
wouldn't have let her appear in public in the first place.
Her name was Jamie Travers, and until recently, she had lived in seclusion with 
him at his ranch in the mountains near Jackson Hole, Wyoming, from where he had 
periodically set out on security assignments, taking care that her weapons 
training was up-to-date and that colleagues in need of R and R were there to 
watch over her when he had to go away. Two years earlier, she had testified 
about a gangland killing she'd witnessed. The mob boss who'd gone to prison had 
put out a contract against her. Twice, despite police protection, she'd nearly 
been killed, prompting Cavanaugh, who admired her determination, to step in and 
arrange for her to disappear. The contract had finally ended when the man who'd 
ordered it choked to death while eating spaghetti and meatballs in a federal 
prison. Despite the seeming innocence of the mob boss's death, Jamie had been 
convinced that Cavanaugh had had something to do with it, but he continued to 
deny any involvement, even though he had once told her that the only way to stop 
the mob boss from being a threat was to kill him. "Kismet" was all Cavanaugh 
would say about the supposed accident. Shortly afterward, they had married. Now 
they continued to base their lives in Wyoming, but for its beauty, not its 
seclusion.
Shoulder-long glossy brunette hair made the beige pantsuit and the emerald 
blouse she wore perfect choices. Admiring his wife, he moved a chair so that he 
could sit in the corner with her. The location allowed him to survey both 
entrances to the room as well as the pedestrians passing the windows along 
Fifty-fourth Street and the Avenue of the Americas.
"What are you drinking?" he asked.
'Perrier and lime."
He tasted it, savoring the lime. "How was your afternoon? Enjoying being a 
tourist?"
"Love it. I haven't been to the Museum of Modern Art in so long. It was like 
seeing an old friend. And how was your afternoon?"
He told her.
"You accepted another assignment?" Jamie looked surprised.
"We planned to fly home the day after tomorrow, so this won't interfere with 
much, especially since you're seeing your mother again tomorrow. I didn't think 
you'd mind going home ahead of me. I'll join you in a week."
"But you're barely healed from the last job you did."
"This one's easy."
"That's what you said the last time."
"And the money's good."
"I've got more than enough money for both of us," Jamie said.
Cavanaugh nodded. His protective agent's income allowed them to stay at the 
Warwick, which was comfortable without being palatial. But if they'd used 
Jamie's money, which came from the sale of a promising dot-corn company she'd 
founded during the Internet frenzy of the 1990s, they'd have stayed in a master 
suite at the Plaza or, at the very least, the St. Regis.
"Why don't you let me take care of you?" she asked.
"Foolish male pride."
"You said it. I didn't."
He shrugged. "People need protecting."
"And that's what you do. I shouldn't have bothered asking." She hooked an arm 
around one of his. "So what makes this job easy?"
"The client doesn't want anybody to shield him."
"Oh?" Jamie looked surprised again. "What does he want?"
"The same as you did. To disappear."





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.





4
As swiftly as the door's protesting hinges allowed, Cavanaugh closed it. No 
longer a silhouette, he shifted toward the deepest shadows and took account of 
where he was. At the bottom of a dusty concrete stairwell, metal steps led up. 
Cobwebs dangled from the railing. On the left, a motor rumbled behind an 
elevator door. The place smelled of must and gave off a chill.
Aiming his pistol toward the stairs and then toward the elevator, he reached 
behind him to turn the latch on the sturdy lock and secure the door. But before 
he could touch it, the lock's bolt rammed home, triggered electronically from a 
distance.
He concentrated to control his uneasiness. There wasn't any reason to suspect he 
was in danger. After all, Duncan had warned him that the potential client, 
although legitimate, had eccentricities.
Prescott's merely being cautious, Cavanaugh tried to assure himself. Hell, if 
he's so nervous about his safety that he feels he needs protection, it's natural 
he'd make sure the door's locked. He's the one in danger, not me.
Then why am 1 holding this gun?
He pulled the phone from his jacket and spoke into it. "Now what?" His voice 
echoed.
As if in response, the elevator opened, revealing a brightly lit compartment.
Cavanaugh hated elevators—small sealed boxes that could easily become traps. 
There wasn't any way to know what might be on the other side when the door 
reopened.
"Thanks," he said into the phone, "but I need some exercise. I'll take the 
stairs."
As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he noticed a surveillance camera mounted 
discreetly under the stairs, facing the door. "I was told you wanted to 
disappear. It seems to me you've already done that."
"Not enough," the unsteady voice said. This time, it came not from the phone but 
from a speaker hidden in the wall.
Cavanaugh put away his phone. A vague pungent smell pinched his nostrils, as if 
something had died nearby. His pulse quickened.
No matter how softly he placed his shoes, the metal stairs echoed loudly as he 
climbed.
He came to a landing and shifted higher. The pungent smell became a little more 
noticeable. His stomach fidgeted as he faced a solid metal door. Hesitating, he 
reached for it.
"Not that one," the voice said from the wall.
Nerves inexplicably more on edge, Cavanaugh climbed higher and came to a door 
halfway up the stairs.
"Not that one, either," the voice said. "Incidentally, am I supposed to feel 
reassured that you're coming with a gun?"
"I don't know about you, but under the circumstances, it does a world of good 
for me."
The voice made a sound that might have been a bitter chuckle.
Heavy rain hit the building, sending vibrations through it.
At the top, a final door awaited. It was open, inviting Cavanaugh into a 
brightly lit corridor, which had a closed door at the other end.
This is the same as stepping into an elevator, he decided. The pungent smell 
seemed a little stronger. His muscles tightening, he didn't understand what was 
happening to him. A visceral part of him warned him to leave the building. 
Abruptly, he wondered if he could leave the building. Even though he always 
carried lock picks in his jacket's collar, he had the suspicion that they 
wouldn't be enough to open the downstairs door. Breathing slightly faster, he 
had to keep telling himself that he wasn't the one in danger—Prescott was, which 
explained what Cavanaugh hoped were merely security precautions and not a trap 
that had been set for him.
He glanced up at a security camera in the corridor he was expected to enter. To 
hell with it, he thought, annoyed by the nervous moisture on his palms. If 
Prescott wanted me dead, he could have killed me before now. Regardless of the 
insistent pounding of his heart, a strong intuition told Cavanaugh to surrender 
to the situation. Something else told him to run, which made no sense, inasmuch 
as he didn't have a reason to believe he was in danger.
Impatient with himself, he came to a firm decision and holstered his weapon. 
It's not going to do me any good in that corridor anyhow.
Entering, he wasn't surprised that the door swung shut behind him, locking 
loudly.
After the gloom of the stairwell, the lights hurt his eyes, but at least the 
pungent smell was gone. Managing to feel less on edge, he walked to the door at 
the end of the corridor, turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found 
himself in a bright room filled with closed-circuit television monitors and 
electronic consoles. Across from him, bricks covered a window.
What captured his attention, however, was an overweight man in his forties who 
stood among the glowing equipment. The man wore wrinkled slacks and an equally 
wrinkled white shirt that had sweat marks and clung to his ample stomach. His 
thick sandy hair was uncombed. He needed a shave. The skin under his eyes was 
puffy from lack of sleep. The dark pupils of his eyes were large from tension.
The man aimed a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol at him. Its barrel wavered.
Cavanaugh had no doubt that if he had still been holding his pistol when he'd 
entered, the man would have fired. Doing his best to keep his breathing steady, 
he raised his hands in reassuring submission. Despite the big gun that was 
nervously aimed at him, the uneasiness Cavanaugh had felt coming up the stairs 
seemed of no importance compared to what this man must be feeling, for, outside 
of combat, Prescott was the most frightened man Cavanaugh had ever seen.





5
"Please remember you sent for me," Cavanaugh said. "I'm here to help you."
As Prescott continued to aim the Colt, his pupils got larger. The room became 
more sour with fear.
"I knew your one-time-only phone number and the recognition code," Cavanaugh 
said. "Only someone from Protective Services could have had that information."
"You could have forced those details from the person they were sending," 
Prescott said. As on the phone, his voice was unsteady, but now Cavanaugh 
understood that it wasn't an electronic effect—Prescott's voice shook because he 
was afraid.
The door behind Cavanaugh swung shut, its lock ramming electronically home. He 
managed not to flinch. "I don't know who or what you feel threatened by, but I 
hardly think one man coming here would be the smartest way to get at you, not 
the way you've got this place set up. Logic should tell you I'm not a threat."
"The unexpected is the most brilliant tactic." Prescott's grip on the .45 was as 
unsteady as his voice. "Besides, your logic works against you. If one man isn't 
much of a threat, how can one man provide adequate protection?"
"You didn't say you wanted protection. You said you wanted to disappear."
Sweat marks spreading under his arms, Prescott studied Cavanaugh warily.
"My initial interviews are always one-on-one," Cavanaugh said. "I have to ask 
questions to assess the threat level. Then I decide how much help the job 
requires."
"I was told you used to be in Delta Force." Prescott licked his dry, fleshy 
lips.
"That's right."
The classic special-operations physique involved muscular shoulders that trimmed 
down to solid, compact hips, upper-body strength being one of the goals of the 
arduous training.
"Lots of exercise," Prescott said. "Is that what you think qualifies you to 
protect somebody?"
Trying to put Prescott at ease, Cavanaugh chuckled. "You want my job stats?"
"If you want to convince me you're here to help. If you want to work for me."
"You've got this turned around. When I interview potential clients, it's not 
because I want to work for them. Sometimes, I don't want to work for them."
"You mean you have to like them?" Prescott asked with distaste.
"Sometimes, I don't like them, either," Cavanaugh said. "But that doesn't mean 
they don't have a right to live. I'm a protector, not a judge. With exceptions. 
No drug traffickers. No child abusers. Nobody who's an obvious monster. Are you 
a monster?"
Prescott had a look of incredulity. "Of course not."
"Then there's only one other standard that'll help me decide if I want to 
protect you."
"Which is?"
"Are you willing to be compliant?"
Prescott blinked sweat from his eyes. "What?"
"I can't protect someone who won't take orders," Cavanaugh said. "That's the 
paradox of being a protector. Someone hires me. In theory, that person's the 
boss. But when it comes to protection, I'm the one who gives the orders. The 
employer has to react to me as if I'm the boss. Are you willing to be 
compliant?"
"Anything to keep me alive."
"You'll do what I say?"
Prescott thought and then fearfully nodded.
"So, okay, here's your first order: Put that damned gun away before I ram it 
down your throat."
Prescott blinked several times, stepping back as if Cavanaugh had slapped him. 
He held the gun steadier, frowned, and slowly lowered it.
"An excellent start," Cavanaugh said.
"If you're not who you say you are, do it right now," Prescott said. "Kill me. I 
can't stand living this way."
"Relax. Whoever your enemies are, I'm not one of them."
Cavanaugh surveyed the room. To the right, in a corner, past the electronics and 
the monitors, he saw a cot, a minifridge, a sink, and a small stove. Beyond was 
a toilet, a showerhead, and a drain. The type of food on the shelves made clear 
that Prescott didn't worry about being overweight: boxes of macaroni and cheese, 
cans of ravioli and lasagna, bags of chocolates, candy bars, and potato chips, 
cases of classic Coke. "How long have you been here?"
"Three weeks."
Cavanaugh noticed books on a shelf below the food. Most were nonfiction, on 
subjects as various as geology and photography. One had a photo of a naked woman 
on the cover and seemed to be a sex book. In contrast, another volume was The 
Collected Poems of Robinson Jeffers, with a few books about Jeffers next to it. 
"You like poetry?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Soothes the soul." Prescott's tone was slightly defensive, as if he suspected 
that Cavanaugh might be mocking him.
Cavanaugh picked up the book and opened it, reading the first lines he came to. 
" 'I built her a tower when I was young— Sometime she will die.'"
Prescott looked more defensive.
"Knows how to grab my attention." Cavanaugh set down the book and continued 
scanning the place. Videotapes sat next to a small television. Prescott's taste 
had no consistency: a Clint Eastwood thriller, an old Troy Donahue-Sandra Dee 
teenage-romance tearjerker. . . .
"I've seen worse places to go to ground." Cavanaugh thought about it. "Homeless 
people and crack addicts as your cover. Smart. How'd you know about this 
warehouse? How'd you set up this room?"
"I did it a year ago," Prescott said. "Whatever your trouble is, you saw it 
coming?" "Not this particular trouble." "Then why did you ..." "I always take 
precautions," Prescott said. "You're not making sense." "In case," Prescott told 
him.
"In case of what?" Movement on a TV monitor abruptly caught Cavanaugh's 
attention. "Wait a second."





6
"What's wrong?" Prescott spun toward the monitor.
On the screen, a gray image showed a dozen ragged men plodding through the rain, 
converging on the Taurus.
"Jesus," Prescott said.
"Crack addicts are amazing," Cavanaugh said. "No matter what it is, if it's left 
alone, they'll try to steal it. I once knew a guy who stole forty pounds of dog 
food from his father so he could buy crack. What's more amazing, his drug dealer 
took the dog food, rather than demanding money. For all I know, the drug dealer 
ate it."
On the screen, the ragged men, drenched with rain, tugged at the side-view 
mirrors or used chunks of metal to pry at the hubcaps.
"Have you got a way to hear what's going on outside?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott flipped a switch on a console. Immediately, the sound of rain came 
through an audio speaker.
Cavanaugh heard the distant scrape of metal as the ragged men worked in the 
downpour to try to disassemble his car. "Get a job, guys."
He took the car's remote control from his jacket pocket. It was more elaborate 
than usual, equipped with half a dozen buttons.
Prescott looked puzzled as Cavanaugh pressed one of the buttons.
Suddenly, the audio speaker filled the room with an ear-torturing siren that 
came from the Taurus and made the men drop their makeshift burglary tools, 
fleeing like drenched versions of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
Cavanaugh pressed the button again, and the siren stopped.
"Are you ready to get out of here?" he asked Prescott.
"To?" Prescott looked apprehensive.
"Somewhere safer than this, although, Lord knows, this place is safe enough. 
After my team arrives, after we get organized, we'll give you a new identity and 
relocate you. But first I need to know what kind of risk level we're talking 
about. Why are you so frightened?"
Prescott opened his mouth to answer, then frowned at the monitor.
Four of the men were back, heading for the Taurus.
"At least they get points for persistence," Cavanaugh said.
He pressed another button on the remote control.
Gray vapor spewed from under the wheel wells. Despite the rain, it blossomed, 
enveloping the crack addicts. Coughing and cursing, they stumbled back. Bent 
over as if they were going to be sick, they pawed at their eyes and staggered 
away.
Cavanaugh pressed the button again, and the vapor stopped spewing from the wheel 
wells.
"What on earth was that?" Prescott asked.
"Tear gas."
"What?"
"The car's modified the way the best Secret Service vehicles are. It's 
armor-plated and—" A new image on the monitor made him stop. "Amazing. With 
their ambition, if these guys were in politics, they could run the world."
On the screen, two more crack addicts approached the Taurus.
"Turn down the volume on that speaker," Cavanaugh told Prescott.
Confused, Prescott did what he was told.
As the men came closer to the Taurus, Cavanaugh pressed another button on the 
remote control.
Small black canisters catapulted from under the wheel wells. Shaped like 
miniature soup cans, they exploded with numerous roars that shook the speaker, 
even though its volume had been reduced. The multiple flashes of the explosions 
were so bright that the camera had trouble maintaining its contrast level.
When the smoke cleared, the two crack addicts lay on the concrete.
"My God, you killed them," Prescott said.
"No."
"But they were so close to the grenades."
"Those weren't grenades."
On the screen, the two men began to squirm.
"I used flash-bangs," Cavanaugh said.
"Flash-bangs?"
"Sort of like grenades, except they don't throw shrapnel. But they blind and 
deafen for a while. Those guys are going to have a whale of a headache."
On the screen, the two crack addicts struggled upright, holding their ears.
"But this car can be equipped to launch grenades if the mission calls for it," 
Cavanaugh said. "And it can be modified for machine guns under the headlights. 
All the best dictators and drug lords have those extras. In a more luxurious car 
than a Taurus, of course. Believe me, Mr. Prescott, we can take care of you."
Cavanaugh looked back at the row of monitors, where one of the images showed the 
Taurus at ground level. Able to see partway under the car, he frowned, noticing 
what appeared to be a shadow under the vehicle. He pointed. "Does that camera 
have a zoom lens?"
"All of them do." Prescott twisted a dial, enlarging the image on the monitor. 
The shadow under the Taurus took the shape of a small box. Jesus, Cavanaugh 
thought, one of the crack addicts must have put it under there.
He blinked as the Taurus exploded.





7
The roar from the speaker was so loud that the entire room shook. On the screen, 
chunks of the Taurus crashed onto the concrete, smoke and fire swelling.
Prescott gaped.
A second explosion rocked the room. On a different monitor, the door through 
which Cavanaugh had entered the building blasted inward, smoke and flames 
filling the area at the bottom of the stairs. Three men rushed in, but although 
their hair was matted and their faces were beard-stubbled and filthy, their eyes 
had neither the blankness of the homeless nor the desperation of drug addicts. 
These men had eyes as alert as any gunfighter Cavanaugh had ever encountered.
"Is there another way out of here?"
Prescott kept staring at the screen, which showed one of the men aiming a pistol 
at the elevator door while the other two aimed pistols upward and stormed the 
stairs.
"Prescott?" Cavanaugh repeated, drawing his weapon.
Prescott kept staring at the screen.
Cavanaugh grabbed him, turned him, and shook him, "For Christ's sake, listen to 
me. Is there another way out of here?"
Instead of responding, Prescott lunged toward one of the electronic consoles and 
twisted a dial.
"What are you doing?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott stared toward a different screen.
The two men came into view on an upper portion of the stairs. They stopped and 
aimed upward, looking as if they thought getting in had been too easy, that 
there had to be traps in the building.
On the monitor that showed the entrance to the building, two other ragged men 
charged in through the fading smoke from the explosion. They, too, aimed 
pistols.
They started up the stairs, then paused as had the pair above them. Wary, they 
glanced behind and below them, seeming to sense danger.
"Have you got the stairwell booby-trapped, is that it?" Cavanaugh asked 
Prescott.
But on the screen, nothing exploded in the stairwell. No hidden guns went off. 
No flames erupted from the walls. Even so, the gunmen were obviously disturbed 
about something. Various monitors showed the man watching the elevator, the two 
that had just paused on the stairs, and the pair halfway up, who stared 
apprehensively toward the top as if they knew they were walking into a death 
trap.
Moisture dripped from their faces. At first, Cavanaugh thought it was from the 
rain they'd charged through.
Then he realized it was sweat.
One of the gunmen on the stairs suddenly started firing toward the upper level.
Abruptly, the other gunmen on the stairs did the same. At the bottom, the ragged 
figure watching the elevator kept looking behind him, as if he'd heard a 
threatening sound. He spun toward the blown-apart door and fired toward the 
rain.
"What the hell's gong on?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott kept twisting the dial, mumbling to himself, as if something had 
malfunctioned. "Yes." He spun toward Cavanaugh. "There's another way out of 
here."
Puzzled, Cavanaugh watched Prescott hurry toward the shelves of food. Then he 
frowned again at the monitors, seeing the gunmen continue firing up the stairs. 
Two furiously reloaded. The other pair spun to aim behind them. The man on the 
ground floor kept switching his aim between the elevator and the blown-open 
door.
A noise in the room distracted Cavanaugh, a scrape as Prescott slid the shelves 
to the left, revealing a door.
"Where does it lead?"
"The warehouse."
Recalling the army of crack addicts he'd seen when he'd arrived, Cavanaugh 
wondered how much he could count on Prescott to help. "Do you know how to handle 
that gun you pointed at me?"
"No."
Cavanaugh wasn't surprised. He picked up the .45 and found that Prescott had 
aimed it with the safety on. Worse, after Cavanaugh freed the safety and pulled 
back the slide half an inch, he saw that the firing chamber was empty. Releasing 
the magazine from the grip, he discovered that it did contain the usual seven 
rounds, however. After he shoved the magazine back into the grip, he racked a 
round into the firing chamber, ready for business.
"Do you have extra ammunition?"
"No."
Cavanaugh wasn't surprised about that, either. Because the .45 needed to be 
cocked before it could be fired, he left the hammer back and the safety on, a 
method preferred by most professionals. After shoving it under his belt, he drew 
his Sig.
He took one final look at the monitors, where he saw other ragged men rush into 
the stairwell, aiming pistols. Like the others, they suddenly hesitated, as if 
threatened by something the cameras didn't show in the stairway.
The image that most caught Cavanaugh's attention, however, was one in the 
middle, where a beard-stubbled man in grimy clothes stood outside, beyond the 
wreckage of the Taurus, which was still in flames despite the downpour. 
Drenched, the man held a metal tube that was about four feet long and looked 
suspiciously like an antitank rocket launcher.
"Prescott, is there a way to tell what's behind this door?"
"The top row of monitors. On the right."
The screen showed nothing but a shadowy metal catwalk.
"Open the door! Get out of the way!"
Wild-eyed, Prescott freed the lock and yanked the door open, veering toward the 
cover of the wall.
Cavanaugh aimed through the opening but saw nothing except the catwalk he'd 
observed on the monitor. The suspended metal walkway stretched into the shadows. 
The warehouse rumbled from the rain.
"Remember what I said about following orders?"
Prescott could barely speak. "Yes."
"Do you have a heart condition? Any serious illnesses that would keep you from 
moving fast?"
Prescott squeezed out a "No."
"Okay, when I run through this doorway, run after me! Stay close!"
On the middle screen, the drenched, grimy man outside finished arming the 
antitank rocket launcher. It was short enough that he could easily manage it as 
he raised it to his shoulder and sighted upward through the rain toward the 
room's bricked-in window.
"Now!" Cavanaugh said.
Charging through the door, then aiming down toward the shadows below the 
catwalk, he heard his urgent footsteps on the catwalk's metal. An instant later, 
he was relieved to hear Prescott's footsteps clattering close behind him.
Then all he heard was a ringing in his ears as the rocket exploded against the 
side of the building behind him. He felt the concussion, like hands slamming 
against his back, shoving him forward, and although he couldn't risk distracting 
himself by looking behind him, he imagined bricks flying into the room, smashing 
the monitors and electronic consoles.
The shock wave knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the catwalk, 
his forehead banging against it as Prescott's heavy frame landed on him. The .45 
under Ca-vanaugh's belt gouged into his side. For a moment, his vision turned 
gray.
The catwalk swayed.





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.





9
Rusted metal buckled. The end of the catwalk scraped downward against the wall, 
tilting, forming a slide, down which Cavanaugh and Prescott struggled not to 
fall.
"Grab the railing!" Cavanaugh yelled.
For once, Prescott didn't need prompting. Even in the gray light, it was obvious 
how white his knuckles were from the force with which he gripped the railing.
Metal protesting, the catwalk tilted lower, more steeply.
"Pretend the railing's a rope!" Cavanaugh ordered. "Climb down hand over hand!"
With a shuddering clang, the end of the catwalk slammed to a halt on the shadowy 
second floor. The force with which it struck almost yanked Cavanaugh's hands off 
the railing.
He and Prescott hung at a forty-five-degree angle.
Cavanaugh worried about the gunmen in the room above. He hoped that the shadows 
made him and Prescott hard to aim at. But what about the man who'd shouted from 
below?
"Prescott, forget trying to climb down! Dig your heels against the metal and 
slide!"
Prescott's face was stark.
"Now!" Cavanaugh said. "Watch me!"
He used his shoes as brakes while he slid down on his hips, using his hands on 
the railing to guide him. Gratified, he heard scrapes behind him as Prescott did 
his best to follow.
Gunshots reverberated through the warehouse. Bullets from the room they'd left 
blew chunks from the wall.
At once, Prescott needed no further encouragement. He slid down so rapidly that 
his shoes bumped against Cavanaugh. In turn, Cavanaugh slid faster, feeling the 
seat of his pants threaten to tear as Prescott's shoes bumped harder against 
him, and Cavanaugh slid even faster.
He tumbled onto the wet floor, rolling free just before Prescott slammed to a 
halt. But before Cavanaugh could check that Prescott was all right, he drew his 
weapon and crouched, on guard against the man who'd yelled from below the 
catwalk.
A wall seemed to move. Immediately, Cavanaugh realized it was derelicts cowering 
in the shadows. He saw huge boxes where they slept and garbage bags filled with 
God knew what. The stench of urine and feces was overwhelming.
A few crack addicts stepped forward. From above, gunshots made them scramble 
back into the shadows. Bullets whacked the floor.
The gunmen can't see us, Cavanaugh thought. They're shooting blindly. If I 
return fire, they'll see my muzzle flashes and know where to aim.
Water from the roof fell around him. He looked behind him, noticed a door, and 
dragged Prescott to his feet.
But when Cavanaugh tested the door, he found that it was locked. Mentally 
cursing, he searched for another way out, saw a stairway that led down to the 
ground level, and tugged Prescott toward it. For all he knew, gunmen would be 
waiting down there, but he had to take the chance.
It had been less than twenty minutes since he and Prescott had met. He had no 
idea who Prescott was or why these men wanted to kill him. He wasn't even sure 
he'd have accepted the assignment after he'd finished questioning Prescott and 
made a risk assessment. For one thing, he had only Prescott's word that he 
wasn't a drug trafficker or any of the other monsters Cavanaugh refused to 
protect. But none of that mattered any longer. The attack had made Cavanaugh's 
choice for him. He and Prescott were now protector and protected.
As he guided Prescott down the stairs into deeper shadows, he rapidly did a 
tactical reload, taking the partially depleted magazine from his pistol, 
pocketing it, and inserting a full one from his belt.
The stench became more nauseating. Prescott moved so frantically that his 
footsteps echoed loudly. No! Cavanaugh thought. They'll hear us and shoot! He 
could only hope that the rumble of the rain on the roof would obscure the noises 
they made.
His hope was ill-founded. Shots roared from above, blasting more chunks from the 
wall. Hurrying Prescott to the bottom, Cavanaugh froze at the sight of another 
cluster of derelicts. He aimed, unable to distinguish those who were truly 
homeless from those who might be a threat. Most had already cowered from the 
shots on the floor above and the sudden descent of strangers into their midst. 
The sight of Cavanaugh's pistol made them cower even more.
A few others, however, had the look of jackals waiting for their prey to become 
distracted.
But none drew handguns or assault rifles, even though they would have a good 
chance against one armed man and the client he was doing everything possible to 
protect.
Cavanaugh heard loud, angry voices above him and the sound of the catwalk 
scraping, as if some of the gunmen were trying to descend the way Cavanaugh and 
Prescott had. The rest of the assault team would be charging down the stairs 
toward the outside door. They would race through the rain, burst into the 
warehouse, scatter its ragged occupants, and continue hunting. Meanwhile, some 
of the assault team would rush to the opposite side of the warehouse, in case 
Cavanaugh and Prescott tried to escape in that direction, but the gunmen 
couldn't possibly have moved fast enough to reach there yet.
Aiming toward the ragged men, Cavanaugh motioned for Prescott to follow him 
toward where a rusted door lay next to an opening on the river side of the 
warehouse. But then he realized that even if part of the assault team hadn't had 
time to reach that side, a few marksmen could be watching from upper windows, 
ready to fire through the broken glass.
We wouldn't have a chance, he thought. Rain gusted through the opening. Gray 
light beckoned. A tugboat's horn blared from the river. So close. Again 
Cavanaugh imagined the gunmen bursting into the warehouse, scattering its ragged 
occupants, hunting for . . .
Scattering?
"Prescott, follow me back to where we were."
"But aren't we leaving?"
"When I tell you." Cavanaugh led Prescott into the middle of the area.
He faced the ragged men. "I've got a job for everybody."
They looked baffled. A few even looked as frightened of the word job as they 
were of the pistol in his hand.
Thunder rumbled.
"Your first step on the road to self-sufficiency."
They looked more baffled.
"It requires no skills, and if everything goes as planned, I'll send a truck 
here tomorrow with food and clothes for all of you. You can't ask for a better 
deal than that."
They looked at Cavanaugh as if he spoke an incomprehensible language.
"So what do you think? Are you ready to start working?"
They kept staring.
"Great," Cavanaugh said. "Now this is all you have to do. You see that opening 
over there? It leads toward other warehouses and then the river. What I want you 
to do is ... Prescott."
"What?"
"Put your hands over your ears."
No questions this time. Prescott obeyed.
"What I want everybody to do," Cavanaugh told the group, "is keep thinking of 
the food and clothes you'll get tomorrow and"—Cavanaugh raised his pistol—"run 
in that direction."
They stared blankly.
"Run!"
When they didn't move, he fired the pistol over their heads. In the shadows, the 
muzzle flash was vivid, the ear-torturing roar making the group stumble back.
"Run!" Cavanaugh's own ears were punished as he fired twice more above their 
heads, and now terror made them move a little faster, desperate to get away from 
the madman with the gun.
The next time Cavanaugh fired over their heads did the trick. They broke into a 
full-sized panic and scrambled toward the exit. Bumping into one another, they 
charged out into the rain.





10
"Follow them!" Cavanaugh told Prescott.
To increase momentum, Cavanaugh fired one last time, so terrifying the group 
that, unheeding, they charged through the storm. There must have been thirty of 
them at least, scurrying for whatever shelter they could find. He urged Prescott 
to keep running with them. Hoping that the chaos would distract the assault team 
enough to make them hold fire, he felt the cold rain drench him as he and 
Prescott rushed down a concrete ramp and across a garbage-strewn parking area.
Scarecrows ran everywhere around them. Ahead, some ducked through a gap in a 
chain-link fence. Splashing through puddles, Cavanaugh led Prescott toward the 
hole. He put his hand on Prescott's head, protecting it as he shoved him 
through. Ducking after him, he felt frozen by more than the rain because, with 
just a few derelicts around them now, he and Prescott were obvious targets. The 
only things in their favor were the distance and the difficulty of aiming at 
moving targets from an elevated position.
Blam! A shot from behind them tore up pavement.
"Prescott, that warehouse ahead!"
Blam! More pavement disintegrated.
"Almost there, Prescott!"
Blam! A chunk of pavement zapped past Cavanaugh's forehead.
"Move it, Prescott!"
Cavanaugh couldn't allow himself to run as fast as he was able. He had to match 
Prescott's pace, shouting encouragement, grabbing Prescott's arm when the heavy 
man seemed in danger of faltering. Even so, Cavanaugh's lungs burned from 
exertion as they rounded the warehouse corner.
Shielded by the wall, Prescott bent over and shuddered, gulping air. "We did 
it," he managed to say. "I can't believe we—"
"Keep moving."
"But I have to catch my—"
"No time. Let's go." Cavanaugh tugged Prescott.
He studied the warehouse. Its windows weren't broken. Boxes were stacked inside. 
Still in business, he thought. As the rain lanced against him, he came to a door 
and tried it. Locked. Although it was only midafternoon, no lights glowed 
inside. He didn't see any movement. Not surprising on a Sunday afternoon.
He managed to yank Prescott into a half-run, bringing him to the front of the 
building, where they faced smaller buildings and then the storm-shrouded river. 
Although those other buildings had been maintained also, none showed any 
activity. There might be a watchman somewhere, but Cavanaugh didn't see him, and 
for sure, he wasn't going to shout to get the watchman's attention. That would 
also attract the assault team's attention. By now, they had to be converging on 
this area.
As the rain made Cavanaugh's clothes stick to his skin, causing him to shiver, 
he frantically considered and rejected options. He could pick the lock on a door 
and try to hide with Prescott in one of the buildings. But every door he saw had 
a barred window. All the assault team would need to do was look through each 
window. The splashes of water that he and Prescott couldn't possibly avoid 
leaving on the floor inside would tell their hunters which building they'd 
chosen to hide in.
With a hand on Prescott's arm, Cavanaugh moved along the deserted, rainy street. 
The seething dark clouds and the shadows from the warehouses turned afternoon 
into violent dusk. That'll give us some cover, he thought. But it won't be 
enough. Tensely aware that he and Prescott couldn't stay in the open, he looked 
for a hiding place. A Dumpster briefly attracted his attention, but it was full, 
and anyway, it would only be another trap. Eventually, the gunmen would check 
it.
"Have to rest," Prescott murmured. Fatigue and his weight outmatched his fear 
now, making him plod.
"Soon."
Thrusting him farther along the street, Cavanaugh reconsidered picking the lock 
on one of the doors. It would take a while for the assault team to discover 
which building he'd chosen. It would take them even longer to search inside and 
discover where he and Prescott were hiding. Meanwhile, he could use his cell 
phone to get help from Protective Services.
Possibly the explosion and the shots had caused someone in the area to phone the 
police, but the explosion might also have been attributed to thunder or a 
lightning strike. As for the shots, perhaps the storm had muffled them, or 
perhaps they were common in this run-down neighborhood. In any case, if the 
police did arrive, they'd be a complication more than a help. After all, since 
the gunmen had disguised themselves as crack addicts, could a few members of the 
assault team not also disguise themselves as police officers? Cavanaugh wouldn't 
know if he could trust them. It was safer to depend on Protective Services. He'd 
phone Duncan. A rescue team could arrive in ...
When? Fifteen minutes? Unlikely. A half hour? Maybe. But not guaranteed. And how 
would the rescue team be able to determine which of the several buildings was 
the one in which they were hiding?
We have to keep moving, Cavanaugh thought. He had his right hand on his pistol 
and his left on Prescott's soaked shirt, pulling him through the rain. Ahead, 
another chain-link fence caught his attention. But this one was intact. It had a 
stout metal gate with a lock. Next to it, a sign on a building read wilson 
brothers, construction contractors. Shivering from the cold, he led Prescott 
closer to the fence and saw two forklifts, a dump truck, a pickup truck, and a 
beat-up rust-colored sedan that looked to be twenty years old.
Please, let there be gas in it. Cavanaugh removed his lock picks from a slit 
beneath the collar of his soaked jacket. He felt increasingly vulnerable as he 
holstered his pistol, chose two picks that would fit the lock, and worked both 
of them, one applying torque while the other freed the lock's pins. Ten seconds 
later, he had the gate open.
No sooner had he tugged Prescott into the parking area and closed the gate than 
several men raced between two warehouses down the street. He heard their urgent 
footfalls and angry voices as he forced Prescott down behind the rust-colored 
sedan, barely noticing that the vehicle's color was due to actual rust and not 
paint.
He tried the driver's door and found it unlocked. The construction company must 
have thought the fence was sufficient protection for a car that looked like 
junk. The voices of the men sounded nearer. If they get to the fence, if they 
notice it isn't locked . . .
Rain misting his eyes, Cavanaugh opened the door. He slid into the passenger 
seat, faced the steering column, braced his feet against it, and used both hands 
to yank on the steering wheel, breaking the internal lock that kept the steering 
wheel from moving. He pulled the hood-release lever and scrambled into the rain, 
hurrying to lift the hood. A bundle of wires led into the engine compartment 
from the steering column. Knowing the wires he needed, he pulled a safety pin 
from under his collar, pierced the wires so they formed a circuit, and closed 
the pin over them. The engine started.
The sound made the men rush closer, their footsteps and voices more audible now.
No longer caring about making noise, Cavanaugh slammed the hood and shoved 
Prescott into the car. "Put on your seat belt!"
He rammed the gearshift into drive and stomped the gas pedal. "Roll down your 
window!"





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."





12
"They're not eager to kill me," Prescott said.
"What?"
"They want me alive."
Abruptly, Cavanaugh felt a deeper chill than that caused by the rain blowing in 
on him. As he checked the rearview mirror to see if the assault team was in 
pursuit, his sense of reality shifted dramatically, making him think of the 
attack in an entirely different way. In the warehouse, when the gunmen had 
fired, Cavanaugh had believed that the shadows and the rain falling through the 
roof had thrown off the attackers' aim. Now he realized that the bullets had, in 
fact, been carefully placed, trying to stop Prescott but not to kill him. If 
anyone was a shoot-to-kill target, I was, Cavanaugh thought. It was now clear to 
him that the bullets aimed toward the car had been directed toward the driver's 
side, toward him, not toward Prescott. The only indiscriminate part of the 
attack had been the rocket aimed toward the bricked-over window, but that, too, 
could be explained. In retrospect, Cavanaugh realized that the explosive force 
of the rocket had been less than normal. The damage it inflicted to the building 
should have been far more extensive. The shell's power had been reduced in the 
hopes that it would stun, not kill.
"Sure." Gratified to see traffic through the rain, Cavanaugh steered from the 
warehouses and reached decrepit houses near a highway. "They disguised 
themselves as crack addicts, blending with their surroundings, hoping to catch 
you by surprise. When I showed up, they realized the situation was about to 
change and quickly adjusted their time table, attacking before they were ready."
Ahead, the sirens grew louder.
"Use my cell phone," Cavanaugh repeated. "Press the numbers I gave you."
Prescott finally did. "Here. It's ringing on the other end."
As Cavanaugh released his right hand from the steering wheel and took the phone, 
he decided to test Prescott by saying, "Those sirens. Don't you want me to go to 
the police?"
"No," Prescott said.
"Why not?"
"No police," Prescott emphasized.
Before Cavanaugh could question him further, he heard Duncan's voice say, 
"Global Protective Services."
"This is Cavanaugh. I'm in Condition Red."
Cavanaugh imagined Duncan sitting ramrod-straight.
The wind and the roar of the broken muffler made it difficult for Cavanaugh to 
hear what Duncan said next: "The location transmitter in your Taurus isn't 
functioning. I can't find you on the screen."
"The Taurus is history. Prescott and I are in a stolen car." Working to control 
the vehicle with his left hand, Cavanaugh pressed the cell phone harder to his 
ear.
"Give me your location."
"I'm going to voice encryption." Cavanaugh pressed a button at the bottom of the 
phone, which activated a scrambler. If the men in the pursuing cars had 
cell-phone scanners, they wouldn't be able to overhear. "I'm still in Newark," 
he continued. "Heading away from the river. I see a lot of traffic ahead, but I 
can't identify the highway."
"How many assailants?" Tension made Duncan's voice sound tight.
"Maybe eight."
"Are they in pursuit?"
"I'm not sure. I might have ..." Speeding past more dismal houses toward the 
highway, Cavanaugh peered again toward his rearview mirror. He was about to 
finish his sentence with "lost them," when two cars skidded around a gloomy 
corner back there and rushed in his direction. "Yes," he said. "They're in 
pursuit."
Cavanaugh reached the access ramp and saw a sign. "I'm heading north on Route 
Twenty-one." He saw another sign. "The Me Carter Highway."
"If you're leaving the river and moving north on Twenty-one"—Cavanaugh imagined 
Duncan scanning a map on a computer screen—"keep going in that direction. In 
about ten miles, you'll intersect with Route Three. Head east, then north on 
Seventeen. Can you make it to Teterboro?"
Duncan meant the Teterboro airport, the fourth-important airport in the New York 
City area, after Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark International. Located where 
Routes 17 and 46 converged near Interstate 80 in New Jersey, Teterboro was 
twelve miles from midtown Manhattan via the George Washington Bridge. It was 
designated a "reliever" airstrip, which meant that corporate, charter, and 
private aircraft used it, taking pressure off the larger airports and the large 
passenger carriers they served. Because many of Global Protective Services' 
clients were corporate executives, the agency had an office and a helicopter at 
the airport, although these had logos for Atlas Avionics, a Protective Services 
subsidiary.
"I'm in the Teterboro office now." Duncan's voice crackled from the storm's 
interference. "We're doing a handover." Translation: After having been protected 
while in Manhattan, a client was being transferred from an armored car to the 
client's corporate jet, where non-Protective Services agents would take over.
When the jet left the ground, the assignment was completed. "Can you get here?"
"I'd better." Cavanaugh studied the fuel gauge, which had dropped from 
three-quarters to half indicating how much gas he was losing from bullet holes 
in the tank.
"Call back in ten minutes," Duncan said. "By then, I'll have rendezvous 
specifics."
Cavanaugh broke the transmission and put the phone down beside the .45 on the 
seat. He stared toward the rearview mirror and saw the two pursuing cars merge 
onto the highway. Because of the storm, most cars had their headlights on, but 
these cars stayed dark as they sped past traffic.
The sirens receded into the distance.
"Prescott, you didn't answer my question." Cavanaugh wiped rain from his face 
and concentrated to pass a transport truck. "Why don't you want me to go to the 
police?"
"They wouldn't know what to do with us. Guns. A stolen car. Christ." Prescott's 
face had lost some of its puffiness, tension shrinking it. "They'd question us 
on the street. They'd question us at the station. When they finally let me go, 
the people who want me would've had time to get ready again."
"True." Cavanaugh wiped more rain from his face. "But I get the feeling you've 
got another reason for not going to the police."
"The same reason I wouldn't go to the Drug Enforcement Administration. I don't 
trust anything to do with the government."
"The Drug Enforcement Administration? What have they got to do with ..." 
Cavanaugh had a sudden sick feeling that Prescott might be a monster after all.
"The men chasing us work for Jesus Escobar." Fear made Prescott's face the color 
of his soiled white shirt.
Cavanaugh felt even sicker: Jesus Escobar was one of the biggest drug lords in 
South America. He took another quick look at the rearview mirror and saw that 
the cars chasing him were drawing closer. "You promised me this has nothing to 
do with drugs. I don't protect drug dealers!"
"I told you I wasn't a drug dealer. That's the truth. But I didn't say this has 
nothing to do with drugs."
"You're not making sense."
"Have you ever heard of D.P. Bio Lab?"
"No." His tires sprayed a haze of water from the pavement, as Cavanaugh sped 
past another transport truck.
"The D.P. stands for Daniel Prescott. It's mine—a sophisticated biotech research 
facility." The pupils of Prescott's eyes grew larger with fear as he stared back 
through the rain toward the two pursuing cars. "If you had heard of D.P. Bio 
Lab, I'd have been concerned. Most of my work is for the government."
Cavanaugh suddenly had an uneasy feeling about what he was going to hear.
"As part of the latest antidrug campaign, I was hired to do research on the 
parts of the brain involved with addiction." Emotion made Prescott speak 
quickly. "Addiction's immensely complicated. It isn't clear whether some people 
become addicted for psychological or physical reasons." Prescott spoke faster. 
"Different personalities become addicted to different effects. Passives go for 
depressants. Active types crave stimulants. Sometimes it's the reverse."
The pursuit cars were now a hundred yards behind the rusted sedan.
"The idea was," Prescott said, "if I could find a common denominator, a physical 
trigger common to all of them, in the cerebral cortex, for example, or the 
hypothalamus, there might be a way to stop that trigger from functioning. The 
addiction wouldn't happen."
The pursuit cars were now close enough that in the rearview mirror Cavanaugh 
could see there were four men in each. One driver had a mustache. Another had 
shaved his head. Their eyes had the determination of manhunters.
"And did you find it—the addiction trigger?"
"No."
Cavanaugh tried to anticipate how the gunmen would handle this. They want 
Prescott alive, he thought. They won't shoot at me. Not driving this fast. They 
don't want to cause an accident that'll kill Prescott. Their only choice is to 
force me off the road. "I didn't find a trigger that could be disabled to 
prevent addiction," Prescott said. "What I found instead, God help me, is an 
easy-to-manufacture chemical that can instantly cause an addiction. To itself. 
It's cheap to produce. It doesn't require elaborate equipment. And the 
manufacturing process doesn't have toxic side effects or cause explosions and 
fires the way some illegal drugs can."
Cavanaugh stared again toward the rearview mirror. Speeding through the rain, 
the pursuit cars were now only twenty yards behind the sedan.
"As soon as I reported my findings," Prescott said, "the agency I worked for 
became so alarmed, they terminated the research program."
One of the cars positioned itself behind the sedan while the other came up on 
Cavanaugh's left. They're going to try to box us in and push us off the road, 
Cavanaugh thought.
"Suddenly, the DEA showed up and confiscated my research," Prescott said. "They 
swore my lab assistants and me to secrecy. Not that my lab assistants are a 
security risk. I'm the only one who knows the formula."
Cavanaugh studied traffic ahead and made a quick decision. Prescott's voice 
shook. His words gushed out. "But Escobar must have an informant in the DEA. My 
research is so well guarded there that even Escobar's people can't breach it. 
That leaves me. They want to capture me and force me to tell them the formula."
"For God's sake, why didn't the DEA try to protect you?" "They did. But 
Escobar's people attempted to capture me anyhow. I think somebody at the DEA 
works for him and told him where I was. The team guarding me was attacked. I 
barely escaped a kidnapping attempt. That's when I took advantage of the 
confusion and slipped away, managing to reach the warehouse."
"Which you'd set up earlier. In case," Cavanaugh said.
"But I couldn't stay there forever. I'd have run out of food. I wanted people to 
talk to. I'm tired of being afraid."
"I'll do my best to fix that." Cavanaugh rolled down his window. In addition to 
the rain, he heard the car coming up next to him. "Do you know how to load a 
pistol?"
"No."
It figures, Cavanaugh thought. He'd been about to give Prescott one of the Sig's 
spare magazines and have him reload the weapon. Now there wasn't time to explain 
what to do. Cavanaugh was going to have to rely on Prescott's .45.
The car on Cavanaugh's left came abreast of the sedan and slammed against its 
side.
"Make sure your seat belt's tight," Cavanaugh said quickly.
The car struck the driver's side again. Cavanaugh heard metal crumble. 
Concentrating to control his steering with his left hand, he used his right hand 
to pick up the .45. "This pistol had better work."
He transferred the .45 to his left hand and now controlled the steering wheel 
with his right.
The car on the left struck Cavanaugh's side a third time, trying to force him 
onto the highway's shoulder.
Feeling the shudder of the impact, Cavanaugh thumbed off the safety on the 
cocked .45.





13
Their mass being equal, two cars can bang at each other's side for quite a 
while, and if the drivers are skilled, neither car will be forced off the road. 
The trouble is that the car banging at Cavanaugh's rusted sedan was bigger and 
heavier. The laws of physics were in its favor. Eventually, its weight would 
shove Ca-vanaugh's sedan onto the shoulder.
He could have shot the driver, but as the attacking car veered out of control, 
there was too much risk that it would strike cars behind it and kill their 
occupants. Moreover, the bullets could go through the driver and continue toward 
cars on the opposite side of the highway, possibly killing someone over there.
But there was another way to use the .45.
"Prescott, put your hands over your ears."
Cavanaugh's own ears had been ringing incessantly since he'd started shooting. 
Now he prepared himself for them to hurt even more.
Pressing the accelerator hard, he surged forward. Abreast of the attacking car's 
engine, he shoved the .45 out the window, aimed at the front hood, and fired 
seven times, emptying the pistol as quickly as he could pull the trigger. Under 
the hood, the fan disintegrated. The radiator exploded. Oil and carbon dust blew 
from the engine, erupting from the holes that his bullets had made in the hood 
of the engine. Steam from the radiator burst from the front of the car.
The slide on top of the .45 stayed back, indicating that the pistol was empty. 
At once, Cavanaugh pulled the weapon back into the sedan so the gunmen would 
know the shooting was over, so they wouldn't return fire. As it was, they had 
plenty to concern them without disobeying Escobar's orders and endangering 
Prescott's life by shooting at the driver of the vehicle Prescott was in. The 
power of the .45 had damaged the engine enough that the attacking car rapidly 
lost speed. Falling back, enveloped by more oil vapor and steam, the crippled 
vehicle angled toward the left shoulder.
The car behind Cavanaugh tried to compensate by speeding close to him and 
slamming the sedan's back bumper. Apart from sending a shudder through the 
sedan, this had no effect on Cavanaugh's ability to control the vehicle. 
Although the tactic looked dramatic, it accomplished little. When the pursuing 
car hit Cavanaugh's bumper a second time, all he had to do was touch the brake 
pedal a little, and the car behind him was reduced to doing little more than 
pushing him. That the attacking driver thought ramming would work told Cavanaugh 
that his opponent didn't have much experience with car fighting.
There was only one effective maneuver in a car fight. But first Cavanaugh had to 
get into position. He veered unexpectedly onto the right shoulder and pressed 
the brakes, applying most but not all of their force. He could tell how much 
force he was applying by judging the speed of the brake pulses through the 
pedal. Ninety-eight percent pressure gave him stopping power while at the same 
time allowing him to continue to control the vehicle's steering. One hundred 
percent would have meant that the swiftly accelerating pulses had abruptly 
stopped and the brakes locked, turning the sedan into little more than a couple 
of tons of skidding metal.
He dropped behind the pursuing car, released the brakes, and came up behind it, 
still on the highway's shoulder. Aiming his left front fender, he tapped the 
side of the opposing car's right rear fender in the so-called precision 
immobilization technique. The PIT maneuver required virtually no force, just a 
kiss of the left front fender.
Again, physics took over. The opposing car spun 180 degrees, rear to front, the 
startled occupants staring back toward Cavanaugh, face-to-face with him. At the 
same time, the car shifted sideways, to the right, pivoting onto the highway's 
shoulder. But as it continued to spin, it moved so far to the right that it 
crashed against a barrier at the side of the highway. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh 
steered onto the highway and sped forward.
"Prescott, look behind us. Are there any other cars going off the road? Any 
accidents?"
Prescott peered back in amazement. "No. My God, some cars are sliding, but 
they're holding the road. No other accidents. I can't believe you did it. You 
got us away from them."
"No," Cavanaugh said.
"But—"
"The PIT maneuver barely damages the other car," Ca-vanaugh said.
"The what?"
"Unless that car broke something when its side struck that barrier, those men'll 
soon come after us again." Cavanaugh stared toward the fuel indicator on the 
dashboard. The needle was now at one-quarter. "Plus, we've got too many bullet 
holes in the gas tank. We'll soon be on empty."
In the distance, a new group of sirens wailed.
Cavanaugh checked the rearview mirror: no sign of the second car pulling onto 
the highway. He peered ahead through the rain and saw an exit ramp. He was far 
enough along the highway that the men in the car behind him might not notice the 
rusted sedan leaving. Or so he hoped.
The sirens wailed louder.
"Time for a change of plan." Cavanaugh took the exit ramp, came to the bottom, 
saw a shopping mall on the left, and headed toward its crowded parking lot. 
People in other cars gaped at the smashed front end of Cavanaugh's car.
"Prescott, use your shirtsleeve. Wipe everything you touched. Smudge your 
fingerprints."
Counting on the rain to obscure his movements, Cavanaugh entered the expansive 
parking lot, but every space in the row he chose was filled. Cursing, he steered 
through puddles toward the next row, where all the spaces were also full.
Sure, he thought. A rainy Sunday afternoon. How do people pass the time? They go 
to the shopping mall.
Cavanaugh tried the next row, and the next, and the next. All were filled with 
vehicles.
In the distance, the sirens stopped, presumably at the car whose engine 
Cavanaugh had disabled.
The black car suddenly steered into the row Cavanaugh was headed along and sped 
toward him. Through the car's flapping windshield wipers, the three passengers 
and the skinhead driver glared at him.
Cavanaugh braked, put the car in reverse, and started backing away, but not 
before a man on the passenger side lowered the window and leaned out into the 
rain, aiming a pistol with a silencer on it. Cavanaugh didn't hear the shot, but 
he did hear the bullet's impact against the radiator.
Steam rose from the puncture. Whump. A second bullet hit the radiator. The 
assault team had learned from the way Cavanaugh had disabled the first car by 
firing the .45 at the engine and the radiator. The pistol the passenger used 
wasn't large enough to be a .45. It wouldn't damage the engine as much, but it 
would definitely play hell with the radiator.
Backing swiftly, Cavanaugh swung the steering wheel, pivoting the sedan 180 
degrees. In the limited space, on wet pavement, he couldn't execute the backward 
half spin as neatly as he was capable of doing. His right front fender glanced 
off a parked van's taillight, sending a shudder through the sedan. Even so, in a 
rush, he corrected the steering and now faced the mall instead of the pursuing 
car. He rammed the gearshift into forward and sped along the row.
But as rain suppressed the steam from the radiator, Cavanaugh felt his chest 
cramp when a woman holding an umbrella stepped from between cars. She walked 
halfway across the open area and froze at the sight of Cavanaugh's car rocketing 
toward her.





14
Never look at what you're trying to avoid. Always look at where you want the car 
to go. Cavanaugh's instructors had drilled that rule into him at the Bill Scott 
Raceway in West Virginia, where Global Protective Services and various 
intelligence agencies sent their operators for training in evasive driving.
"Why is it that, in many accidents, cars get hit directly on the side or the 
front, as if there wasn't any attempt to evade them?" Duncan had demanded from 
the passenger seat.
Cavanaugh hadn't been able to answer, too busy rounding a curve at 120 miles an 
hour.
"Why is it that if a driver hits a patch of ice and skids off the road, the only 
telephone pole for a hundred yards or the only tree in a field will be what that 
driver slams into square on?"
Again, Cavanaugh hadn't been able to answer, too busy feeling the hum and pulse 
of his car's tires, knowing that if the hum sounded any higher, if the pulse got 
any faster, his tires would lose their grip on the curve and he'd fly off the 
raceway.
Duncan had answered for him. "Because the driver looks at the car that veers in 
front of him, or the driver looks at the telephone pole at the side of the road, 
or the driver looks at the tree in the middle of the field, and although the 
driver wants to avoid them, he hits the damned things. Why does he hit them?"
"Because he looks at them," Cavanaugh had finally managed to answer, speeding 
out of the curve.
"Yes. You steer where your eyes lead you. If you look at what you're trying to 
avoid, you'll head in that direction."
Suddenly, a large cardboard box had hurtled across the track in front of 
Cavanaugh. Startled, he'd looked at it and almost steered toward it. With a 
flick of his eyes, he'd stared forward again and managed to remain on the track. 
His speeding car had veered only slightly as he passed where the box flew into a 
ditch. He thought he'd seen a rope on the box.
"Did somebody hide at the side of the track and yank that box across?" Cavanaugh 
had rushed into another curve.
"Eighty percent of the beginning students here see that box and follow it into 
the ditch," Duncan had replied. "So what's the lesson?"
"Look at where you want to go, not at what you're afraid you'll hit."
"Yes!"
Now Cavanaugh stared past the paralyzed woman toward rain splashing a puddle 
beyond her.
Don't move, lady.
Cavanaugh stepped on the brakes, feeling their pulses through the pedal, judging 
their increasing frequency. At what he estimated was 98 percent stopping power, 
he kept his foot steady. Any more pressure and the brakes would lock, making it 
impossible for him to control the direction of the sedan. But as long as the 
brakes weren't locked, he could steer the car while reducing speed.
He was so close to the paralyzed woman that he saw how huge the pupils of her 
eyes had become as he twisted the steering wheel to the right.
No! Don't look at her! Look at the rain in the puddle beyond her!
Cavanaugh felt the car threaten to slide out of control on the wet pavement. At 
once, the sedan shifted to the right the way he wanted. Continuing to stare 
toward where he wanted to go, toward the puddle, he twisted the steering wheel 
to the left now, veering around the woman, sensing her umbrella zip past him as 
his car reached the puddle and he released the brake.
For a heart-skipping moment, as Cavanaugh jerked his gaze up toward his rearview 
mirror, he feared that the pursuing car would hit her, but the near miss had 
broken the woman's paralysis. She raced toward cars at the side just before the 
black car sped past her, splashing water from a puddle, drenching her.
Wary of other pedestrians who might suddenly appear, Cavanaugh sped along the 
row heading toward the mall. He steered to the left, toward one of the mall's 
entrances, a group of glass doors beckoning on Prescott's side of the car.
"Prescott, open your door! We're bailing out!"
"But—"
"Do it!" Cavanaugh skidded to a stop in front of the doors. He grabbed the Sig 
and the .45. "Now!"
Behind him, he heard the black car speeding close as he and Prescott charged 
into the mall.





15
Two levels high, the place was warm, dry, and bright, packed with shoppers, loud 
with conversations, but all Cavanaugh paid attention to was an electronics store 
immediately on his left.
"In there!" he told Prescott.
The black car would stop at the rusted sedan, Cavanaugh knew. The three 
passengers would rush into the mall. The driver would stay with the car and use 
his cell phone to keep in touch with the gunmen as they tried to find where 
Cavanaugh and Prescott had gone. That way, the driver could be alerted to speed 
to another section of the mall if Cavanaugh and Prescott tried to leave via 
other doors.
Urging Prescott toward the electronics store, Cavanaugh shoved the .45 under his 
belt. Frantic to get out of sight before the gunmen rushed into the mall, he 
held the Sig close to him, hiding it. He ejected its empty magazine, put it in a 
pocket, shoved in a fresh one from the pouch on the left side of his belt, and 
pressed the lever that allowed the slide on top to snap forward, chambering a 
round. Moving, he did all this without thinking, with a sureness that came from 
hundreds of training exercises.
A young clerk in the electronics store looked puzzled by the haste with which 
Cavanaugh and Prescott entered, water dripping from them. "May I help you?"
Holding the Sig out of sight beneath his jacket, Cavanaugh tugged Prescott past 
the clerk, past harshly lit rows of televisions, video tape recorders, and DVD 
players. "What we're looking for is in the back of the store."
The clerk hurried to follow. "If you'll show me what it is, I'll be glad to 
help."
"Great." Cavanaugh and Prescott squeezed past customers, approaching a counter 
in the rear.
The counter had a door on the left. Cavanaugh nudged Prescott past the counter 
and opened the door.
"Sir!" the clerk said. "Customers aren't allowed in the storeroom!"
"But this is what we're looking for." Pulling Prescott into the storeroom, 
Cavanaugh closed the door and locked it.
"Sir!" a muffled voice objected.
Cavanaugh spun toward palely illuminated shelves stacked with boxes containing 
VHS and DVD players. "Let's go, Prescott."
Hearing the knob being turned and then someone pounding on the door, Cavanaugh 
headed toward a metal door on the opposite wall. He'd seen the outside of that 
door when he'd stopped at the mall's entrance. He knew that the law required 
exterior doors in commercial establishments to have locks that could be easily 
freed so that people wouldn't be trapped if there was a fire. This door was 
secured by a simple dead bolt.
He twisted the lock's knob.
While the gunmen searched the mall, Cavanaugh and Prescott rushed out into the 
rain. At the curb, the black car, its engine running, was parked behind the 
rusted sedan, as Cavanaugh expected. The skinhead driver stared toward the glass 
doors through which his companions had hurried, again as Cavanaugh expected.
By the time the driver noticed movement next to him, Cavanaugh had run in a 
crouch through the gloom. Using the rusted sedan and the steam from it to 
conceal his approach, he drew the .45, which was useful to him now only as a 
blunt object he could afford to risk damaging, and slammed its barrel against 
the car's passenger window. Beads of safety glass burst inward over the startled 
skinhead as Cavanaugh aimed his Sig at him and saw that the man's cell phone and 
pistol were on the seat next to him, along with a Zippo lighter and a pack of 
cigarettes. The motor kept running.
"Out!" Cavanaugh told him.
With his gloved hands on the steering wheel, the frightened skinhead glanced 
toward the pistol on the seat.
"Out!" Cavanaugh shouted.
Terrified, the skinhead continued to stare at the pistol on the seat.
Cavanaugh pulled the Sig's trigger and blew a hole in the ceiling.
Flinching, the skinhead hurried from the car.
"Run!" Cavanaugh fired above the driver's bare scalp, making him race faster 
through the rain as he headed along the side of the mall.
"Prescott, get in!"
As Prescott obeyed, Cavanaugh ran around to the open driver's door, but before 
he got in, he grabbed the cigarette lighter off the seat.
He ignited it and threw it under the back of the sedan, where the lighter was 
protected from the rain and where gasoline from the perforated fuel tank had 
pooled. Immediately, vapor erupted into flames that spread along the bottom of 
the sedan. He hurried into the black car, put the gearshift into drive, and sped 
away.
Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw the rusted sedan heave as its gas tank, 
filled mostly with fumes, detonated. It didn't explode, contrary to popular 
belief. No huge fireball. No roar as if tons of TNT had gone off. Just a whump 
and an energetic burst of flame. In fact, if the gas tank had contained mostly 
fuel, there wouldn't have been enough oxygen for it to explode. The car would 
have kept burning only on the outside.
Taking one last look at his rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw three angry men 
charge out of the mall. It seemed to him that, like the skinhead driver, they 
wore gloves. Then he reached the street beyond the parking lot and couldn't see 
them any longer.
He sped toward the ramp that led back to the highway. It was a luxury to have a 
car with an intact windshield and two functioning wipers.
Prescott's bulky chest heaved. He clamped his hands to it.
"Are you all right?" Cavanaugh accessed the highway, staying in the right lane, 
trying to blend with traffic. "You're not having a heart attack, are you?"
"No. Just can't get my . . . Out of breath."
"Out of condition," Cavanaugh said. "You've got to take better care of 
yourself." To calm Prescott, Cavanaugh prompted him to imagine a future 
scenario, one in which he'd be safe. "After we make you disappear, you'll have 
plenty of chances to get some exercise."
"Exercise. Even that would be welcome."
In the distance, yet another group of sirens wailed. Although Cavanaugh wanted 
to get to the Teterboro airport as fast as possible, he kept his speed under the 
limit so he wouldn't attract attention.
"It's good to be somewhere dry." Again Cavanaugh was trying to calm Prescott.
"And warm."
"Yes." Cavanaugh's wet clothes were cold against his skin. The driver had kept 
the car's heater on. Cavanaugh felt air from it waft over him.
Prescott shivered.
"Turn the heater up," Cavanaugh said. "Adjust the blower as high as it'll go."
Hands shaking, Prescott fumbled at the controls on the dashboard. "You set fire 
to the car as—what, a distraction?"
"Partly. The police will have to waste time while they deal with the fire and 
try to figure out what happened."
"You said 'partly.' " Prescott's puffy forehead wrinkled. "You had another 
reason?"
"Our fingerprints." Cavanaugh again checked his rearview mirror. "Originally, I 
planned to abandon the car in the parking lot. It wouldn't have been noticed for 
a while. We'd have had a chance to wipe our prints before we ran from the area 
and called for help. But then the other car showed up and . . . This way, with 
the fire, we don't have to worry about our prints. Believe me, the police would 
have dusted for them, and they would have been able to identify us. Not a good 
idea when you want to disappear and I want to stay invisible." "Cavanaugh." 
"What?"
"I don't know your first name."
"I don't have one. Cavanaugh is the only name I go by. A work name. I never give 
my real name. It would endanger the people I protect."
"A pseudonym?"
"You know some of the trade jargon?" Relieved that Prescott's breathing was less 
agitated, Cavanaugh didn't mind distracting him by answering harmless questions. 
"One way for an opponent to get at a client would be to learn the identities of 
the client's protector's."
"What would that accomplish?"
"The opponent could discover where the protectors live, whether they have 
relatives and so on. You see the liability?"
Prescott's ample chin wavered as he nodded. "The opponent could kill the 
bodyguards where they live, when they're off duty, when they're not as alert."
"And the new team the client hires wouldn't be up to speed on how to maintain 
his security. The client becomes a viable target," Cavanaugh said.
Prescott nodded again. "Or else the opponent kidnaps the bodyguards' relatives 
and puts pressure on the bodyguards to lessen the client's security."
"You catch on quick. People close to me can't be threatened if the bad guys 
don't know who the people close to me are. Because the bad guys don't know who I 
am," Cavanaugh said.
"You have a family?"
"No," Cavanaugh replied, lying. "You referred to 'bodyguards.' That's not what I 
am."
"Then...?"
"The technical term is protective agent."
"What's the distinction?"
"Bodyguards are thugs. They're what mobsters use. Crude muscle."
"But what you do, as you've proven, requires sophisticated talents. Thank you. 
What you went through to save me is the bravest thing I've ever seen."
"No," Cavanaugh said. "Not brave."
"I can't think what else to call it."
"Conditioned."
Between them, the skinhead's cell phone buzzed.





16
Prescott flinched.
The phone buzzed again.
"Press the answer button," Cavanaugh said. "Then give it to me."
Uneasy, Prescott obeyed.
Steering expertly with his left hand, Cavanaugh held the phone against his right 
ear. "Pizza Hut."
"Cute,"a sandpapery voice said.
"Thanks."
"Not the Pizza Hut thing. I meant about setting fire to your car and stealing 
ours."
"I know what you meant."
Prescott watched intently, trying to figure out what Ca-vanaugh was hearing.
"This won't stop us. We'll keep coming," the voice said. "I expect that," 
Cavanaugh said into the phone. "You're not a cop. You'd have called for backup. 
Instead, you kept clear of police cars. You must be private security. Give it 
up. You're way out of your league."
"Gee, I thought I'd done pretty good so far." "Did Prescott tell you who you're 
dealing with?" "He hasn't had time to tell me anything," Cavanaugh lied. The 
transmission was weak. The shots had made his ears ring enough that he had to 
press the phone tighter against his ear so he could distinguish what the voice 
said next.
"If you don't know anything, we can cut you some slack. Give him to us, and 
we'll let you go."
"Say it again, this time as if you mean it." The voice sounded weary. "You'd be 
dead now if you hadn't been near Prescott. This has to be the only time the guy 
we were after was a shield for his bodyguard." "Protector." "What?"
"I'm not a bodyguard."
"Whatever." The voice became harsher. "The next time I see you, you'd better 
pray you're close to Prescott. Otherwise, I'll put a bullet through your head. 
Does that sound like I mean it?" "Is that the reason you phoned? To make cheap 
threats?" The voice became silent.
Cavanaugh suddenly understood what was going on. "Lots of cheese, right?" 
"What?"
"Your pizza will be ready in fifteen minutes." Cavanaugh risked taking his eyes 
off the road long enough to press the disconnect button.
A pickup truck loaded with junk drove past him. He lowered his window and tossed 
the phone into the back of the truck.
"What are you doing?" Prescott asked.
"Escobar's men didn't call just for the hell of it. They want to make certain 
we're with the phone."
"But why would—"
"The phone must have some kind of location transmitter in it. They'll follow it, 
hoping it leads them to us. Now it'll take them nowhere. For all I know, this 
car has a location transmitter also, but right now, there's nothing I can do 
about that."
"Why didn't you kill this car's driver?" Prescott asked.
"What?" Cavanaugh frowned at the unexpected question.
"Back at the mall, you took a chance when you told him to run. He might have 
reached for his weapon," Prescott said.
"A dead man in the car would have slowed us. I'd have had to pull him from 
behind the steering wheel. The other men might have found us before we could 
drive away."
"Would you have killed him if he hadn't been in the car?" Prescott asked.
"If he gave me a reason. Otherwise . . . I'm a protector, not a killer."
The rain lessened.
Cavanaugh took his phone from his jacket and pressed the recall button.
"Global Protective Services." Duncan's voice was tense.
The phone remained in scrambler mode. "I had to switch cars. We're in a black 
Pontiac."
"Can you make it to the Holiday Inn near the airport? I'm here with some of your 
friends."
"Good," Cavanaugh said. "I can always use friends."





PART TWO
Threat Avoidance





1
The rain had lessened to a drizzle by the time Cavanaugh, following Duncan's 
instructions, reached the Holiday Inn on Route 17, a half mile from Teterboro 
Airport. Duncan waited under the carport at the motel's entrance. He wore a 
raincoat and hat. His hands were in the coat's pockets, one of them, no doubt, 
holding a pistol. His trim mustache emphasized how pinched his lips were. With 
his straight military posture and intense eyes, he exuded a focus that made 
Cavanaugh pleased to rely on him.
The moment Cavanaugh drove under the carport and stopped next to Duncan, a gray 
van suddenly appeared behind them.
Prescott flinched. "They caught us."
"No," Cavanaugh said. "It's fine."
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw two men and a woman, all three familiar 
to him, all wearing rain slickers, step from the van. They kept their hands 
beneath the slickers, presumably on weapons, while they scanned the area around 
them, paying particular attention to the highway beyond the parking lot. Five 
seconds later, everything looking satisfactory, one of the men approached 
Cavanaugh's side of the car.
With that all-clear sign, Cavanaugh pressed the car's unlock button.
Instantly, Duncan opened the passenger door and looked in. "Mr. Prescott?"
Prescott looked dumbfounded.
"I'm Duncan Wentworth. Global Protective Services. We spoke on the phone. Come 
with me, please."
Before Prescott seemed aware of it, Duncan had guided him from the car. 
Meanwhile, the woman and the remaining man flanked Prescott, Duncan leading the 
way, escorting him to the van.
Cavanaugh got out of the car.
"How ya doing?" The trim man who waited on the driver's side chewed gum.
"Better than I was a half hour ago."
"You can relax now. Leave the show to us."
"Looking forward to it. The car might have a location transmitter."
"By the time they find it, it'll be far from the airport. They'll never suspect 
how you got away."
"The pistol on the seat belongs to the assault team." Cavanaugh pulled the .45 
from under his belt. "This belongs to Prescott. I have no idea where else it's 
been."
The man, whose name was Eddie, nodded. The rule was, you never kept a weapon 
whose history you didn't know. If you were caught with it, ballistics might 
prove that the weapon had been used in various shootings. The police would have 
every reason to believe you were implicated in them.
"These pieces'll soon be in pieces in a sewer," Eddie said.
Amused by the pun, Cavanaugh stepped aside and let Eddie get behind the steering 
wheel. "They all wore gloves."
Eddie tightened his own gloves. "No way to use fingerprints to identify them. So 
it won't matter if I wipe down your prints."
"The only places we touched are in the front seat."
"Makes it easier. Ciao."
As the black car drove from the hotel's carport into the drizzle, Cavanaugh got 
into the van and closed the hatch.
"Hey, Cavanaugh." The driver, who was Hispanic, put the vehicle into gear and 
proceeded from the carport. The drizzle made a hissing sound on the roof.
"Hey, Roberto." Cavanaugh knew the goateed man only by his first name and 
assumed it was an alias. "How are the tropical fish?"
"They ate each other. I'm getting a better hobby."
"What kind?"
"Model airplanes. The kind with a motor, so the planes can actually fly. I'm 
gonna rig them so they have aerial dogfights and shoot at each other and stuff."
"Stuff?"
"You know, tiny rockets. Maybe they could drop little bombs."
The van was configured so that two rows of seats faced each other, with a table 
in the middle. Cavanaugh buckled himself into a seat in back, next to Prescott 
and Duncan, and looked across the table toward the man and the woman who'd 
escorted Prescott into the van. Their rain slickers were off now, revealing 
Kevlar vests and holstered pistols on their belts.
"Hey, Chad," he said to the red-haired man, who was about thirty-five and had 
the same strong-shouldered build that Cavanaugh had. His name, too, was probably 
an alias.
In some elements of the security business, Chad's red hair would have been a 
liability, drawing attention to him. But as a protective agent, Chad often took 
advantage of his hair color to act as a decoy. An assassin or a kidnapper, 
having studied the target long enough to determine that a red-haired man was one 
of the protectors, would pay attention to where Chad went, on the assumption 
that Chad would be near his client. Thus Chad made a specialty of pretending to 
protect a look-alike client while the real client slipped away under escort. 
When Chad wanted to be inconspicuous, he wore a hat.
"I heard you got shot," Cavanaugh said.
"Nope."
"Good. I'm glad you didn't get hurt."
"I didn't say I didn't get hurt," Chad said. "I got stabbed."
"Ouch."
"Could've been worse. It was my left shoulder. If it'd been the shoulder I bowl 
with ..."
Cavanaugh looked at the woman next to Chad. "Hi, Tracy."
She wore a Yankees sweatshirt and concealed most of her blond hair under a 
Yankees baseball cap. She had the capability of making herself look plain or 
gorgeous at will, and if she'd been in the Holiday Inn restaurant, if she'd put 
on lipstick, taken off her cap, let her long hair dangle, and pulled her 
sweatshirt tight, everybody in the restaurant, including four-year-old kids, 
would have remembered her after she left.
"I heard you quit," Cavanaugh said.
"And give up these fabulous working conditions? Besides, when would I ever see 
lover boy if I wasn't working with him?" She meant Chad, but she was joking. 
Protectors who had a relationship weren't allowed to work on the same team. In 
an emergency, they might look after each other instead of the client. But on 
numerous assignments, Chad and Tracy had proven where their priorities lay.
The van reached the highway and headed toward the airport. Meanwhile, Duncan 
handed blankets to Prescott and Cavanaugh, then poured steaming coffee into 
Styrofoam cups for them. "We'll soon have dry coveralls for you."
Cavanaugh felt the coffee warm his stomach. "You did good, Mr. Prescott."
"Mr.? Now you call me Mr.? Ever since the warehouse, it's been 'Prescott do 
this' and 'Prescott do that.'" Duncan frowned. "Is there a problem?"
Prescott's puffy eyes crinkled. "Not in the least. This man saved my life. I'm 
deeply grateful." With a smile, Prescott shook Cavanaugh's hand.
"Your hand's cold," Cavanaugh said.
"I was just going to say the same thing to you."
Cavanaugh looked down at his hands. They did feel cold, he realized. But not 
because he'd gotten soaked.
It's starting, he thought. He wrapped his hands around the warm Styrofoam cup, 
but the hands, which felt as if they belonged to someone else, trembled enough 
that some of the coffee almost spilled over.
"Your adrenaline will soon wear off," Duncan said.
"It already is."
"Do you want Dexedrine to make up for it?"
"No." Cavanaugh removed his hands from the cup and concentrated to steady them. 
"No speed."
Cavanaugh knew all too well the down effect that the central nervous system 
experienced after the high of adrenaline had made it possible to perform 
extraordinary acts of strength and endurance. Already, he felt uneasy urges to 
yawn, which had nothing to do with needing sleep but a lot to do with the 
uncomfortable release of muscle tension. Dexedrine would return his nervous 
system close to the high level at which it had functioned when he had rescued 
Prescott. But he hated to rely on chemicals and, as always, was determined to go 
through what amounted to adrenaline withdrawal in as natural a way as possible. 
He disliked having a client see him go through it: the slight unsteadiness, the 
yawns. There was always the chance that Prescott would misinterpret the 
unavoidable effect of being in violent action as a symptom of fear, just as 
earlier he had praised Cavanaugh for being brave, a virtue that Cavanaugh 
denied.
"No speed," Cavanaugh repeated.





2
After the control tower radioed clearance, the Bell 206L-4 helicopter rose from 
Teterboro Airport and headed north along the Hudson River. Because the airport 
was a facility for corporate, charter, and private aircraft, there hadn't been a 
need to go through metal detectors and similar security checks, thus making it 
easy for the team to take aboard their weapons, which they were licensed to 
carry in several states.
Like boats, cars, and firearms—to name a few items crucial to the security 
profession—no helicopter fulfilled every purpose. Swiftness had to be considered 
in relation to seating capacity, cargo space, and maneuverability, along with 
how far and high the helicopter could fly. Called the "Long Ranger," this sleek 
helicopter was designed to get neatly in and out of inaccessible or remote areas 
and was popular with emergency and law-enforcement agencies, although 
corporations liked it for its efficiency and comfort. It could accommodate seven 
occupants, including the pilot, who in this case was Roberto. It had a top speed 
of 127 miles per hour and a maximum fuel range of 360 miles, which meant that at 
peak performance, it could stay in the air for approximately three hours.
Its altitude capability was twenty thousand feet, but Roberto's flight plan 
called for him to stay four thousand feet above the river. The drizzle had 
become a mist, and now that the sky was clear, he was able to try to calm 
Prescott by giving him a view of the cliffs and woods along the New Jersey 
Palisades.
But Prescott showed no interest in the view, ignoring the ample Plexiglas 
windows, which Duncan explained were bullet resistant. The Long Ranger's seating 
arrangement was similar to that in the van: two rows of seats, one facing the 
other. While the seats in the armored van had been designed for their sturdiness 
in case of an attack, those that Duncan had ordered for the Kevlar-protected 
Long Ranger were remarkably comfortable, with footrests, armrests, a tilt-back 
function, and soft leather.
Wearing large coveralls that still managed to look tight on his stomach and 
chest, Prescott ignored the view, too busy answering Duncan's questions and 
explaining about Jesus Escobar.
Cavanaugh remained silent. Any remarks from him would contaminate the 
debriefing. The team needed to hear Prescott's problem in his own words.
In the low-noise, low-vibration cabin, Duncan finally directed his attention 
toward Cavanaugh. "Anything to add?"
"I got a fairly good look at the men in the two cars. I didn't see any 
Hispanics."
Roberto, who'd been listening from the pilot's seat, said over his shoulder, "So 
Escobar's an equal-opportunity employer. The same as blacks don't always hire 
only blacks."
"It would take somebody with Escobar's resources to mount that kind of attack," 
Cavanaugh said.
"The way it sounds to me," Chad said, "they'd put together a careful plan, with 
the kidnappers posing as crack addicts, blending with the neighborhood. If Mr. 
Prescott had left the warehouse, they were ready to make their move, or if they 
got tired of waiting, they were prepared to blast their way in and take him. 
When Cavanaugh showed up, they got nervous that he was part of an extraction 
team, so they felt they had no choice except to move up their timetable."
"I'll contact the DEA and tell them to plug their security leak," Duncan said.
"For God's sake, don't tell them I hired you to make me disappear," Prescott 
said. "Whoever Escobar has working for him will pass that information along."
"Not to worry," Duncan said. "I don't intend to create my own security leak. 
Relax and enjoy the ride."
"Where are you taking me?"
"Where you'll be safe."





3
The helicopter followed the Hudson River two hundred miles north, passing 
several waterfront towns and cities, some of which were crested with smog. 
Beyond Kingston, it headed west into the low, rolling Catskill Mountains. 
Thickly wooded, they had numerous scenic valleys.
"Look." Cavanaugh pointed toward a plume of smoke rising from a ridge to the 
north.
"Yes," Duncan said. "It's been a dry spring."
"I've been listening to radio chatter," Roberto said over his shoulder as he 
worked the helicopter's controls. "The rain didn't get this far, but the 
lightning did, and that's what started the fire. It's small. They've got it 
under control."
Duncan nodded and glanced toward the sky behind them. "Is anybody following us?"
The helicopter had been modified to accommodate a sophisticated array of 
electronic instruments, including a powerful radar system, which was capable of 
isolating any aircraft following their course.
Roberto tapped numbers on a keyboard and studied the radar screen. "Nada."
"Do it," Duncan said.
Roberto crested a peak and sank into a small valley that was especially dense 
with evergreens.
"Look down, Mr. Prescott," Chad said. "You'll find this interesting."
The helicopter sank lower into the valley. "What am I looking for?" Prescott 
said. "All I see are fir trees." "That's what you're supposed to see," Tracy 
said. "I still don't ..." Prescott stared down through the Plexiglas. Working 
the chopper's controls, Roberto pressed a button. "See anything now?"
"No, I—careful. If you go any lower you'll crash into the trees. Good God."
Cavanaugh wasn't in a position to see what Prescott did. Nonetheless, he knew 
what was happening. What seemed to be a section of the forest—thirty square 
yards of it—started moving. All of a sudden, concrete appeared.
"What the . . ." Prescott said.
"The best camouflage net available," Duncan said. "Even as low as we came, it's 
hard to distinguish the illusion from the real thing."
The helicopter settled onto the concrete landing pad. After Roberto shut off the 
engine, the group unbuckled their seat belts, opened hatches, and stepped down.
"Careful," Cavanaugh said. Feeling the wind from the still-rotating blades, he 
made Prescott stoop.
The group went to the left, toward a closed electrical box on a post among the 
trees at the side of the landing pad.
Duncan unlocked and opened the box. "We have to wait a few moments for the 
blades to stop or else the downdraft will suck the camouflage net into the 
blades."
Then Duncan pressed a switch, and a motor hummed.
Prescott watched in wonder as the net, an eerily realistic painting of the thick 
evergreens as seen from above, resumed motion, this time in reverse. Held up by 
sturdy poles that moved along motorized rails in the ground, the net shifted 
over the group, shut out the sky, and concealed the helicopter.
"In winter, when it snows," Duncan explained, "a sensor causes the net to 
retract automatically to keep the weight of the snow from damaging it. Heat 
coils in the concrete melt the snow. When the storm's over, the net returns to 
where it was. The snow on the trees melts swiftly, so the net continues to look 
like its surroundings."
Roberto added, "The flight plan I filed with the controller at Teterboro lists 
private property in these mountains as our destination. One valley's pretty much 
the same as another. The description isn't specific enough for anybody to be 
able to use the flight plan to follow us here. Even visitors, like you, wouldn't 
know which valley this is if you wanted to come back here."
"From the radar, we know we weren't being followed," Tracy added.
"And nobody can see the chopper from the air," Chad said. "So you can relax. 
This is as secure as you can be."
"But what about the helicopter's heat signature?"
Prescott's question made everyone in the group look at one another in surprise.
"You know about heat signatures?" Cavanaugh asked.
"What do you expect from a scientist? Every object gives off heat. An aircraft 
with sophisticated infrared sensors can detect that heat, isolate its shape, and 
know what's hidden under trees or a camouflage net, or in the dark."
"That's military or law-enforcement hardware," Chad said. "Anybody capable of 
equipping an aircraft with stuff like that is capable of equipping it with other 
fancy hardware."
"Like machine guns and rockets," Tracy said.
Prescott frowned. "Is that supposed to reassure me?"
"What they're getting at," Cavanaugh said, "is while you're worrying, why not 
worry about napalm and missiles?"
Prescott didn't understand.
Duncan stepped toward him. "It's a basic rule of protection that we match our 
security to the threat level the client faces. Escobar has a lot of money and 
resources, but his operation isn't sophisticated enough to be able to rig an 
aircraft with that kind of equipment in the little time his team had to try to 
follow us. There's no such thing as a totally secure location. Even the military 
command center in Cheyenne Mountain would be vulnerable if somebody managed to 
smuggle a suitcase nuclear weapon inside. But under the circumstances, given the 
threat you're facing, what Chad said is true." Duncan put a reassuring hand on 
Prescott's arm. "This is as secure as you can be."
Prescott glanced around, continuing to look uneasy. "Where do we stay?"
"Over there," Tracy said.
"Where? All I see are trees."
"Look harder."
"That hill? Is there a cabin or something behind it?"
"Sort of." Cavanaugh guided Prescott through the trees.
"I'll join you in a minute," Roberto said. "I need to refuel the chopper." He 
headed toward a pump next to a camouflaged equipment shed at the side of the 
landing pad.
"You mean you have fuel here?" Prescott sounded amazed.
"An underground tank. Every six months, we send a truck up here to refill it."
The setting sun cast shadows. A cool, gentle breeze smelled sweetly of fir 
needles. The group's footsteps were cushioned by the soft forest floor.
The hill they approached was about thirty feet high, with scrub brush and 
outcrops of boulders. Leading Prescott to it, Cavanaugh passed one of the 
boulders and indicated a recessed concrete passageway. "This is the cabin. Sort 
of."
Duncan stepped into the passageway and came to a metal door, next to which was 
an electronic number pad. A motion sensor triggered a faint light in the number 
pad as Duncan reached for it. Blocking the pad from Prescott's view, he pressed 
a sequence of buttons.
With a solid thump, the door's lock was released electronically. As Duncan 
opened the door, an alarm system began beeping.
"If the alarm isn't deactivated in fifteen seconds," Cavanaugh told Prescott, 
"the intruder gets a dose of knockout gas."
Duncan turned to an interior control panel, again blocked it from view, and 
pressed a further sequence of numbers.
The beeping stopped. Motion sensors turned lights on within the structure.
"Welcome to your safe site."





4
Prescott entered slowly, with even greater wonder than when he'd seen the 
camouflage net retract to reveal the helicopter pad.
A hallway led to a large living area on the right. The floor was polished oak. 
The furnishings were leather. The walls were an off-white, covered with 
bookshelves, impressionistic paintings, and a large fireplace.
"This is a reinforced-concrete dome covered with earth," Duncan said. "We 
squared off the dome's interior walls for convenience. Because of the building's 
strong insulating structure, the temperature tends to be a uniform seventy-two 
degrees in both summer and winter, with a little help from a fireplace in each 
room."
"Solar panels and batteries provide the electricity," Chad said. "A backup 
generator kicks in if necessary."
"The drinking water comes from a well under the bunker, so it can't be poisoned. 
On top, sunlight comes through a ventilation shaft and gets reflected by a 
system of mirrors that distribute the sunlight, so the rooms seem to have 
windows," Tracy said. "It's one of the most energy-efficient buildings 
imaginable."
"But with the entrance controlled electronically, if the power fails, we'll be 
trapped," Prescott said.
"There's a manual override on the door. Plus a second way out." Duncan pointed 
toward a metal door at the end of the corridor. "It has a knob, and a lever for 
a dead-bolt lock. But on the outside, there's nothing—no knob, no key slot, no 
way to pick the lock and get in."
Prescott breathed a little easier.
"Is anybody hungry?" Chad rubbed his hands together.
"That depends," Tracy said. "Who's doing the cooking? You?"
"None other."
"In that case, I'm starved."
Chad had a reputation for being an impressive cook. "Mr. Prescott, are you a 
vegetarian? Do you have food allergies?"
"I can eat anything."
Cavanaugh silently concurred, remembering the shelves of carbohydrate-rich food 
at the warehouse.
"Beef Stroganoff coming up," Chad said.
"Easy on the cream this time," Tracy said.
"Hey, if you're going to put restrictions on a genius at work ..."
"I'm trying to watch my figure."
"I'm watching your figure, too."
"Can you believe the way this guy talks to me?"
"While they sort this out," Duncan told Prescott, "why don't you get settled. If 
you enjoy tobacco, we have a room with various smoking materials."
"No." Prescott looked horrified by the thought.
"In that case, your room—smoke-free—is the third on the left in this corridor. I 
imagine a hot shower and some clothes that fit you would be welcome. There's a 
bar. Satellite television. A sauna. You've been through a lot. Perhaps you can 
relieve the strain enough to take a nap."





5
"What do you think of him?" Duncan asked after he and Cavanaugh watched Prescott 
enter his room. Letting Chad and Tracy go ahead with their various duties, the 
two men crossed the living room toward a door to the right of the fireplace; it 
led to an office.
"He doesn't have much of a personality, but he's an ideal client," Cavanaugh 
said. "He did exactly what I told him. He's overweight and out of shape, but he 
sucked it up and did what was necessary. Sure, he almost lost his lunch from 
being afraid, but he trusted me and never panicked to the point of losing 
control. Everything considered, he kind of impressed me."
"Anything else?"
"He's smart."
"Of course. He's a biochemist."
"Likes to learn. Asks a lot of questions."
"My arrangement with him was via telephone and an electronic transfer of funds," 
Duncan said. "He insisted that he couldn't meet me in person."
"Now we know why." Cavanaugh paused at the entrance to the offices as Duncan 
went in.
"Why didn't he tell me on the phone what his problem is?" Duncan eased his tall, 
slender frame into an Aeron chair behind a desk.
"Maybe he didn't know if he could trust us," Cavanaugh said. "He wanted to wait 
until he assessed one of us face-to-face."
Duncan thought about it. "But he trusted us enough to tell us where he was 
hiding. That isn't consistent."
"Not necessarily. Since he couldn't come to us, he didn't have a choice about 
letting one of us come to him," Cavanaugh said. "Besides, at the warehouse, he 
used TV cameras to study me. If anything looked suspicious, all he had to do was 
shut down communications, and I still wouldn't have known where he was."
"Do you think he understands what it truly means to disappear? Is he prepared to 
accept the consequences?"
"He's got plenty of incentive," Cavanaugh said. "As one of his attackers told me 
on a cell phone, they'll keep coming. In fact, I'm sort of the quarry now, too."
"Oh?"
"The man on the phone almost made it personal between him and me."
Duncan thought another moment and picked up a phone. "I'll speak to my contacts 
at the DEA and get more details about Prescott's situation."
"While you're making your calls ..."
"Yes?"
"At the warehouse, some homeless people helped Prescott and me get away. I 
promised them a truck of food and clothes would be delivered there tomorrow. 
Maybe some sleeping bags."
Duncan smiled. "I'll make it like the Ritz."





6
Cavanaugh had his handgun apart (in addition to gunpowder residue, he'd found 
rainwater on some of the interior parts) and was cleaning it on a towel on the 
living room's coffee table. Seeing movement, he looked up as Prescott entered.
"Did you get some sleep?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott nodded. "I surprised myself. I felt so tense, I expected just to keep 
lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling."
"Was the sleep any good?"
"When I woke up, I felt wonderful for a second. Then . . ." Prescott's voice 
dropped. He looked awkward in jeans and a denim shirt, evidently more accustomed 
to suits and ties. But, unlike the coveralls he'd worn on the helicopter, at 
least the clothes fit his heavy frame. Duncan prided himself on keeping various 
sizes at the bunker.
"Where is everybody?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh wiped gun oil on the Sig's various parts, which were laid out neatly 
on the towel in front of him. "Duncan's making phone calls. Tracy's in the 
control room."
"Control room?"
"Similar to what you had in the warehouse. This place is surrounded by security 
cameras. Tracy's watching the monitors and a radar screen that'll warn us if any 
aircraft are in the area. Roberto's maintaining the helicopter. Chad's cooking."
The smell of beef Stroganoff drifted pleasantly into the room.
"What about you?" Prescott surveyed the jeans and denim shirt that Cavanaugh now 
wore. "Were you able to rest?"
"I had a report to write and then some chores to do."
"Like this?" Prescott indicated the disassembled weapon.
"After action, the first thing I was trained to take care of is my equipment." 
Cavanaugh put the barrel into the slide, then secured the recoil spring and its 
guide rod into place. When he compressed the spring, he made sure to point it 
away from Prescott and himself, lest it catapult free and injure one of them.
"What did you mean, 'conditioned'?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh shook his head, confused.
Prescott continued. "When I told you that what you'd done to save me was one of 
the bravest things I'd ever seen, you said you're not brave—you're conditioned."
Cavanaugh slid the assembled slide mechanism onto the Sig's frame and secured 
it. He thought a moment. "People are brave when they're terrified but force 
themselves to risk their lives for somebody else."
Prescott nodded, listening intently.
"Why do you care about this?" Cavanaugh asked.
"My specialty is how the human brain functions, how it releases hormones and 
controls our behavior," Prescott said. "Epi-nephrine—what's commonly called 
adrenaline—is one of the hormones associated with fear. The speeding and 
contraction of the heart. The feeling of heat in the stomach. The jitteriness in 
the muscles. How someone like you overcomes the hormone's effects interests me."
"But I don't overcome it's effects."
"I don't understand."
"In Delta Force, I was trained to use those effects, to treat them as positives, 
instead of the negatives people associate with fear."
Prescott kept listening intently.
"Put a parachute on someone and tell that person to leap out of a plane at 
twenty thousand feet, he's going to be terrified. It's a potentially 
life-threatening activity and one that's totally unfamiliar- But train that 
person in small increments, teach him how to jump off increasingly high 
platforms into a swimming pool. Then teach him how to jump from even higher 
platforms wearing a bungee harness that simulates the feel of a parachute. Then 
show him how to jump from small planes at reasonable altitudes. Gradually 
increase the size and power of the planes and the height of the jump. By the 
time he leaps from that plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to feel the 
same speeding and contraction of the heart, the same burning in the stomach, the 
same jitteriness in the muscles as before. This time, though, he's not 
terrified. He knows how to minimize the risk, and he's experienced hundreds of 
similar activities. What he feels instead of fear is the sharp focus of an 
athlete ready to spring into action. His adrenaline is affecting him the same 
way it always did. But his mind knows how to control it and to appreciate its 
constructive effects."
"Constructive?"
"The speeding and the contraction of the heart cause a greater output of blood 
to reach muscles and prepare them for extreme action. The faster breath rate 
causes more oxygen to get to muscles. The liver creates glucose, increasing the 
amount of sugar in the blood. At the same time, more fatty acids circulate. Both 
the sugar and the fatty acids become instant fuel, creating greater energy and 
stamina."
"Correct," Prescott said. "You had excellent instruction."
"I was trained to welcome adrenaline, to appreciate what it does to help keep me 
alive. I was also trained to think of gun-fights and car fights and all the rest 
of what happened today as being . . . not exactly normal, but I know what to 
expect. I know how to react. I can honestly say that not once today did I feel 
what's conventionally called fear."
Cavanaugh paused. Not once? he asked himself. What about the strange moment at 
the warehouse when I went up the stairs to meet Prescott?
"A powerful surge of adrenaline," Cavanaugh said, "but not fear, and that's why 
I don't think what 1 did today has anything to do with bravery. You're the one 
who's brave."
Prescott blinked. "Me? Brave? That's preposterous. For the past three weeks—and 
especially today—I've been terrified."
"That's my point," Cavanaugh said. "You can't be brave unless you're frightened 
to begin with. What you survived today was violent enough to unsettle even some 
experienced operators. I can only guess at the strength of character you had to 
muster to overcome the fear raging through you. You didn't freeze. You didn't 
panic, even though you must have felt that way. You promised me you'd be 
compliant, and you were. You're a prefect client."
Self-conscious, Prescott glanced down at the hardwood floor. Evidently, he 
wasn't used to compliments. "You might not feel afraid, but you still risk 
losing your life. For strangers. Why do you do that?"
Cavanaugh put on cotton gloves and began inserting 9-mm rounds into the pistol's 
magazine. In Manhattan, at the Warwick's bar, Jamie had asked a similar 
question. "Because it's what I know how to do and I'm good at it."
"No other reason?" Prescott asked.
"It's something I don't talk about with most people, because most people can't 
understand. Maybe you will because of your research into addiction."
"I'd like to try."
"Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines. People can get addicted to a lot of 
things. Some special-ops soldiers can't bear a quiet everyday life after they 
leave the service. They become mercenaries or contract operatives for the CIA, 
or security specialists."
"Or protective agents?"
Cavanaugh spread his hands in a gesture of self-admission. "It's like a race-car 
driver who isn't happy unless he's on a track, jockeying for position with other 
cars at two hundred and thirty miles an hour. The rush of adrenaline. To get it, 
he has to put up with periods of intense inactivity before and after each race. 
That's the way most protection assignments are. Intensely inactive. Even the 
inactivity, the constant waiting for trouble, has a rush to it, though. As much 
as I hate to say this, I'm addicted."
"Hate to say it?"
"Any addiction's a weakness."
The room became silent.
From a door opposite the one that Prescott had used to enter the living room, 
Chad appeared, wearing a white apron that contrasted with his red hair and 
looked slightly ridiculous on so muscular a man. He tried to sound like a butler 
in the movies. "Dinnah is served."
Cavanaugh couldn't help grinning. "I'll get the team."
As Chad returned to the kitchen, Prescott looked puzzled at the cotton gloves 
Cavanaugh wore. "Why did you put gloves on when you loaded the ..."
"Magazine." Cavanaugh shoved it into the Sig and worked the slide on top of the 
pistol, inserting a round in the firing chamber. He pushed the decocking lever. 
"This kind of handgun ejects empty cartridges after discharging the bullets. I 
don't want to leave my fingerprints behind for somebody to identify them."
"Another way of being invisible?"
"If I had a coat of arms, Be Invisible would be my motto."
"What you said about addiction being a weakness," Prescott said. "It isn't 
always. Some thing's can't be controlled."
"I believe in willpower," Cavanaugh said.
"Sometimes, that isn't enough. The substance I discovered, for example, is 
stronger than anyone's will."





7
"I don't want anybody complaining because the only boneless sirloin 1 had was 
frozen and needed to be thawed in a microwave," Chad said.
The group, minus Tracy, who continued to watch the monitors in the control room, 
sat at a long table in a kitchen filled with stainless-steel appliances. The 
plates before the group had half-inch strips of beef in a beige sauce studded 
with mushrooms and onions on top of green noodles. A bowl of salad was next to 
each plate, with a napkin-covered basket of freshly baked bread in the middle.
"And I don't want anybody complaining because the green noodles aren't homemade 
but came out of a box."
"I can't imagine anyone complaining," Prescott said. "It looks and smells 
wonderful."
"With the right attitude like that, I'll cook for you anytime," Chad said.
"The team's on duty," Duncan told Prescott, "and can't have wine, but that 
doesn't mean you can't. I can offer what I'm told is a fine Chianti Classico."
Prescott nodded in approval.
Roberto stuck a napkin into the top of his shirt, highlighting his dark goatee. 
"Man, I haven't had goulash in ages."
"It's not goulash. It's beef Stroganoff," Chad said. "It was invented by a 
French chef who worked for a Russian aristocrat in the late nineteenth century. 
The aristocrat's name was Count Paul Stroganoff. As usual, the guy with the 
power got the attention, while nobody remembers the chef who created the dish."
"Did you ever think about getting an honest job and running a restaurant?" 
Cavanaugh asked.
"All the time," Chad said, "but I know I'd miss the smell of gun oil."
"Delicious." The enthusiasm with which Prescott ate was impressive. "There's 
something a little extra here that I can't quite place. The mustard and the sour 
cream, of course. But. . ."
Chad watched with interest as Prescott savored a mouthful.
"Oyster sauce? Is that what I'm tasting? Oyster sauce?"
"Two tablespoons. You know your food."
"Here's your wine." Duncan showed Prescott the bottle, then set a glass next to 
him.
Prescott let the dark liquid drift over his tongue, assessing it.
"I telephoned my contacts at the DEA to learn more about Escobar's tactics, but 
it's Sunday evening, so I couldn't reach them," Duncan said. "I'll try again 
tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have a number of issues to discuss." He looked at 
Cavanaugh, who set down his fork and started the briefing.
"You need to understand there are four stages involved in arranging for you to 
disappear," Cavanaugh said. "The first is a new identity and new documentation 
for it, especially a birth certificate and a Social Security number. You want to 
be confident that the government won't question your Social Security number. One 
way to do it is to assume the identity of someone who's been dead for quite a 
while, someone without any close living relatives to contradict your claim to be 
that person. You meet these requirements by searching old newspapers for an item 
about an entire family that died in a fire or a similar disaster. You then learn 
the Social Security number of a child in that family who'd be your age now if he 
had lived. Many parents get a Social Security number for their newborns. 
Hospitals often include the applications with their regular paperwork. In some 
states, death certificates include that number, and death certificates are easy 
to obtain, a matter of public record."
"Assuming someone else's Social Security number is illegal, of course," Duncan 
said. "As a consequence, we never perform that service for any of our clients. 
We only teach them how to do it."
"I understand," Prescott said.
Cavanaugh continued. "For a moderate threat level, it's a fairly secure way to 
assume a new identity."
"Not foolproof, though." Roberto wiped his mouth with his napkin and joined the 
conversation. "Sometimes the government gets curious about a Social Security 
number that hasn't been used for years and now suddenly shows up on tax returns, 
which means that in addition to whoever's hunting you, you've got the government 
on your back, charging you with a federal crime."
"Exactly," Cavanaugh said. "And Escobar's threat level is too serious for us to 
allow you to get exposed in any way."
"What we're going to suggest," Duncan said, "is expensive, greater than the 
hundred-thousand-dollar fee you and I negotiated over the telephone."
"You want to raise the price?" Prescott set down his knife and fork.
"Given what happened today," Duncan said, "I don't have a choice."
"Raise it how much?" Prescott frowned.
"An additional four hundred thousand."
Prescott didn't blink. "You did a background check on me?"
"I did."
"You know that my biotech patents made me a millionaire many times over."
"I do."
"Thanks to Protective Services, I'm not in Escobar's hands. In fact, given 
everything Cavanaugh and the rest of you have done so far, not to mention all 
this—" Prescott gestured toward his surroundings—"a half million dollars sounds 
like a bargain. Tomorrow morning, I'll arrange an electronic transfer to your 
account."
"One hundred thousand dollars of that money," Duncan said, "shouldn't go 
anywhere near our account. Once we teach you how to hide the electronic trail, I 
want the hundred thousand transferred directly to someone else." Duncan slid a 
piece of paper across the table to Prescott. The paper had numbers and a bank's 
name written on it.
"To a specialist, who has a way to get you a brand-new, previously unassigned 
number," Cavanaugh said.
"Doesn't a similar problem still exist?" Prescott asked. "New numbers go to 
young people. Won't the government question the number when it suddenly starts 
showing up on tax returns for a man my age?"
"New numbers also go to immigrants who get green cards," Duncan said.
Prescott gave him a significant look. "Brilliant."
"I'm assuming this specialist will invent a background for you that says you're 
from Canada, Great Britain, South Africa, Australia, or New Zealand. Some 
country that would account for your Anglo-Saxon features," Duncan said. "She'll 
give you—"
"She?"
"You'll find Karen quite personable. She'll give you a detailed background—where 
you supposedly grew up and went to school and so on—which you'll need to 
memorize until it seems it really is your background. She'll also give you 
photographs of these places and information about them that anyone who'd been 
there would be expected to know. You'll get a new name, of course, which you'll 
need to internalize until it's second nature to you. A driver's license with a 
picture ID. A passport. Credit cards. Sometimes even a library card. All of them 
perfect. Cadillac treatment. Very expensive," Duncan concluded.
Prescott looked fascinated. "But how does she manage to do this?"
"If I asked her, I'm sure she'd refuse to answer, or else she'd lie to me."
Duncan himself was lying, Cavanaugh knew. The truth was that Karen had once 
worked for the branch of the State Department that supplied undercover 
intelligence operatives with documents for false identities.
"The main thing is, she does exceptional work," Duncan continued. "She's already 
preparing the documents. All you need is to have her take your photograph so she 
can put it on your new driver's license and passport. Tomorrow, we'll take you 
to Albany and complete the process. By nightfall, you'll be a new man."
"You said there were four stages in arranging for me to disappear," Prescott 
said. "What are the other three?"
Duncan looked at Cavanaugh, nodding for him to continue.
"Eventually you'll want to change your appearance. Some of it can be easily 
done. Since you have fair hair, it makes sense to dye it black. You're 
clean-shaven, so it makes sense to grow a mustache or a beard. You don't wear 
glasses, so why not get a pair that has non-corrective lenses? All that's fairly 
obvious, and in moderate-risk situations would be sufficient, but in your case, 
some form of surgical change is advisable. We'll take you to a plastic surgeon 
we use. Not even your mother will recognize you after he's finished with your 
nose and chin."
"My mother's dead," Prescott said.
"Sorry to hear that, but on the other hand, that partly solves the biggest 
problem you're going to have," Cavanaugh said.
"Which is?"
"I'll come to it in a moment, after I deal with the third stage in your 
disappearance, which is arranging for you to have access to money. In many 
cases, the person who's disappearing has to give up a job. In his or her new 
life, money becomes a significant issue."
"Fortunately, that won't be an issue for you, because you're wealthy." Duncan 
slid another piece of paper across the table to him. "Tomorrow, after the final 
details of your new identity have been arranged, you'll transfer your money to 
this numbered bank account that we've established for you in the Bahamas. You'll 
note that the password is Phoenix. I couldn't resist the rebirth idea. As soon 
as you activate the account, change the number and the password so you're 
confident the money is secure, even from us."
"You'll need to establish another bank account, this one conventional, in your 
new name at your new place of residence,"
Cavanaugh said. "Periodically, you'll transfer funds to that second bank, 
preferably in amounts less than ten thousand dollars, because transactions 
larger than that have to be reported to the government. But don't make it too 
close to ten thousand dollars, because the DEA uses that pattern to identify 
drug traffickers. Seven to eight thousand would be a reasonable figure, one that 
won't attract the government's attention."
"You'll need a story to tell your banker to explain your income," Duncan added. 
"Perhaps you receive periodic installments from a trust fund. Perhaps you 
retired early after selling a business and for tax reasons you preferred a 
schedule of payments rather than a lump sum. Whatever fabrication feels 
comfortable to you."
Prescott took another sip of wine. "And the fourth stage? The one that presents 
the most problems?"
Cavanaugh looked around the table. Everyone glanced down, uneasy.
"Initially, a new life sounds tempting," Cavanaugh said. "An escape from your 
enemies. A fresh beginning. The chance to correct mistakes and start over. The 
trouble is, you have to make a complete break with your past. Do you have a 
family, Mr. Prescott?"
"No."
"No ex-wife? No children in college?"
"No. My work kept getting in the way of marriage and establishing a family."
"A lady friend?"
"No."
"A boyfriend?"
"I'm not gay," Prescott said with annoyance.
"That's remarkable. I've been protecting people for several years, and this is 
the first time I've dealt with someone who had no serious social connections. 
You said your mother was dead. What about your father?"
"Dead also."
"In other words, there's no one in the world who'll miss you if you drop out of 
sight."
"More or less." Uncomfortable, Prescott glanced down. "Yes."
"That makes it easier," Cavanaugh said, "because a clean break with the past 
means you'd never have been able to contact your parents if they were alive, or 
other relatives, or your friends. If you'd wished, a wife and children could 
have gone with you to your new life, but they'd have had relatives and friends 
they'd have missed, and eventually you or someone in your family would have been 
tempted to get in touch with people you cared for in your past. In most cases, 
if your enemy manages to find you, that's how it's done, by keeping a close 
watch on the friends and relatives you left behind, by checking their mail and 
tapping their phones and watching for any change in their routine. Fortunately, 
that's not going to be an issue here."
"Do you have any fantasy spot where you've always wanted to live?" Duncan asked. 
"When you decided to disappear, was there a place you had in mind?"
"No." Looking more abandoned, Prescott stared at his wineglass.
"Good," Duncan said. "Because, if you had, you probably would have mentioned it 
to people you worked with or did business with."
"Casual conversation," Chad said." 'Gosh, wouldn't it be great to live in Aspen 
and ski whenever I want in the winter.' So you disappear and move to Aspen, and 
the next thing, Escobar's men come crashing through your back door."
"Do you subscribe to any scientific journals?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Several."
"Not any longer," Duncan said. "Escobar will find out which journals publish 
articles in your specialty. He'll manage to get his hands on the subscriber 
list. He'll make a note of which subscribers recently moved and which people 
subscribed after you disappeared."
"And the next thing you know," Roberto said, echoing Chad's earlier comment, 
"Escobar's men'll come crashing through your back door."
"Do you like to play golf?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Yes. It's one of the few forms of exercise that—"
"Not any longer. You can't ever go near a golf course again. Escobar will find a 
way to learn your habits. If he somehow manages to figure out where you've 
moved, he'll arrange to have someone watch the golf courses, waiting for you to 
show up. On and on," Cavanaugh said. "Do you understand what we're trying to 
tell you?"
Prescott gulped the last of his wine and poured another full glass. "When you 
say 'a new life,' you mean it literally. I have to make a complete break from my 
past."
"With no exceptions," Cavanaugh emphasized. "The kind of clothes you like. The 
music you like. The food you like. You're going to have to change all of it. The 
books you like. Back at the warehouse, you had the collected poems of Robinson 
Jeffers and a couple of books about him. From now on, Jeffers is one author you 
can't ever be caught reading."
"You make it sound ..." Prescott's voice faltered. "Depressing."
"For many, it is, once the people who disappear finally understand the full 
implications," Duncan said. "You have to prepare yourself and confront the 
problem now. How much are you afraid of Escobar? Are you ready to do everything 
that's necessary, no matter how isolating, in order to keep him away from you?"
Prescott took another long swallow from his glass. "I'm tired of being afraid. 
Yes." His expression hardened. "I'm ready to do everything that's necessary."
"Good," Duncan said. "Tomorrow, we'll take you to meet Karen in Albany, get your 
photograph taken, and receive the documents for your new identity."
Tracy suddenly entered the room. "Maybe not."
"Why?" Duncan frowned.
"Three helicopters are headed this way."





8
"Helicopters?"
Duncan came to his feet at the same time Cavanaugh did. Followed by Chad and 
Roberto, they hurried with Tracy out of the kitchen, along a corridor, and into 
the control room.
Various television monitors were stacked in rows along a wall, receiving 
green-tinted night-vision images from cameras positioned around the helicopter 
and the bunker. But what the team focused its attention on was a radar screen, 
which showed three blips heading north, approaching the area.
Roberto studied them. "Yeah, the speed and the formation are consistent with 
helicopters."
"What's happening?" Prescott's strained voice asked behind them.
"We don't know yet," Cavanaugh said. "It might not be anything to concern us."
"The moment they appeared on the radar, heading up the Hudson," Tracy said, "it 
was obvious they were following the flight plan we filed at Teterboro."
"Coincidence?" Duncan asked.
"Maybe," Chad said. "There are a number of small airports up the Hudson, not to 
mention the one at Albany. They might land at one of them and go to a corporate 
retreat or something. Hell, maybe these are politicians flying to the state 
capital."
"Maybe," Tracy said. "And maybe not."
"What are we going to do?" Prescott asked.
No one turned from the radar.
"If it's Escobar's men trying to follow us," Roberto said, "the destination on 
the flight plan's too vague to bring them here. There are a lot of mountains and 
valleys. Even in daylight, those choppers could search forever and not find this 
place."
"Look." Tracy pointed toward the screen, where the three blips separated, moving 
west from the river.
"They're heading into the mountains," Chad said.
"Splitting up," Cavanaugh said, "saving time, searching one to a valley."
"But even with night-vision equipment, they're not going to see anything that 
tells them where we are," Roberto said. "For all they know, we landed at a farm 
and our helicopter's in a barn. It would take weeks for them to search all the 
farms in this area."
"Plus, if they flew here from Teterboro, they'll have to refuel in an hour or 
so," Cavanaugh said.
"Look." Tracy pointed again.
On the screen, the three blips moved back and forth over separate areas.
"Systematically searching," Duncan said.
"But they're doing it awfully fast," Cavanaugh said. "Even with night-vision 
equipment, they'd need to move slower to make sure they don't miss anything."
On the screen, the three blips shifted rapidly to three other areas.
"Holy . . . Nobody can do a visual check of a valley that fast, not even in 
daylight," Tracy said.
"Unless that's not how they're checking," Chad said.
"What do you mean?"
"Not visually."
The rest of the group abruptly understood what Chad meant. They swung to look at 
Prescott.
His pale face contrasted with his dark eyes, which were wide with apprehension 
as he, too, realized what was happening.
Cavanaugh stared back at the radar screen. "Infrared sensors? Thermal sensors?"
The blips moved swiftly to three other areas.
"Dies," Roberto said. "That explains it. They're looking for the helicopter's 
heat signature. The engine's cooled, but a thermal scanner makes metal look 
different from wood or dirt. They'll be able to distinguish the shape of the 
helicopter from the trees around it."
"Plus," Tracy said, "the landing pad'll still retain heat from the sunlight the 
concrete absorbed all day."
"But won't heat from the houses and farm equipment confuse them?" Prescott 
demanded.
"No," Duncan said. "A house or a truck would have an entirely different heat 
pattern. Besides, this valley's so rugged, there aren't any farms around here. 
The heat signature of the landing pad will be especially distinctive in the 
middle of a forest."
Prescott pushed through the group and stared at the radar. "How long before they 
get here?"
"At sufficient altitude, with magnifiers on the sensors, they can cover a lot of 
miles in a hurry. At the rate they're searching, they'll be here in ten 
minutes," Tracy said.
"This can't be," Duncan said.
"What do you mean, 'can't be'?" Prescott sounded more panicked. "It's happening 
right in front of your eyes!"
"Even with all his money, Escobar doesn't have the resources to suddenly get his 
hands on three helicopters with thermal sensors," Duncan said. "That's special 
equipment. You need to make plans to have it available, and Escobar had no 
reason to expect a helicopter chase."
"So where the hell did he get thermal sensors?" Chad asked. "It doesn't make 
sense. Unless ..."
"What?" Roberto asked.
"Those aren't Escobar's men." Duncan swung again toward Prescott. "Is there 
anybody else you're afraid of? Who else would be chasing you?"
"Nobody. If those helicopters aren't Escobar's, I have no idea whose they could 
be."
On the radar, the blips moved relentlessly to three other areas, proceeding 
closer to the center of the screen, where the bunker and the helicopter were 
situated.
"Whoever they are, they're sophisticated," Duncan said. "What else do they have 
in those choppers?"
"Maybe it's time to worry about those rockets we talked about earlier," Chad 
said.
"Moment of truth," Tracy said. "We have to decide,"
"What's she talking about?" Prescott asked.
"Stay or go," Tracy said. "If we stay, we don't know whether they can blow their 
way in here. But if we go—"
"We can't leave by helicopter," Roberto said. "If they've got heat sensors, we 
have to assume they also have radar. They'll know if our chopper takes off."
"But what if Mr. Prescott isn't in it?" Duncan asked. "What if you take off and 
act as a decoy?"
"They still might shoot me down," Roberto said.
"No," Cavanaugh said, "they won't shoot. Not if they think Prescott's aboard. 
They want him alive. When they chased me on the highway, they could have shot 
me, but they didn't. They didn't want the car to crash and kill Prescott. It's 
safe for you to distract them."
"The rest of us could leave in the Jeep." Chad referred to one of two vehicles 
in the bunker's adjacent underground garage.
"Both Jeeps," Tracy said. "We could use one of the cars as another decoy. Some 
of the helicopters will scan for other heat signatures and follow us. They'll 
have to separate and go in three directions. If we can get to the highway—the 
New York State Thruway is twenty miles to the east—there'll be so much traffic, 
they won't be able to decide which car they're hunting."
On the radar, the blips kept moving toward the center of the screen.
The group stared at Duncan.
"If we go, they won't shoot at us because they want Mr.
Prescott alive. If we stay, they'll have him trapped. Does that about sum it 
up?" Duncan asked.
The group kept staring at him.
"Move," Duncan said.





9
They didn't need to discuss what they had to do next. Although they continued to 
wear their pistols, they'd taken off their Kevlar vests. Now, with disciplined 
speed, they shifted from the control room and entered a room adjacent to it. 
There, in the bunker's arsenal, their vests were on a table.
"You'll need this." Cavanaugh put a vest on Prescott. "In case a bullet intended 
for one of us heads in the wrong direction."
After buckling on their vests, the team grabbed AR-15 assault rifles from a row 
of weapons that included shotguns and more handguns.
In theory, the AR-15, which was the civilian version of the military's M-16, 
could be fired only on a semiautomatic setting, one shot with each pull of the 
trigger, complying with federal gun laws. But these had been modified so they 
could be fully automatic, numerous rounds rapidly discharging with a single pull 
of the trigger. If law-enforcement officers were about to examine the weapons, 
the automatic function could be disabled by turning a small lever on the side 
and pulling the lever out; an interior spring-loaded plug would then slip into 
place, thus making the weapon legal while at the same time concealing that it 
had been tampered with.
Looking ashen, Prescott reached for one.
"No," Chad said. "Leave the fireworks to us. You might shoot yourself in the 
foot."
"Or one of us," Tracy said.
"But what if I have to defend myself? I should at least know how to use one of 
those things."
"If the situation gets that desperate, God help us," Roberto said. "Don't touch 
a rifle unless we're down and there's no other choice. Brace the stock against 
your shoulder. Point the barrel at your target. Pull the trigger. If a shell 
gets stuck, yank back this knob on the side to free it."
"The AR-15 likes to kick up," Cavanaugh said. "If you're not careful, all you do 
is shoot toward the sky. Keep forcing the barrel down toward your target. Can 
you remember all that?"
"I hope I don't have to."
Chad ran to the kitchen to make sure the stove and oven were off. Everybody 
grabbed windbreakers to cover their Kevlar vests. At the exit, Duncan opened the 
door. As the group hurried along the echoing concrete passageway toward the cold 
mountain night, Cavanaugh heard the whump of the approaching helicopters getting 
louder.
"Good luck, Roberto." Tracy's blond hair shone briefly in the light that spilled 
from the closing door.
"They've got less than an hour's fuel, and my tank's full. I can outrun them." 
Roberto backed to the left, moving into the murky forest. "Adios."
"Come on, Prescott." His Kevlar vest feeling bulky on him, Cavanaugh headed to 
the right, hurrying through the darkness toward the underground garage, the 
entrance to which was recessed into the hill. "Stay close to me." He reached the 
garage and glanced toward the shadows behind him. "Prescott?"
Holding their AR-15s, Duncan, Chad, and Tracy glanced back also.
All Cavanaugh saw were the indistinct outlines of trees and bushes. "Prescott?"
The helicopters thundered closer.
"What happened?" Chad asked. "Where'd he go?"
"The last time I saw him was ..." Duncan stared back toward the entryway. "Don't 
tell me he's still inside."
"I'll get the Jeeps," Tracy said.
"Prescott!" Cavanaugh yelled.
The concrete passageway prevented the helicopters from seeing the faint 
motion-triggered light that came on when Duncan rushed to the number pad next to 
the door.
"Prescott!" Cavanaugh scanned the dark trees. Behind him, he heard a muffled 
motor that Tracy activated, raising the garage door.
At the end of the passageway, another light appeared as Duncan hurried into the 
bunker.
"Maybe he's in the bushes," Chad said. "He got awfully upset when he saw those 
radar blips. It could be he's so scared, his bladder went crazy."
"Or his bowels." Cavanaugh said. "Or he got sick." Cavanaugh moved through the 
dark bushes, checking. "Prescott!"
Behind him, he heard Tracy drive the first Jeep up the ramp from the underground 
garage.
As the helicopters rumbled nearer, Cavanaugh suddenly realized that he hadn't 
heard Roberto take off with the chopper. Move, Roberto! he thought. If you don't 
lift off soon, you won't have a chance of getting ahead of them.
"Prescott!" Scraping branches, Chad continued to search through the undergrowth 
as Tracy got out of the Jeep and ran back into the garage.
Now that his eyes were accustomed to the night, Cavanaugh could see to avoid 
obstacles in the starlit darkness while he rushed past the bunker's entrance and 
made his way through evergreen branches, hurrying toward the helicopter pad.
"Prescott!"
At once, Cavanaugh saw that the camouflage net hadn't been retracted and the 
dark dragonfly silhouette of the helicopter still sat on the pad, its motor 
silent, its blades unmoving. His nostrils contracted from the sharp smell of 
aviation fuel. The night air was saturated with it.
Turning to run, he missed seeing a shadowy log and tripped over it, falling. 
Careful to keep the AR-15's barrel from jamming into the dirt, he rolled, his 
shoulder and his back absorbing the impact. He used the momentum of his roll to 
rise to a crouch, but not before he saw that what he'd tripped over wasn't a 
log.
Roberto lay motionless, a half-moon providing enough light for Cavanaugh to see 
Roberto's stark open eyes and the black pool of blood where the rear of his head 
had been bashed in.
Simultaneously, the darkness exploded into an eye-searing glare as the aviation 
fumes ignited. The flames reflected off the fuel pump's hose, which lay on the 
ground, spewing liquid through the forest. A long wall of fire burst up through 
the bushes and trees. The force of the heat thrust Cavanaugh backward.
Before he ran, he saw the blaze envelope the helicopter, the camouflage net 
vanishing in a crackling flash. The light from the flames was so intense that he 
saw individual needles on tree branches, the texture of bark on trunks. 
Sprinting toward the bunker, he heard his footsteps crush dead needles and then 
a roar as the fire erupted farther through the forest, chasing him.
"Prescott!"
Although the power of the fire's roar overwhelmed what Cavanaugh shouted, it 
wasn't loud enough to obscure the din of the rapidly approaching helicopters. 
Racing harder, Cavanaugh saw the two Jeeps that Tracy had driven from the 
underground garage. Holding their AR-15s, she and Chad stood next to the 
vehicles, staring in surprise at the rapidly spreading flames.
The next instant, Tracy and Chad disintegrated as something streaked from one of 
the helicopters and hit the two Jeeps, the detonation spewing chunks of metal 
and body parts in every direction.
The shock of what Cavanaugh had seen, in combination with the force of the 
blast, almost knocked him to the ground. His sanity felt threatened, the 
enormity of what had happened overwhelming him. But then he saw Duncan race from 
the bunker, and his conditioning took control. Tightening his grip on his 
assault rifle, he hurried in a crouch toward where Duncan gaped at the flames 
spreading quickly through the trees.
"Prescott's not inside!" Duncan swung to stare at the crater where the Jeeps had 
been. "Chad and Tracy—"
"Took that hit!"
"Son of a bitch!" The outrage on Duncan's face changed to alarm at the sound of 
something else shrieking from one of the helicopters toward the flames.





10
Charging along the bunker's entryway, they dove through the open door a moment 
before a second explosion struck near the bunker. Shrapnel and chunks of burning 
trees filled the space where they'd been standing.
Duncan slammed the door shut. "I thought Escobar wanted Prescott alive!" The 
bunker shook from another explosion. "How can he be sure he won't kill Prescott 
along with us?"
"Roberto's dead, too!" Cavanaugh rose to his feet and ran toward the control 
room.
"What?" Holding his AR-15, Duncan rushed after him.
"His skull's bashed in!"
"What the Christ is going on?"
They hurried into the control room and faced it's monitors. Although Tracy had 
left the electronics on, some screens were blank, the fire having destroyed the 
cameras linked to them. As Cavanaugh studied the remaining active screens, some 
of those went blank also. But enough cameras remained undamaged for him to see 
that the fire had spread fast enough to have enclosed a third of the area around 
the bunker on the side where the landing pad and the helicopter had been.
One camera showed the three helicopters coming into view in the distance.
Something stung Cavanaugh's nostrils. "Do you smell smoke?"
"From the ventilation system." Duncan flicked a switch. "There. It's shut off. 
The outside air and the smoke can't get in. We've got enough air in here for a 
couple of days."
Cavanaugh nodded. "We won't need to stay inside that long. Those choppers'll 
soon be forced to leave to refuel. They won't come back, not after the fire and 
the explosions send the state police and emergency crews up here."
"They can't hope to get away unnoticed. I don't understand why Escobar's acting 
this desperately."
"What you said earlier—maybe you were right." Cavanaugh kept staring at the 
green-tinted images. Some of the outside cameras were having trouble adjusting 
their night-vision lenses to the fierce brightness of the spreading flames. On a 
few, all Cavanaugh saw was a glaring green tint. "Maybe this isn't Escobar."
"Then who else—"
Haze in the room irritated Cavanaugh's throat. "I thought you sealed the 
ventilation system."
"You saw me do it."
"Then what's causing this smoke?"
Thicker haze drifted from a ventilation panel in the ceiling.
"1 smell—"
"Aviation fuel." Cavanaugh pushed Duncan ahead of him, charging toward the 
corridor outside the control room. At the same moment, flames burst from the 
ventilation panel and ripped along the ceiling.
Cavanaugh felt the heat at his back as he and Duncan reached the corridor.
In the ceiling, smoke and flames erupted from a second ventilation panel.
Pressed down by the heat, Duncan coughed. "The fire must have come down the 
ventilation shaft before I blocked it."
"No! Look in the control room! The top left monitor!"
Despite the haze and the fire on the ceiling, they managed to get a 
half-distinct view of the screens. The one on the top left showed the earth on 
top of the bunker. The fire hadn't reached the bushes up there, and yet smoke 
spewed from the ventilation shaft.
"How the hell did aviation fuel get down the ventilation shaft?" Cavanaugh 
asked.
More smoke spread along the ceiling.
"We can't go out the front way!" Coughing, Duncan pointed into the control room 
toward the haze-enveloped screens.
A monitor on the top right showed an image from a camera that was aimed along 
the inside of the entryway toward what should have been forest. All the screen 
showed now were flames.
But the screen next to it showed the back exit, where the trees and bushes 
remained untouched, the fire not yet having spread that far.
Stooping, Cavanaugh hurried through the smoke-filled kitchen and living room. He 
and Duncan reached the front corridor and ran to the right along the wall of 
doors that ended at the bunker's rear exit.
Duncan twisted the lever on the dead-bolt lock and pulled the door open. Ready 
with his assault rifle, Cavanaugh rushed with Duncan along an exterior concrete 
passageway toward cool air and not-yet-burned trees. But the wind from the 
approaching fire whipped branches, and the forest's shadows were pierced by the 
rippling reflection of flames crackling nearer on the right. Suddenly, Duncan 
slammed backward into Cavanaugh, the two of them falling, the roar of an 
automatic rifle filling the passageway, muzzle flashes like strobe lights as 
bullets ricocheted off concrete. Duncan screamed.
With equal abruptness, the shooting stopped. Amid the smell of cordite, weighed 
down by Duncan, Cavanaugh groaned from a pain in his left shoulder. From the 
trees, he heard a scrape of metal that sounded like someone trying to free a 
shell stuck in an assault rifle's firing chamber. The approaching blaze 
dispelled shadows. Astonishingly, it revealed Prescott crouched among bushes. 
Glancing wildly toward the fire, Prescott held an AR-15, presumably Roberto's, 
and furiously worked to pull back the knob on the side.
"Duncan," Cavanaugh managed to say.
No answer.
The pain in his shoulder intensifying, Cavanaugh squirmed out from under 
Duncan's weight. He smelled the nauseating coppery odor of blood.
"Duncan, move!"
He hoped desperately that Duncan's wounds weren't serious. But then he saw 
Duncan's mangled face, where at least half a dozen high-powered rounds had made 
him unrecognizable.
"Duncan!" Forced to drop his rifle, Cavanaugh dragged his friend back toward the 
bunker. He struggled to get inside before Prescott freed the jammed cartridge. 
The closer Cavanaugh got to the doorway behind him, the more heat pressed 
against his back.
The scrape of metal ended.
"No!" With one last desperate effort, Cavanaugh pulled Duncan through the 
doorway. Another furious volley sent bullets zipping above Cavanaugh's head. 
They struck the corridor's ceiling and cracked against the concrete above the 
door. Cavanaugh slammed the door shut just before Prescott corrected the 
barrel's upward tug, forcing down his aim as Cavanaugh had taught him, sending 
bullets walloping against the metal door.
"Duncan." Cavanaugh's left shoulder ached worse. Coughing from the smoke and the 
heat, he concentrated on Duncan, feeling for a pulse, but it was obvious he 
would never find one.
"Duncan!"





11
Anger fought with grief. Too busy raging to fear for his life, wanting only to 
hammer Prescott's face until it was as unrecognizable as Duncan's, Cavanaugh 
scrambled back. After one last look at his friend, he ran in a crouch toward the 
living room. He couldn't go out the rear door. The passageway was like a 
shooting gallery, funneling bullets toward the target. As long as Prescott keeps 
his aim down, I don't have a chance, Cavanaugh thought. The only reason 
Cavanaugh was alive was that Duncan had been ahead of him and had taken almost 
the full force of the barrage.
Racing through the living room, Cavanaugh fought not to choke on the smoke. A 
round had hit an exposed area at the top of his left shoulder, between the 
vest's strap and his neck. As he charged bent over through the kitchen, his hand 
came away smeared with red from where he'd touched the meaty portion between his 
collarbone and his neck. Blood welled.
He dropped to his knees and gasped whatever relatively smoke-clear air was near 
the floor. Stung by the heat from the burning ceiling, he hurried to the 
munitions room. To leave the bunker, he needed to use the front exit, but as the 
camera in that passageway had shown, the burning trees and bushes out there 
blocked his way. The arsenal had a trapdoor that led to a concrete tunnel 
connected to an exit near the landing pad, but since that was the area where the 
fire was most intense, Cavanaugh wasn't sure he could use the tunnel as an exit.
Amid spreading smoke and heat, he shoved away the table on which the Kevlar 
vests had been piled. He kicked away a carpet, exposed the tunnel's trapdoor, 
and lifted the handle. Wafts of smoke drifted up, confirming his suspicion that 
the tunnel wouldn't protect him. If he tried to avoid the flames by climbing 
down there, the fire would suck out the tunnel's oxygen, asphyxiating him before 
it cooked him.
Cavanaugh's shoulder was stiff with greater pain. He felt lightheaded.
Need to stop bleeding. Need to do it fast. Cavanaugh thought. He lurched toward 
a shelf that contained several red-colored pouches: Pro Med trauma kits favored 
by emergency service organizations. Among other things, each kit contained a 
fist-sized gauze wad called a "blood stopper" because it could soak up as much 
as a pint of blood. But as the fire worsened, Cavanaugh didn't have time to open 
a kit, pull out a blood stopper, apply it, and tape it down.
All he had time for was the tape. Not surgical tape. Instead, he grabbed a roll 
of silver-colored tape that was next to the trauma kits and was considered part 
of the first-aid supplies. Duct tape. The gunfighter's friend. He couldn't count 
the number to times he'd seen wounds sealed with duct tape. He ripped his collar 
open and used his right sleeve to wipe blood from the meaty part where his 
shoulder met his neck. He tore off two sections of tape and pressed them 
crossways onto the wound. Then he pressed them harder, wincing from the pain but 
feeling the thick tape's sticky underside grip his skin and adhere to it.
Staying closer to the floor, Cavanaugh ran from the arsenal and into a farther 
smoke-filled room—a bathroom—where he climbed into the tub and turned on the 
shower, dousing his hair and his clothes. He soaked a towel and tied it around 
his head. Dripping, he scrambled into the kitchen, where he grabbed a fire 
extinguisher from under the sink. The bunker's lights flickered, then failed as 
he ran into Duncan's office and grabbed another fire extinguisher from a corner 
of the room.
Staggering now, he crossed the living room, which was lit only by flames, and 
managed to reach the corridor at the bunker's entrance. He set down the fire 
extinguishers and took a third one from a closet. As with the rear exit, the 
front door had a knob and a lever for a dead-bolt lock. After freeing the lock, 
he tested the knob and jerked his fingers back when he felt heat on it. 
Wavering, he tugged down his jacket sleeve and protected his hand as he again 
tried the knob, still feeling heat but no longer caring, desperate to escape 
from the bunker.
He pulled the door open and stumbled back, aware of the intense heat behind him 
but unable to resist the backward motion because of what faced him—hell.





12
The roar of the flames blocking the passageway was matched by the howl of the 
wind they created. The heat was intense enough to suck the remaining oxygen from 
the bunker, causing a fierce wind from the interior that stopped Cavanaugh's 
reflexive backward motion and instead pushed him forward.
Now!
As a boy in Oklahoma, Cavanaugh had once seen a fire on an oil rig that his 
father had worked on. Cavanaugh had never forgotten how high the flames had 
gushed and how powerful the heat had been. The fire had started at sunset and 
had raged all night, making the area around the oil rig shimmer like noon in 
August. It had resisted the full force of five high-pressured water hoses, until 
finally Cavanaugh's father, dressed in a fire-retardant suit, complete with a 
head covering, had driven a bulldozer close to the upward-surging blaze. The 
bulldozer's blade had been raised to try to protect Cavanaugh's father from the 
heat. A metal pole had extended from the blade, a container of explosives 
dangling from it, asbestos-covered wires leading back from it. Cavanaugh's 
father had dumped the explosives near the heart of the gushing flames, had 
hurriedly backed the bulldozer away, and then had leapt down, taking cover 
behind the bulldozer as someone else had pushed a plunger that detonated the 
explosives. The wallop of the blast had nearly knocked Cavanaugh down, even from 
a distance. The din had made his ears ring for hours, although his hands had 
been clamped over them. But most impressive of all, most amazing, the explosion 
had blown out the fire.
"Because of the vacuum the blast created, because it sucked air away from the 
blaze," Cavanaugh's father had explained.





13
Cavanaugh threw the first fire extinguisher into the flames beyond the entryway. 
Frantic, using all his strength, he hurled the second extinguisher much farther. 
He had no idea how long it would take the intense heat to rupture the tanks, but 
he couldn't afford to wait. Not daring to think, feeling heat behind him about 
to boil his wet clothes, knowing that he'd die if he didn't move, he picked up 
the third extinguisher and ran toward the inferno.
The shock wave from the first explosion hit him like a punch. Continuing to run, 
he hurled the third extinguisher ahead of him. The next explosion stunned him, 
nearly knocking him down. But he couldn't relent, couldn't hold back. He entered 
the roaring flames, or what had been roaring flames, for the explosions and the 
retardant they spewed had caused a vacuum in the fire. Then the third 
extinguisher detonated ahead of him, and he found himself racing, breath held, 
through an empty corridor in the fire, a wall of flames ten feet on each side of 
him. He crashed through unburned undergrowth and lost his balance, tumbling down 
a wooded slope, the motion putting out flames on his jacket and pants while with 
a mighty whoosh the blaze recom-bined behind him.
He realized that the throbbing in his legs, arms, and back must have come from 
rocks he'd rolled over. He didn't care. Pain was life. Pain urged him forward 
along a deep gully. He'd lost the drenched towel he'd tied over his head. Not 
that it mattered, for the fire had quickly dried the towel, and the heat on his 
head was from smoldering hair, which he swatted with his hands and sleeves.
He fell again, rolling. He came to his feet and staggered onward into darkness. 
He heard the crackle of the blaze spreading behind him. But he also heard the 
thunder of the three helicopters moving toward the side of the bunker that 
hadn't yet been enclosed by the fire.
Staring up, Cavanaugh saw the flame-reflecting unmarked choppers descend to the 
treetops, saw ropes drop from each chopper, saw black-clad men with compact 
submachine guns slung over their shoulders fling themselves from a hatch in each 
chopper and rappel to the ground—one, two, three, four, five men from each 
hatch. They slid smoothly, expertly, relentlessly down. They wore helmets with 
earphones and radio microphones.
Then they disappeared among the trees, and Cavanaugh stumbled onward along the 
dark gully, but he'd seen enough to conclude that no drug lord, not even 
Escobar, would have quick access to that many men who looked that well trained. 
The only place men got that kind of training was the military, but not just any 
branch of the military. The men who'd rappelled from those choppers were 
obviously special-operations personnel, just as he had belonged to special 
operations.
Heart pounding furiously, he saw the choppers rise and separate, moving to 
equidistant points near the fire, making him realize that he was far from being 
safe, for the hunters who remained in those choppers had to be using thermal 
sensors to search for anyone trying to escape from the flames.
He didn't dare run. The moment the sensors detected a human-shaped source of 
heat, whoever was in charge up there would radio directions to the assault team 
on the ground. The gunmen would converge on that sector of the forest.
To save himself, Cavanaugh realized, he had to go back, to put himself as close 
as he could risk to the edge of the blaze so that his heat pattern would be 
disguised by the fire's. He turned and stumbled up the gully toward where trees 
and bushes erupted into flames ahead of him. The noises they made were like 
small explosions and gave him hope that when the fire extinguishers had 
detonated, they'd been noticed only as a seemingly natural part of the fire's 
progress. He felt the scorched air envelop him and tried to take heart from the 
thought that he was now invisible to the thermal sensors above him.
But the heat was so fierce that he couldn't possibly survive if he got any 
closer to it. The fire moved faster, forcing him to retreat with increasing 
speed as bushes in the gully burst into flames and gave the impression of 
chasing him. In that calculated, on-the-edge-of-death pattern, Cavanaugh shifted 
with the fire, moving as it moved. His vision blurred. His skin felt parched. 
He'd never been so thirsty. But he couldn't think about any of that, for in 
addition to keeping pace with the fire, he had to concentrate on the edges of 
the blaze to his right and left, watching for the gunmen. He assumed that they 
had separated to form a perimeter around the fire, keeping pace with it as he 
was, except they'd maintain a safe distance while they hunted for anyone the 
thermal sensors in the choppers failed to notice.
Pursued by fire as further trees and bushes burst into flames, Cavanaugh reached 
a more uneven part of the gully. His knees bent. He forced them to straighten. 
His chest fought to take in the little air available. His knees bent once more, 
and this time, he lost his balance, toppling, no longer rolling smoothly. In the 
shadows at the bottom of the gully he banged his side against a boulder, winced, 
and started to come to his feet, only to tense, making himself motionless as a 
man holding a submachine gun emerged from trees ahead on Cavanaugh's right, 
following the edge of the fire.
A sharp crack of blazing wood made the gunman spin to look behind him. In that 
instant, Cavanaugh dove to the side of the gully, toward a narrow space between 
the boulder he had banged against and the gully's dirt slope. He pressed himself 
down, desperate to merge with the terrain, hoping that the soot blackening his 
clothes and face would make him appear no more than another boulder or a rotting 
tree trunk.
If you're hiding, never look directly at a man who's searching for you, 
Cavanaugh's instructors had warned. The hunter might notice the glare of your 
eyes, or else the intensity you radiate might make him sense, rather than see, 
he's being stared at. Keep your gaze slightly away from him. Study him from the 
side of your eyes. Use your peripheral vision to keep track of his movements.
Cavanaugh did that now. Staring toward the opposite side of the gully while 
concentrating his peripheral vision on the right, he saw the blur of the 
gunman's silhouette descend into the gully. The gunman paused, as if studying 
the progress of the fire. Cavanaugh braced himself to shoot if the man showed 
any interest in the boulder Cavanaugh tried to hide behind. The man paused a 
moment longer. Too long. Cavanaugh was just about to pull the trigger when the 
man climbed from the gully, and continued along the edge of the fire.
The flames got closer. Pressed down by the accumulating heat, Cavanaugh squirmed 
forward past other boulders, straining to gain some distance from the fire 
behind him but unable to proceed with any speed lest the gunman glance back into 
the gully and notice movement. The heat became so intense that, as Cavanaugh 
breathed through his mouth, trying to get as much air as he could, his tongue 
and throat felt burned.
Above him, the three helicopters remained spread out like the points of a 
triangle, continuing to search for the human-shaped thermal pattern of any 
fleeing survivor. Feeling heat on the soles of his shoes, nearly overcome by the 
close flames behind him, Cavanaugh squirmed faster through the boulders. He was 
too low to be able to see if other gunmen approached the gully. All he could do 
was try to solve one problem at a time, and at the moment, his biggest problem 
was how not to get burned to death.
He came under an outcrop of earth, which past storms had formed when flash 
floods raged along the gully and tore a hollow along its side. Abruptly, dirt 
trickled onto him from the roof, the earth of which was held together by roots. 
His muscles compacting, Cavanaugh again stopped moving and imagined a gunman 
above him, aiming his weapon, scanning the edge of the approaching fire. He 
worried that the man's weight would collapse the roof, that his hunter would 
drop on him. More specks of dirt fell as the man shifted his weight. The specks 
pelted the back of Cavanaugh's head.
Fighting not to cough from smoke drifting toward him, Cavanaugh prepared to 
shoot if the man descended into the gully. Then the smoke became so thick that 
Cavanaugh had to hold his breath. But the man above him had to be holding his 
breath also, Cavanaugh knew. The smoke would soon force the man to move. The 
question was, Would the man move before Cavanaugh had to? During the arduous 
training Cavanaugh had received in Delta Force, he had once held his breath for 
four minutes in a room filled with tear gas, but that had been years earlier, 
and no matter how determined he was now, he doubted that he could hold his 
breath that long. Plus, he didn't know if the man above him wore some kind of 
mask that filtered the smoke.
Seeing the flames get nearer, almost overpowered by the heat, Cavanaugh realized 
that in a very few seconds, if the man didn't move, he was going to have to roll 
from his hiding place and shoot, then run farther along the gully so he'd be 
able to breathe.
And then what? Would other gunmen hear the shots and rush toward this sector? 
Even if they didn't hear the shots, the man would be expected to use the radio 
microphone on his helmet to maintain regular contact with the helicopters and 
the other members of his team. When the man didn't report on schedule, the other 
hunters would become suspicious and head in Cavanaugh's direction.
So would the helicopters. As Cavanaugh kept holding his breath, spots beginning 
to swirl in front of his eyes, it seemed that the helicopters were already 
heading in his direction, so suddenly loud did they become. They were descending 
toward the trees.
The man standing above Cavanaugh said something Cavanaugh couldn't distinguish. 
The man was evidently speaking to his radio microphone, his tone urgent. The 
next moment, Cavanaugh heard heavy footsteps pounding the earth, rushing away. 
More dirt fell. The thunder of the helicopters became even louder.
Cavanaugh couldn't hold his breath any longer. The spots before his eyes 
thickening, he bolted from the hollow. Scrambling to escape the dense smoke, he 
passed one boulder and then another, reaching clear air, and filled his lungs. 
Despite its warmth, the air was cooler than any he'd drawn in since he'd left 
the bunker. His vision became focused enough for him to see the orange ripple of 
flames within the smoke that he'd left. But what he concentrated on, aiming his 
weapon, were the rims of the gully, toward which he prepared to shoot if any 
gunmen showed themselves.
None did. To his right, the close roar of the helicopters made him peer warily 
over the slope's rim. The fire showed the helicopters a hundred yards away, 
above the trees. The gunmen seemed to be magically levitating toward hatches in 
the choppers, although they were actually being drawn up by power-driven cables. 
It was one of the smoothest extractions Cavanaugh had ever seen. In what felt 
like no time at all, each of the helicopters raised five men, and even before 
the hatches were closed, the helicopters pivoted, veering past the fire, heading 
west toward the denser sections of the mountains. Their thunder receding, they 
vanished into the darkness. Then the only sound was the roar of the blaze, which 
Cavanaugh was now free to get as far away from as he could.
Staggering away, reaching cooler air, he heard explosions that rumbled from the 
direction of the bunker. Obviously, the fire had detonated the munitions inside. 
He plodded past more boulders, over fallen tree limbs, through dense bushes and 
intersecting evergreen boughs. His loss of blood made him so weak that he was 
tempted to sit and rest, but he had to keep moving, had to muster all his 
discipline to put more distance between him and the fire. A new sound now 
intruded. In the distance, he heard a faint, shrill, high-pitched wail that 
gained volume, coming nearer. An approaching siren. No, he told himself. Several 
sirens. No doubt the state police and emergency crews. From a narrow paved road 
that went through the nearest town, eight miles away, they'd be rushing up the 
barely noticeable tree-flanked dirt lane that led to the bunker, which they 
didn't know existed but which they'd have no trouble finding now because of the 
fire.
The idea of plodding toward those sirens, of reaching the lane and waiting for 
the headlights of the emergency vehicles, was powerfully tempting. A chance to 
rest. To get his injuries treated. To gulp water—how thirsty he was, his tongue 
so dry that it felt swollen. He'd done nothing illegal. He had every reason to 
go to the police and get help.
But then he imagined all the questions the police would ask him. They'd keep him 
in protective custody, which, from Ca-vanaugh's view, meant no protection at 
all. They'd try to guard him at a hospital and then at police headquarters, or 
at their own version of a safe site, which wouldn't be safe. They'd probably 
suspect him of being part of the massacre, and proving his innocence would take 
more time, causing further delays before he was released, putting him at greater 
risk. Prescott had wanted him and the rest of the team dead. The son of a bitch. 
Until Cavanaugh had a chance to clear his mind and get his thoughts straight—Who 
were the men in the helicopters? Were they military, as he suspected? What did 
they have to do with Prescott?— the most cautious thing he could do was to make 
Prescott and the men in the choppers believe that every member of the protection 
team was dead, including him. Otherwise, if they learned that he was still 
alive, they might make another attempt, although Cavanaugh had no idea why the 
hell they wanted the protection team dead. Duncan, Chad, Tracy, Roberto. The 
litany of lost friends made Cavanaugh want to scream. His head pounded harder 
from too many questions he couldn't answer. All he knew for sure was that until 
he understood what was happening, he had to make it seem that he had, in fact, 
died.
I'm a corpse, he thought. A walking corpse.
No, not walking. Staggering. He needed all his discipline and strength to place 
one foot in front of the other and keep moving. The duct-taped wound in his 
shoulder kept aching. The skin on his hands, face, and scalp smarted from having 
been too close to the flames. Nonetheless, he mustered every residue of energy 
he could, straining to walk straighter and with more control.
Pretend you're at boot camp, he thought, attempting a joke. Or better—and this 
wasn't a joke—pretend it's your first day of Delta Force training. As he 
recalled Delta's isolated compound at Fort Bragg, a powerful flood of nostalgia 
seized him. Make your instructors proud, he thought, and walked more firmly.
The sirens approached on Cavanaugh's right. Keeping a distance from them, using 
them to determine his direction, Cavanaugh continued working through the dark 
forest. I'm going to need help, he thought. I look like a war atrocity. The 
instant I show myself, somebody's going to scream and call the police. Who's 
going to help me?
He thought of the man who'd initially been part of the extraction team, Eddie, 
the gum-chewing, pun-making—"These pieces'll soon be in pieces in a 
sewer"—driver who'd taken the black car away. Wary of a possible location 
transmitter, he'd intended to abandon it far from the airport. Cavanaugh had 
worked with him several times. As soon as Eddie learned what had happened, he 
would drop everything and come to get Cavanaugh as quickly as possible.
But something about that plan didn't feel right. Suppose Prescott and/or the men 
in the helicopters had an informant in Protective Services. Suppose they knew 
that Eddie had been an initial member of the team. To assure themselves that 
Cavanaugh and everybody else had been killed, they'd maintain surveillance on 
Eddie. A phone call that summoned Eddie to a town near the destroyed bunker 
would be an obvious indication that not everyone on the protection team had 
died.
Can't take the chance, Cavanaugh thought. Need to be invisible.
Then who in God's name am I going to ask?
No matter how he calculated it, he always came back to the same answer: the one 
person in the world he didn't want to contact and the only one he could.





PART THREE
Threat Identification





1
"Warwick Hotel." The male receptionist's voice sounded sleepy.
"Room five oh four, please." In the darkness, Cavanaugh used his cell phone, 
keeping his voice low. He was hunkered behind rocks and trees a quarter mile 
past the lights of the town he'd spent the previous four hours working toward 
and then passing. He'd waited to get this far before calling, because there was 
always the risk that the area around the fire was being monitored by a 
cell-phone scanner (a military version could operate from miles away) in an 
effort to learn if there'd been any survivors. But near a town, someone using a 
cell phone, even at this hour, wouldn't seem unusual. Moreover, by now, 
emergency personnel would be making numerous cell-phone calls, which meant that 
a scanner could isolate a particular conversation only if it was calibrated to 
identify key words, such as dead, attack, Global Protective Services, or 
Cavanaugh's name. He intended to be as vague as possible.
"You'll have to speak louder, sir. I can barely hear you."
"Room five oh four."
"It's awfully late. Are you absolutely certain you wish to disturb—"
"My wife's expecting my call."
The receptionist exhaled wearily. "I'll put you through."
Pressing the phone against his right ear, Cavanaugh listened to the repeated 
buzz on the other end.
"Uh . . . hello?" Jamie's voice was thick with sleep.
"It's me." Cavanaugh sank lower among the trees. The phone felt cold in his 
hand.
"Hello? I can't—"
"It's me." The phrase was their signal that Jamie could trust what he said, that 
no one was forcing him to make the call. He'd taught her never to use names over 
the phone. He hoped that she remembered.
"Same here." That completed the signal. "Why are you? . . . What time is it?"
That she'd absorbed what he'd taught her made him relax a little. "Late."
"My God, it's almost four."
He imagined Jamie brushing back her dark hair and squinting toward the numbers 
on the digital bedside clock. He wanted to tell her immediately what he needed, 
but the conversation had to sound normal in case someone was eavesdropping. 
"Yeah, I know, but you've got an early flight, and I wanted to make sure I 
reached you before you checked out and left for the airport. I couldn't sleep 
until we patched up the argument we had."
"Argument?"
Cavanaugh imagined her frowning. "Saturday afternoon at the hotel's bar. I'm 
sorry you got pissed when I decided to go back to work. You're right. We should 
spend more time together." He imagined her frowning even harder. "Remember you 
said you had more money than I did and you wanted to take care of me? How'd you 
like to spend some of that money and take care of me now?"
Jamie paused a moment, evidently trying to figure out where the conversation was 
going. "Love to."
"Good. This morning, check out of the hotel the same as you'd planned. But 
instead of flying home alone, why don't you go by car? With me. We'll see some 
country and enjoy ourselves."
"Sounds perfect." Jamie continued to hide her confusion. "Where am I going to 
get the car? Rent it?"
"Go over to the West Side and buy it. We're due for a new one anyhow. I never 
liked the way the old one handled."
"Me, neither. It's about time we replaced it. What kind should we get?"
"A Ford Taurus is nice. Nothing too flashy. How do you feel about dark blue or 
dark green?"
"My favorite colors." Jamie still sounded husky from having been wakened. It 
made him wish that he could hold her now.
"Get the high-end model." That one had a two-hundred-horsepower engine, 
Cavanaugh knew, fifty more than in the standard models. The extra horses 
wouldn't win any Grand Prix speed records, unlike the serious racing engines 
that Global Protective Services put in its Tauruses. But they definitely added 
pep, and anyway, given the millions of Tauruses on the road, anonymity was now 
more important to him than massive strength.
"Since we're going to be traveling for a while, I could use more clothes," he 
continued. His suitcase had been in the trunk of the Taurus that had exploded at 
the warehouse. "Slacks, a sport coat, shoes. Jeans, a pullover, a pair of 
Rockports. You remember my sizes?"
"How could I forget?"
"Nothing gaudy."
"God forbid. Anything else?"
"Underwear."
"I love it when you talk sexy."
"Socks. Toothbrush. Razor. A first-aid kit. You never know what might happen on 
the road."
"Can't be too careful."
"You have no idea," Cavanaugh said. "Bring some sandwiches. And water. Plenty of 
bottled water."
The phone was silent for a moment while Jamie tried to understand the 
significance of that. "It'll take a while."
"I figured. That's why you'll need an early start."
"Where should I meet you?"
"I'm not sure yet. I'll call you at noon."
"Can't wait to see you."
"Same here. Sorry I woke you."
"Hey, you can wake me anytime. It's better if you're next to me, though."





2
Cavanaugh pressed the button that broke the connection. He switched off the 
phone to conserve its battery as well as to prevent it from ringing and 
attracting attention. Then he returned the phone to his windbreaker and glanced 
warily behind him, listening for the sounds of emergency vehicles at the town 
he'd passed. The fire was close enough that the state police had begun 
evacuating the inhabitants. He had barely been able to sneak across the road and 
into the continuation of the forest without being noticed in the frequent coming 
and going of headlights. He'd seen trucks arriving, dropping off men with 
shovels and chain saws, a team that looked ready to use the road as a perimeter 
from which to try to establish a firebreak. Other, bigger trucks had brought 
bulldozers.
He instinctively crouched when he heard a propeller-driven airplane drone 
overhead. No doubt the plane was with the firefighters. Spotters in it would 
direct the effort to contain the blaze, he assumed. And yet he couldn't stop 
irrationally worrying that the plane might somehow have a thermal sensor and be 
another part of the effort to hunt him. Sometimes you've got to have faith, he 
thought.
Using the sounds of the vehicles to guide him, he moved lower through the 
forest. Five minutes later, he heard an approaching helicopter and again 
crouched before assuring himself that the assault team would never be foolish 
enough to return to the attack area. This helicopter has to be part of the 
fire-fighting effort also, he told himself. Perhaps it's going to drop water or 
fire-retardant chemicals. But even though he was convinced of his logic, he felt 
naked as he continued through the trees.
A half-moon provided enough light for him to make his way past murky stumps and 
evergreen boughs. His goal was the next town along the road, about five miles 
farther to the east, where a north-south road intersected with one that came 
west from the New York State Thruway. The latter road continued west to the town 
he'd just left. It was the route the emergency personnel were using to get to 
the fire. He was certain the state police would establish a blockade at the town 
he was approaching. They'd want to prevent civilian traffic from heading into 
the fire zone. Thus, Jamie wouldn't be able to pick him up unless he found a 
rendezvous site beyond the blockade.
Soon, the gray light of dawn allowed him to increase speed. The sun, hazed by 
smoke, had been up for a couple of hours when he glimpsed a gray clapboard house 
through the trees. Immediately, he sank to the ground and peered through the 
bushes. He saw a freshly cultivated vegetable garden, a shed, a small garage 
painted the same gray as the house. What mostly attracted his attention was a 
hose on a faucet at the back. If I can just crawl over there and get a drink . . 
.
He imagined how cool and sweet the water would taste as it trickled over his 
lips and down his parched throat.
He almost weakened and emerged from the bushes. A good thing he didn't, for five 
seconds later, a slender young woman in work boots, jeans, a sweatshirt, and 
gloves came out. She would definitely have seen him, reacted to the dried blood 
all over him, and told the authorities.
Instead, she frowned toward the smoke in the sky, picked up the hose, and called 
toward the house, "Hey, Pete, I can't tell if that fire they told us about is 
headed this way. But since you're determined to defend the old homestead, maybe 
you'd better put down that beer can, grab the other hose, and give me a hand 
soaking the roof."
Too dehydrated to sweat in the day's heat, Cavanaugh crept back deeper into the 
trees. At a cautious distance, he skirted the house and several others, avoiding 
the town. At the north-south road, he descended into a culvert. It was cool, 
sandy, and dry. On the opposite side, he reentered the forest, but now he took 
strength from the knowledge that he would soon be able to rest. He angled toward 
the east-west road that came from the main highway, crept to bushes at the edge 
of it, and peered westward toward the crossroads, seeing that, sure enough, the 
state police had established a blockade but that it was beyond the crossroads, 
within the town itself.
Fine, he thought.
He returned to the trees near the culvert. When he looked at his watch, he was 
startled to see that the time was ten minutes past noon. He pulled out his 
phone, turned it on, and pressed numbers.
Jamie's phone buzzed only once before she answered, sounding worried. "Yes?"
"It's me." He kept his voice low.
"Same here. When you didn't call at noon—"
"Everything's okay."
"You're sure?"
"Things'll be even better when you pick me up." He heard voices in the 
background. "Where are you?"
"Buying the car. You'd think a cash offer and no haggling would make it go 
quickly, but the paperwork went on and on. Finally, they're about to give me the 
keys."
He held the phone tighter. "Speaking of cash ..."
"How much do we need?"
"At least two thousand in twenties."
"I'll bring three."
"Tell the bank clerk you're going to Atlantic City. When you get everything 
together, head north on the New York State Thruway. About fifty miles past the 
exit to Kingston, you'll come to a turnoff for a town called Baskerville."
Cavanaugh had no choice—at this point, he had to mention the name of the town. 
He assumed that it would be referred to in so many cell-phone messages between 
emergency personnel that it would never be a word that a scanner would pick to 
isolate a conversation.
"Follow the road west," he continued. "In about ten miles, when you get to 
Baskerville, stop at the crossroads and turn right. A hundred yards outside 
town, you'll see where a dry streambed follows a culvert under the road. Stop 
and get out, as if you think one of your tires might be leaking and you need to 
check them."
"Crossroads. Turn right. Culvert. Got it. That's where you'll be?"
"That's where I'll be." He looked up through the trees as another helicopter 
rumbled overhead. A huge canister, presumably containing water, dangled from its 
belly. "Unless the forest fire gets worse."
"Forest fire?" When he didn't answer, Jamie said, "You really know how to have a 
good time. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Call me when you're close. I'll leave my cell phone on."
"Are you honestly okay?"
"I will be. Thanks for helping."
"Thanks for asking. I never expected you would."





3
Cavanaugh put the phone in his jacket. Having finally accomplished everything 
that needed to be done, he glanced around the forest. Finding a depression in 
the ground, he covered it with dead branches, satisfied himself that the 
camouflage looked natural, and crawled beneath the branches into the shadowy 
hollow. There, amid the not-unpleasant smell of earth, he leaned back against 
the slope. He had a temporary sense of relief. Now all I have to do is wait for 
Jamie, he thought.
Despite the shade of the branches spread over him, the day became warmer. 
Conscious of how awkward the Kevlar vest felt, he removed it. Only then did he 
become aware of the shrapnel embedded in it: fragments from one of the fire 
extinguishers that had exploded.
He frowned at the shrapnel for almost a minute. Then he tested the duct tape on 
his wound, which throbbed where his shoulder met his neck. The thick silver 
strips continued to provide a tight seal, no blood escaping. The swelling made 
it painful for him to turn his neck.
He stretched his legs, or tried to—no sooner had he extended his legs than they 
retracted, bending toward him. Here it comes, he thought. It was happening much 
sooner than he anticipated. As long as he'd been in motion, working to get away 
from the fire, making arrangements with Jamie, finding a safe haven, his 
adrenaline had been his friend, fueling his weary body, spurring him on.
But now that he had nothing to do for the next few hours, adrenaline no longer 
served a purpose. It made him jittery. Not only did it cause his knees to bend 
toward him but it also made his arms want to fold over his chest. Already he 
felt the urge to yawn, partly because he lacked sleep, but mostly because his 
muscles needed to release tension. You want the high of action, you pay the 
price, he thought.
He hugged himself and shivered. Waiting for his body to still itself, he assumed 
something like a fetal position, which was fitting, because he often thought of 
adrenaline withdrawal as a preparation for rebirth, and birth couldn't happen 
without pain.
His eyelids felt heavy. Close to drowsing, he adjusted his cell phone so that it 
would vibrate instead of ring. He placed it under his jacket, then withdrew his 
handgun and held it in one of his crossed hands. Finally, all preparations 
complete, he drifted into sleep.





4
The tremble of the phone against Cavanaugh's stomach brought him immediately to 
consciousness. Years of discipline had trained him to clear sleep's fuzz from 
his mind and become instantly alert. He felt the phone tremble a second time as 
he crawled up the hollow's slope, listened for any threatening sounds, and then 
peered cautiously from beneath the carefully arranged branches. The phone 
trembled a third time while he sniffed the smoke in the air. But there wasn't 
any haze, and he concluded that for now he was safe.
Sliding back into the hollow, he holstered his handgun and answered the phone. 
"Taco Bell." That was another of their codes.
"Good. You're open," Jamie said, completing the sequence. "When you didn't 
answer right away—"
"Just taking a snooze." With the phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at his 
watch, the hands of which were close to 4:30. "Where are you?"
"Approaching town. I see the crossroads. You weren't kidding about the fire. The 
mountain's covered with smoke. There's a roadblock."
"In town?" Cavanaugh hoped that it hadn't been moved lower.
"Yes, in town. A policeman's turning away a couple of cars ahead of me."
"You can make the turn at the crossroads?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting."
He broke the connection, put the phone in his jacket, and grabbed the Kevlar 
vest. After another cautious look past the branches that covered the hollow, he 
squirmed up into the forest, reached the bushes at its edge, and studied the 
north-south road. Above it, as Jamie had said, the mountain was covered with 
smoke. The fire seemed to have headed westward instead of toward town. A 
helicopter flew over the smoke, dropping water.
When a van with an unflashing emergency light went past, he stayed low, waiting 
until the noise of its engine receded. Then he peered toward the road again, saw 
nothing to alarm him, and shifted into a grassy ditch, following it to the 
culvert. Once inside, he listened for the echo of a car stopping above him.
A minute later, one did stop.
Someone opened a door and shut it. He heard footsteps on pavement and then 
gravel, someone circling a car, as if checking for a flat tire.
"Where are you?" Jamie asked quietly.
He moved to the culvert's edge. "Look up and down the road. Anybody watching?"
"Not a soul."
"Get back in the car. Wait until I slip into the rear seat. Then drive away."
Cavanaugh listened to Jamie's footsteps returning to the driver's door. His 
heart pounded faster. The moment he heard her open the driver's door, he left 
the culvert, rose from the ditch toward the dark Taurus, opened the door, threw 
in the Kevlar vest, and climbed in after it. Lying flat on the seat, he closed 
the rear door.
Jamie wore a tan linen jacket. Her glossy dark hair was silhouetted against the 
windshield. As she put the Taurus into gear, she glanced back. Her green eyes 
widened at the sight of the dried blood all over him, at his torn clothes, the 
dirt, the soot, his singed hair, and the duct tape on his shoulder. "Oh Christ," 
she said.
She made him proud by overcoming her shock, turning forward, and stepping on the 
accelerator, keeping the vehicle at a speed that was reasonable enough not to 
attract attention.
"How bad?" Tense, she kept her gaze on the road.
"It looks worse than it is." His words were like stones in his throat.
He saw a flat of bottled water on the floor. Shrink-wrapped plastic covered it. 
Mouth dry, tongue swollen, he yanked at a tab that allowed him to peel off the 
plastic.
"Are you"—she took a breath—"shot?"
"Yes." He grabbed a bottle and untwisted its cap.
"Then how could it be worse?"
"It wasn't center of mass. Only my shoulder." Staying low, Cavanaugh dumped 
water into his mouth, some of it spilling over his lips, then onto his jacket 
and the seat. His tongue was like a sponge, absorbing it.
Jamie's voice became agitated. "Is that like saying 'It's only a flesh wound'? 
What is that? Duct tape?"
"Don't leave home without it."
"You patched yourself up like you're a leaky pipe? For God's sake, you could die 
from infection. I'm taking you to a doctor."
"No," Cavanaugh said quickly. "No doctor."
"But—"
"A doctor would have to report a gunshot wound to the police. I don't want the 
police involved. I don't want the authorities to know I'm alive."
"Doesn't Protective Services have doctors?"
"Yes."
"Then—"
"I can't let anybody there know I'm alive, either."
"What the hell is going on?"
Cavanaugh gulped more water. He was so parched, he could feel it flow down his 
throat and into his esophagus. Next to the flat of bottled water, he saw a small 
Styrofoam cooler. His wounded shoulder aching, he pulled off the cooler's top 
and looked inside.
"Pastrami on rye," Jamie said. "Potato salad and coleslaw. There're a couple of 
dill pickles in there, too."
Cavanaugh bit off a chunk of sandwich and chewed it hungrily. With the first 
swallow, though, he suddenly felt ill. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, 
which seemed to waver as he felt the smooth vibration of the car.
"You're serious? No doctor?" Jamie asked.
"No doctor."
"Where do you want me to take you?"
"Back to the highway. Head north. Albany's about an hour away. Check us into a 
motel, one of those places where you can park outside the room."
"Let me guess—nothing fancy, right?"
"On the seedy side. Where it's not unusual to pay cash and people don't like to 
phone the police."
"I can tell this is going to be charming."
"Did you bring a first-aid kit?"
"Something in your voice made me think I should get a big one. It's with those 
bags of clothes on the floor."
Cavanaugh sorted among the bags and found a plastic first-aid kit the size of a 
large phone book. His wound aching more, he pried the kit open and sorted among 
bandages, ointments, a pair of scissors, finding several two-capsule packets of 
Tylenol. He tore a couple of packets open and swallowed their contents, downing 
them with water. Drink slowly, he warned himself.
Don't make yourself sick.
"I've been patient," Jamie said. "I've asked you only once."
"You want to know what's going on."
"Gosh, how did you guess?"
"I've never told you about my assignments."
"That's right." Jamie kept driving. "But this time you will."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "If you're going to risk your life to help me, you have a 
right to know what you're getting into. This time, I'll tell you."





5
The Albany motel, called the Day's End Inn, was on a side street five blocks off 
the highway, in a cut-rate district away from the Holiday Inns and Best 
Westerns. Two bars, a transmission-repair shop, and a hamburger joint were 
typical of the adjacent buildings. With the lowering sun casting shadows, the 
transmission shop was closed. A few men got out of pickup trucks and went into 
one of the bars. Otherwise, there was hardly anybody on the street.
En route, Cavanaugh had used some of the bottled water to rinse blood and soot 
from his face. He'd put on the sport coat, jeans, and pullover that Jamie had 
bought for him, concealing the duct tape on his shoulder. A baseball cap that 
Jamie had thought to include covered his singed hair, allowing him to sit up 
without attracting attention. He studied the drab street while Jamie went into 
the office to rent a room.
Holding a key attached to a large yellow plastic cube, she returned to the car.
"You paid cash?" he asked.
"Yes. I told the clerk our credit card had been stolen." "As good an explanation 
as any."
"He's probably used to couples paying cash. Maybe he thinks we're having an 
affair." Jamie drove off the street, heading toward the back of the motel. "I 
understand why you don't want me to use a credit card. No paper trail. But in 
theory, no one knows about me, right?"
"In theory," Cavanaugh said. "I never told anybody at Protective Services, not 
even Duncan." In a flash of memory, Cavanaugh saw Duncan's mutilated face. His 
grief and rage intensified.
Jamie parked near a Dumpster at the next-to-last unit. "Then aren't you being 
more careful than necessary?" She shook her head. "I know what you're going to 
say. There's no such thing as being too careful."
Despite how he felt, he managed a smile. Jamie got out of the car, went over to 
the motel unit's door, and unlocked it.
Simultaneously, Cavanaugh opened the car's rear door, picked up several 
packages, which would distract anybody glancing in his direction—people love 
looking at packages—and walked as steadily as he could into the shadowy unit.
Two regular beds had faded covers. A table had scratches. A small television was 
bolted to the wall. The carpet was thin. The mirror over the bureau had a crack 
in one corner. "You said you wanted seedy," Jamie said. The room smelled faintly 
of cigarette smoke. "There weren't any nonsmoking units," Jamie said. "It's 
fine." Cavanaugh set the packages on a table, eased onto the bed, and sank back, 
closing his eyes, hoping for the unsteadiness in his head to lessen. "A good 
place to hide. You did great."
"I'll get the water and the rest of the stuff from the car." After Jamie 
finished, she shut the door and locked it.
On the bed, keeping his eyes closed, Cavanaugh sensed her studying him.
"Should I leave the lights off?" she asked. "Yes."
"What can I do for you?" "Bring me more water. Give me more Tylenol." "Is the 
wound infected?"
He swallowed the capsules and the water. "I guess"—he man-| aged to rouse 
himself—"we'd better find out."





6
The hot shower cascaded over Cavanaugh, drenching his bowed head and his back. 
Then he tilted his head up, letting the water pour over his face and chest. He 
was so unsteady, he had to sit.
The shower curtain was pulled open. Silhouetted by the light from a makeup 
mirror outside the shower stall, Jamie lowered the lid on the toilet seat. She 
sat, put her elbows on her knees, and watched him.
Although the light out there hurt his eyes, it allowed him to see the blood, 
dirt, and soot swirling down the drain. As he shampooed his head, bits of singed 
hair followed them.
"You've got bruises on your legs and chest," she said.
During the drive north, he had haltingly told her what had happened. Again, she 
had made him proud by listening, not interrupting with outbursts, instead 
swallowing her emotions and asking occasional necessary questions.
"Must have been when I rolled down the gully," he said. "You could have been an 
operator, you know that? You learn fast. I don't know where you got them, but 
you have the right instincts."
Her solemnity straining her beauty, Jamie said, "The instincts come from hanging 
around with you." She rolled up her sleeves and soaped his back. "So why did 
Prescott want your team dead?"
"And who were the guys in the helicopters? They handled themselves the way 
military special ops teams do," Cavanaugh said.
"What about the assault team at the warehouse?"
"They had hardware, but their tactics were conventional. They weren't as 
disciplined as the guys in the helicopters. When they stormed the stairs at the 
warehouse, they hung back, almost as if they were afraid."
He turned off the shower. As the water dripped from him, neither he nor Jamie 
moved for a moment.
"I guess it's show time," he said. "You remember what needs to be done?"
"You were very clear."
"Okay." Cavanaugh took a deep breath, reached his right hand to his left 
shoulder, pried up the edges on the duct tape, exhaled, took another deep 
breath, and started to pull the strips away. The pliant tape had a sticky 
under-side that parted slowly from his skin. He couldn't do it quickly, because 
he wanted to avoid tearing and widening the wound. Each second prolonged the 
pain. With the tape off, blood now flowed, but not as much as when he'd first 
been shot, clots having formed in the meantime.
Immediately, Jamie pressed the soapy washcloth onto it, swabbing quickly but 
gently, cleaning away dirt and puss.
He grimaced.
"Done," she said.
He leaned forward to turn on the shower, rinsing. "I can't move my head enough 
to see it."
"It's a gouge across the top of your shoulder. The good news is, as much as I 
can tell, the bullet went through."
"Felt like it. What's the bad news?"
"The gouge is two inches long."
Cavanaugh nodded. As blood flowed down the drain, he turned the shower off and 
braced himself for what Jamie was going to do next.
Before checking into the motel, they'd made a quick stop at a drugstore to buy a 
bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Jamie opened the bottle and poured it over the wound.
As the liquid bubbled and foamed in the long, deep gouge, the pain felt like 
razors and fire combined. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the side of the tub.
"Rinse it," Jamie told him.
His vision shaking, he turned on the shower again. More blood, mixed with 
foaming liquid, swirled down the drain. When he leaned back from the spray, 
Jamie poured another stream of hydrogen peroxide. Again the long, deep gouge 
erupted in bloody foam.
"Christ Almighty . . ." Cavanaugh murmured. He leaned into the spray. As more 
bloody foam swirled down the drain, he turned off the shower and slumped over 
the side of the tub, feeling Jamie towel the wound.
His jaw muscles hardened.
"The skin's red," Jamie said.
"The tape must have irritated it."
"No. This is a different kind of red. It looks like the wound's infected." Jamie 
soaked up more blood. In a rush, while the gouge was temporarily dry, she opened 
a tube of antibiotic cream, squeezed half of it along the gouge, pressed a wad 
of gauze over that, and sealed everything with several strips of first-aid tape.
He took a deep breath.
"Can you stand?" Jamie asked.
He slipped when he tried. Jamie grabbed him before he could fall, water from him 
sticking her blouse to her chest.
She sat him on the toilet lid and used the last towel, a big one, to dry his 
arms, chest, head, and back, avoiding the area of the wound, the thick bandage 
on it now pink with blood.
"I'm going to pull you up," Jamie said.
Off balance, Cavanaugh felt her move the towel over his legs, privates, and 
hips. Apart from the pain in his shoulder, his sensations came from a distance, 
as if his body didn't belong to him.
"Hang on." Jamie hooked his arm around her neck and guided him into the shadowy 
bedroom, easing him onto the nearer of the two beds. "You feel hot. Do you think 
you have a fever?"
Before he could answer, he started shivering.
As his chills became more violent, Jamie took off her slacks, got under the 
covers, and held him. "You need a ..."
"No," Cavanaugh managed to say between shivers.
His eyelids felt heavier. The shadows in the room darkened.
She held him closer.





7
A tug at Cavanaugh's shoulder woke him. Blinking from faint light filtering 
through curtains, he managed not to wince when Jamie removed the bandage from 
his shoulder. Her green eyes narrowed, assessing the wound.
"How does it..."
"As red as last night," she said.
He felt something inside him tighten.
"But at least you don't feel as hot."
"That's encouraging, don't you think?"
"The wound crusted over."
"See what I mean? Encouraging."
She applied more antibiotic cream, covered it with another wad of gauze, and 
taped the wound securely.
"What's the time?" Reflexively, Cavanaugh looked at the bedside clock and 
frowned at red numbers that told him 4:22. More troubled, he pointed toward the 
curtains. "How can it be light this early in the morning?"
"It's afternoon."
"What?"
"You slept all night and most of the day. Don't you remember I fed you more of 
the pastrami sandwich and some of the potato salad from the cooler?"
"No."
"This morning."
"No."
"A couple of times, I helped you into the bathroom."
Cavanaugh looked blankly at her.
"When the maid came to clean the room, I went outside to talk with her," Jamie 
said. "I told her you were sick from eating sandwiches that had spoiled in the 
car. I said I didn't want to leave you alone. Then I gave her money to give to 
the desk clerk to rent this room for another night. I called the front desk, and 
she did pass the money along. 'No problem,' the clerk said."
"Yes, you've definitely got the instincts of an operator."
"You need to eat again."
"Not hungry."
"That doesn't matter. You won't heal if you don't eat."
"Can't stand the thought of pastrami and potato salad."
"They've probably gone bad by now anyhow. Name something. Pizza? We can have it 
delivered."
He started to object.
She made him proud by anticipating. "I take that back. No deliveries. Lousy 
security, right?"
"Right."
"Then I'll have to go out and get something. There's no alternative. Tell me 
what sounds good. Fried chicken? A milk shake? Anything."
Cavanaugh had to make her think he had an appetite. Otherwise, she might be more 
tempted to get a doctor. "The chicken. Help me to the bathroom."
Afterward, she handed him shaving soap and a new razor. Scraping off his three 
days of beard stubble made him feel cleaner. Nonetheless, he was exhausted by 
the time he got back in bed.
"Will you be all right while I go out?" Jamie asked.
"If the assault team knew where we were, they'd have broken in by now." A sheet 
and blanket over him, Cavanaugh propped himself up on pillows. "Put the do not 
disturb sign on the knob outside, and hand me my pistol."
"You wouldn't think you needed the gun if you didn't suspect there might still 
be a threat."
"Force of habit."
"Right," she said skeptically.
"I can't wait for that chicken."
"Right," she added more skeptically, then left.
Hearing her test the door to make sure it was locked, Cavanaugh glanced at the 
bedside clock, which read 4:58. There was something he needed to know. He 
reached stiffly for the television's remote control on the bedside table and 
pointed it beyond the foot of the bed, switching on the television and looking 
for a local station.
On Channel 6, the Live at 5 news was starting. As Cavanaugh had expected, the 
fire was one of the initial stories. He concentrated on what the reporter said 
while watching shots of exhausted-looking firefighters working with chain saws, 
shovels, and hoses to keep flames away from the first town he'd reached the 
previous afternoon. Swooping through smoke, a helicopter dropped fire-retardant 
chemicals on the blaze.
"The fire was ninety percent contained by midafternoon," one of the local news 
anchors assured her audience, and then switched to a story about a political 
scandal in Albany involving a state senator who'd been arrested for driving 
drunk and hitting a teenaged bicyclist, breaking her legs.
Baffled, Cavanaugh stared at the television and then moved up through the 
channels, stopping at Channel 10, where a story about the fire was just ending. 
Stunned, he listened to a male reporter tell him that by late afternoon the fire 
had been fully contained. He went back to Channel 6, so troubled that he barely 
paid attention to the images on the screen. At 5:30, another edition of the 
local news came on, and now the story about the allegedly drunk-driving senator 
got most of the attention. The fire—"fully contained"—got only a half minute of 
attention. He switched to Channel 10, where the story about the contained fire 
came on just before the weather report.
He frowned.
At six o'clock, as yet another edition of the local news started, Cavanaugh 
heard a rap on the door, then a triple rap, followed by a key in the lock. Just 
in case Jamie had an unwelcome companion, Cavanaugh put his handgun under the 
covers and aimed it toward the door.
Jamie entered, carrying paper bags marked kentucky fried chicken.
Cavanaugh loosened his grip on his pistol.
"Any trouble?" she asked.
"Just something I saw on television."
Jamie locked the door and removed cardboard cartons from the bags. "What did you 
see that bothered you?"
"It's what I didn't see."
She shook her head, puzzled.
"Take a look," Cavanaugh said.
She sat next to him while the local news continued.
The political scandal was again the top story, followed by a report about a 
series of gas-station holdups. As on Channel 10, the story about the contained 
fire came just before the weather report; there were just a few shots of 
firefighters.
"See what I mean?" Cavanaugh asked.
"I hardly saw anything. If I'd blinked, I'd have missed the story." Jamie turned 
from the television and frowned at him.
"Four people killed? A secret bunker? Helicopters with rockets? And all we see 
on the news are some firefighters with axes in their hands and dirt on their 
faces?"
"The earlier reports were longer but basically the same," Ca-vanaugh said.
"Maybe the fire crews haven't been able to get to where it started, so they 
haven't found the bodies."
"Maybe," he said. "But the area where the fire started would have been the first 
to stop burning, due to the lack of fuel. Spotter planes would be able to see 
the destroyed helicopter and the two destroyed Jeeps. Chad and Tracy were blown 
apart." Anger made his voice hoarse. "But Roberto's body was intact. Even 
burned, it would still look like a body. And surely somebody in a nearby town 
heard the three helicopters and the explosions."
"I bought the Albany Times Union." Jamie went over to the bureau. "It's this 
morning's newspaper, so it won't have up-to-the-minute developments. But maybe 
it'll tell us something."
She took the paper from next to the bags and brought it to the bed.
The story about the fire was at the bottom of the first page. It had a 
photograph of a haggard firefighter partially enveloped by smoke. The story 
carried over to page eight, where it was again at the bottom.
"There." Jamie pointed toward a paragraph at the end. "Somebody in a nearby town 
heard explosions."
"From propane tanks?" Cavanaugh couldn't believe what he read.
She quoted the passage. "'Authorities theorize that the fire detonated propane 
storage tanks when it reached cabins higher on the mountainside.'"
"There aren't any cabins near the bunker."
"So they're just guessing about what caused the explosions," Jamie said.
"Or somebody's lying. Did you notice that bit about a special team being brought 
in to investigate what caused the fire?"
"You're thinking of a cover-up?"
"It wouldn't be impossible," Cavanaugh said. "Somebody with influence puts 
pressure on the local authorities and arranges for the firefighters to keep a 
distance while a special team goes to where the fire started. The site's remote 
enough that it could be easily sanitized. No one would see helicopters coming in 
to remove bodies and wreckage."
"Somebody with influence? You're talking about the government?"
"I don't know who else would be powerful enough to keep everybody away from the 
site," Cavanaugh said.
"But what on earth did Prescott have to do with the government?"
When Cavanaugh shrugged, he wished he hadn't, the motion causing pain in his 
wounded shoulder. "His lab was hired by the DEA to do research on ways of 
stopping addiction."
"That doesn't explain why a special ops military team would be involved," Jamie 
said, "or why anybody would want your team dead. At the warehouse, the attackers 
wanted Prescott alive?"
"It certainly looked that way. They had several chances to kill the two of us. 
Instead, they tried to trap us."
"But at the bunker, they suddenly wanted to kill everybody."
Cavanaugh nodded again. "What made them change their mind? Or was the protection 
team the real target and Prescott was bait, tricking us to go with him to the 
bunker, where he arranged for us to be trapped?"
"But why would anybody want to kill your team? Can you think of anything you 
learned on a past assignment that would make you and the rest of the group 
targets?"
"As far as I know, I've never seen or heard anything so serious that a former 
client would feel threatened because I'd learned about it,"Cavanaugh said. 
"Anyway, Chad, Tracy, and Roberto hadn't worked on the same assignment with 
Duncan and me in the past six months. Even if they had, there wasn't any way for 
the attackers to know who'd be on this assignment. Duncan didn't know until the 
last minute."
"This is just an idea, but. . ." Jamie hesitated.
He waited.
"While you were sleeping, I had a lot of time to think about this. Suppose the 
assault teams were not, in fact, related to each other?"
"Keep talking."
"Suppose the first group wanted to capture Prescott, just as their tactics 
indicated," Jamie said. "And the second group—"
"Wanted to kill him, exactly as it seemed?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Kill Prescott. You and your team were only secondary targets. You were simply 
in the way."
"But that doesn't explain why Prescott wanted to kill us all. His behavior 
doesn't make sense if he wasn't working for the guys in the choppers."
"Who looked like a special ops team from the military," Jamie said. "You told me 
you saw them being hoisted back up into the choppers."
"Yes."
"You saw all of them?"
"Yes. I had to make sure all of them were gone."
"Did you see Prescott being hoisted up with them?"
"No."
"Doesn't that strike you as odd if he was one of them?"
"Maybe he was killed in the fire."
"And they didn't take his body?"
"Not if they couldn't get to it. That would be one of the things this special 
unit the newspaper referred to would want to take out of there."
Jamie glanced down at the worn carpet. "Or maybe the facts are exactly as they 
seem. The first group wanted Prescott alive. The second group wanted him dead. 
He was scared to death of both of them. And your team did have information that 
absolutely had to remain a secret."
Immediately, Cavanaugh felt cold—not from chills as a consequence of his fever 
but from the sudden intuition that Jamie was onto something. "Jesus."
"Information that made you a threat," Jamie said.
"The plans for Prescott to disappear." Agitated, Cavanaugh sat up, wincing from 
the pain this caused his wound. "The son of a bitch."
It was clear to him now that Prescott had realized who was in the helicopters 
and that he'd been certain this group, unlike the first one, wanted to kill him. 
He'd known that the assault team would destroy any vehicle attempting to leave 
the bunker, just as he'd been sure the attackers would have sufficient armaments 
to blast their way into the bunker and overwhelm the protection team. Seconds 
away from being killed, he'd panicked. Deciding the only way he could escape was 
by creating a diversion for the helicopters, he'd started the fire, desperately 
believing it would give him a chance to slip away, as opposed to waiting for the 
certain death speeding toward him. But he couldn't stop worrying that a member 
of the protection team would somehow survive the attack and be captured.
"I think killing us was Prescott's intention from the start," Cavanaugh said. 
"He had to guarantee that no one would ever know how we'd arranged for him to 
disappear. That way, he could be sure his secret was totally safe. He wouldn't 
have to lie awake night after night, fearing that his enemies had tortured one 
of us into revealing his new identity and where he'd gone."
"But how did he hope to escape the fire?"
"He's extremely calculating. He asks questions. He watches. He learns. I avoided 
the assault team by staying close to the fire so the thermal sensors in the 
choppers wouldn't detect my heat pattern. If I could figure that out, why 
couldn't somebody as smart as he is?"
"There's a big difference. You had me to call for help. But a man that desperate 
wouldn't trust anybody to come and get him.
You said he's overweight. He'd be able to walk only so far. How did he expect to 
leave the area?"
"Maybe he did call somebody," Cavanaugh said. "As soon as he was taken to a safe 
place, he would have killed the person who helped him—to keep that person from 
revealing where he was."
Jamie's eyes darkened.
"Or maybe he reached the nearest town and forced somebody to drive him. Or maybe 
..." A sudden realization caught Cavanaugh by surprise. "He can't let anybody 
know how he's going to disappear."
The agitation of Cavanaugh's emotions made him lightheaded again. He managed to 
stand. "Where are my clothes?"
Jamie looked alarmed. "You'll fall on your face. What are you trying to—"
"I just realized where Prescott went." He grabbed his cell phone, pressing 
numbers.
On the other end, the phone buzzed.
"Quick, help me get dressed. I'll need my Kevlar vest."
The phone buzzed again.
"Answer, answer," he pleaded to the person he was calling.
The phone buzzed a third time.
"We have to get to her."
"Her?" Jamie asked.
The phone buzzed a fourth time.
A recorded female voice said, "Leave a name, a number, and a message. I'll 
return your call as soon as possible."
Cavanaugh canceled the transmission.
"Hurry. There's a woman here in Albany I think Prescott's going to kill."





8
As Jamie drove quickly through Albany's sunset-tinted streets, Cavanaugh needed 
all his energy to explain. "We gave Prescott the name and phone number of a 
bank, along with an account number. After he laundered his money, he was 
supposed to wire a hundred thousand dollars to a document forger who lives here 
in Albany."
Following Cavanaugh's directions, driving as fast as the speed limit allowed, 
Jamie rounded a curve and entered a park. The motion increased Cavanaugh's 
dizziness, but he didn't let Jamie suspect, for fear that she'd reduce speed. 
Nothing mattered except reaching their destination.
"The forger had a Social Security number, a passport, a driver's license, a 
birth certificate, credit cards, an entire identity kit and new name ready for 
him." Cavanaugh took another deep breath. "All Prescott had to do was decide how 
he wanted to change his appearance: dye his hair or shave it, put on a fake 
mustache while he grew one, whatever. Once he made a preliminary attempt to 
alter his looks, the forger was going to take his photograph for the passport 
and the driver's license, and Prescott would be ready to start his new life. 
We'd planned to take him to her yesterday morning."
"Who—"
"Karen Atherton. I've been trying to remember if any of us mentioned her name to 
Prescott. I think Duncan did. Only her first name. But that, the name and phone 
number of her bank, and her account number would be all Prescott'd need to find 
her."
Reducing her speed a fraction below the limit, Jamie passed a police car at the 
side of the road as she left the park. "How could her account number help him 
find her?"
"Prescott's hidey-hole at the warehouse was filled with electronics. I'm 
guessing he's as skilled with computers as I am with weapons. Knowing the bank's 
name, armed with an account number ..." Cavanaugh's voice faltered. "Are you 
okay?"
"Just getting my second wind." Cavanaugh forced himself to keep talking. "Armed 
with an account number, a hacker wouldn't take long to get Karen's name and 
address off the bank's Web site. But there's another way."
Continuing to follow Cavanaugh's directions, Jamie entered an upscale 
residential district of spacious yards with towering trees in front of remodeled 
nineteenth-century homes. "How?"
"He's one of the most natural elicitors I've ever come across."
Jamie was familiar with the term: someone with the essential tradecraft ability 
to draw information from people without seeming to.
"Pretend you work at the bank's account-information department," Cavanaugh said. 
"I'll pretend to be Prescott phoning you." He made himself sound impatient. 
"This is about account number five five seven six three. My wife and I got 
married three months ago. She called your department to change her name and 
address, but we haven't gotten any statements since then. I contacted the bank 
several times about this. Damn it, can't anybody down there help? The account 
should be for Karen Washburn.'"
Jamie took a second to realize what the intimidated bank clerk would probably 
say. " 'No, sir, Karen Atherton.'"
" That was her name before we got married. The address is Four four four 
Crestview Lane.'"
" 'No, sir. Two five six Morgan Avenue.'"
" That's where she used to live. That's why her bank statements haven't been 
getting to us. Would you make sure the changes get made?'" Cavanaugh lapsed out 
of the impatient tone. "See how easy it is?"
"Prescott's shrewd enough to manipulate people that way?"
"Hell, he manipulated me. What makes me feel especially foolish is I kind of 
liked him. At the warehouse, he was scared to death, but he never allowed 
himself to lose control. He did everything I told him to. At the bunker, he 
wouldn't have started the fire unless he felt absolutely cornered. It's 
difficult to imagine the amount of courage he needed to try to kill us."
"Courage?" Jamie looked confused. "You sound almost as if you admire him."
"Admire him? I hate him more than I've ever hated anybody in my life."
The weight of Cavanaugh's statement made them go quiet for a moment.
"The house is just around the corner," he said.
Jamie turned onto another street with big yards, stately trees, and majestic old 
homes. A lawn mower droned.
"There," Cavanaugh said. "That Victorian."
It had two and a half stories, with peaks, gables, and a long, wide porch, 
painted white, the trim gray.
"Park down the street." Cavanaugh eased down so he wouldn't be noticed. "Far 
enough away that if Prescott's in there, he won't see the car."
"Why is there a ramp next to the porch steps?" Jamie asked as she passed the 
house.
"Karen's in a wheelchair. She's crippled from a car accident."
"And yet she chooses to live in a two-and-a-half-story Victorian?"
"Actually, the house suits Karen fine. It has a reconditioned elevator that 
dates back to the 1920s. She gets from floor to floor with no trouble. She's 
even able to use the toilet and climb in and out of the bathtub by herself, 
which is why the answering machine bothered me—normally, she's able to answer 
the phone." "Unless she's out of the house." "A possibility. But what if she 
isn't?"
"Call the police. Tell them you think a neighbor's in danger."
"The police have a sophisticated caller ID system. They'd trace the call to your 
cell phone, even though you've got the number blocked. If something's wrong in 
there, they'd link you to it."
"Then use a pay phone."
"How seriously would the police treat that?" Cavanaugh asked. "Would they decide 
the call was a prank? Would they hurry over, or would they wait until a patrol 
car was in the neighborhood? If they didn't get an answer, would they barge 
inside to make sure everything was okay? And if everything was okay but they got 
a look around, they might start wondering what Karen did with the high-tech 
printing equipment and the blank documents. No. Karen might be in danger right 
now. There's no time to try to convince the police. I have to do this."
"You make her sound more important to you than just someone you work with."
"She's the sister of a friend I had in Delta Force."
Jamie looked as if that wasn't a compelling reason.
"His name was Ben," Cavanaugh said. "He bled to death while I carried him back 
from a mission."
Jamie studied him.
"Karen was his only family. I promised I'd take care of her."
"Then we'd better make good on your promise." Jamie executed a U-turn at the end 
of the block and parked facing the house.
She and Cavanaugh got out of the car.
"You can't come with me." His Kevlar vest felt heavy under his shirt and sport 
coat.
"But..."
"If Prescott's in there things could turn ugly fast."
"I can help."
"If we had a pistol for you"—Cavanaugh had taught Jamie how to use one—"maybe 
you could. But I can't let you risk your life when you don't have a way to 
protect yourself. I'll be so preoccupied that I can't protect you, either. The 
best thing you can do is stay in the car with the cell phone in your hand. If I 
call and yell for help ..."
"I'll floor the accelerator and get to the house. If I have to, I'll drive up 
onto the porch."
"Good." Cavanaugh smiled and held her, careful with his shoulder.
"You were talking about bravery a minute ago. I don't understand how . . . 
Aren't you afraid going in there?"
"Afraid for Karen. She's all I'm thinking about."





9
The sun cast long shadows. Cavanaugh's concentration made Karen's house seem 
bigger than the others—more so, the closer he came. There wasn't a lane behind 
it, only the backs of other houses—no place for him to try to sneak up from 
behind without attracting suspicion from the neighbors, who would probably phone 
the police about him. Thus his only choice was to go in through the front, as if 
visiting.
He noticed that despite the approaching dusk, there weren't any lights in the 
house. That could be a bad sign, or it could mean Karen wasn't at home, that a 
friend had come to drive her somewhere, to a movie perhaps. That would explain 
why Karen hadn't answered the phone.
But then, wouldn't Karen have left some lights on or have put them on timers so 
that the house wouldn't be dark when she returned? he wondered.
He reached the front of the house and proceeded up the sidewalk, passing the 
carefully mowed lawn on his way to the wide porch. At the sight of any 
suspicious movement beyond the front windows, he was prepared to draw his weapon 
and take cover.
Mounting the porch steps, he felt naked, but because he knew he wouldn't be able 
to live with himself if he didn't honor his promise to his dead friend, he 
forced himself to keep going. Putting his right hand under his sport coat, 
resting it on his pistol, he peered through the glass that formed the top third 
of the front door.
All he saw were the shadows of a corridor. On impulse, he turned the knob and 
pushed, surprised to find that the door swung open. Did it make sense that a 
woman in a wheelchair would leave her door unlocked?
He drew his pistol and eased inside. His wounded shoulder hurt as he raised his 
weapon with two hands and sighted along it, checking the dusky corridor, the 
stairs that flanked it, a room on the right and a room on the left.
Careful to minimize noise, he reached behind him and closed the door. Holding 
his breath, he listened but heard only silence. The house felt empty, but that 
impression meant nothing.
Where to start? Cavanaugh needed to think for only a moment before knowing the 
room he had to check first. He started slowly along the corridor, taking small 
steps that allowed him to be sure of his balance, all the while aiming with both 
hands. He focused his vision so that the wide notch in the sight over the 
pistol's hammer framed the post on top of the barrel. That post had a luminous 
tritium dot that glowed green in the dark. Invisible from in front of the 
weapon, the dot was vivid to Cavanaugh, and without hampering his night vision, 
it helped him line up the sights in the deepening shadows.
He passed a closed door on his right—the entrance to the elevator he'd told 
Jamie about—reached the end of the corridor, and scanned a kitchen that included 
a brick fireplace and a modern stove that imitated an old-fashioned cast-iron 
one. Turning to a door on his left, he stayed out of the line of fire, twisted 
the knob (hating the slight scrape of metal), and pulled.
The house became quiet again.
Remaining to the side, Cavanaugh inhaled—one, two, three—held his breath—one, 
two, three—and exhaled—one, two, three—working to control his heartbeat and his 
breath rate.
At once, he pivoted into view and pointed his weapon down the stairs to the 
basement. The shadows below were darker than in the kitchen but seemed to remain 
constant.
Knowing that Karen kept a flashlight in a drawer to the right of the corridor, 
Cavanaugh quietly pulled it out. He crouched and used his left hand to raise the 
flashlight above his head, pointing it down the stairs. When he turned on the 
light, anyone down there would be tempted to fire at its beam, assuming it was 
center of mass. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh would be able to shoot at the muzzle flash.
But no one fired.
Again, he listened. Again, the house became silent.
When he started down, he made a step creak. The sound sent a spark along his 
nerves. Inhale—one, two, three. Hold it—one, two, three. Exhale—one, two, three.
He continued down.
Unexpectedly, Cavanaugh's leg felt unsteady. Then his stomach began to feel 
jittery. Just athletic reflexes, getting ready for action, he told himself. Just 
my heart pounding out more blood.
But at the same time, a vaguely pungent smell pinched Cavanaugh's nostrils, 
seeming to make his heart race even faster. It was somehow familiar, but he 
couldn't remember where he'd encountered it before, and he didn't dare distract 
himself by trying to jog his memory. He had to concentrate on whatever he might 
find beyond his flashlight beam at the bottom of the stairs.
Halfway down, moving with greater care to keep his balance, he felt his legs 
become more rubbery. The pungent smell was a little stronger. His hands shook, 
making it difficult to sight along his weapon.
Adrenaline's my friend, he told himself. My legs are jittery because they're 
ready to spring into action. My heart's racing so my muscles will have plenty of 
blood. My stomach's hot because of all the chemical changes my body's going 
through, the glucose and fatty acids my liver's working to produce so I'll have 
instant energy. My lungs are heaving so I'll have plenty of oxygen when I need 
it.
He knew that what he felt was a so-called fight or flight response. But flight 
meant panic, and never once in his life, especially when he'd been in combat, 
had he ever felt the urge to flee.
Except now.
What's happening to me? Cavanaugh thought, reaching the bottom of the stairs. As 
the pungent smell made his nostrils contract even harder, a deep part of his 
mind squirmed and shouted, urging him to race back up the stairs, to get out of 
the house before . . .
Before what?
Inhale—one, two, three. Hold it—one, two, three. Exhale— one, two, three.
But Cavanaugh couldn't maintain the rhythm. No matter how strongly he tried, his 
breath rate became so rapid that it verged on being out of control. He felt 
light-headed. Flashlight wavering, he aimed it and his pistol along the dark 
corridor that matched the one above him. He remembered a light switch on his 
left, but he didn't turn it on, wanting the flashlight to blind anyone he might 
confront in the darkness. His wounded shoulder ached while he kept his left 
hand, the one with the flashlight, outstretched from his body so that if anyone 
shot at it, he wouldn't take the bullet in a vital area. Because his position 
was reversed relative to the upstairs corridor, his unsteady flashlight revealed 
that the closed elevator door was now on his left. Another closed door awaited 
beyond it—and two closed doors on his right.
The pungent smell increased with each unwilling step he took along the corridor. 
His stomach now felt so jittery that he feared he would vomit. His legs wanted 
to buckle. His body threatened to sink to the floor, his back to the wall, his 
knees to his chest, his arms around them, trembling.
Appalled by how his emotions wanted to betray him, he mentally cursed himself. 
Sweat soaking his clothes, he strained to remember every insult his instructors 
had barked at him, every command, every painfully acquired lesson.
Damn it, adrenaline's my friend!
Forcing his mind to focus on Karen, on the promise he'd made, Cavanaugh took 
another hesitant step along the dark corridor. Abruptly, he recalled why the 
pungent smell was vaguely familiar to him. The warehouse. He'd come across a 
less noticeable form of it in the abandoned building where Prescott had been 
hiding. When he'd sensed it on the stairs leading up to Prescott's hidey-hole, 
misgivings had tempted him not to go any farther and to return to his car 
instead. His uneasiness had been modest compared to the apprehension with which 
he now struggled. If not for his training and willpower, he wouldn't have been 
able to continue up the warehouse stairs.
Prescott!
The bastard's been here!
Cavanaugh smelled something else. Searching for its source, he angled his 
trembling flashlight toward the floor ahead of him. The farther door on the left 
led to a storage room. On the right, the farther door led to a bathroom. The one 
immediately on his right led to Karen's workroom, where she kept her digital 
cameras, her computers and special printers.
It was toward the bottom of the latter door that Cavanaugh tilted the 
flashlight, sickened by the sight of smoke leaking from its bottom and a slight 
flicker beyond it. He touched the doorknob, which felt slightly warm. A panicked 
part of his mind screamed, Run! But another part shouted, Karen! and made him 
shove the door in.
The fire almost blinded him. But that wasn't what Cavanaugh stared at. Flanked 
by flames that leapt among photographic equipment, computers, and printers, 
Karen faced him. Slumped in her wheelchair, the once pixielike redhead was 
motionless, her hands to her chest, her eyes as wide as any Cavanaugh had ever 
seen, her features contorted in horror. Her cheeks were so pale that her 
freckles appeared scarlet. She was only forty years old, but the twisted 
expression on her face made her look twice that.
Cavanaugh shoved the flashlight into a sport-coat pocket and rushed toward her, 
but the flames reached her before he could get near enough to pull her away. Not 
that it would have mattered if he'd reached her. Karen remained motionless in 
her wheelchair, unresponsive to the blaze that consumed her.
Dead.
But how? Cavanaugh thought, backing from the fire. He'd seen no injuries, no 
traumas to her face, no blood from a bullet wound, no bruising or swelling at 
her throat from having been choked. The fierce way she clutched her chest, it 
was as if she'd had a heart attack.
The flames strengthened. Stumbling back into the corridor, Cavanaugh saw that 
the strongest part of them came from a corner behind the photographic equipment, 
from the bottom of the wall, as if a short circuit had started a small fire that 
had accumulated behind the wall, until the flames gained enough power to burst 
through and fill the room. Prescott must have rigged something in a wall socket 
to make it seem that the fire had broken out accidentally. Cavanaugh hadn't 
smelled smoke when he'd entered the house because it had taken a while for the 
blaze to erupt from the wall. How Prescott loved to use fire as a weapon.
Lungs irritated by smoke, Cavanaugh raced along the corridor and charged up the 
stairs. Inexplicably, he felt an overwhelming urge to stop. The apprehension 
that had seized him earlier gripped him even more powerfully. His heart pounded 
faster than he'd ever felt it. His chest heaved so quickly that he feared his 
lungs would burst.
Fight or flight. He wanted nothing more than to run from the blaze, but while he 
hesitated on the stairs, almost paralyzed with alarm, he stared upward and at 
last understood why his instincts had warned him not to rush higher. The door at 
the top had been open when he'd descended.
Now it was closed.
Prescott had stayed to make certain the fire would spread. Cavanaugh was certain 
of that, just as he was certain that the door would be locked when he climbed to 
it. He coughed from smoke and felt heat behind him.
Get up there and break the door down! he thought.
And what if Prescott stays until the last minute? What if he still has Roberto's 
AR-15? He wants to make this look like an accident, but if he has to, he'll 
shoot.
Cavanaugh stumbled back down the stairs. Turning, he saw the blaze spread from 
Karen's workroom. He yanked open the elevator door, relieved to find that the 
burnished oak compartment was on the basement level. Like anyone whose legs were 
functional and who was in a hurry, Prescott had used the stairs.
Cavanaugh took the flashlight from his sport coat and frantically studied the 
elevator's ceiling, feeling a surge of hope when he saw the two-foot-square 
maintenance hatch that he recalled being there. Unlike elevators in today's 
commercial buildings, this compartment was modest in size, with a ceiling that 
Cavanaugh could touch.
He prayed that the noise from the fire was loud enough to muffle the sound he 
made when he lifted the hatch's cover and tilted it back. As the fire stretched 
toward the elevator, he pulled the door shut and closed the metal gate. No 
matter how much he tried to move the gate softly, its bars jangled, and all he 
could do was pray that the roar of the fire had muffled that sound also.
In the small enclosure, Cavanaugh's harsh, rapid breathing echoed loudly. Sweat 
poured off his face. Elevators. He hated elevators. He never knew when something 
would go wrong to stop them or what threat would face him when the door opened.
Smoke squeezed under the door and began to fill the compartment. In something 
like panic, an emotion that had never seized Cavanaugh until this moment, he 
pressed a button marked 2. If the fire had caused the house's electrical breaker 
box to trip off, if the elevator's motor didn't work . . .
He wanted to scream. The impulse wedged in his throat when the elevator jerked. 
Unlike high-speed office elevators, this one was designed to rise slowly. 
Shaking, he holstered his pistol. He reached up, set the flashlight on top of 
the hatch cover, then grabbed the hatch's rim and flexed his arms to raise 
himself.
Agony racked his left shoulder. The elevator vibrating as it inched higher, he 
heard a tear on his shoulder as the bandage yanked free from his skin. Pulling 
himself up, he felt warm liquid on his shoulder as his wound reopened.
But he didn't care about the blood, and he didn't care about his pain. All that 
mattered was getting out of the elevator. While it rose languidly higher, smoke 
continued to fill the compartment. Heat seeped in. Blood trickling down his 
chest, soaking his shirt and jacket, he felt a panic-driven surge of more 
strength than seemed possible. Never, not even on the most harrowing of 
missions, had he known visceral power of this magnitude. His pain became 
nothing. The weakness in his shoulder disappeared, replaced by impossible energy 
that urged him up through the opening as the floor that he'd been standing on 
began to smolder.
Breathing raspily Cavanaugh stared down through the opening, past the smoke, 
toward the glowing embers of the floor. At once, he heard a muffled pop-pop-pop, 
the crack of wood splitting, bullets piercing the elevator's first-floor door 
and slamming against the back wall. As the elevator continued rising, inching 
past the door, a more rapid pop-pop-pop sent more bullets into the compartment, 
chunks of wood bursting from the door.
The shots were too muted to be heard outside the house, which meant that 
Prescott had to be using a sound suppressor. But sound suppressors couldn't be 
purchased legally. Where had he managed to find one?
Where would I have found one? Cavanaugh thought.
The answer was immediate. If I had to, I'd empty a plastic water container and 
jam it over the barrel. But I've been trained to know these things. How would 
Prescott know?
That answer, too, was immediate. Prescott had yesterday and today to consider 
the problem, Cavanaugh thought. It's his business to understand physics. And one 
other thing: Maybe he's a natural at this.
As the elevator labored higher, the shooting stopped. Cavanaugh imagined 
Prescott listening to the elevator rise past him, then charging along the 
corridor toward the stairs that led to the next floor, his heavy footsteps 
pounding upward. Even overweight, Prescott could reach the next level before the 
elevator stopped there.
Above him, Cavanaugh heard wheels creaking, a motor working the cable that 
lifted the elevator. Below, the floor of the elevator burst into flames at the 
same time Cavanaugh heard another pop-pop-pop, bullets shattering the 
second-floor door, riddling the compartment. If Prescott had used a plastic 
bottle as a sound supressor, the bullets would have blasted it apart by now. He 
must have switched to something else, maybe wrapping a jacket around the mouth 
of the barrel. But the jacket would be quickly blown apart also, and Cavanaugh 
guessed that from now on Prescott's shots would be loud enough for someone 
outside to hear them.
The wheels stopped creaking. The motor ceased droning. The elevator quivered to 
a stop. The only sound became the crackle of flames on the elevator's floor. The 
rising heat was powerful enough that Cavanaugh had to move his face away from 
the opening.
Then another sound caught his attention, or maybe he only imagined it amid the 
crackling flames: the subtle scrape of hinges.
Cavanaugh shut off the flashlight. The elevator door was slowly being opened. 
Prescott would stand to the side. Cavanaugh was certain of that, certain that 
Prescott wouldn't frame himself in the doorway, wouldn't make himself a target. 
From the side, through the slightly opened door, Prescott would see the flames. 
Would he open the door farther, or would he take for granted that the bullets 
he'd shot into the elevator, combined with the fire in the compartment, would 
have done the job?
Cavanaugh's pounding heart shook his ribs. Feeling increased heat through the 
open hatch, he stared up toward a third elevator door, one that led to the 
attic. The elevator wasn't designed to rise that high, nor was the door up there 
intended to let passengers in and out. Half the size of the doors on the other 
levels, this one was intended to allow maintenance personnel into the top of the 
shaft to grease wheels and cables.
The door below suddenly flew all the way open. From a wary angle, Prescott would 
see that Cavanaugh's body wasn't crumpled on the floor. Because it wasn't 
possible for someone in the basement to cause the elevator to rise unless that 
person was inside the compartment with both the door and the gate closed, 
Prescott would take very little time to realize that Cavanaugh must have climbed 
up through the maintenance hatch. All Prescott needed to do was tilt his rifle 
upward toward the opening and—
Needing both hands free, Cavanaugh shoved the flashlight into his sport coat. 
His wounded shoulder throbbed as he grabbed the elevator cable and strained to 
pull himself up. At the level of the attic door, he clung to the cable with his 
right hand while he stretched his bleeding left arm toward the door. Desperate, 
he pushed it open, grabbed the edge of the doorjamb, almost screamed from the 
pain in his shoulder, and pulled himself into the dark attic.
The effort dislodged the flashlight from his pocket. A moment after it 
clattered, a roar of gunshots tore chunks from the elevator's ceiling. Bullets 
rammed into the top of the shaft as Cavanaugh rolled across the attic floor, 
jolting against what felt like a trunk. Frantic, he pushed the trunk toward the 
open door and shoved it into the elevator shaft. Its impact on the elevator's 
roof might trick Prescott into thinking that Cavanaugh had been hit and had 
fallen.
But those shots hadn't been muted by a sound suppressor.
The neighbors would have heard them and phoned the police, Cavanaugh thought.
It was the first mistake Prescott had made. Even if there hadn't been a fire, 
Prescott couldn't take the risk of staying much longer. With the fire, he had to 
leave immediately or be trapped. The neighbors had probably seen smoke coming 
from the house and called the fire department. Despite the noise from the fire, 
Cavanaugh thought he heard faintly approaching sirens: another reason for 
Prescott to want to leave as fast as he could.
Lying on the dusty floor, rubbing his back where he'd banged it, Cavanaugh 
gulped smoke-free air, although the air would soon change, he knew. To slow that 
from happening, he shut the elevator door, cutting off the flickering light in 
the shaft. He'd become so accustomed to the glare of the flames that he wasn't 
prepared for the almost-total darkness of the attic. At each end, the gray of 
dusk struggled through tiny windows. He couldn't possibly squeeze through them. 
The only way out was the attic door.
But would Prescott be waiting for him down there, ready to shoot? Beyond the 
windows, the distant sirens seemed closer. I've got to believe he decided he'd 
killed me and left, Cavanaugh thought. If I stay up here any longer, the fire'll 
trap me.
His night vision improved sufficiently for him to see bulky shapes that he 
guessed were large boxes. A human silhouette was a dressmaker's mannequin. He 
knew that the entrance to the attic was a swing-down door at the top of the 
second-floor stairs. Orienting himself, he calculated where that door would be. 
As smoke seeped from cracks in the elevator's wall, he crept around it. Feeling 
his way through dust, he suddenly touched folded-up wooden stairs that rested on 
the hinged door. Now all he had to do was push down and—
What about Prescott? What if I'm wrong and he's waiting for me?
Cavanaugh sweated. Behind him, he felt heat. He turned and saw flames through 
the cracks in the elevator's wall. He heard the approaching sirens.
Prescott's gone! He has to be gone!
Cavanaugh shoved down on the trapdoor.
Nothing happened.
He shoved harder. No result.
I must be pushing the wrong end, he thought. I'm pushing where the hinges are.
He scuttled to the other end and shoved down harder.
The door continued to remain in place.
Almost choking on dust that he'd dislodged, he stared from one end of the door 
to the other. The flames through the elevator walls were now bright enough to 
reveal that the first end of the door that he'd tried to shove down had in fact 
been the one without hinges. Those hinges showed clearly, mounted on parallel 
beams. Panicked, he scurried to the end without hinges and pressed down with all 
his strength, but the door refused to budge. There had to be a latch on the 
other side that prevented it from opening accidentally.
Smoke drifted over it.
He stomped down, trying to smash a hole in the trapdoor so he could reach down 
and free the latch.
The thick wood remained in place.
He spun and scanned the boxes, the mannequin, another trunk, anything that might 
help him. He bent over, coughing. Maybe 1 can unscrew the hinges, he thought. 
How? Where am I going to find a screwdriver or something to ...
His eyes watered. Smoke from the shaft obscured the light from the flames in the 
elevator's compartment. I could fumble around up here until I drop, he thought.
Already, he was off balance from the lack of oxygen. No matter how much strength 
panic had given him, his body had reached a limit. If he inhaled more smoke . . 
.
Then don't breathe, he told himself.
His lungs protesting when he held his breath, he drew his handgun and aimed 
toward the wood next to a hinge. The barrel was five inches away from it, tilted 
so the bullet would plow under the hinge and damage the screws.
To keep flying splinters from his eyes, he turned his head before he pulled the 
trigger. The roar blasted his eardrums. Continuing to hold his breath, he 
readjusted his aim, this time toward another spot next to the hinge, and again 
looked away as he pulled the trigger. The recoil jerked his unsteady hands up. 
The roar made his ears ring.
His pistol held eight rounds in the magazine, one in the firing chamber. Afraid 
he'd pass out, he kept pulling the trigger, chunks of wood flying. He emptied 
the magazine, replaced it with a full one from the pouch on his belt, and fired 
eight more bullets, this time into the wood next to the other hinge. He replaced 
that magazine with the remaining full one on his pouch and continued to shoot at 
the hinges.
Saving his last round in case Prescott had stayed down there despite the fire, 
Cavanaugh holstered his pistol and stomped on the door. He heard wood protest. . 
. stomped again, heard wood shriek, the hinges separating from it... stomped it 
a third time, and fell, the trapdoor giving way, he and it plummeting toward the 
landing.
Dropping, he grabbed the edge of the opening, dangled, saw flames eating through 
the elevator door below him, and released his grip. Hitting the smoke-filled 
landing, he rolled. The impact sent a shock wave through him that punched air 
from his protesting lungs and compelled him to inhale smoke.
He wanted to reach a bedroom at the top of the stairs, but ; when he pawed 
across the floor, he felt only open space and realized that he was headed in the 
wrong direction, about to tumble down stairs toward flames that blocked the 
front door. His eyes stinging, he turned to make his way on hands and knees 
through thick smoke toward the bedroom.
But his arms didn't want to work. His knees wouldn't push him forward. Lack of 
oxygen made him feel paralyzed. A blanket seemed to float down over him, 
smothering him.
Abruptly, hands grabbed him. He felt himself being dragged into shadows, away 
from the blaze consuming the elevator door. Something slammed: a door behind 
him, blocking the smoke. The hands grabbed him again, pulling him past a murky 
something that was probably a bed, toward an open door, onto the balcony that 
he'd been struggling to reach.
Outside, the glare of flames at ground-floor windows showed him the tense face 
above the hands that dragged him. Jamie. Her green eyes fiercely reflected the 
fire as she pulled him to the left side of the balcony, onto a railed-in, 
motorized platform that had allowed Karen to lower her wheelchair into the 
backyard.
He heard Jamie's strident breathing, then the sound of a motor as the platform 
descended. Sirens wailed.
The platform jerked to a stop. The fire must have burned the electrical wires, 
Cavanaugh realized. He peered over the edge, seeing ripples of reflected flames 
on the lawn five feet below him.
Jamie opened the platform's gate, squirmed over the side, and let go. She 
landed, then braced herself and reached up as Cavanaugh squirmed over. She 
grabbed him as he dropped, the two of them sprawling on the lawn.
The fire reached the back windows as the sirens wailed louder.
Jamie pulled Cavanaugh to his feet and tried to keep a distance from the burning 
house, guiding him along the right side.
"No," Cavanaugh murmured. "The back."
"What?"
"Backyard. Gate."
The relatively clear air chased the grogginess from his mind while he stumbled 
away from the house, heading through the backyard. Jamie kept pace with him, 
holding him up.
At the front of the house, firefighters shouted. Engines roared. Ladders and 
other equipment banged and rattled.
The backyard was spacious. Past two hulking trees, the shadows were thicker. The 
glare from the flames would soon reach this far, but for the moment, they had 
the cover of darkness as they came to a gap in a hedge. A high white wooden gate 
filled the space.
"Karen had it installed"—Cavanaugh breathed—"so the kid in the house behind 
hers"—he breathed again—"could bring a mower through and cut her lawn."
"What if it's locked?"
"We try climbing."
Abruptly, the gate swung open. A man, woman, and teenaged boy rushed to help 
them.
"What happened? Are you all right?"
"Visiting Karen," Cavanaugh managed to say. "Looks like . . . started behind a 
wall. Spread so fast. Barely got out."
"What about Karen?"
"In the basement." Cavanaugh kept stumbling across their backyard. His sport 
coat hid his pistol. "Couldn't get to ..."
"We heard shots."
"Paint cans exploding. Tell the firefighters to try to get Karen."
Silhouetted by the burning house, the man and the teenager rushed into Karen's 
backyard.
The woman lingered.
"Save your house," Jamie said.
"What?"
"Spray water on your roof so sparks don't set it on fire."
The woman turned pale. She ran toward a hose connected to an outdoor tap.
As she sprayed water toward her roof, neighbors crowded into the backyard, 
shoving, ignoring Cavanaugh and Jamie, trying to see the blaze.





10
Cavanaugh did his best to walk straight and not look injured as he made his way 
along a dark street two blocks over.
Headlights turned the corner behind him, coming from the direction of the fire. 
Worried that it might be a police car, he stepped among bushes.
But instead of the distinctive rack of emergency lights on a police car's roof, 
Cavanaugh saw the anonymous silhouette of a Taurus approaching at moderate 
speed. He returned to the sidewalk.
When Jamie stopped, he got in and slumped on the passenger seat.
She drove away at an equally moderate speed.
"Any trouble getting the car?" Cavanaugh asked.
"On the contrary. The police were glad to see me move it so they could have room 
for another fire truck. How bad are you hurt?"
"I reopened the wound."
Neither of them spoke for several moments.
"You could have been killed trying to save me," Cavanaugh said.
"I didn't think about that."
"You weren't afraid?"
"Only for you."
Cavanaugh looked down at his shaky hands. "Tonight, I felt afraid."
Driving, Jamie glanced from where her headlights illuminated the darkness. She 
gave him a quick stare. "You just had a lot to react to."
"It was more than that. Something happened to me in that basement." Cavanaugh 
trembled. "For the first time, I found out what fear is." He felt more blood 
oozing from his wound. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this. We passed a 
Wal-Mart on the way from the motel."
"Wal-Mart?" Jamie asked, bewildered.
"We're going to need some things. Trash bags. A hotplate. A saucepan. A ..."





PART FOUR
Threat Confrontation





1
The hotplate's coil glowed. Through steam escaping from the open bathroom door, 
Cavanaugh could see the unit on the counter in front of the makeup mirror. A 
vague outline of a saucepan was visible on top of it. The pan contained boiling 
water, a curved sewing needle, and fishing line.
Cavanaugh was slumped in the tub while the hot shower sprayed smoke and grime 
off him.
"You've got more bruises," Jamie said. "By morning, you'll have trouble 
walking."
"I won't need to walk. We're spending tomorrow in the car."
"And maybe part of tonight?"
Cavanaugh turned his head and studied her. "You're as quick a learner as 
Prescott."
"Except I don't go around setting fires. We can't stay here much longer, 
correct?"
"Correct. There's always a neighborhood busybody who notices unfamiliar cars on 
the street. He or she will remind the police about it. One of the policemen will 
remember the attractive woman who moved the car after the fire started. 
Meanwhile, the neighbors behind Karen's house will tell the police about the 
injured man and the attractive woman who ran out of the house and disappeared. 
It'll take the police a while to get organized, but before midnight, they're 
going to be looking for a man and a woman in a dark blue Taurus. Time to hit the 
road."
Jamie glanced toward the pan on the hotplate. "Think it's boiled enough?" she 
asked.
"Ten minutes. If the germs aren't dead by now ..."
"Turn off the shower." Jamie blotted the wound with surgical gauze, then coated 
it with Betadine germicide that she'd bought from Wal-Mart. The gouge looked 
clean enough that there wasn't a need to put Cavanaugh through the pain of more 
hydrogen peroxide. Quickly, she applied antibiotic cream. Then she hurried to 
the pan and used tongs, which she had swabbed with rubbing alcohol, to take the 
needle and fishing line from the boiling water. She set them and disinfected 
scissors onto antiseptic pads at the side of the tub.
"You should have been a nurse," Cavanaugh said.
"Yeah, that's always been my ambition: to sew up gunshot wounds. You're 
absolutely sure you need to do this?"
"The wound has to stay closed, and the bandage isn't working."
"We could always try barbed wire and a staple gun."
"Funny."
"Keep laughing." Jamie knelt beside him at the tub. "No matter how gentle I try 
to be, this'll hurt."
Cavanaugh's face felt as taut as his nerves. "I've had it done to me before."
"I imagine."
"But the guy doing it wasn't as good-looking as you."
"Flattery's great. Tell me more sweet things while I do this."
"You're tough."
"So are you." Jamie pushed in the needle.





2
Cavanaugh woke to the rhythm of the car. As headlights flashed past, he found 
himself lying on the backseat on a blanket, one of the items that Jamie had 
bought from Wal-Mart. Then he was alert enough to see the imitation sheepskin 
covers on the front and rear seats, which Jamie had bought from Wal-Mart as well 
and which concealed the bloodstains he'd left. The car was brand-new, but 
already it was on its way to being trashed. Somehow he found that amusing.
"Where are we?" he murmured.
"I thought I heard you moving back there. We're south of Poughkeepsie. Did you 
sleep okay?"
"Yes." He slowly sat up. The headlights passing on the opposite side of the 
highway hurt his eyes.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Stiff. I passed out?"
"You passed out."
"And you said I was tough."
"Are you thirsty? The bottles of water are on the floor back there."
Cavanaugh peered down and saw them in the shadows. He opened one.
"Hungry?" Jamie asked.
"For a thin woman, you sure think a lot about food."
"Just for that, you can't have any doughnuts."
"Doughnuts?"
"Chocolate-covered. You can't expect me to drive all night without something to 
eat to keep me awake."
"What time is it?"
"Around one."
"Did you have any trouble cleaning the motel room?"
"Nope. I did what you told me and put all the bloody towels and clothes into the 
garbage bags I got from Wal-Mart. I threw the bags in a Dumpster at a 
construction site. The towels don't have the motel's name on them, so nobody can 
trace them to us."
"Fingerprints?"
"I wiped the room clean and left the key, along with a tip. Just the way you 
told me."
Cavanaugh studied the sporadic traffic. "Tired?"
"Getting there."
"Find a place where we can switch places. I'll drive for a while."
"Are you able to?"
"I can steer with my right arm. Once we get into New Jersey, we'll find another 
motel."
"And then?"
"As soon as I get organized, I'm going after Prescott."





3
"Good God, what happened to this car?" the automobile paint shop's owner said.
The question was rhetorical. Red and green Day-Glo paint had been sprayed over 
most of the Taurus.
"Damned kids," Cavanaugh said, although he himself had done the spraying.' "I 
leave it on the street for a half hour, and this is what I find when I get 
back."
"The whole thing'll have to be repainted."
"Don't I know it, and the dealership says vandalism isn't covered under the 
warranty. They want a fortune to repaint it."
The owner got interested. "How much?"
Cavanaugh named so high a figure that the guy would make out like a bandit even 
if he gave a discount.
"How does a hundred and fifty cheaper sound?" the owner asked.
"Better than I was going to have to pay. But I need the job done in a hurry."
"Sure, sure. What color do you want? The original dark blue?"
"From the day I chose that color, my wife hated it. She says I she wants gray."





4
"Sam Murdock," Cavanaugh told the Philadelphia bank clerk.
"Sign here, Mr. Murdock."
Cavanaugh did.
The clerk compared the signature with the one that the bank had on file and 
entered a date next to where Cavanaugh had signed. "I see it's been a while 
since you came here."
"Last year. Too bad. I always say, when you have to go to your safe-deposit box, 
you've got trouble."
The clerk gave Cavanaugh a sympathetic look, obviously attributing the scrapes 
on Cavanaugh's face to the trouble he referred to. "May I have your key?"
Cavanaugh, who wore a suit and tie and who'd gotten his hair cut short to get 
rid of the singe marks, gave it to him.
"Will you be needing a cubicle?"
"Yes."
The clerk led Cavanaugh and Jamie down marble steps to a barred metal gate, 
which he unlocked. Beyond, in a brightly lit vault, were walls of small gleaming 
stainless-steel hatches. The clerk glanced at the number on the key Cavanaugh 
had given him. He went to a wall on the right, put the key in a 
ten-bytwelve-inch hatch near the bottom, inserted another key, this one from a 
group he carried on a ring, and turned both keys simultaneously.
After opening the hatch, he pulled out a safe-deposit box and handed it to 
Cavanaugh. "The cubicles are just outside."
"Thank you."
Cavanaugh randomly chose the second on the right and went inside with Jamie, 
closing the door. In the process, without seeming to, he checked the walls and 
ceiling for hidden cameras, doubting there were any but maintaining his habits 
all the same. He set the box on a counter and leaned over it, as did Jamie, so 
that their backs concealed the box's contents.
The raised lid revealed two thick manila envelopes and a blue cloth pouch, the 
bulging halves of which were zipped together. Cavanaugh put everything in a 
briefcase that he'd bought in a store down the street a few minutes before 
entering the bank.
Jamie opened the door. Managing to hold the briefcase in his left hand without 
indicating that his arm was compromised, Cavanaugh returned the safe-deposit box 
to the clerk, who put it back in its slot in the vault, closed the hatch, 
rotated the keys to their original positions, and gave Cavanaugh's key back to 
him.
"Thank you," Cavanaugh said.





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.





6
"Let's go shopping."
"Great idea," Jamie said.
"You do the driving." Cavanaugh's shoulder still felt stiff.
"Where to?"
He showed her addresses and a map from the phone book. "A hardware store, an 
auto-supply place, and a gun shop."
"Fabulous."
At the hardware store, they bought duct tape, a hammer, a screwdriver, 
electrical wire, a toggle switch, gloves, coveralls, a section of plumber's 
tubing, and an assortment of screws and clamps.
"What's all this stuff for?" "A better mousetrap," Cavanaugh said.
At the auto-supply place, they bought an air filter, two fog lights, and four 
chamois cloths.
Studying the cloths, Jamie asked, "We're going to wash the car? No, that can't 
be right. The dirtier the car, the less noticeable."
In the gun shop, Cavanaugh took her to a rack of gun belts. "It has to look like 
an ordinary belt but be sturdy enough to support the weight of the pistol. The 
strongest kind has two leather strips sewn together, with the grain on one strip 
going in the opposite direction from the other. The belt should fit so the stem 
on the buckle goes into the second hole. Which one looks good to you?"
Jamie chose soft-looking black with a square buckle that looked silver. "Goes 
with the studs on my pearl earrings."
"And for an accessory"—Cavanaugh turned to the bearded clerk—"do you have any 
Kydex holsters?" He referred to the sturdy plastic material that his own holster 
was made of. He liked Kydex because it wasn't affected by rain or perspiration 
and because it was thin enough to be easily concealed. "What kind of pistol?" 
Cavanaugh told him.
"Nice." The clerk reached under a glass counter. "Here's a new model from Fist, 
Inc." Slightly shorter than the length of Jamie's hand, the nonreflective 
matte-black holster had an open top, allowing the pistol to be drawn quickly, 
and a tension screw at the side, which kept the pistol secure. "They call it the 
'Dave Spaulding.'"
Cavanaugh recognized the name of one of the nation's best firearms instructors.
"Anything else?"
"Two magazines for the Sig," Jamie said, "and a cleaning kit."
"And a hundred and twenty rounds of MagSafe 9-millimeter," Cavanaugh added. This 
type of ammunition had an epoxy resin tip with shotgun pellets embedded in it. 
When the tip struck a target, the resin fractured and released the pellets. The 
destructive force was considerable, with the added advantage that the tip and 
its pellets wouldn't go through a target and hit a bystander. As in any good gun 
store, the clerk didn't ask why the customer needed so much of a type of 
ammunition that was never used in target practice.
Noticing fishing equipment in back, Cavanaugh told him, "I could also use a 
dozen lead sinkers."





7
At the motel, they unpacked the various purchases.
Surveying the objects on the bed, Jamie said, "Apart from the pistol equipment, 
none of this makes any sense to me."
"Where'd you put the scissors, needle, and fishing line?" Cavanaugh asked.
"In the first-aid kit. Don't tell me your stitches are coming loose."
Instead of answering, Cavanaugh took Jamie's blazer from a hanger at the back of 
the room. Puzzled, she watched him reverse the jacket so he could examine the 
lining along its right side.
"Hey," she objected as he used the scissors to cut the thread that attached the 
lining to the hem.
He took three lead sinkers and sewed them under the lining. Then he sewed one of 
the chamois cloths to the waist level of the lining. "Any bulges?"
"You could have been a tailor."
"I've got all kinds of skills you'd be surprised about."
After she put on the belt and the holster, Cavanaugh removed the magazine from 
the pistol, ejected the round in the firing chamber so there wouldn't be any 
accidents, and shoved the pistol into the holster.
Jamie put on the blazer.
He walked around her, assessing. "Good. I can't tell the pistol's there."
"Why did you alter the blazer?"
"Do you remember how I showed you to draw a pistol?"
"You made me practice often enough."
"Then I bet you can figure out the answer."
A patient sigh. "It's a good thing my Wellesley sorority sisters can't see me 
now." She flipped back the right side of the blazer and drew the pistol. As she 
raised it, her left hand joined her right, her thumbs over one another, pointing 
along the side of the barrel. Knees slightly bent for balance and leaning 
slightly forward, she aligned the sights, aiming at an imaginary target across 
the bedroom.
"Love your style," Cavanaugh said.
"The lead sinkers give the side of the blazer a little weight so it'll stay back 
when I flip it. The chamois cloth helps the blazer glide over the holster."
"Another A-plus." Cavanaugh picked up her windbreaker and began to modify that, 
as well. "I can do that."
"No, this is work I can manage with my injured shoulder. You have your own 
work."
Jamie eyed him suspiciously. "What work are you talking about?"





8
Wearing the gloves and coveralls they'd bought at the hardware store, Jamie sat 
behind the Taurus, attaching fog lamps to the back.
"If I could get down there and do that without pulling these stitches, I'd 
gladly take your place," Cavanaugh said.
"Somehow, you don't sound convincing. Fog lamps are supposed to be on the front. 
Why am I putting them here?"
"These aren't ordinary fog lamps. They're one-hundred-watt quartz halogens with 
a candlepower of four hundred and eighty thousand. We'll run the wires to a 
toggle switch we'll put on the dashboard. Once we get the lamps pointing up 
toward eye level, we can blind any driver coming after us."
He opened the hood and removed the air filter that had come with the Taurus. 
"The standard filter's okay, but this K and N improves pickup."
He used the plumber's tubing along with hose clamps to alter the intake system. 
"This'll get more air to the engine and add horsepower. I phoned a specialty 
car-parts store in Daytona Beach and ordered a high-speed computer chip to 
replace the one the car came with."
"Anything else we have to do?"
"Get heavy-duty shocks. Rig the ignition so we can start it easily if we don't 
have the key. But first, you have to crawl into the trunk," Cavanaugh said.
"What?"
"That wasn't a kinky proposal. We just need to get some measurements."
"Actually, doing it in the trunk sounds intriguing."
"Not with this shoulder."
"I wasn't planning to do it with your shoulder. What are the measurements for?"
"A half-inch plate of steel to stop bullets from going through the trunk and 
into the car."





9
"Hold still."
"Your hands are cold," Cavanaugh said.
"Quit complaining and relax. This'll be over before you know it."
"You never said that to me before. Reminds me of the teenaged girl in a 
sex-education class."
"Sex-education class?"
"Yeah, the teacher said, 'Don't ruin your life for fifteen minutes of pleasure,' 
and the teenaged girl asked, 'Fifteen minutes? How do you make it last that 
long?'"
"Stop moving," Jamie said. "There. How was that?"
"Didn't feel a thing."
"See? I'm getting good at this." Using sterilized scissors and tweezers, Jamie 
snipped and removed another stitch. "Looks clean. No sign of infection." She cut 
and took out another stitch. "You'll have a scar to add to your collection."
"Beauty marks."
After removing the final stitches, Jamie surveyed her work. "Damn, I'm good. The 
wound's still healing. Here's a bandage to remind you to be careful."
"Oh, I'll be careful." It had been ten days since the fire at the bunker. There 
had been many things to do, but mostly Cavanaugh had allowed himself to rest and 
heal, the effort testing his patience. Despite his banter with Jamie, which he 
felt he owed her, his mood had been dark. In his dreams and often while awake, 
he suffered vivid mental images of Roberto's bashed-in head, of Chad and Tracy 
being blown apart, of Duncan's bullet-mutilated face. He remembered gaping at 
Karen in her wheelchair, her hands clamped against her chest, her face contorted 
in the rigid aftermath of a death frenzy, the cause of which he was still 
powerless to explain. But this much Cavanaugh knew beyond question: Prescott was 
to blame.
"We're as organized as we're going to get. It's time to come back from the 
grave."





10
The sturdy black man rounded a curve and jogged faster along a straightaway 
through the suburban Washington park. He wasn't alone. At 6:30 a.m. other 
joggers were out preparing themselves for the day's stress. Because of a slight 
chill in the air, the man wore navy leggings and a sweatshirt. The white man who 
jogged up next to him wore a similar outfit, except the color was gray.
They passed bushes and trees and ducks in a pond. When it was obvious that the 
white man stayed next to him longer than was usual for a stranger, the black man 
looked over and almost broke his stride.
"Am I having a religious experience?" the black man asked. His name was John 
Rutherford. He'd been raised as a Southern Baptist. "Seeing visions? Receiving 
visitations from the dead?"
"Seeing's believing," Cavanaugh said.
"Yeah, but Thomas still doubted. He wasn't satisfied until he put his hand in 
the wound in Christ's side."
"I hate to disappoint you, but I don't know you well enough to let you get that 
familiar. Anyway, I don't have a wound in my side."
The almost-healed wound in Cavanaugh's shoulder ached from running on concrete, 
but by keeping the sway of his arms to a minimum, he avoided tearing it.
"I heard you were missing," Rutherford said. "Probably dead."
"These pesky rumors. Where'd you hear this one?" As Ca-vanaugh kept pace with 
Rutherford, sweat slicked his forehead.
"The second in command at Protective Services told me. We were going to offer an 
assignment to your firm."
Cavanaugh nodded. The government had several superb protective-agent 
organizations, including the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the 
Diplomatic Security Service, but sometimes personnel shortages required that 
outside organizations be brought in.
"Seems you, Duncan, and three other operatives dropped off the face of the 
earth, along with a client," Rutherford said. "One of your safe sites was 
destroyed."
"Did the second in command tell you which client and which safe site?"
"No way." Rutherford's breath was slightly labored as he and Cavanaugh rounded 
another curve. "If he'd told me that much, I wouldn't have trusted your firm to 
work for us. I think the only reason he told me as much as he did was to find 
out if I'd heard anything."
"And had you?" A dark stain formed on Cavanaugh's sweatshirt.
"Not a whisper."
They came near the pond again and passed more ducks.
"So what's the story?" Rutherford asked.
"Can you keep a secret?"
"If I couldn't, the Bureau would have booted me out a long time ago."
The question was rhetorical, the answer expected. Cavanaugh wouldn't have risked 
meeting with Rutherford if their history hadn't proven that Rutherford could be 
trusted.
"Provided it isn't illegal and it won't destroy my career, I'll keep any secret 
you want."
"The rumors are right. I'm dead," Cavanaugh told him. "You never saw me. You 
never talked to me."
Rutherford didn't reply for a moment. Sweat dripped from his chin as they 
reached a straightaway. "What about Duncan and the others?"
"If you see them, you are having a visitation."
"Killed?"
"A couple of times over."
"Who were the other protectors?"
"Chad, Tracy, and Roberto."
"God help them," Rutherford said. "I worked with them all. I knew I could trust 
them with my life. What happened to your client?"
"That's the problem." Cavanaugh's anger rose. "He's the reason Duncan, Chad, 
Tracy, and Roberto are dead."
"He got careless? He forced you to expose yourselves needlessly?"
"He turned against us."
Rutherford slowed, left the path, stopped among bushes, and waited for Cavanaugh 
to do the same. They faced each other. "The man you were protecting ..."
"Deliberately attracted the bad guys to us. Then he bashed Roberto's head in and 
shot Duncan. After Chad and Tracy got blown up, he left me to die in a burning 
building."
Rutherford's chest heaved as he caught his breath and tried to make sense of the 
unthinkable. "He worked for the bad guys?"
"No. He was running from the bad guys."
"Then why did he ..."
"Because we showed him how to get a new identity and disappear. He figured if he 
got rid of us, his escape plan was safe. One less chance of the bad guys finding 
him."
"There's a special place in hell for a man like that. What's his name?"
"Daniel Prescott."
"Never heard of him."
"He owns D.E Bio Lab."
"Never heard of that, either."
"The Drug Enforcement Administration had a contract with him. He was doing 
research on the physical basis for addiction. Instead, he found an easily 
manufactured substance that causes addiction."
Rutherford looked mystified. "I work closely enough with the DEA. I'd know about 
this."
"Jesus Escobar got wind of what Prescott had discovered and tried to grab him. 
When a DEA protective team couldn't keep Escobar away, Prescott came to us for 
help."
Rutherford looked even more mystified. "Impossible. Escobar got killed two 
months ago. His cartel's in disarray. They're not organized enough to go after 
anybody."
Cavanaugh felt as if the ground were swaying beneath him.
"It must have been another cartel that wanted Prescott," Cavanaugh said, not 
believing it. The ground seemed more unsteady, his shifting sense of reality 
making him dizzy.
"I'd know about that, too," Rutherford said.
"A second group wanted Prescott. They handled themselves like special ops."
"The military? Why would they be involved in this?" "I was hoping you could help 
me find out."





11
While Jamie idled the car, Cavanaugh pressed numbers on a pay phone at the side 
of a shopping mall's parking lot. The setting sun cast his shadow.
On the other end, the phone rang three times.
"Hello?" Rutherford's deep voice said.
"This is the Peking Duck restaurant. I'm calling to confirm that someone at your 
phone number just ordered a hundred and twenty-six dollars' worth of takeout," 
Cavanaugh said.
"The MSG you put in that stuff gives me a headache." Rutherford sounded as if he 
had one.
"Makes me feel bloated," Cavanaugh said. The exchange was the all-clear signal 
they'd agreed upon.
"There's absolutely no indication that Prescott or his lab had anything to do 
with addiction research for the Drug Enforcement Administration. That's not even 
something they normally get into. It's National Institutes of Health stuff."
Traffic noises in the parking lot forced Cavanaugh to press the phone harder 
against his ear. "You think NIH is where I should go next?"
"No. Go to the source."
"If you're talking about Prescott's lab, I spent the day at George Washington 
University's library. I couldn't find anything about the lab in print or on the 
Internet."
"I did. There wasn't any indication of what it does, but it's at—"
A pickup truck with a noisy muffler went by. "What? I didn't hear the next 
part."
"I said the lab's at a place called Bailey's Ridge in Virginia."
"Where's that?"
Rutherford gave him directions, then added, "Sorry I couldn't have helped more."
"You helped plenty. Thanks. I'll send over that Chinese food."
"Don't bother. I wasn't kidding about MSG and headaches."
"I'll call you tomorrow. By then, I'll have more questions."
"Fine with me."
"Same number. Same time." Cavanaugh hung up the phone, wiped his prints from the 
receiver, and got into the Taurus.
"Learn anything?" Jamie asked.
"Yeah, somebody had a gun to his head. Get us out of here before a bunch of cars 
rush toward this pay phone, looking for us."





12
"We had a prearranged code, a signal to let each of us know the other was okay," 
Cavanaugh said. Apprehension made his veins feel swollen as he studied traffic 
behind them.
Jamie listened tensely as she drove.
"A joke about a Chinese restaurant and MSG. At the start of the conversation, we 
both said what we were supposed to. At the end, though, when I told John I was 
going to send him Chinese food, he was supposed to say, 'Don't bother. I've 
already got plans for dinner.' Instead, he complained about the MSG again."
"Did he give you information?" Jamie checked the rearview mirror.
"Yes. The location of Prescott's lab. We've got to assume it's a trap."
"Somebody forced him to do it."
"No question." Cavanaugh's hands sweated. "But John knew he wasn't betraying 
me—because he warned me by not supplying all of the code."
"Will whoever's holding him prisoner ..."
"Kill him?" Cavanaugh felt his breath rate increasing. "Once the trap was set, 
they'd have no further use for him. But I managed to buy him some time."
"How?"
"I told him I'd call him again tomorrow. The same hour. The same number. With 
more questions. Whoever's got him will keep him alive for a while longer now—in 
case the trap doesn't work. So they have a way to stay in touch with me."
Jamie looked over at him, assessing. "I've got a lot to learn from you."
"Look, we need to talk." Cavanaugh peered down at his hands, working to keep 
them steady. "We always talk."
"Not about everything."
"Now here it comes. You're going to tell me this is getting too dangerous and 
you want me to go back to Wyoming, where I'll be safe. Don't bother. You opened 
the door on this. You invited me in, and I'm not leaving. I proved I can help. I 
proved I'm dependable, that I've got the right instincts and won't fall apart. 
If you want to keep this relationship, that's the price you pay. No more 
secrets. No more separations. Two years ago, I'd have been killed if not for 
you. I owe you, and, by God, I intend to pay you back."
"Agreed."
"What?"
"You don't owe me anything, but I won't argue with the rest of what you said. 
I'm not asking you to leave."
"Then ..."
"I need to warn you about something."
"Warn me?"
"I told you something happened to me. In Karen's basement. In the fire."
Puzzled, Jamie waited for him to continue.
"I lost control."
"Anybody would have. You had a lot to deal with."
"No," Cavanaugh said. "Stress has always been second nature to me. It made me 
feel alive. Except. . ." His mouth felt dry. "Maybe now it doesn't."
Jamie looked at him more closely.
"For five years in Delta Force and another five with Protective Services, I 
thrived on action," Cavanaugh said. "Physical sensations most people find 
terrifying were a pleasure to me. I couldn't wait for my next hit of adrenaline. 
I loved the rush."
Cavanaugh worked to keep his breath rate under control.
"I once protected a Fortune Five Hundred executive who was a nicotine and 
caffeine junkie. He smoked two packs of unfil-tered cigarettes and drank 
fourteen cups of strong coffee each day. He called the cigarettes and coffee 
'rocket fuel.' He said the speed they gave him made him think better and faster 
and clearer. He loved the high they gave him. One morning in Brussels, while I 
was standing watch outside his hotel suite, I heard a noise, as if something had 
fallen and broken. I had another protector working with me, so while he radioed 
for backup and kept guarding the corridor, I hurried into the suite, where I 
found the client on the floor. The noise I'd heard was a breakfast cart he'd 
upset when he fell." "Was he dead?"
Cavanaugh had the eerie feeling that with each sentence, he was speaking a 
little faster.
"At first, I thought he was. But then I saw he was blinking. His pupils were 
huge. I ran to the phone and called a doctor we had on retainer. Then I hurried 
back to the client. I didn't think he'd been poisoned—the threat he was afraid 
of was kidnapping, not assassination. But I had to ask him anyhow. 'Do you think 
you've been poisoned?' He thrashed his head no. 'Do you think you're having a 
heart attack?' I asked. Again he thrashed his head no. 'Stroke,' he said. 
'Dizzy. Room's spinning. Floor's tilting.' I felt his pulse. A hundred and 
fifty. So then I knew what was wrong with him, although I waited for the doctor 
to tell me for sure." "And what was wrong with him?"
Cavanaugh felt throbbing at his temples. "A massive nicotine and caffeine 
overdose. He'd been supercharging himself for so many years that eventually his 
body reached a limit to the speed it could take. The doctor had to give him a 
downer and ordered him into a detox program." "Did the detox work?"
"It probably saved his life. But the damage had been done. His body had 
established its stress level. Thereafter, if he was even in the same room with 
someone who smoked, if he inhaled just a few puffs of secondhand smoke, he went 
into overdrive and nearly collapsed. If he had just a sip or two of someone 
else's coffee—decaffeinated, mind you, which is never totally decaffeinated—his 
heart started pounding like a jackhammer."
Jamie frowned. "Where are you heading with this?"
"Adrenaline." Cavanaugh's legs felt more jittery. "Right now, it's flying 
through me. Before I went to Karen's house, I'd have welcomed it. But now ..." 
His mouth had become so dry, he had trouble speaking. "What I need to tell you, 
to warn you about. . . Whatever happened to me in Karen's basement..." He could 
hardly say it, would never have imagined that he'd say it. "Maybe I can't do 
this anymore."
Jamie didn't react for a moment. "Do you want to go back to Wyoming?"
"No. I ... Yes." Cavanaugh said. "I want to go back to Wyoming."
Jamie looked surprised.
"I'm so confused"—the word surprised him—"so afraid of what's changing inside 
me, I want to go back to Jackson Hole and never leave. But if I give in and 
hide, I'll never be any good to you or me or anybody else. How can I pretend to 
be close to anyone if I let John die? He wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't 
for me. If he gets killed . . ."
"We won't let that happen."
"That's right, by God. But I'm not sure how you're going to feel being around 
someone who shows signs of fear."
"Signs of being human, you mean?"
"I'll try to be as dependable as you've been." Cavanaugh breathed deeply, 
working to concentrate on what needed to be done. "Is anybody following us?"
Jamie checked the rearview mirror. "Traffic looks normal."
"Head over to the park where I met John this morning."
"What's at—"
"I phoned him at his condo. His wife died last year. He lives alone. That's 
where they held a gun to him when he talked to me. That's the logical spot for 
him to be held prisoner."





13
They left the Taurus in a parking garage and followed the shadowy jogging path 
to the opposite edge of the park. There, concealed by trees, they peered across 
a busy street toward a brightly lit condominium building.
"The sixth floor," Cavanaugh said. "On the right. The fourth unit from the end."
Jamie adjusted her gaze. "Lights in one window." "That's the living room. John 
loves his view of the park." "Not tonight. The curtains are closed." "The window 
next to it, on the right—any lights in his bedroom?"
"The curtains are closed there also, but no lights. Any other bedrooms?"
"No." Cavanaugh wished they could get in the car and drive away. "After John's 
wife died, he sold their house and moved here. Wanted a simpler life, he said. 
Became kind of a hermit, reading his Bible when he wasn't hunting bad guys."
"What's the arrangement of the rooms?"
"Past the front door, there's a corridor that leads into the living room." 
Talking about what he knew helped distract him from what he was feeling. "As you 
go along the corridor, there's an archway on the left, leading into a small 
kitchen. An arch on the other side of the kitchen goes into the living room. To 
the left of the living room is the door to the bedroom."
"Bathroom?"
"Off the bedroom. On the left."
Cavanaugh's attention quickened as a shadow moved beyond the closed curtains in 
the living room.
"How many people are watching him, do you think?" Jamie asked.
"At least two, so one can sleep while the other's on guard."
The details of tradecraft continued to help distract him from his emotions. 
"He'll be tied up in a chair in the living room. That way, the bedroom's all 
theirs, so they can spell each other and take naps."
"But how do we get him out?"
As Jamie spoke, a man and woman approached the building's entrance and went into 
the gleaming lobby. Visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, a security guard 
stood behind a counter. He spoke to the couple, picked up a phone, said 
something into it, nodded, and pressed a button. That unlocked a gate on the 
right, allowing the couple to go farther into the lobby and reach a bank of 
elevators.
"For that matter," Jamie added, "how do we get into the building?"
"The law says there have to be other exits in case of an emergency. We can 
always go around to the back, find one, and pick the lock."
"Which you haven't shown me how to do yet."
"I've been remiss, 1 admit, but we don't have time to make up for that now. 
Anyway, in this busy neighborhood, there's always a chance we'll be noticed. We 
can't help John if we're in jail. Why don't we walk up to that corner store and 
buy some cigarettes."
"Cigarettes? What are you talking about? You don't smoke."
"I used to when I first joined Protective Services. Duncan put a stop to that. I 
can still hear him scolding me: 'How can you hope to protect somebody when 
you're fumbling around, trying to light a cigarette?'"
"And now you're going to start smoking again?"





14
The condo building's entrance was thirty feet from the street. Shrubs flanked a 
walkway. Half a dozen stone benches provided a further friendly appearance.
Cavanaugh chose the bench nearest the street, motioned for Jamie to join him, 
and opened the pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?" he asked. "What's gotten into you?"
"Give it a try. Be daring. It'll help pass the time." He handed her a cigarette 
and lit it, managing to keep his hand steady. "I haven't the faintest idea how 
to hold this," she said. "Doesn't matter." Cavanaugh lit a cigarette for 
himself. Jamie coughed.
"Hey, I didn't say to inhale the thing. Just puff on it a little and blow out 
the smoke . . . Not so quickly." "Tastes awful."
"Doesn't it, though. I wonder what I ever liked about this." Two women passed 
them and glanced away in disapproval. "These days, with so many nonsmoking 
areas, it's the most natural sight imaginable for two people to be huddled 
outside a building, awkwardly puffing on cigarettes," Cavanaugh said. "We look 
like we were visiting somebody in the building and got banished down here so we 
wouldn't stink up the living room when we absolutely had to get a nicotine fix."
A man and woman shook their heads in pity. The next couple actually looked 
sympathetic, as if on occasion they'd been forced to smoke outside also.
"All right, so you found a way to make us an acceptable presence outside the 
building," Jamie said. "Now what?" "Do what Prescott does. Listen and learn." 
People came and went, their conversations filled with references to domineering 
bosses, newly discovered restaurants, cheap plane tickets to the Bahamas, and 
women who ought to stop flirting with other people's husbands.
Five minutes passed.
"Gosh, I can't believe we're done with those cigarettes so quickly. We'd better 
light up again," Cavanaugh said.
"If I get yellow stains on my fingers ..." Jamie said.
Cavanaugh gave her another cigarette, struck a match for her, and pretended to 
ignore two taxis that stopped at the curb. Each cab discharged four well-dressed 
people. After lighting a new cigarette for himself, he glanced up at the night 
sky, pretending to ignore the eight people hurrying past.
"What time is it?" a woman asked urgently. "Almost ten? Thank God we made it. 
Sandy said she and Ted'd be home from the movie by ten-fifteen."
"How's she going to manage that?" a man asked.
"Pretend she's sick, so they don't go to dinner. Isn't she clever? Her sister's 
going to let us in. Imagine the look on Ted's face when we all shout 
'Surprise.'"
They crowded into the lobby, several of them speaking at once to the security 
guard, who made a phone call, nodded, and buzzed them through.
"Poor Ted," Jamie muttered as she blew out smoke.
Through the windows, Cavanaugh was able to see the console above the elevator 
the group used. Numbers flashed, indicating the floors the elevator passed. He 
was too far away to read the numbers, but he could count the times the console 
flashed. Seventeen. On the eighteenth, the number remained steady. Add another 
number for the ground floor, he told himself. They're on nineteen.
Flicking ashes from his cigarette, he noticed a car with a domino's pizza sign 
stopping in the building's delivery zone. A gangly, bespectacled driver got out, 
lugging an armful of pizza boxes in an insulated wrapper.
"Let's see where these pizzas are going," Cavanaugh told Jamie. As the driver 
came closer, Cavanaugh stood, put on a convincing smile, and said, "Hi. We 
thought we'd come down for a smoke and head you off at the pass. Unit six 
twenty-eight." That was the number of John's unit.
"Sorry. These are all for somebody else." "All?" Cavanaugh looked at the stack. 
"Must be that party on the seventh floor. That's one of the reasons we came down 
here. They're making so much racket."
"Nope. This bunch goes to"—the delivery guy squinted through his spectacles 
toward a piece of paper taped to the insulated wrapper—"nineteen eleven."
"Lucky them," Jamie said. "Guess we'll just have to wait and have another 
cigarette."
"Shouldn't be long," the driver said. "Sorry we bothered you," Cavanaugh said. 
"No problem." Balancing the pizza boxes, the delivery guy walked up to the glass 
door at the entrance just as somebody came out and held the door open for him.
Jamie stubbed out her cigarette. "What was that about? Did you really believe 
those pizzas would be going to John's apartment?"
"Maybe not this time. But eventually, pizzas or Chinese or some kind of food 
will probably be delivered there." "How can you be sure?"
"Because I've seen guards make that mistake too many times before. 
Round-the-clock watchdog duty is tedious. If the guys on the security team don't 
have any discipline, they keep thinking about eating. They could scrounge the 
cupboards and cook, but most of them aren't good at it." Except for Chad who 
could make anything taste delicious, Cavanaugh thought, sorrow blindsiding him. 
"They start fantasizing about pizza or egg rolls and chicken chow mein. If this 
is part of the bunch that tried to grab Prescott at the warehouse, they have a 
few rough edges that suggest they're the type to give in and have food 
delivered." "We could wait for hours." "If it's going to happen, it'll be sooner 
rather than later. My call to John was less than an hour ago. Before then, they 
were too preoccupied to think about food. But now they're getting a routine 
established."
"Won't the building's guard get curious about us hanging around out here?"
"He can't see us."
"Why?"
"The last time I was here, I noticed that the lobby's more brightly lit than 
this outside walkway. The glare in there reflects off the inside windows. The 
guard can't see out."
"But what about the camera above the door?"
"You spotted that? It's pointed toward the area in front of the door, not toward 
the street. When we get John out of there, I'm going to tell him to move to a 
building with better security."
"Is that a mind trick you use with your clients?"
"'Mind trick'?"
" 'When we get John out of there.' You put me in the future and made me believe 
everything's going to be fine. It's very reassuring."
Another car stopped at the building's delivery zone, this one marked pizza hut.
"My turn." Jamie looked grateful for something to do to control her nerves.
As the driver pulled pizza boxes from the car, she approached him, rubbing her 
hands together in hungry anticipation. "Hi. We decided to come down for a smoke 
and save you the trouble of going upstairs. Unit six twenty-eight. We're 
starved."
The pimply teenager looked starved as well, but for something other than food. 
He nearly dropped his boxes at the sight of the attractive woman standing next 
to him. "Um," he said. "Um. Lemme see." He studied a delivery slip taped to a 
box. "Yep, six twenty-eight."
"Wonderful."
"Two mediums? One pepperoni and black olives? The other deluxe?"
"Exactly. They smell delicious. How much do I owe you?" Jamie added a tip and 
took the two boxes. "See you next time."
"Yes, ma'am." The kid blushed. "Thank you." He looked flustered as he got in the 
car and drove away.
"Two medium pizzas. Enough for two husky guards," Jamie said.
"Seems that way to me," Cavanaugh said, "unless there's only one guard and he's 
being generous to his prisoner, which I doubt."
"That they ordered food means they're feeling comfortable, right?"
"Right. They assume nobody knows they're keeping John prisoner."
"So what happens now?" Jamie asked.
"We go back to the park, find somebody sleeping in the bushes, and donate these 
pizzas. All we need are the boxes."
Jamie looked puzzled.
"I need to tear off the top of one box and the bottom of the other so I can 
stack them together to hold my Kevlar vest," Cavanaugh said.





15
The guard looked up from the counter as Jamie held the door open and Cavanaugh 
carried the pizza boxes into the lobby. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust 
to the glare of the lights.
"Hi. We're with the surprise party for Ted up in nineteen eleven," Cavanaugh 
said.
The guard's face was stern. "A bunch of pizzas went up about twenty minutes 
ago."
"I knew we should have brought ribs, french fries, and coleslaw," Jamie said.
"You really do think a lot about food," Cavanaugh said, trying to sound humorous 
in spite of the tightness in his chest.
"Tell them to make sure to keep the noise down," the guard said. "We don't want 
complaints from the neighbors."
"Mum's the word," Cavanaugh said.
The guard pressed a button that caused a waist-high gate on the right to buzz 
and unlock.
"Thanks." They went through and reached the elevators, where Jamie pressed the 
up button. After a short wait that felt interminable, one set of doors made a 
ding and opened.
Hating elevators, Cavanaugh entered. As Jamie reached to push the button for the 
sixth floor, he murmured, "Stop."
"What's the matter?"
"The guard will watch the numbers above the elevator to make sure we go to the 
floor we said we wanted."
"Ooops." Jamie pushed the button for the nineteenth floor.
The doors closed.
Cavanaugh's legs felt heavy as the elevator rose. He watched orange numbers on a 
console go from one to two to three. It seemed to take a long time to reach 
nineteen, enough for him to repeat instructions he'd given to Jamie before 
they'd entered the building.
"You're sure they'll open the door?" Jamie asked.
"For a pimply delivery kid, they'd keep a chain on the door, hand money through 
the crack, and tell the kid to hand in the pizzas sideways. But after they get a 
look at you through the peephole, believe me, they'll open the door. Undo your 
blouse."
"Excuse me?"
"The top three buttons."
"What kind of girl do you think I am?" Jamie undid them.
Good, Cavanaugh silently told her. Keep making jokes. It tells me you're in 
control.
And what about me? Cavanaugh wondered. Am I in control?
Ding. The doors opened. His breath rate increasing, he stepped out onto a 
new-looking beige carpet in what smelled like a freshly painted white corridor 
that had bright overhead lights and no one in view.
A quick look each way showed them a door marked stairs on their right. They 
pushed through and found themselves in a dank concrete stairwell even more 
brightly lit than the corridor. As Jamie shut the door, Cavanaugh checked for 
security cameras but saw none. They listened for noises and heard none. Their 
footsteps echoed as they descended in a cautious hurry to the sixth floor.
Outside the door, they paused.
"Can you manage this?" Cavanaugh kept his voice low. "I'll be right there next 
to you. Just do everything exactly as I explained."
Jamie hesitated.
"It's not too late to back out," he said.
"Sure it is," she said. "I'll never be able to force myself to go this far 
again."
"Maybe you shouldn't go this far at all." "Can you save John without me?" 
Cavanaugh didn't answer.
"Then give me the boxes." Jamie's pupils were large. Cavanaugh watched her react 
to the weight of the Kevlar vest in them. She arranged the boxes so they pushed 
up slightly under her breasts, widening the gap where she'd opened the buttons.
"They'll think they'd died and gone to heaven," Cavanaugh said. "Before you 
knock on their door, close your eyes for a few seconds. That'll make your pupils 
smaller, so you won't seem on edge. Remember, if you hear a TV, it means they're 
careless. Good watchdogs keep the room quiet so they can hear noises outside." 
Jamie took a deep breath and nodded toward the door. "Open it."





16
The sixth floor had the same type of new-looking beige carpet and freshly 
painted white walls as on the nineteenth. Tense, Cavanaugh followed Jamie along 
the corridor. As he'd anticipated, after 10:00 p.m. no one was in it.
It's still not too late to back out, he kept telling himself.
Sure it is. If I back out, I might not get another chance to save John.
Unit 628 was on the right. Pressing himself against the wall next to it, 
Cavanaugh heard the muffled sounds of an explosion, followed by gunshots, 
sirens, and pulsing music: an action program on television. He gave Jamie a 
reassuring look and drew his pistol.
Jamie stood in front of the door's peephole and closed her eyes. When she opened 
them a few seconds later, her pupils were a normal size, in no way suggesting 
she was under stress.
But Cavanaugh was. He made a sudden decision that he should never have allowed 
her to be part of this. He motioned to her that they were leaving.
Jamie ignored him and knocked on the door.
Cavanaugh motioned even more forcefully.
Paying no attention, Jamie knocked again, and this time, the TV's sound went 
off.
We're in it now, Cavanaugh thought. He marveled at how bored Jamie made herself 
look in front of the door's peephole, the pizza boxes propping up her breasts.
With a loud scrape, a lock was disengaged. Cavanaugh pressed himself closer to 
the wall, keeping far enough away that he couldn't be seen.
As he expected, whoever was in there opened the door only as far as a chain 
would allow.
"You ordered two medium pizzas?" Jamie looked at the piece of paper taped to the 
top box. "Pepperoni and black olives? The other deluxe?"
"Usually it's a kid who delivers." The man had a European accent.
"No shit," Jamie said. "My husband and I own the business. Three delivery kids 
didn't show up tonight. Lucky me, here I am."
The man chuckled. "How much?"
She raised the boxes tighter to her breasts while she leaned down to read him 
the price on the piece of paper.
"Hang on a second." The man closed the door.
The moment the door swung shut and the man couldn't see what was in front of it, 
Cavanaugh hurried from where he was pressed against the wall. He rushed the door 
and ducked below the peephole. Shielding Jamie, he heard the scrape and rattle 
of the chain being freed.
As the door came open all the way, Cavanaugh charged toward the surprised man. 
Obeying instructions, Jamie upended the pizza boxes so the Kevlar vest inside 
protected her. The man was the same skinhead Cavanaugh had taken the black car 
from at the shopping mall almost two weeks earlier. Gaping, the skinhead fumbled 
to draw a pistol. Cavanaugh whacked his Sig's barrel hard across the man's 
hairless skull. Stunned, the man fell backward, pinning his gun arm. Cavanaugh 
leapt over him and entered the living room, aiming to the left, toward the area 
across from the television.
A mustached man who looked about forty sat petrified in a chair, not knowing 
which way to look—toward Cavanaugh's pistol or the one that Jamie aimed from the 
kitchen archway. The man's own pistol was on a coffee table before him.
Rutherford was bound and gagged in a chair in the far left corner. Blood on his 
face contrasted with his black skin. His eyes bulged in surprise, but Cavanaugh 
didn't have time for him now. He grabbed the pistol off the table. As he passed 
the mustached man, he whacked him over the head, as well. Then he pressed 
himself against a wall leading into the shadowy bedroom. After aiming in toward 
the side of the room that he was able to see, he darted over to the other wall 
and aimed in toward the opposite side of the room. When nothing alarmed him, he 
lunged in, shoved a bureau against the closet door, checked under the bed, and 
then made sure the bathroom was clear.
When he returned to the living room, the mustached man lay on the floor, 
moaning.
Cavanaugh hurried to the front door, locked it, then aimed toward the skinhead 
on the floor. He searched him for weapons, removed a pistol tucked at the back 
of his belt, and used the belt to secure the man's hands behind his back.
He did the same to the mustached man's hands, then checked that the front closet 
was empty. Only then did he run over to Rutherford, removing the gag from his 
mouth. "Did we get them all?" "Yes."
Cavanaugh untied rope from Rutherford's ankles and wrists. "How bad are you 
hurt?" He assessed the bruises and gashes on Rutherford's face.
"1 lost a tooth." Rutherford pointed toward his swollen left cheek. "They might 
have cracked some ribs." He winced as he took a breath.
Cavanaugh saw a box of tissues on a side table. He grabbed several and gave them 
to Rutherford. "Cough deeply and spit into these."
Rutherford did. "Lord Almighty, that hurt." Cavanaugh inspected the spit in the 
tissue. "No blood. Lie down on the sofa." Cavanaugh helped him over to it and 
then pressed gently against Rutherford's abdomen and chest. "I don't feel any 
swelling. Have you got any pain you're suspicious about?"
"It's been long enough; if they broke anything inside me, I'd have passed out by 
now." Rutherford massaged his wrists, where the blood circulation had been 
almost cut off.
"Where's your first-aid kit?"
"Under the sink in the bathroom."
When Cavanaugh returned with the kit and a soapy washcloth, Rutherford was 
making an effort to sit up. "You haven't introduced me to your friend."
"Meet Jennifer. Jennifer, this is John."
Jamie showed no reaction to being introduced by a false name.
"Pleased to meet you. Mighty glad to be alive to have the pleasure," Rutherford 
said.
Cavanaugh opened the first-aid kit and paused when he found three syringes among 
the bandages and ointments. He held them up and then realized why they were 
there. "From when your wife was alive?"
She'd been a diabetic and had injected herself daily with insulin, Cavanaugh 
knew. Ironically, a car accident had been what killed her.
"I gave away a lot of Deb's clothes to the church. I threw away a lot more 
stuff, old shoes and things that she knew weren't worth keeping but she'd hung 
on to anyhow. Except for a few of her favorite dresses, which I kept, I didn't 
have any trouble parting with most of it, but somehow those syringes made me 
think of her more fondly than anything else. I couldn't bring myself to throw 
them out."
Cavanaugh put them back in the first-aid kit and began to clean Rutherford's 
face.
"You got my warning—my second MSG remark?" Rutherford asked.
"Nicely done."
"I'd have let them kill me before I'd have sent you into a trap."
"I know," Cavanaugh said.
"The people I asked about Prescott and his lab said they'd never heard of him." 
Hours of having been gagged made Rutherford sound raspy.
"I'll get you some water," Jamie said.
When she returned, Rutherford took several deep swallows, wetting the dried 
blood on his lips and causing it to trickle. "Then I searched our computer 
database." Another swallow. "I came up with nothing."
"Then how did—"
"These guys must have an informant in the Bureau. Either that or they hacked 
into our computer system, looking for anybody who'd made inquiries about 
Prescott. When I left my office to go home, they were waiting near my car in the 
parking area." Wincing, Rutherford fingered the side of his jaw where his tooth 
had been knocked out. "Somebody called my name from the next row. I turned to 
see who it was. All of a sudden, a van stopped next to me. While it screened me 
from view, three guys grabbed me from behind and shoved me inside."
"The man who shouted. The three men who grabbed you. The van's driver. A total 
of five?" Cavanaugh asked.
"No." Rutherford swallowed more water. "There's a sixth guy, the one who runs 
the show. He calls himself Kline."
"I recognize your two guards. They were with the first group that went after 
Prescott."
Rutherford frowned past Cavanaugh. "Jennifer, you look sick."
Cavanaugh turned toward her. "You're pale. You'd better sit."
"What I had in mind was kneeling." She went through the bedroom and into the 
bathroom.
A moment later, Cavanaugh heard the muffled sounds of her throwing up.
"Her first time on an operation?" Rutherford asked.
"Yes."
"She did good."
Cavanaugh nodded.
When she came back, he held her.
"I didn't let you down," Jamie said.
"You didn't let me down." And I didn't let you down, he added silently.
As the mustached man moaned on the floor, Jamie stepped over him, easing into a 
chair across from Rutherford. "Don't mind me. Go on with what you were saying 
while I try to convince myself that I'm still alive."
Cavanaugh's hands had been steady as long as he'd had something to do. Now he 
had to concentrate to keep them from shaking. "Yes, what happened next?"
"After these guys worked me over enough to prove they meant business, they put a 
gun to my head and gave me a choice—either I'd tell them why I wanted Prescott 
or they'd kill me." Rutherford held the wet washcloth to his bruised cheek. "I 
explained I didn't want Prescott. A friend of mine did. They gave me the same 
choice—tell them who my friend was or they'd kill me. I didn't use your name. 
All I said was 'a man who'd been part of Prescott's security.'"
Cavanaugh nodded.
"That got them extremely interested," Rutherford said. "They couldn't wait to 
get their hands on you."
"Sure. They thought I might know where Prescott had gone."
"I told them you were trying to find him, too, that you didn't know anything 
more than they did."
"But they didn't buy it?" Cavanaugh asked.
"No way. They put the gun to my head again and ordered me to tell you Prescott's 
lab was at a place called Bailey's Ridge in Virginia."
"And now four of them, including Kline, are at Bailey's Ridge, arranging a trap 
for me?"
"They left as soon as your phone call was over," Rutherford said.
Jamie leaned forward. "When nobody shows up, they'll wonder what went wrong. 
They'll come back here and hope you make contact again, as you promised."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "They'll want to set another trap."
Rutherford reached for the phone.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Cavanaugh reached to stop him.
"Getting help."
"No."
"But the Bureau can—"
"We don't know who else is involved in this."
Rutherford hesitated.
"You said Kline might have an informant in the Bureau," Cavanaugh said. "Suppose 
Kline got word we were waiting for him. This'd be the last place he'd come 
near."





17
When the intercom buzzed, Cavanaugh waited a few seconds, then pressed the 
button. "Yes?"
The security guard's voice was tinny. "Mr. Kline and another gentleman to see 
you."
"Send them up." Cavanaugh released the button and went back into the living 
room.
"Two of them," Rutherford said. "The other two must have stayed at Bailey's 
Ridge in case you showed up."
Jamie glanced at her watch. "Just past noon. Earlier than you expected."
"After being on a stakeout all night, Kline must really be annoyed that I didn't 
do what I said I would. Now he wants another heart-to-heart with John. Are we 
ready for guests?" Cavanaugh directed his question toward the skinhead and the 
mustached man, who were tied to chairs. It had taken the men an hour to regain 
consciousness. Insistent questioning had revealed only that they were contract 
operators and knew nothing about why Prescott was important.
On two occasions, the skinhead's cell phone had rung, Kline angrily checking in. 
Cavanaugh had rehearsed with the two captives, making sure they knew exactly how 
to respond if either of their cell phones rang. With his pistol to the 
skinhead's temple, Cavanaugh had watched the man's eyes as he spoke into his 
phone. If Cavanaugh had detected even the slightest attempt to warn Kline, he'd 
have shown keen displeasure.
The skinhead now wore a baseball cap to hide his gashed scalp. "I asked 
you"—Cavanaugh tapped the cap—"if you're ready to receive guests."
The skinhead winced and nodded.
"I'll see you in a few minutes," Jamie said. Following instructions that they'd 
worked out earlier, she left the apartment. Rutherford locked the door.
Cavanaugh nervously imagined her moving along the corridor, opening the door to 
the stairwell near the elevator, and waiting behind it. When Jamie heard the 
ding of the elevator, she would count to twenty, the length of time they had 
calculated it took to walk from the elevator to Rutherford's condo. Then she 
would open the door and step from the stairwell, fumbling in her purse for what 
was presumably the key to her unit, never once looking down the hallway at the 
two men outside Rutherford's door. The men would notice her, but with no reason 
to be suspicious of a trap—after all, they were the ones setting a trap—they 
would soon be distracted by what happened when Rutherford's door opened. Jamie 
had looked steady as she left, having used the intervening time to practice 
visualization techniques that Cavanaugh taught her, imagining possible 
variations to the scenario they had planned, replaying them in her mind, 
preparing herself not to be surprised. To give her more confidence, she wore the 
Kevlar vest under her blouse and jacket. It made her look overweight, her 
clothes too tight, but her appearance was the last thing she was worried about.
"Okay," Cavanaugh told the skinhead, aiming his pistol at him. "Be a good host."
Rutherford had already freed the man's ankles and wrists. Now he untied the 
ropes that held the hostage to the chair. "Remember," Cavanaugh told the man. 
"You'll be the first one in our line of fire." He motioned for him to cross the 
living room. Following, he watched the man go down the corridor and pause at the 
front door.
"Now all you have to do is make sure you don't give us a reason to shoot you," 
Cavanaugh said.
Rutherford took his position in the kitchen, ready with a pistol.
Sweat trickling down his sides, Cavanaugh waited.
Fifteen seconds. Thirty. Fifty. Cavanaugh recalled how slowly the elevator had 
seemed to rise. That the men hadn't yet knocked on the door didn't mean 
something was wrong, he tried to assure himself. Be patient. Everything's going 
to be—
Knock, knock. Pause. Knock, knock. That was the pattern John had heard the team 
agree on—the code that signaled it was okay to open the door.
Cavanaugh's stomach constricted as he motioned for the skinhead to let them in.
At that point, the start of a carefully rehearsed sequence, Cavanaugh stepped 
back into the living room, out of sight of the doorway. The skinhead would be 
very aware that Rutherford was aiming at him from the kitchen. Having opened the 
door, the skinhead would say, "He hasn't called," then turn and walk toward the 
living room, directly into Cavanaugh's line of fire. Meanwhile, Rutherford would 
have taken cover beside the refrigerator. Only when the men came inside and 
started along the corridor would Rutherford again show himself, aiming at them 
through the kitchen archway. The second man would notice Rutherford about the 
same time the first man noticed Cavanaugh in the living room. Simultaneously, 
Jamie would have come up behind them, drawing her pistol, saying, "Into the 
living room," which she did now.
Caught by surprise in a three-way vise, their weapons beneath their jackets, the 
men had little choice but to comply.
"On the floor," Rutherford said. "Hands behind your head."
"Now," Cavanaugh said.
The skinhead did what he was told, sinking chest-down onto the carpet. The other 
two hesitated only briefly before they imitated him, putting their hands behind 
their heads. Jamie stepped in, locking the door.
"Was anybody else in the hallway?" Cavanaugh asked, aiming at the men. "Did they 
see your pistol?"
"Two people got off the elevator as I came in here. My pistol was next to my 
purse. Nobody saw it."
Cavanaugh felt a measure of relief. John had assured him that the people who 
lived in the building were mostly professional types, not likely to be home 
early in the afternoon on a weekday. Even so, someone coming along the hallway 
at the wrong time had been a liability Cavanaugh couldn't plan for.
"Cute," the first man said, peering up from the carpet. He was of medium height, 
wiry, with a thin face and military-style hair. Cavanaugh recognized the 
sandpapery voice. "We've spoken before. On this guy's cell phone." Cavanaugh 
meant the skinhead. "After I took the car from him outside the shopping mall." 
"You figured out the phone contained a homing device." Like the skinhead, the 
man had a European accent. "We followed it for hours, until we realized you'd 
thrown it into the back of a passing pickup truck."
"Hey, if you can't take a joke." A thought occurred to Cavanaugh. "You followed 
the truck? Why did you bother if you already knew we'd used a helicopter to 
leave the area?" "Helicopter? I don't know what you're talking about." The man's 
confusion looked spontaneous enough to be convincing, reinforcing Cavanaugh's 
suspicion that the team who'd tried to grab Prescott at the warehouse had not 
been the same team that had used helicopters to attack the bunker.
While he and Jamie continued to aim at the men on the floor, Rutherford tied 
their ankles and wrists.
Cavanaugh removed a 9-mm Beretta from beneath the second man's loose pullover. 
He felt beneath the first man's black leather jacket and found a 9-mm Browning 
Hi-Power. He also found a folding knife clipped to the inside of his pants 
pocket. Only the clip showed on the outside. By pulling upward on the clip, the 
owner could draw the knife instantaneously from concealment. A small ribbed 
projection on the back of the blade allowed it to be thumbed open one-handed in 
the same motion as the knife was being drawn. When open, it was almost eight 
inches long.
Knives had once been considered inferior weapons ("Dummy, you brought a knife to 
a gunfight"), but a graphic self-defense video released in the 1990s, Surviving 
Sharp-Edged Weapon Attacks, had shown law-enforcement and security personnel 
that an assailant with a knife could race across a distance of twenty feet and 
cause lethal wounds before someone with a concealed handgun could overcome his 
startle reflex, draw, and fire. Now some operators considered a knife as prudent 
a backup weapon as a pistol and carried as many as three. The knife Cavanaugh 
held had a nonreflective flat-black surface and had been manufactured by one of 
the best self-defense instructors and knife makers: Ernest Emerson. It was 
called the CQC-7, the initials representing "close-quarter combat." Its 
weave-patterned epoxy handle was designed not to be slippery when covered with 
water, sweat, or blood. Its serrated steel was hard and sharp enough to punch 
through a car door.
"Cute," Cavanaugh said, echoing what the first man had said. He closed the knife 
and clipped it into his pants pocket. He sat cross-legged on the floor, at the 
first man's eye level. "You're using the name Kline?"
"It's as good as anything."
"Tell me about Prescott."
Kline didn't answer.
"I'll tell you what I know about him," Cavanaugh said. "Feel free to chime in 
any time you feel like it."
Cavanaugh told Kline what had happened after the car chase: the arrival at the 
bunker, the instructions to Prescott about how to disappear, the fire, the 
helicopter attack, and the other fire at Karen's house. "So, you see, I want him 
as much as you do. Probably worse. We'd accomplish more if we worked together."
"But our purposes conflict."
"I'm sure we can work around our differences." Cavanaugh studied him. "You look 
like your arms are starting to hurt. Why don't I make you more comfortable?"
Kline frowned, puzzled, as Cavanaugh brought a captain's chair from the kitchen. 
Kline frowned even more when Cavanaugh raised him to his feet and thumbed open 
the Emerson knife.
"I'm going to cut the rope on your wrists," Cavanaugh said. "If you make any 
move against me, my friend here"—Cavanaugh indicated Rutherford—"who's in a 
world of hurt and a really foul mood because of the beating your team gave him 
yesterday, will shoot you."
Rutherford had gone into the kitchen and returned with an empty plastic 
soft-drink bottle shoved over the barrel of his pistol as a sound suppressor. "I 
want my tooth back."
It was a tactic that he and Cavanaugh had rehearsed, and it had its intended 
effect, especially the rigged sound suppressor, causing Kline's eyes to narrow.
"But why invite trouble?" Cavanaugh asked. "We're having a pleasant 
conversation. We want to cooperate with one another." Cavanaugh stepped behind 
Kline, cut the rope on his wrists, and told him, "Sit." Kline obeyed.
Cavanaugh retied Kline's wrists, this time to the arms of the captain's chair.
"Comfy?" Cavanaugh asked. "Good. I honestly think we'd have a better chance of 
finding Prescott if we worked together. It's your turn. Tell me what you know." 
Kline looked away.
"For starters," Cavanaugh said, "why do you want him so much? He told me a story 
about addiction research he was doing for the DEA. He was supposed to find a way 
to block the physical mechanism that causes people to become addicted. Instead, 
he claimed he found an easy-to-manufacture substance that causes addiction. He 
said Jesus Escobar somehow found out and tried to grab him to get the formula. 
He said you guys worked for Escobar. But all that turned out to be a bunch of 
hooey. The DEA never heard of Prescott, and Escobar was killed two months ago, 
so who do you guys really work for?"
Kline finally looked back at Cavanaugh. Tension made his European accent—Slavic 
or possibly Russian—more pronounced. "You know I can't tell you that."
"Maybe I should make you some coffee while we consider the problem."
"Coffee?" Kline tilted his head, puzzled.
"Yeah, there's nothing like a chat over coffee. John, where do you keep it?"
"Above the fridge." He and Jamie looked as puzzled as Kline did. "The grinders 
next to it. The percolator's next to the toaster on the counter."
"Percolator? What I had in mind was instant coffee," Cavanaugh said.
"Uh, in the cupboard to the right of the stove."
Cavanaugh turned Kline's chair so Kline could watch. Then Cavanaugh went into 
the kitchen and opened the cupboard, finding a small box that had packets of 
various kinds of instant coffees. "Let's see. Hazelnut roast, vanilla roast, 
chocolate roast. Any of that appeal to you?" he asked Kline.
No answer.
"John, you've got to lay off this sweet coffee," Cavanaugh said. "You'll put on 
so much weight, you won't be able to run it off. Haven't you got anything with 
some heft to it? Wait a minute. What's this? Mocha Java? Now that sounds like a 
manly brew."
Cavanaugh opened two packets of it and dumped the powder into a small 
transparent juice glass. He put very little water in a kettle and set the kettle 
on the stove, turning the burner to high.
"Won't be long now," he assured Kline. "There's nothing like hot, rich 
caffeinated coffee to promote conversation. Are you sure you don't want to give 
me some tidbits right now—about why you want Prescott and about who else would 
be after him?" Kline continued to look stubborn.
"Ah, well," Cavanaugh said, "I certainly respect your principles. You're 
definitely not a blabbermouth." The kettle whistled.
Cavanaugh poured what amounted to an ounce and a half of boiling liquid into the 
juice glass. There was barely enough water to dissolve the two packets of coffee 
crystals. He gave it a stir, letting Kline see how dark and thick the mixture 
was. "Nothing limp-wristed about this stuff. It'll put fire in your eyes and 
hair on your chest."
Kline looked even more perplexed. "You expect me to drink that? What the hell 
good will that do to make me talk? I'd probably throw it up."
"Drink it? The farthest thing from my mind. And believe me, you won't be 
throwing it up."
Cavanaugh opened Rutherford's first-aid kit and removed one of the syringes.
Kline's eyes got bigger.
Cavanaugh inserted the syringe in the thick coffee mixture and pulled back the 
plunger, filling the tube, then pushed the plunger to remove air from the 
syringe. He started humming "Fly Me to the Moon."
"Hold it," Kline said. "You're not seriously thinking about—"
Cavanaugh interrupted him by ripping Kline's shirt open, fully exposing his 
neck. Now he was humming "Black Coffee" as he angled the tip of the syringe 
toward Kline's jugular vein.
"For Christ's sake, stop!" Kline tilted his body toward the opposite side, 
nearly overturning the chair.
"Watch your language," Rutherford, the Southern Baptist, said seriously.
"All right, all right. Just stop," Kline told Cavanaugh. "You can't expect me to 
believe you're crazy enough to—"
"Expand your mind, along with your arteries and your vital organs," Cavanaugh 
said. "I'm going to set your heart racing and blow your brains out from the 
inside. I figure by the time your pulse gets up to about a hundred and eighty, 
you might even start to levitate, except you'll be tied to that chair. Now if 
you'll hold still . . ."
Cavanaugh put a firm hand on Kline's shoulder and readjusted the syringe's 
trajectory.
"No!" Kline tilted his body so far to the side that this time the chair did 
topple. With a thump, he landed on the carpet.
"Hey, have some consideration for the neighbors," Cavanaugh said.
"That stuff'll kill me!" Kline said.
"Kill you? It'll get your metabolism racing so fast, you'll probably 
self-combust."
Cavanaugh pushed Kline's head against the carpet and slanted the syringe's tip 
so that it pressed along Kline's jugular.
Kline whispered, trying to minimize his neck movements, sounding as if he'd 
swallowed ashes: "If you kill me, I can't tell you anything."
"You know what? Part of me doesn't care. Running into you twice was running into 
you twice too often. I'm pissed about my friends being dead. I'm pissed about 
Prescott trying to kill me. I'm pissed about what you and your men did to John. 
I want to get even with somebody, and if you don't intend to cooperate with me 
the way I cooperated with you, at least I'll get the satisfaction of this."
Cavanaugh pierced Kline's artery enough to draw blood.
Kline winced and looked as if he was trying not to shudder, but he didn't 
succeed, his involuntary movement causing a little more blood to leak from his 
artery. "The drug-addiction story was a cover. Prescott worked for the U.S. 
military." "I want specifics."
"A branch of it devoted to special-weapons development." Kline licked his lips, 
which suddenly looked very dry. "I might need to cough."
"Better not. The syringe'll go all the way in."
"A subsection of a subsection." Kline lowered his voice even more trying not to 
move his neck. "The kind of research they don't report to the secretary of 
defense."
"Or the kind the Pentagon itself doesn't know about? Like the LSD experiments in 
Washington in the 1950s or the nerve-gas experiments in Utah in the 70s."
Kline licked his dry lips again. "Yes."
"Our tax dollars at work. So what was this experiment about?"
"Fear."





18
The word seemed to linger in the air. It was so unexpected that Cavanaugh didn't 
react to it at first. He was certain he hadn't heard correctly. "Fear?"
Cavanaugh's muscles tightened and his palms became moist as he felt a 
premonition about what Kline was going to tell him next.
"Fear," Kline whispered hoarsely, repulsed by the pressure of the syringe's tip 
against his artery. "Prescott was in charge of biochemical research designed to 
create fear in any opponent the U.S. military confronted. My neck." Kline 
tensed. "You're shoving harder."
"Prescott. Tell me about Prescott."
Kline's brow was beaded with sweat. "He created a synthetic hormone that 
triggered adrenaline in such massive doses that panic was an immediate result."
Prescott's lie about trying to stop addiction and instead discovering how to 
increase addiction had been partially based on truth, Cavanaugh now realized. 
All that needed to be done was to substitute the word fear for addiction. His 
mind flashed back to the stairs in the abandoned warehouse and the pungent odor 
he'd smelled as he'd gone up to meet Prescott. He'd become more and more uneasy 
as he'd mounted the stairs, his body more jittery with each step.
"Prescott's military controllers were thrilled." Unable to turn his head, Kline 
strained his eyes sideways toward where the syringe pricked the artery in his 
neck. Sweat dripped from his face. "If the synthetic hormone could be modified 
into a gas and delivered in canisters dropped from planes or via rockets, it 
would render opposing armies helpless during an attack."
"Politicians tend to get a little nervous when they hear about chemical-weapons 
research, but why should that hold back a good idea?" Cavanaugh said, barely 
containing his anger.
He recalled how Kline's men had suddenly panicked when they'd invaded the 
warehouse's stairwell. Responding to an unseen threat, they had fired 
uncontrollably up the stairs, unable to force themselves higher. Prescott must 
have had canisters of the gas concealed in the stairwell. Traces of it had 
escaped, which explained Cavanaugh's jittery reaction.
He recalled something else—how Prescott had worked dials on a panel when Kline's 
team invaded the stairwell. But as frightened as Kline's men had become, their 
reaction had apparently not been strong enough, for Prescott had murmured in 
alarm to himself, as if something was wrong. Perhaps the canisters had developed 
a slow leak so that by the time Kline's team attacked, the full force of the 
weapon wasn't available.
"Prescott experimented with it on animals," Kline said. "Rats went berserk. Cats 
and dogs became so afraid of each other, they cowered in corners. On one 
occasion, it drove a dozen goats into such a panic that they raced around the 
walls that contained them until they dropped in shock and died."
Cavanaugh thought of Karen's basement, of the pungent smell that he now realized 
had caused him, for the first time in his life, to suffer fear, the effects of 
which continued to linger. He thought of the panic that had almost destroyed him 
in the fire. He thought of seeing Karen slumped motionless in her wheelchair, 
her hands clamped to her chest, her face contorted rigidly with horror. Now he 
understood what had killed her. Wanting to avoid a wound or a strangle mark that 
would alert a medical examiner to Karen's murder, Prescott had used the hormone 
to terrify her to death. Her heart and arteries must have ruptured from the 
massive force of terror.
"The syringe. Your hand's shaking again," Kline said.
"Tell me everything."
"Eventually, the temptation became too great. Prescott tried it on humans. 
Inner-city gangs ran in panic when a lone victim wandered onto their turf and 
defended himself from their attacks by throwing a small hissing canister at 
them."
"Then there must be a neutralizer," Cavanaugh said. "Otherwise, the person 
throwing the canister would become terrified also."
"Yes." Kline cringed from the pressure of the syringe against his neck.
Prescott must have used the neutralizer on himself when he was in Karen's house, 
Cavanaugh realized. Otherwise, the hormone would have overpowered him.
"Without the neutralizer, they couldn't have managed what happened at the World 
Trade Organization riots in St. Louis," Kline said.
All Cavanaugh remembered about the riots was that after three days of chaos, the 
authorities had finally overwhelmed the rioters and forced them into the 
Mississippi. "The tear gas?"
"Contained the fear hormone." Kline shut his eyes in an attempt to relieve his 
tension. "The gas masks, supplied by the military, had the neutralizer in their 
filters. The experiment was a success.
"Except that only a few military officers and Prescott knew what had really 
happened," Cavanaugh said.
"And a few powerful civilians with strong ideas about how your country should 
protect itself. They decided to try another secret test on humans, this time on 
a group trained not to respond to fear. A team of U.S. Rangers on a training 
exercise in a swamp in Florida."
Cavanaugh recalled being troubled by a recent report about fifteen Rangers who 
had drowned in Florida.
Sweating, Kline kept his eyes shut. "Maybe the hormone had the wrong strength. 
Or maybe men trained to use weapons do just that when they're overwhelmed with 
panic. They started shooting at anything and everything. Most of them didn't 
drown—they were hit by cross fire."
Sickened, Cavanaugh found himself leaning back, taking the syringe from where 
he'd pressed it against Kline's jugular.
Except for Kline's labored breathing, the room became silent. It took several 
moments before Kline—pale, taped to the chair, lying sideways on the 
floor—seemed to realize that the syringe had been removed. Slowly, 
apprehensively, he opened his eyes, evidently not believing that Cavanaugh sat 
across from him, the syringe next to him on the carpet. "Keep talking," 
Cavanaugh said.
"Two things happened." Kline tried to raise his head so he could look at 
Cavanaugh straight on. "First, my employer learned about the experiments." 
"How?"
"One of Prescott's researchers was an informant for us." "And the second thing?"
"The informant wasn't cautious about the way he spent what we paid him. 
Prescott's controllers became suspicious, interrogated the man, and discovered 
that the research had been compromised, that an unfriendly foreign government 
wanted the weapon. In tandem with the dead Rangers in the failed experiment, 
that security lapse made the military officers decide it was too risky to 
continue. Before anyone in your government could learn about the research and 
make trouble about it, they aborted the program."
Kline let the implication hang in the air. "You're suggesting Prescott's 
controllers worried about him, about whether they could trust him?" Cavanaugh 
asked.
"Our informant knew the nature of the fear hormone but not how to produce it. 
Only Prescott had all the details. He was synonymous with the research. To shut 
down the program fully—"
"Prescott had to be eliminated," Cavanaugh said.
"Especially because his controllers knew we wanted to get our hands on him. He 
suspected the danger he faced. He fled—with us and his controllers after him, 
one group trying to capture him, the other trying to kill him. We managed to 
track him to that warehouse. Then you showed up, and here we are," Kline said.
"But how did Prescott's controllers learn where we were taking him?" Cavanaugh 
asked. Abruptly, the answer seemed evident. "They must have followed you to the 
warehouse."
"We were careful."
"Perhaps one of your men informed on you."
"Then why did it take so long for Prescott's controllers to try to get him?" 
Kline asked. "They made their move only after you became involved."
Cavanaugh felt his face turn cold. "I was followed? Someone at Protective 
Services told them we were helping Prescott?"
"Your firm protects the rich and powerful. It makes sense that various 
intelligence agencies would keep tabs on your company's activities."
Again, Cavanaugh began to lose focus on reality. He didn't know what to think, 
what to depend on. Then he looked at Jamie, whose beautiful yet worried gaze was 
directed toward him, and he knew very definitely what to depend on.
"To hell with it." Cavanaugh raised Kline from the floor and pulled out the 
Emerson knife.
"What are you doing?" Kline flinched.
"John's going to phone the Justice Department and have your companions picked up 
for a heart-to-heart chat about unfriendly foreign governments."
Kline stared at the knife. "But what's going to happen to me?"
"We're going sight-seeing."
"What?"
"A quiet drive in the countryside."
"With you?" Kline looked pleadingly toward Rutherford. "Can't you see this guy's 
crazy? He'll take me out to the woods. God knows what he'll do to me there. No 
one'll ever find my body."
Rutherford studied Cavanaugh. "Can I talk to you a minute?"
"Keep your pistol aimed at Kline," Cavanaugh told Jamie. He followed Rutherford 
into the bedroom.





19
Rutherford closed the bedroom door. "Are you serious?"
"I need him to show me Prescott's lab. Maybe something there will tell me where 
Prescott went. It's the only direction I can think to go."
"Can't let you," Rutherford said. "Kline's an FBI prisoner now."
"I haven't heard you read him his rights."
"You will in about thirty seconds," Rutherford said.
"How about in a couple of hours?"
"What are you trying to—"
"Once Kline's officially in FBI custody and the Bureau puts him in a government 
facility, the pressure's off him. He won't feel threatened. He won't tell you 
anything more."
"Kidnapping a federal agent can put him in prison for life," Rutherford said. 
"He'll tell us anything we want to know in exchange for a plea bargain."
"But plea bargains take time," Cavanaugh said. "Meanwhile, Prescott's trail gets 
colder. I need everything Kline knows now."
"Can't," Rutherford repeated. "If the Bureau found out I let a prisoner go, I'd 
lose my job."
"You won't be letting him go," Cavanaugh said.
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"I'm taking him."
"What?"
"Wait two hours, then phone the Bureau. Tell them there was another prisoner but 
that I took him before the situation was under control. Tell them we went to 
Prescott's lab. Send a team out there. By then, I'll have learned everything I 
need from Kline."
"You are crazy."
"Let's just say things are happening inside me I need to stop."
"I don't understand."
Cavanaugh held up his shaking hand. "Prescott gave me a dose of the fear hormone 
Kline talked about."
Rutherford didn't say anything for a moment. "God."
"Kline said there was a neutralizer. Prescott has it. I need it." Cavanaugh 
opened the door and went into the living room, where Kline looked apprehensive. 
"Let's go."
"No," Rutherford said.
Cavanaugh thumbed open the Emerson knife, freed Kline from the chair, tied his 
wrists in front of him, and draped Kline's leather jacket over his hands. "We'll 
use the stairs and go out through the emergency exit. Jennifer, get the car. 
Meet us in back."
"I can't let you do this," Rutherford said.
"Two hours, John."
"Don't make me stop you."
"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"
Rutherford stared at him.





PART FIVE
Threat Escalation





1
While Jamie drove, Kline sat next to her. Cavanaugh was in the back, his pistol 
under a newspaper on his lap, ready to shoot through the rear of Kline's seat if 
Kline did anything to justify it.
A hundred miles west of Washington, the Virginia countryside was lush and hilly, 
with fewer towns and more fields and wooded areas as they went along. Occasional 
farmhouses, stone fences, and ponds were visible along the tree-lined two-lane 
road. The prevailing impression, though, was of large estates and horses 
grazing.
At four in the afternoon, there was little traffic. As Jamie guided the Taurus 
into a hollow, up a slight rise, and into another hollow, Cavanaugh asked Kline, 
"How far?"
"Another five minutes."
"You're certain the two men you left here to watch for me have gone?"
"You heard me phone and tell them to leave. You made it clear: You'll shoot me 
if you catch even a glimpse of them. I assure you, they've gone. I gave them no 
warning."
Jamie drove past a sign that read bailey's ridge. "Where's the town? I don't see 
any buildings."
"It's not a town," Kline said.
"Then what is it?"
"A site where a Civil War battle occurred."
Past the sign, a plaque showed a map and an historical note. Jamie stopped next 
to it.
The map was in bas-relief, dramatizing the contour of the wooded hills in the 
area. Arrows indicated where Union and Confederate soldiers had fought one 
another in a battle that had destroyed most of a farm owned by an Irish 
immigrant, Samuel Bailey, killing his wife and daughter. The battle had 
concluded when Bailey put on a fallen Union soldier's jacket, grabbed a rifle, 
and led a company of Northerners across a ridge above his farm, outflanking 
their opponents. Bailey went on to receive a field commission as a captain and 
to fight in numerous other battles, eventually dying from diphtheria, never 
again seeing his farm and the graves of his wife and daughter.
"Well, that's enough to ruin my day," Cavanaugh said.
"Mine already was ruined," Kline said. His wrists remained tied together beneath 
his leather jacket. "Two hollows from here, there's a lane on the right."
Jamie drove on, went up an incline, and descended into the first hollow.
"Take this lane," Cavanaugh told Jamie.
"No, that's not the one," Kline said. "I told you two hollows."
"I know what you told me," Cavanaugh said, "but we're trying this one."
Jamie pulled off the road. Flanked by dense bushes and trees, two shadowy 
weed-choked ruts in the dirt were blocked by a wooden gate, the white paint of 
which had faded to the color of dirty chalk. What attracted Cavanaugh's 
attention was that the weeds in the lane looked crushed, as if a vehicle had 
recently gone over them.
"I don't see a lock," Jamie said. After a cautious glance around, she got out of 
the car and unhooked a rusted chain from the gate, swinging it open. She drove 
through, stopped, and took another wary glance around before she returned to the 
gate and shut it behind her.
"It's so flimsy," Jamie said, getting back into the car, "if we have to when we 
come back, we can always ram through it."
"Park where the undergrowth conceals us from the road. We'll walk," Cavanaugh 
said.
After warning Kline to be quiet, Cavanaugh made him lead the way up a potholed 
lane that twisted through trees and bushes. He had his pistol out, following 
Kline at a careful distance.
Overhead branches shut out the sun. Then the branches opened, and the steep rise 
brought them to knee-high grass in a clearing where old weather-grayed picnic 
benches looked down on a valley half a mile wide. The area down there was 
completely devoted to pasture, no shade trees anywhere, which was odd if the 
pasture was intended for horses, Cavanaugh thought, but not odd if the trees had 
been leveled to create an unobstructed line of fire and to remove places in 
which an intruder might be able to hide.
A wooden sign attached to a post had faded yellow letters that might once have 
been orange: welcome to bailey's ridge.
"Looks like one of the locals tried some kind of tourist thing several years 
ago," Cavanaugh said.
He glanced down at indentations in the long grass, where a vehicle had recently 
been parked. Then he motioned for Kline to walk along a furrow in the grass 
toward the picnic benches. A trampled area around one of the benches attracted 
his attention, as did cigarette butts, the paper of which looked fresh.
"This was where your men watched for me, right?" Cavanaugh asked. He peered down 
at the paved road that went through the pasture. "From here, they could see 
pretty much everything that happened down there. Yesterday, what made you think 
I'd use the next lane?"
"It's the only area where the trees have been cut back from the road. Until a 
month ago, a chain-link fence used to be there. The dirt was disturbed when they 
ripped the poles out. The sanitiz-ers tried to smooth the dirt and put in 
bushes, but it's obvious the landscape's been changed. Every other lane that 
seems to go nowhere is made of dirt and has weeds and potholes. That lane's as 
smooth and weed-free as can be. Beyond the trees, it becomes paved."
"How did Prescott and his controllers get permission to block off a historic 
site?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Prescott didn't need permission. This property's historic, but it isn't owned 
by the government. It's his."
"Is it safe to go down there?"
"Nobody's around. The lab was abandoned as soon as the project was terminated."
"But where's the lab?"
Kline pointed toward the valley.
"I don't see anything except a burned-out farmhouse," Cavanaugh said.





2
"The first time Bailey's farmhouse was destroyed was in 1864," Kline explained 
as they drove along the road through the pasture, approaching the burned 
structure. "After your Civil War, the new owner—an industrialist who'd made a 
fortune selling munitions to the government—bought most of the land around here 
and had a mansion built where Bailey's house had stood. The original cellar was 
incorporated into the design. Stones from the original house were used in the 
walls."
"You should have been a historian."
"My father was." Kline's voice was filled with regret.
They reached the scorched, collapsed building and got out of the Taurus.
Despite the devastation of the burned timbers and the blackened stones from the 
fallen walls, Cavanaugh was able to get an idea of how impressive the mansion 
had been in its heyday. He imagined pillars and two long porches, one above the 
other, people standing on them, waving, as horse-drawn carriages brought 
brightly dressed visitors. "It's a shame Prescott's controllers had to destroy 
it."
"They didn't destroy it," Kline said. "Prescott did."
Cavanaugh and Jamie looked at him.
"Prescott's controllers confined him to the mansion when they terminated his 
project," Kline said. "A man doesn't devote himself to researching fear unless 
he identifies with it. If he's paranoid, he's going to become more so when he 
sees signs all around him that people consider him a liability."
"Fear's his primary emotion," Cavanaugh agreed. And now, thanks to him, it's 
mine, he added silently.
"To protect himself, Prescott did something his controllers could never have 
anticipated, given how proud he was of this property," Kline said. "One night 
when his fear became especially intense and he was certain he was about to be 
killed, he burned the mansion down. Because he looked so heavy and out of shape, 
his controllers had misjudged him, putting a few guards on him, while the 
majority were devoted to keeping intruders such as myself off the property. In 
the confusion caused by the flames, he was able to slip away into the darkness. 
The fire was only half of his tactic, however. He also released the hormone as 
the mansion burned. Under its influence, the guards panicked and shot at what 
they thought were attackers coming through the flickering shadows. Several got 
killed by their own men—another mess that had to be cleaned up. The shots 
brought the guards from the perimeter. Meanwhile, Prescott stole one of their 
vehicles and smashed through a fence at the back of the property. He abandoned 
the vehicle in a nearby town, where he had a car stored in a garage that he'd 
rented under another name."
"Just goes to show—paranoia's a survival trait," Jamie said.
"Where's Prescott's lab?" Cavanaugh asked.
"In back," Kline said.
They rounded the jumble of scorched timbers and stones and approached a similar 
ruin, but this one looked as if it had been a barn.
"The fire Prescott set didn't spread this far," Kline said. "A few days later, 
his controllers were responsible for this one. It was part of their sanitizing. 
An efficient way to get the job done."
"The lab's underground?"
"Under the barn." Kline pointed toward where blackened wreckage had been moved 
to form a path across the barn's concrete floor. He indicated a hatchlike slab. 
"That's the entrance."
"You and your men cleared this? Weren't you afraid of being caught?"
"By whom? I told you the property had been abandoned. There's no reason to guard 
this place. There's nothing here for Prescott's controllers to worry about."
Kline suddenly groaned. As Cavanaugh gaped, Jamie screamed, seeing blood fly 
from Kline's forehead. A faraway shot echoing, Kline toppled face-forward into 
the dirt.
It happened so suddenly and so unexpectedly that Cavanaugh was momentarily 
controlled only by his startle reflex. Until now, after the tension of what had 
happened in Rutherford's condo, he had managed to keep his nervousness at bay. 
This was supposed to have been a fact-finding mission, not a confrontation. Now 
the unaccustomed fear that Prescott's hormone had created in him and that he had 
struggled to subdue took possession of him again. But his fear for Jamie was 
even greater. His muscles responding like tightly wound springs abruptly 
released, he dove toward her, pushing her down with him next to the barn's 
wreckage.
A bullet kicked up dirt beyond their heads, but this time, the shot was close 
and loud, almost simultaneous with the bullet's impact.
A second shot tore up dirt near their feet. Cavanaugh felt the sharp vibration 
through the ground.
At the mansion, charred boards scraped against each other, shifting, creating 
gaps. Blackened rocks toppled. The ruin had seemingly come to life, portions of 
it able to move, assuming independent shapes. One by one, black-clad figures 
rose from ashes, soot, and grime, their faces streaked with carbon. They aimed 
assault weapons.
One of the camouflaged men fired a burst at the ground next to Jamie. Dust flew. 
The ground shook. The roar was overwhelming.
Then the shooting stopped, and in the sudden silence, which was broken only by 
the ringing in Cavanaugh's ears, he managed to control his trembling arms and 
raise them in surrender.
Pale, breathing rapidly, Jamie imitated him.
Slowly, unsteadily, they came to their feet.
"If they wanted us dead"—his mouth dry, his words like paste, Cavanaugh 
murmured, doing his best to assure her— "they'd have shot us by now." He hoped 
he was convincing, that his voice didn't sound hollow. Heat seared his stomach.
Stepping from the mansion's ruin, the dark camouflaged figures continued to aim 
their weapons, which Cavanaugh recognized now as MP-5 submachine guns. Like the 
men who'd rappelled from the helicopters the night of the attack on the bunker, 
these men obviously had special-operations training. One of them stared past 
Cavanaugh prompting Cavanaugh to glance apprehensively in that direction.
From the woods at the back of the valley, the speck of a vehicle emerged. As it 
sped closer, crossing a field, it threw up dust. Then it reached the paved road, 
the dust drifting in the breeze, and even with the ringing in his ears, 
Cavanaugh could hear its engine getting louder. The vehicle was now close enough 
for Cavanaugh to recognize it as a big four-wheel-drive SUV, a Ford Explorer. 
With the sun angled in its direction, he saw the shapes of two people beyond the 
windshield: a broad-shouldered driver and a tall blond woman in her thirties, 
whose oval face and high cheekbones might have been attractive if her eyes 
hadn't been the coldest he'd ever seen.
As the Explorer skidded to a halt, the woman got out. She was around five ten, 
the same as Jamie. Her face had an athlete's tan and no makeup. Her hair was 
like an athlete's also, too short to be combed back. Her eyes were the blue of a 
glacier. She wore sturdy walking shoes, khaki pants, a matching jacket, and a 
beige shirt that gave her a military appearance.
While the camouflaged figures approached with their weapons, the woman told her 
driver, who was built like a weight lifter, "Search them."
The muscular man enjoyed his work, prodding Cavanaugh more forcefully than 
necessary, then pawing Jamie.
You'll pay for that, Cavanaugh thought, trying to use anger to balance his fear.
The driver found their pistols under their jackets and nodded at their 
nonreflective flat-black coating, evidence of the expert gunsmith work that had 
been done on them. The way he put them into his baggy hiking pants, it was 
obvious he intended to keep them as his own. He took their extra magazines and 
Ca-vanaugh's cell phone. He undipped the Emerson knife from the inside of 
Cavanaugh's front pants pocket, approved of that weapon also, and clipped it 
into his own pocket. He also took Jamie's car keys.
"Your names," the woman said.
"Sam Murdock." Cavanaugh gave her the name on the ID Karen had manufactured for 
him.
"Jennifer," Jamie said, using the false name Cavanaugh had assigned her at 
Rutherford's condo. Her ID was with her purse, which she'd left under the 
Taurus's front seat.
"Sam Murdock?" The woman studied the wallet the driver tossed to her. "That 
might be what it says here, but your professional name is Cavanaugh."
"I don't know what—"
"You're with Global Protective Services. You're the one who went to the 
warehouse to get Prescott."
So Kline was right, Cavanaugh thought. Somebody at Protective Services betrayed 
me. I was followed to the warehouse.
"Prescott?" Cavanaugh frowned. "What are you talking about?"
The woman nodded to her driver, who plunged a fist into Cavanaugh's stomach.
Gasping, Cavanaugh sank to his knees. His breath had been so knocked out of him 
that his vision turned gray for a moment as he struggled to inhale.
"You came here to see the lab," the woman said. "Fine. I'll show it to you."
She took what looked like a pager from her belt and pressed a button.
Behind Cavanaugh, a motor droned. He turned in that direction. Hydraulic poles 
tilted the concrete slab up, revealing steps that descended into darkness.
"The shots will attract attention," Cavanaugh found enough breath to say.
"Not around here. Prescott owns most of the land. The locals have been told he 
enjoys target shooting. Now go down to the lab, or else Edgar will throw you," 
the woman said.
"I'll take the first option, thanks."
Cavanaugh managed to stand. Nodding to Jamie, who looked paler and searched his 
eyes for assurance, he went down the steps with her.
"We stripped this place clean," the woman said, voice echoing. "Totally gutted 
it."
The armed men removed Surefire flashlights from their equipment belts. A little 
longer and thicker than a heavyweight boxer's index finger, the compact black 
tubes gave off an amazing amount of light for their size, revealing a long 
concrete corridor that had numerous openings on each side. The air was stale.
"We destroyed all the scientific equipment, the computers, and the files," the 
woman said. "We carted away the furniture. We disassembled the heating and 
air-conditioning systems. We even removed the lighting fixtures, the sinks and 
toilets, the carpeting, the false ceilings, the doors, and the wall panels." 
Taking a flashlight from one of the men, the woman aimed it at the ceiling, 
where insulated wires dangled from holes in which fluorescent lamps had 
presumably once been anchored. She pointed the flashlight in a different 
direction and showed wires projecting from small rectangular holes in the wall 
where light switches had been. "It doesn't get cleaner than this. No one could 
possibly guess what these rooms were used for. Hell, if the barn was still 
standing, you could put hay or animals down here."
"Then why would you care if anybody wandered onto the property?" Cavanaugh's 
voice reverberated. "There's nothing here to bother anybody and get you in 
trouble."
"That's exactly right. There's nothing here but bare rooms. I'm not sure you get 
the point," the woman said.
The armed men stepped closer, aiming the flashlights at Cavanaugh's and Jamie's 
eyes, backing them into the room.
"We're not here protecting anything. My men haven't been lying motionless under 
that rubble merely to demonstrate their skill and patience. We've been waiting."
Cavanaugh didn't react.
"But not just for anybody."
Cavanaugh still didn't react.
"For you."





3
Now Cavanaugh did react, but not in a way that the woman expected. Relying on 
his training, he said, "I need to know your name."
"What?"
"If we're going to reach an understanding, it helps me to know your name. To 
relate. To build a position of trust."
"Amazing," the woman replied.
"In that case, I bet I can guess your last name: Grace."
In darkness pierced by flashlight beams, the woman became silent for a moment. 
When she finally spoke again, she sounded annoyed. "Yes, all our research says 
you're good at using words to manipulate situations. In fact, that's what I want 
from you. Talk. A lot of it."
"About?"
"Prescott."
"How did you know we'd come here?"
"Teach him not to change the subject, Edgar."
Blinded by the flashlights, Cavanaugh couldn't see where the fist was directed. 
He expected another punch to his stomach and braced his muscles there, but this 
time the blow struck his face, knocking him to the floor. Stunned, briefly 
seeing more flashlight beams than were aimed at him, he spat blood. Again, anger 
helped neutralize his fear.
"We thought Prescott was dead, but we didn't find his body on the mountain after 
the fire," Grace said.
You punished me, but I still won, Cavanaugh thought. You're answering my 
question.
"So we decided to keep tabs on our rivals," she said. "They were still trying to 
find him, and they were very interested in anybody else who was trying to find 
him. Yesterday, we saw them kidnap an FBI agent. Then four of them, including 
the dead man outside, set up surveillance on a nearby ridge, obviously expecting 
somebody important to arrive. We hoped it would be Prescott, although we 
couldn't figure why he'd come back. But then two of the men went away. When the 
final two started to leave this afternoon, we interrogated them and learned 
about you and your interest in this place, so we did our own watching for a 
while."
"Why did you shoot Kline?"
"Was that his name?" Grace shrugged. "If he knew anything, he wouldn't have been 
so eager to get his hands on you. I didn't need him, except to make a point 
about how serious we are."
"But you need me, so you won't kill me," Cavanaugh said.
"Meaning how can we make you afraid enough to talk? Why doesn't Edgar have a 
heart-to-heart with your friend here. Maybe that'll make you talk."
The threat was like a hot needle piercing Cavanaugh's chest. Still dazed by the 
blow to his face, he tried to think quickly, to distract Grace from fixating on 
Jamie. "My team and I taught Prescott how to disappear. Then he killed everybody 
but me." What Cavanaugh said was only partly true. He deliberately didn't 
mention that a rocket from Grace's team had blown up Chad and Tracy. Maybe he 
could keep Grace from realizing that he hated her side almost as much as he 
hated Prescott. "I risked my life for that son of a bitch. He killed the people 
who'd pledged to protect him. My friends. Tried to kill me. ... I want him as 
much as you do."
"Then tell us where to find him," Grace said.
On the floor, Cavanaugh raised his left arm, trying to shield his eyes from the 
glare of the lights. More blood dripped from his mouth. "You think if I knew 
where to find him, I'd have come to his lab?"
"You just told me you helped teach Prescott how to disappear!" Grace's voice 
boomed.
"Everything but the final step: his new identity." Cavanaugh's swollen mouth 
made it difficult for him to talk. "We'd arranged for him to go to a forger 
who'd supply him with a new name and documents for it. Prescott got there ahead 
of me, took the documents, and killed the forger. There's no way to find out the 
name and background the forger created for him." "Where did Prescott intend to 
live?" "I have no idea. We hadn't decided that yet." "Edgar," Grace said.
This time, it was a kick to Cavanaugh's side that made him groan. Trying to 
absorb the impact, he rolled, but not far—a corner blocked his way.
As the reverberation of the impact ended, Cavanaugh heard I Jamie's nervous 
breathing. "We told him to pick a spot where he'd never been, where he'd be 
least expected to go, a place he'd never spoken to anybody about."
"You're not making a very good case for yourself," Grace said. "Why should we 
let you live if there's no way you can help us?" "I understand him."
"You understand him?" Grace mocked. "He worked for us for ten years, and nobody 
here understood him."
"Except that he's paranoid," Cavanaugh said. "And he's arrogant."
"You're not telling me anything I don't know. I think Edgar needs to have that 
heart-to-heart with your friend to get you to be more generous with your 
information."
Cavanaugh heard Jamie stop breathing. "Grace, I'll tell you the most important 
thing you need to know about him," he said. "Quit calling me that! If you're 
trying to pretend you're delirious, it isn't going to—"
"Prescott believes he's smarter than everybody else," Cavanaugh said. "So what?"
"I'm betting he thinks he knows how to disappear better than I taught him. I'm 
betting he thinks he can break the rules and be clever enough to get away with 
it." The idea, which had suddenly occurred to Cavanaugh, began to seem more than 
just a stalling tactic.
"Be specific."
Cavanaugh squinted past the nearly blinding flashlights toward where Grace's 
voice came from the darkness on his left. "We asked Prescott if he had a place 
in mind where he wanted to start his new life. He told us no, which we said was 
good"—Cavanaugh wiped blood from his mouth—"because people who have a place in 
mind often make inadvertent comments about it." He took a painful breath. 
"Later, somebody might remember those comments and tell the wrong people." He 
shifted where he lay on the concrete floor, feeling its chill creeping into him. 
"I've been trying to remember if Prescott made any inadvertent slips like that."
"And did he?" "He liked wine." "That's not a bulletin, either."
"He liked fine cooking. He could analyze it the way a chef would." Thinking of 
Prescott's praise for Chad's beef Stroganoff, Cavanaugh felt a mounting fury 
about Chad's death, about how it wouldn't have happened if not for Grace's team 
and the fire Prescott had started. Hating Grace, he hid his emotions by 
concentrating on the pain Edgar had inflicted on him: his aching stomach muscles 
and his mangled lips. "He said the only exercise he enjoyed was golf."
"So Prescott went to Napa Valley or the New York wine district or the Bordeaux 
region of France, where he eats gourmet meals when he's not playing golf—is that 
the news flash you're giving me?" Grace asked. "If you don't start telling me 
something useful, Edgar and your friend are going to start dancing. While he's 
at it, he'll step on your toes a little more."
"Let me finish." Cavanaugh's swollen lips throbbed. "When I met him at the 
warehouse, he had some books and videotapes on a shelf. Not many. But he'd been 
in that hidey-hole for three weeks. It stands to reason that the few things he 
had with him were extremely important to him, enough to keep him amused for that 
length of time." Cavanaugh paused, hoping to sink the hook. "Or to satisfy his 
fantasies."
"Fantasies?"
"About the ideal life he was planning. About the dreamed-of place he was going 
to see with his brand-new identity." "What were the books and the videos?" 
"That's the problem. I've been trying to remember, but I can't think of the 
titles." Again, Cavanaugh was partly lying. He definitely remembered Prescott's 
fascination with the poet Robinson Jeffers. He was trying to give Grace enough 
information to retain her interest while he bought time, in the hopes that he 
could find a way to get Jamie and himself out of there. "He had a porno book. 
Another book about geology. I saw an odd mix of videos. A Clint Eastwood 
thriller. A teenage romance starring Troy Donahue."
"Titles," Grace said. "I told you—I can't remember." "You will," Grace said.
She snapped her fingers. Footsteps scraping, the group backed away. Gripping the 
wall to get support to stand, Cavanaugh felt Jamie help him to his feet. He 
shambled from the room and watched the group climb the concrete steps toward 
sunlight that hurt his eyes.
At the top, Grace had a cell phone to her ear. "Somebody bring Dr. Rattigan ... 
I don't care what he's doing. Get him here now."
The group disappeared into daylight.
With a drone, the concrete door descended, blocking the sun. Three feet. Two 
feet. Cavanaugh cherished the final sliver of light. Then, with a hollow thump 
as the door closed, he and Jamie were enveloped by darkness.





4
The gloom and the isolation were so total that the air felt denser and smelled 
staler. He heard Jamie breathing next to him.
"Who's Dr. Rattigan?" Her voice was unsteady. The complete lack of light caused 
the echo to seem louder.
Cavanaugh's injuries, plus his fear-weakened muscles, made it hard for him to 
keep his balance in the darkness. "My guess is somebody with a satchelful of 
syringes and chemicals to help me remember."
"How hard did he hit you?"
"My smile isn't as winning as it used to be." The joke wasn't much, but 
Cavanaugh had to try to do something to lift Jamie's spirit. "What about you? 
Are—"
"I need to ... I'm sorry, but I have to ..."
Cavanaugh heard Jamie feel her way along a wall and into a room. An urgent tug 
on a buckle was followed by a zipper being pulled down, slacks being dropped, 
urine hissing on the floor.
"Sorry," she said. "Sorry."
"For what it's worth ..." If he hadn't been determined to rouse her spirits, he 
wouldn't have admitted that his own pants were wet. "When Edgar kicked me, my 
bladder let go."
And that's something else he and Grace will pay for, Cavanaugh thought.
Fabric made a brushing sound as Jamie readjusted her clothes. "I don't know if I 
ever told you. When I was a kid, some friends—if I can call them that—locked me 
in a closet. I don't like the dark."
"I'm not crazy about it, either."
"I have trouble in places that make me feel closed in."
"Maybe I can make the space seem larger." The luminous dial on Cavanaugh's watch 
showed the rising motion of his hand as he remembered something in the upper 
pocket of his jacket.
Scrape.
A match flared.
Jamie's surprised face appeared in the flickering light. "Where'd you get—"
"From when we pretended to be smoking outside John's building."
"One of the few benefits anyone ever got from lighting up," Jamie said.
"Edgar's not half as good at searching people as he thinks he is. He also left 
us our belts."
"What good are—"
"The spike on the buckle can be a weapon."
Cavanaugh felt heat as the match burned closer to his fingers. His trembling 
hand made the flame waver. Finally, he had to drop it.
"Step next to me," he said. "Hold my jacket."
The sound of cloth being torn echoed in the darkness.
"What are you doing?" Jamie asked.
"Ripping off my shirtsleeves."
"Why would—"
"To make torches." Cavanaugh tugged at the fabric, which was stronger than he'd 
expected. Finally, he had both sleeves off. His bare arms felt a chill that 
radiated from the concrete around him. Quickly, he put his coat back on.
"My turn," Jamie said. She gave him her blazer. The finer material of her blouse 
made it easier for her and Cavanaugh to tear the sleeves off. She shoved them 
into a pocket.
"We'll be able to see for a while," Jamie said, "but we still won't be able to 
get out of here."
"Imagine you're Prescott." Cavanaugh removed his belt and shoved the spike on 
its buckle through the end of one of his torn-off sleeves. "Suspicious as he is, 
he wouldn't like feeling closed in any more than we do. That concrete door comes 
down and—"
"The hydraulics could fail," Jamie said. "Everybody could be trapped and 
suffocate. Prescott definitely wouldn't like to think about running out of air."
"Right." Cavanaugh struck another match and applied the flame to the end of his 
sleeve. Like many fabrics, it had been treated with a fire retardant. That 
wouldn't stop the cloth from catching fire, but it would prevent the fire from 
spreading quickly, which was what Cavanaugh needed.
He set the sleeve on the floor and pulled it with his belt. That way, he 
wouldn't risk burning his hand. His buckle clattered along the concrete. 
Meanwhile, the shimmering light caused Jamie's face to lose a little of its 
tension.
"A tunnel that goes to Prescott's mansion," she said.
"Exactly."
The buckle continued to clatter as they moved toward the steps leading up to the 
door. Next to the steps, on the right, the burning sleeve revealed a corridor. 
They followed the narrow passageway, only to be stopped by a door.
The door was locked.
Cavanaugh folded up his jacket collar and removed his lock-pick tools. He set 
the belt on the floor, tried to steady his hands, and went to work.
"Can you see to do it?" Jamie asked.
"Most of this is feel." Giving Jamie the lesson he'd promised, hoping to 
distract her, and distracting himself in the process, Cavanaugh explained what 
he was doing. Applying torque with the end of one pick, he inserted the second 
pick into the key slot. The lock was solid and had six pins, each of which he 
nudged.
In fifteen seconds, despite his trembling fingers, Cavanaugh had disabled the 
lock.
But when he pulled the door open, the dwindling flames revealed a solid plug of 
fallen stones and scorched timbers, a sight that made Jamie moan.
"It'll take hours to clean out this much debris, assuming we can do it at all," 
Cavanaugh said.
The flame weakened.
"Not to mention, the noise we'd make would attract attention on the surface. 
We'd have a dozen submachine guns pointed at us if we managed to crawl out."
The flame died.
"What are we going to do?" Jamie asked.
Without an answer, Cavanaugh attached another torn sleeve to the buckle and lit 
it. Hurrying, he led the way back along the tunnel. "What did Grace say about 
all this? What did she mention they took out of here?"
"The air-conditioning and the heating systems. Maybe we can use the ductwork," 
Jamie said quickly. "Maybe there's a ventilation shaft that leads to the 
surface."
They reached the main corridor. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the 
concrete door, Cavanaugh glanced toward the ceiling, finding a two-foot-square 
gap where a ventilation grille had been removed.
Crouching, he interlaced his hands and made them into a stirrup. When Jamie 
stepped onto them, he straightened, lifting her.
She was tall enough that she had no trouble reaching the gap in the ceiling. She 
eased her head up through it.
"See anything?" Cavanaugh asked.
"I can't fit through it, so I guarantee you can't. Damn it, in the movies, the 
air-conditioning ducts are always big enough for Andre the Giant."
As Cavanaugh lowered her, the burning sleeve began to dim. Smoke rose. "What 
else did Grace say? What else did they take out of here?"
"The plumbing fixtures. The lights. The—"
"We know there's electricity." Cavanaugh glanced at the wires protruding from 
small gaps in the walls. "Otherwise, the system that raises the concrete slab 
wouldn't work."
"What switch would have activated the door from the inside?" Jamie headed toward 
wires in a gap to the right of the steps. Plastic caps covered the ends of the 
wires.
Cavanaugh pulled the caps off and studied the bare tips of the wires. "The 
switch that was here was the closest to the steps. If I press these wires 
together, will they make a circuit and cause the door to open?"
In the dimming light, Jamie looked hopeful. Then the spirit in her eyes faded. 
"There'll be guards outside. They'll see and hear the door move."
"Maybe not. If I only tap these wires together, there'll be sound and movement 
just for an instant. Maybe not long enough for anybody to notice. At least we'll 
know if these wires control the door."
"But what good will that do? We'll still be trapped in here." "Until later," 
Cavanaugh said. "Until we think the timing's better. Then we can open the door 
all the way."
"Is that before or after Dr. Rattigan fills you full of chemicals to refresh 
your memory?"
Cavanaugh didn't know what to answer. We've got to try something, he thought.
As he was about to tap the wires together, the door moved seemingly on its own, 
the hydraulic system droning, the door rising.
Sunlight revealed the silhouettes of Grace, Edgar, and half a dozen armed men.
Cavanaugh stepped on the burning sleeve to extinguish it, then grabbed his belt 
and pulled Jamie into the shadows of a room. He didn't know what he hoped to 
accomplish, but anything was better than standing in the open. He removed the 
matchbook from his pocket and tore off several of the matches, along with a 
quarter inch of the abrasive paper, putting them in a different pocket. Then he 
crushed the matchbook inside his fist.
Heavy footsteps indicated that the armed men came down the steps first.
Grace and Edgar followed. "Show yourselves," Grace said. "If you make us search 
for you, we'll throw flash-bangs into each room."
The threat of ruptured eardrums was enough to persuade Cavanaugh to emerge into 
the corridor, Jamie coming with him.
"I smell smoke." Grace glanced toward the ashy remnants of the burned sleeve on 
the floor.
"For light," Cavanaugh said.
"How'd you set fire to the clothing?"
"Matches."
Grace gave Edgar a look of disgust.
There was enough light spilling through the entrance for Cavanaugh to see that 
the gunmen didn't have the distinctive bulky look that came from wearing Kevlar 
vests under their shirts. They wore utility belts with two-way radios, Beretta 
pistols, extra ammunition, and flash-bang canisters.
Cavanaugh shifted his gaze toward Edgar's baggy pants pockets. Something heavy 
weighed down the right side, presumably one of the pistols that Edgar had taken. 
The clip on the Emerson knife was secured to the outside of Edgar's other 
pocket.
"Toss the matches over," Grace said.
Cavanaugh obeyed.
"What did you do, run over them with a car?" Looking disgusted, Grace picked 
them up, their mutilated appearance making the missing quarter inch of abrasive 
paper seem normal. "I've got a computer in the car and access to the Internet." 
Grace gestured with several computer printouts. "Before the good doctor gets 
here, maybe you'd like to refresh your memory the easy way. Troy Donahue." The 
sunlight behind Grace allowed her to read from one of the pages. "Tall, blond, 
blue-eyed teenage heartthrob known for his wooden acting. Peak of 
popularity—late fifties, early sixties. Major hits: A Summer Place. Susan Slade. 
Par-rish. Rome Adventure. Palm Springs Weekend.' Do any of those sound 
familiar?"
"All I saw was the box for the video," Cavanaugh said. "I have no idea what the 
movie was about. The female costar's name was on the box. Mention some 
actresses."
Grace frowned at the page. "Connie Stevens. Sandra Dee. Suzanne Pleshette. 
Stefanie Powers."
"Sandra Dee," Cavanaugh said, knowing he had to keep Grace patient by giving her 
something. "The one with Sandra Dee."
"A Summer Place." Grace read the plot summary. " 'Love at a resort town in 
Maine.' Maybe Prescott was planning to go to Maine." She looked at another 
printout. "Clint Eastwood movies. You said 'thriller'?"
"It definitely wasn't a war movie or a Western."
"Dirty Harry."
"No."
"Magnum Force. The Enforcer. The Dead Pool."
"No."
"The Eiger Sanction. Play Misty for Me. Thunderbolt and Light-foot. Tightrope."
"No." With a rush of emotion, Cavanaugh suddenly remembered the title of the 
movie. He managed to keep his face blank, concealing his reaction.
"You're starting to annoy me. The Gauntlet. The Rookie. In the Line of Fire."
"No."
"A Perfect World. Absolute Power. True Crime. Blood Work."
"No."
"Definitely annoying me. End of list. End of discussion. The doctor'll be here 
in thirty minutes. It'll be a pleasure watching him do his magic on you."
Grace turned angrily and left. Edgar and the armed men followed. The concrete 
door again descended. Again, Cavanaugh savored the last moments of light. Again, 
total darkness surrounded them.





5
This time, the blackness was so palpable that it seemed to squeeze them.
Jamie sounded as if she was having trouble getting enough air. Cavanaugh's legs 
were so unsteady, he wanted to lean against a wall and sink to the floor. He 
struggled to resist. "One thing's in our favor."
"I can't imagine what," Jamie said.
"They still didn't take our belts." His attempt at bravado failed as he felt his 
way into the room where they'd tried to hide. He brushed his shoes along the 
floor and found where he'd dropped his belt. "Give me the sleeves we tore from 
your blouse."
"What good will that do? Grace took your matches. We've got no way to set fire 
to the sleeves."
"Actually, there's another thing in our favor." Cavanaugh hoped he sounded 
confident. "I didn't give Grace all the matches." He removed one from his jacket 
and scraped it against the quarter-inch of abrasive paper.
Nothing happened.
Jesus, maybe I didn't tear off enough of the paper, he thought. Heart pounding, 
he tried it again, and this time the match flared, providing enough illumination 
for him to see the near panic on Jamie's face, which the faint light only 
partially alleviated.
She pulled the sleeves from her blazer pocket. He attached one to his belt 
buckle and put the match to it. As if it were the flickering of their lives, 
they watched the fabric start to burn.
"Thirsty," she said.
"Me, too. Something else to blame adrenaline for."
"My mouth's so dry. ... If only I could get a drink of water. If only they 
hadn't removed the plumbing fixtures."
Suddenly, even in the dim light, Cavanaugh saw Jamie's eyes flash as if she 
realized something.
"What?" he asked.
"Where would the bathroom have been?" She moved haltingly along the corridor.
Cavanaugh's buckle scraped, its echo emphasizing the dark closeness of their 
confinement as he pulled his belt and the burning cloth. "What are you 
thinking?" She told him.
"Maybe," he said. "We might be able to do it." "But it all depends on water," 
Jamie said. Desperate, they checked the rooms along the right side of the 
corridor, finally coming to the next-to-last room, where pipes projected from 
the walls, the vestiges of sinks and urinals that had been removed.
"Damn it, they're capped," Jamie said. "I hoped for valves that could be opened. 
This could've worked."
"It still can work." In the dwindling light from the burning sleeve, Cavanaugh 
studied a pipe that was bigger than the others. Its screw-on cap was 
square-shaped.
"But we don't have a wrench to loosen it!" "Take off your belt."
"What good will ..." Even as Jamie questioned him, she took off her belt and 
gave it to him.
Thankful to have the distraction of doing something, Cavanaugh lit the end of 
Jamie's other sleeve, then used its light to examine her belt's double layers of 
leather, the grain on one strip going in the opposite direction from the other. 
"Let's see how strong this really is."
He put the tip of the belt through the buckle and made a noose. Then he slipped 
the noose over the square cap on the pipe and tightened the belt. When the 
leather firmly gripped it, he pulled on the belt, putting torque on the cap. The 
leather dug into his hands. His arms strained. His feet had trouble keeping a 
purchase on the floor.
The cap wouldn't budge.
Jamie grabbed the belt with him.
They pulled. The cap made a high-pitched sound, budging a little. They braced 
their feet, tugging, and suddenly leaned back as the cap twisted freely.
In a rush, Cavanaugh released the belt and used his hands to untwist the cap. He 
hoped water would start dripping, but even when the cap came fully away, the 
mouth of the pipe was dry.
"There's got to be a main water valve," Jamie said. "It's turned off where the 
water comes into the building."
Dragging the burning sleeve, Cavanaugh followed her to the shadows of the final 
room on the right.
"There!"
In what was evidently a gutted utility room, the flame revealed a large pipe 
that came up from the floor and connected to a network of smaller pipes leading 
into a wall. The main pipe had a valve. Jamie turned it, but even when it was 
opened as far as it would go, the pipe didn't vibrate with the flow of water. 
Nor was there any sound of splashing from the pipe they'd opened in the next 
room.
"The water's been turned off somewhere else." Cavanaugh pivoted frantically 
toward the wall behind him. The panel on an electrical breaker box had been 
removed. Except for a switch on the upper right, which presumably supplied power 
to the front entrance, all the other switches had been removed also. Various 
colored wires dangled.
"This place probably uses a well," Cavanaugh said. "Which needs a pump. But the 
water isn't flowing because the pump isn't getting electricity."
They shifted toward the wires and tried to figure out which went with which. A 
few moment's study made Cavanaugh suspect that the wires hung in vague pairs. 
Holding two wires by their rubber insulation, he joined their exposed tips. 
Nothing happened. He pressed another two together. Nothing.
Jamie desperately did the same. "How much time do we have left?"
"Less than fifteen minutes."
Shadows thickened as the flame weakened. Cavanaugh pressed another pair together 
and saw a spark when they connected. But the flow of electricity had no obvious 
effect on anything around him. He separated the wires but bent them back in such 
a way that he'd have no trouble finding them again.
"Faster," Jamie said. Her raspy breathing echoed. When Cavanaugh could barely 
see the wires he was trying to match, he took off his jacket and tore his shirt 
along its seams, the chill of the concrete making him shiver. After setting fire 
to a section of his shirt, he rushed back to the wires, only to hear something 
droning under the floor and water vibrating through the intake pipe.
"I did it," Jamie said. "I found the right pair." From down the hall, they heard 
water splashing out of the opened pipe in the bathroom.
Trying to control his emotions, Cavanaugh noticed an outline on the floor where 
a furnace had been. He focused on hooks projecting from the wall next to the 
breaker box. The hooks must have had something to do with supporting the furnace 
ducts, he realized.
Pressured by time, he returned his attention to the wires in the breaker box. 
"They've got to be longer."
Jamie pulled two wires from a gap in the wall, stretching them as far as they 
would go. She and Cavanaugh bent them back and forth rapidly to create enough 
friction to break them.
Meanwhile, the pump kept droning, spewing water from the pipes in the next room.
As Cavanaugh used his teeth to pull the insulation off the tips of each wire, 
the flame got smaller. Jamie attached another section from Cavanaugh's shirt and 
pulled the fire into the corridor. "I don't see any water on the floor," she 
said in alarm. They hurried toward the water splashing into the washroom and 
found that only the central part of the washroom's floor was covered with it.
"My God, there's a drain," Jamie said. She yanked off her blazer and pushed it 
onto the drain, trying to create a plug.
Cavanaugh left the burning cloth in the corridor and hurried in next to her, 
adding his jacket as well, pushing it onto the drain.
Tense, they watched the water collect. Feeling light-headed, Cavanaugh realized 
he was holding his breath.
The plug worked. The water began to spread. As it reached the entrance to the 
corridor, Cavanaugh got to the burning cloth and pulled it back to the utility 
room.
He heard a frenzied splashing sound and realized that Jamie was kicking water 
along the corridor, trying to make it spread as far and fast as possible. At the 
breaker box, he grabbed the wires that he'd bent back earlier, the ones that had 
made a spark. Keeping them separate, he extended them to their maximum length 
from the box and connected them to the wires that he and Jamie had taken from 
the gap in the wall, twisting them together.
The tips reached the floor.
Jamie's bare arms flashed in the light from the burning cloth as she appeared at 
the entrance to the utility room. "The water's spreading."
"We have to get it to here." He ran into the corridor with her and had just 
enough light to see that the murky floor was covered with a film of water. He 
helped kick it as far as it would go, guiding it toward the utility room.
Before it got there, he hurried back and raised the wires off the floor, keeping 
them separate, suspending them over the hooks next to the breaker box.
The water entered the utility room. "Jamie, get your belt."
Simultaneously, Cavanaugh separated the burning cloth from his belt and dipped 
its buckle in the approaching water, cooling the metal. He put the belt's tip 
through the buckle and cinched it, making a circle. Jamie did the same with 
hers. He looped his belt over a hook. So did Jamie.
As the water spread toward the burning cloth near them, they waited in silent 
tension for the light to be extinguished. Just before the fire made a hissing 
sound, in the last of the light, Cavanaugh separated the wires that controlled 
the water pump.
The underfloor droning stopped. So did the splashing. The flame went out.
Plunged into darkness again, they waited.
The chill of the water added to that of the concrete. Cavanaugh shivered harder 
now that his upper torso was completely exposed. In the blackness, he listened 
to Jamie's nervous breathing.
He tried to distract her. "When this is over, I'll have to teach you about 
neuro-linguistic programming."
"What's that?"
"A way of using language to control what you're thinking and feeling."
" 'When this is over'? You're doing it to me again, making me think we'll get 
out of this."
"We will get out of this." Cavanaugh hoped he sounded confident. "Visualize 
what's going to happen and what you need to do. Don't let yourself get surprised 
by something you haven't imagined."
"I'm visualizing sunlight."
"Which you'll see very soon."
"The future tense is wonderful."
"Isn't it, though."
A rumble from along the corridor indicated that the concrete door was being 
opened. The sound of numerous footsteps came down the steps, echoing along the 
corridor. Flashlights glared, high enough that they didn't reveal the film of 
water on the floor.
"I've brought your doctor," Grace said.
In the utility room, Cavanaugh and Jamie remained quiet.
"Where are you?" Grace demanded. No response.
"Where are you? Damn it, get out here! I warned you what would happen if you 
tried to hide."
No reply.
"Flash-bangs you want, flash-bangs you get," Grace said.
Fabric rustled. Cavanaugh guessed that the team was putting on ear protection. 
He felt for Jamie's hands, pressed them over her ears, then quickly protected 
his own ears. That would help against flash-bangs detonated a distance away, but 
if any were thrown into the utility room, the nonlethal concussions would be so 
great that hands over ears wouldn't relieve the agony.
In his imagination, Cavanaugh heard the clatter of a flash-bang hitting the 
floor of one of the rooms.
A muffled blast compressed the air around him. Reverberating off the concrete, 
the roar was something he felt as much as heard.
Another distant blast shook him.
And another, coming closer.
Cavanaugh pressed his hands harder against his ears. When yet another flash-bang 
detonated, Jamie leaned against him, trembling. The blasts were in rooms close 
enough that Cavanaugh could see the fierce glare—the flash of the immobilizing 
device—reflect off the corridor's walls. He assumed that Grace and her team were 
shielding their eyes.
The next roar was even closer. The flashlights revealed the shadows of men with 
submachine guns moving along the corridor. As much as Cavanaugh could tell, 
Grace and her team were at the water. Their earplugs would prevent them from 
hearing the faint splash of their footsteps, but any second now, they would look 
down and notice what they were standing in.
In fact, they already had. When another flash-bang didn't go off within the 
interval Cavanaugh expected, he eased his hands away from his ears.
"What's all this water?" Grace demanded. "Where the hell did it come from?"
Cavanaugh tapped Jamie's shoulder, feeling her respond to the signal they'd 
agreed on. She shoved an arm through where her belt was looped over the hook 
above her. Hanging, she lifted her shoes out of the water.
"Check these last two rooms," Grace ordered.
In a rush, Cavanaugh shoved his right arm through where his belt was looped over 
a hook. He raised his knees, hoisting himself off the water.
The next instant, he lifted the wires from the hook where they'd been suspended 
and dropped them into the water.
If this doesn't work ... he thought.
He'd expected to see sparks when the wires struck the water, but he saw nothing 
and immediately knew that he and Jamie were doomed. I'm sorry, Jamie, he 
thought.
An eerie noise made him frown.
Uuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh.
It came from the corridor. Low, wavering, guttural. Several similar sounds 
joined it.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh.
Cavanaugh abruptly understood that he was hearing men groan as electricity shot 
through them. Crack. Bang. Then a clatter. Submachine guns dropped, echoing 
harshly. Flashlights fell, their glare rolling across the water-covered floor, 
their tight seals preventing them from taking in water and being extinguished.
Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
In the grotesque shadows created by the lights pointing along the floor, men 
collapsed, their silhouettes twitching in the water. The stuttering roar of a 
submachine gun tortured Cavanaugh's ears, but he couldn't cup his hands over 
them, had to keep his right arm through the belt, holding himself above the 
water. As the weapons kept firing, bullets ricocheted along the corridor. Men 
screamed. Cavanaugh couldn't tell if a gunman was aiming at an imagined threat 
or if the electricity jolting through the man had caused him to convulse, his 
finger squeezing the trigger. Empty cartridge casings hit the water, some 
jangling on top of one another. Then the submachine gun clicked on empty, and 
another loud clatter indicated that it, too, had fallen to the floor.
Uuuuuhhhhh.
The thrashing shadows in the corridor began to subside.
Uh.
The corridor became eerily quiet. Dangling by his right hand, Cavanaugh used his 
left to raise one of the wires from the water and twist it around the hook, 
interrupting the electrical circuit.
"Now," he told Jamie.





6
They dropped to the water. When they rushed into the corridor, the glare of the 
lights on the floor revealed ten bodies. Cavanaugh grabbed a submachine gun and 
prepared to shoot in case anyone was faking. He saw the contorted body of a man 
in a business suit, a doctor's valise next to him. He saw Edgar lying facedown 
in the water and reached into the man's baggy pants pockets, removing the 
Emerson knife and the Sig Sauer he'd expected to find there. He gave the handgun 
to Jamie and shoved the knife in his own pocket.
Grace. Damn it, where was Grace?
Hurried footsteps directed Cavanaugh's attention toward the end of the corridor. 
Silhouetted by sunlight, a figure darted up the steps toward the entrance.
Cavanaugh fired.
Bullets struck the steps, but Grace had already vanished through the opening, 
ducking to the left. Evidently, she had pressed the remote control on her belt. 
The concrete door began to descend.
Cavanaugh raced toward the steps, wondering how the hell Grace had survived. She 
must have been standing away from the water. Perhaps she'd been wearing 
rubber-soled shoes.
The concrete door sank lower. Cavanaugh heard Jamie charging behind him, but all 
he concentrated on was reaching the steps and lunging up them.
The gap of light was only two feet high now. He dove sideways, scraping his bare 
shoulders and back when he rolled. His body and then his shoes cleared the door 
a moment before it thudded into place.
In eye-stabbing light, he caught a glimpse of four startled men as he rolled 
upward and pulled the trigger, muscle memory controlling the length of time he 
pressed his finger against it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Three and four rounds at a time 
burst from the MP-5.
One man lurched back, blood spurting from his unarmored chest before he could 
raise his weapon. Another man did manage to raise his weapon, the wallop of 
bullets into his face deflecting his aim toward the sky as he fired and then 
dropped.
The third and fourth men scurried toward the rubble of the collapsed barn.
At the same time, Cavanaugh raced toward what remained of the burned mansion.
He dove behind the remnants of a stone wall just before the two men opened fire, 
bullets ricocheting. He hurt his bare chest when he landed on stones, but he 
didn't care—all that mattered was surviving, killing whoever blocked his way, 
and getting Jamie out of there.
But to open the door, he needed the remote control on Grace's belt. Where was 
she? Cavanaugh hadn't noticed her when he'd shot and run for cover. She'd 
disappeared to the left of the entrance, which was now on Cavanaugh's right. Her 
Ford Explorer was in that direction. Was she using it to hide?
A dark green station wagon, presumably the doctor's, was in front of the 
Explorer. Grace might be inching along them, trying to outflank me, Cavanaugh 
thought. Peering through a gap in the stones, he didn't have a vantage point 
that allowed him to see under the vehicles, where the movement of Grace's shoes 
might tell him what she was doing.
Likewise, the ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing faint sounds that 
might have warned him of what Grace or the two men were up to. His heart pounded 
furiously as he realized that he'd landed in a trough that one of the gunmen had 
made when the assault team had hidden among the rubble. To his left were similar 
troughs where wreckage had been removed. He crawled through them, over rubble, 
following the length of the collapsed stone wall. Trying to make as little noise 
as possible, he searched for a gap in the stones, a place through which he could 
study the ruins of the barn and perhaps get a better view of the vehicles to his 
right.
He examined the MP-5 in his hands. Its magazine was capable of holding thirty 
rounds of 9-mm ammunition. He tried to judge how many rounds he had remaining. 
He'd fired three bursts. He'd been trained to release approximately four rounds 
per burst. But perhaps he'd fired more. Assuming he'd shot sixteen rounds, that 
left fourteen in the magazine—if it had been fully loaded—and one in the firing 
chamber, if the gunman had inserted a round there before attaching the magazine.
Be conservative, he thought. Assume you've got only twelve rounds.
He flicked the selection lever from automatic to the single-fire position. He 
extended the butt from a slot in the MP-5's frame, trying to make it aim like a 
rifle. When he raised himself to peer through the gap in the stones, he saw 
movement in the barn's rubble, to the right and left of the closed door. But 
before he could shoot, bullets struck the stones near his head, forcing him 
down. His forehead stung. Liquid trickled from it. When he touched his brow, his 
finger came away with blood from where a chunk flying off the stones had grazed 
him.
He picked up a charred piece of board and tossed it underhand toward where he'd 
first landed behind the wall. He hoped that the clatter would make the gunmen 
think that he'd returned to that position. Peering quickly through the gap he'd 
just used, he saw the man on the right raise his head from cover, aiming toward 
where he'd thrown the board.
Cavanaugh fired, hitting the man's shoulder, knocking him down. Immediately, he 
ducked below the gap as a volley from over there blasted the area through which 
he'd been peering. More chunks of stones flew, dust rising. He felt little 
elation that he'd hit one of the men. The wound hadn't been center of mass. It 
wouldn't have been incapacitating. The man was still a threat.
Jamie, he thought. She'll go out of her mind down there. Maybe some of the 
gunmen aren't dead. Maybe she'll have to fight.
Stop thinking.
He squirmed farther to the left along the collapsed wall, snaking over wreckage, 
scraping his chest more severely. He came to the edge of the ruins and realized 
that the men at the collapsed barn couldn't see him if he stayed low when he 
shifted along this far side. If he could reach the front and creep along to the 
opposite side, he'd have a chance of surprising his hunters. He would also have 
a chance of surprising Grace if she was behind the Explorer and the station 
wagon to the right of the collapsed barn.
When Cavanaugh reached the front of the wreckage, he found the Taurus where 
Jamie had parked it. Not that it did him any good. Without the ignition key, he 
couldn't start the car unobtrusively enough to be able to use it as a surprise 
weapon. In front, the rubble was high enough for him to run in a crouch. Blood 
oozed from the scrapes on his chest. His tongue felt thick. He peered around the 
next corner, seeing the station wagon and the SUV near the ruins of the barn. 
Their sides were angled toward him, concealing what was behind them, but from 
this vantage point, he could hug the ground and see under the vehicles.
Beneath the Explorer, Grace's sturdy walking shoes were visible near the front 
tires. He saw the cuffs of her khaki slacks. She knew enough to crouch behind 
the engine, the only spot where a high-powered bullet couldn't go all the way 
through. Then Cavanaugh saw movement just above the hood. Near the windshield, 
blond hair showed as Grace raised her head slightly to peer toward the collapsed 
wall at the back of the mansion. The angle of her gaze prevented her from 
noticing where Cavanaugh studied her from the front corner.
The MP-5 had a range of 220 yards. In contrast, the Explorer was about 
seventy-five yards away. But under the circumstances, the distance was 
considerable. Cavanaugh wondered if his aim would be accurate enough to hit so 
small a target—the top of her head showing above the hood—with a weapon whose 
barrel was short and whose sights he hadn't calibrated. After everything he'd 
been through, his hands felt unsteady. His nervous breathing would also be a 
liability, making it difficult for him to keep his arms still. If he missed the 
shot, he'd have exposed his position. All Grace and the two men would need to do 
would be to separate and make a wide circle toward the front, catching him in a 
pincer movement.
Changing his mind, he pressed his bare stomach to the ground. In this position, 
propping the MP-5 against the dirt, he had a better chance of keeping the weapon 
steady. With both eyes open, he aligned the front and rear sights, keeping them 
in focus while he aimed under the Explorer toward Grace's shoes and shins. 
Although her feet were apart for balance, the angle from which he viewed them 
made them seem together, giving him a better target than the top of Grace's 
head. He held his breath, braced his arms, and flexed the trigger.
The crack of the shot was so loud that he couldn't hear the bullet's impact, but 
he did hear a scream from behind the Explorer. Staring under the vehicle, he saw 
Grace fall to the ground, her pain-contorted face near one of the SUV's front 
tires. To readjust his aim, he had to peer farther around the corner. Grace saw 
his movement and pointed a handgun under the Explorer in his direction. He 
rolled back an instant before a bullet tore away a chunk of burned wood.
"The bastard's on this side!" Grace shouted. "At the front!"
Cavanaugh rose to a crouch and hurried along the front of the ruins, going back 
the way he'd come, toward the left side of the mansion. Nearly sick with the 
shock of the fight-or-flight hormones rushing through him, he relied on all his 
training, all his years of combat experience, all the nerve that he could 
muster, and charged past the corner. A shocked gunman froze. Having responded to 
Grace's shout and rushed from the barn, the man was halfway along the left side 
of the mansion when Cavanaugh shot him with two quick bursts, tearing the man's 
chest apart.
Cavanaugh kept charging, reached the fallen man, verified that he was dead, and 
grabbed the man's weapon. He had no idea how much ammunition remained in its 
magazine, but at least it gave him more than he already had. Carrying both, he 
reached the left rear corner of the mansion. The remaining man over there was 
wounded and wouldn't emerge from cover unless he had a good reason. Grace was 
wounded also, and could move only by hobbling or crawling. She would want to 
remain behind the Explorer until she knew what was going on. Neither of them had 
any way to tell the outcome of the shots they had heard. Logically, the man over 
here would have yelled to them if he'd been victorious, but if he'd missed and 
was stalking Cavanaugh, he'd have maintained battle silence, so the lack of a 
triumphant shout didn't necessarily mean that Grace and her partner would 
conclude the man over here was dead.
Cavanaugh decided to wait, to let them bleed a while longer, before he risked 
showing himself.
Then, despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a drone. Frowning, he told 
himself that the sound wasn't possible, that it indicated the concrete door was 
opening, but he couldn't imagine how that could be.
The drone continued. Jesus, had Grace used her remote control to open the door? 
Was she trying to lure Jamie out, to use her as a hostage?
Reasoning that the last place either Grace or the gunman would look for him was 
at the very bottom of the corner, at ground level, he dropped to his chest and 
peered around a rock. Squinting toward the ruins of the barn, he saw that the 
concrete door was indeed opening.
He looked behind him, suddenly not trusting his position, wondering if Grace was 
raising the door in order to distract him. Was she hoping to hobble around the 
wreckage of the mansion and sneak up on him while he concentrated on the barn, 
on keeping Jamie from showing herself at the open door?
After another quick look behind him, Cavanaugh once more peered around the 
bottom rock at the corner of the collapsed wall. The door was fully open now. 
Amid the darkness beyond it, something moved.
"Jamie, don't come out!"
Cavanaugh ducked back as he shouted it. The next instant, gunfire shattered 
several stones at the mansion's corner. Fragments flew, dust spewing. Some of 
the shots had been bursts from a submachine gun, but others had been single 
shots from a pistol, telling Cavanaugh that Grace was still behind the Explorer.
"Do you hear me, Jamie! Don't come out!"
This time, Cavanaugh's voice didn't attract shots, presumably because Grace and 
the gunman were saving their ammunition.
"I hear you!" Jamie's voice was faint. "I'm staying where I am!"
"If you show yourself, they'll shoot you or grab you as a hostage! That's why 
Grace opened the door!"
"Grace didn't raise the door! I did!"
What? Cavanaugh thought.
"Those wires you were going to press together! The ones you thought might raise 
the door! You were right! They do!"
"Stay down!"
"How many are out there?"
"Grace and one of her men!" Cavanaugh shouted.
"Where are they?"
"Grace is to your left! Behind the Explorer! Where you saw her park it! The 
man's in the wreckage behind the door to the lab! For God's sake, don't come 
out!" "Is the man to my right or left?"
"He was on your left, but he might have moved! I'm telling you, don't try to 
come out!"
"I'm not!" Jamie shouted. "But I've got an idea! When I tell you, get ready to 
shoot!"
"Whatever you're thinking, don't do it! It's too risky!" "Give me twenty 
seconds!"
What the hell is she going to try? Cavanaugh wondered.
Wary, he looped the strap of his MP-5 over his left shoulder. Then he gripped 
the MP-5 that he'd taken from the man he'd shot. His rationale for using the 
dead man's weapon was that the man wouldn't have risked leaving cover and 
stalking along the side of the mansion unless he'd had an acceptable amount of 
ammunition, but there wasn't time to remove the magazine and make sure.
Cavanaugh backed from the corner. That was where his shouts had come from. It 
was where Grace and the gunman would expect him to show himself. Certain that 
his heart would burst from the rate at which it was pounding, he shifted back 
twenty feet from where he'd been. There the wreckage remained low enough that if 
he stood, he could shoot over it.
Yet again, he glanced warily behind him. If Grace did decide to try outflanking 
him, how long would it take her to crawl or hobble around the mansion?
Jamie shouted from the open door, "Get ready!"
Whatever she's planning, it had better work, Cavanaugh thought.
"Count to five!" Jamie shouted. "Now!"
Baffled, Cavanaugh did so.
One. Two.
He set the submachine gun's selection lever to semiautomatic fire.
Three. Four.
Two explosions startled him. They came from the direction of the barn. Christ, 
they're throwing grenades at the open door, Cavanaugh thought. Furious, he 
surged up and fired at the wreckage to the right and the left of the door. Two 
more blasts went off, the fierce bangs accompanied by eye-searing flashes. Not 
grenades! Cavanaugh realized. Jamie's throwing flash-bangs over the back of the 
door.
Two further detonations shook the rubble. Smoke rose. So did the wounded gunman, 
who clutched his ears and rushed to get away.
Cavanaugh steadied his aim and shot three times. The bullets were all aimed at 
center of mass, but while one hit the man's back, the other went wild and hit 
his neck. The third missed entirely. No matter. So much blood flew from the 
man's neck, Cavanaugh knew he'd bleed to death within seconds.
"He's down!" Cavanaugh shouted to Jamie.
Bang!
Bang!
Bright, ear-torturing explosions on the far side of the barn told Cavanaugh that 
Jamie was now throwing flash-bangs toward the Explorer.
Bang!
Cavanaugh raced toward the front of the mansion and tried to control his 
frenzied breathing as he peered around its corner. Then he raced along the front 
and reached the corner on the right side of the mansion. Again, he checked 
carefully before he risked showing himself.
Bang!
Even at a distance of seventy-five yards, the flashes of the detonations around 
the Explorer were punishing to Cavanaugh's eyes. Reasoning that Grace must 
surely be immobilized by them, Cavanaugh took the chance of racing into the 
open, staying wide of the ruins, trying to get a view of the other side of the 
Explorer.
The driver's door was open. He saw Grace lurching inside, her left leg bleeding. 
He fired at the door, but instead of punching through and hitting her, the 
bullet made the walloping sound of a projectile hitting armor. Grace yanked the 
door shut. Her short blond hair and high cheekbones were vivid behind the 
windshield as she rammed a key into the ignition and started the engine.
Cavanaugh fired at the windshield but only starred it, realizing that the glass 
was bullet-resistant. He fired again as Grace floored the accelerator and 
steered from behind the station wagon, rocketing the Explorer toward him.
He fired a third time, starring more glass. Cavanaugh knew that most 
bullet-resistant glass couldn't withstand five rounds within an eight-inch 
radius. After that, the glass would disintegrate, allowing bullets to penetrate 
it. So he held his ground and fired a fourth time, but now Grace was racing so 
close to him that her glacial blue eyes seemed intensely huge.
When Cavanaugh pulled the trigger a fifth time, he felt the firing pin click on 
empty. He cursed, hurled the weapon at the windshield, and dove to the side an 
instant before Grace would have struck him. As the Explorer roared past, 
throwing up dust, he rolled across the dirt, feeling the MP-5 strapped to his 
shoulder dig into his bare skin.
Instead of speeding along the lane toward the road from which Cavanaugh had 
entered the valley, Grace twisted the steering wheel sharply and curved back in 
Cavanaugh's direction.
Surging to his feet, he unstrapped the MP-5 from his shoulder, but Grace was too 
close for him to have time to shoot.
He darted to the left.
Grace steered in that direction.
He darted to the right.
Grace pursued him.
At the last moment, Cavanaugh feinted to the left, then dove to the right. 
Feeling the rush of air from the Explorer speeding past him, he struck the 
ground, winced, and came to his feet, expecting Grace to turn sharply and come 
at him again.
Instead, the Explorer sped toward the rear of the valley. As its roar 
diminished, Cavanaugh heard something else: an approaching rumble. Gaining in 
intensity, it made a rapid whump, whump, •whump sound. A helicopter. Grace had 
used her cell phone to call for reinforcements, Cavanaugh thought. Then he 
realized, No, she'd stay if the chopper was one of hers. She's trying to get 
away from whoever's in it.
Cavanaugh ran to the Taurus, grabbing a rock along the way. On recent American 
cars, the steering-wheel locks were sturdy enough that he couldn't break them by 
pressing his shoes against the steering column and tugging on the wheel as he 
had when he'd rescued Prescott from the warehouse. Now he was forced to yank the 
unlocked door open, unclip the Emerson knife from his pocket, thumb the blade 
open, and shove it into the ignition slot, using the rock to hammer the butt of 
the knife's handle, ramming the tip of the blade solidly into the slot. He 
closed the knife's handle halfway and twisted violently, gaining torque from the 
ninety-degree position of the handle. The blade's metal was extraordinarily 
hard, designed for this kind of brutal use. After one more fierce twist, 
Cavanaugh felt the ignition lock break, freeing the wheel.
Moving faster, he reached under the dashboard and pulled down a hidden Radio 
Shack switch box that he'd installed when he and Jamie had modified the Taurus: 
a standard precaution in case they didn't have the ignition key. The switch box 
was connected to the starter wires. A press of a button and the engine started.
The passenger door banged open. Cavanaugh raised the Emerson knife to defend 
himself, only to lower it when Jamie dove inside.
"Go!" she yelled. "Go!"





7
Cavanaugh floored the accelerator, feeling the tires bite into dirt, racing 
after the Explorer.
As Jamie slammed the door, Cavanaugh saw the Explorer disappear among trees 
ahead.
"Have you still got the pistol I took from Edgar?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Wouldn't be without it." Jamie's breathing was rapid, loud. "Roll down your 
window. Watch for places where Grace might ambush us."
As the Taurus rushed past trees and dense, shadowy undergrowth, Jamie said, "A 
lot of choices."
The lane crested a wooded ridge, leaving the valley. At the bottom, it twisted, 
then straightened, ending at a T-intersection with a gravel road. Dust swirling 
on the right showed where Grace had turned.
Cavanaugh veered onto the gravel and hurried after her. Light filtered through 
the haze, reflecting off it, making it harder for him to see. He drove as 
quickly as he could and still have time to stop if an obstacle blocked his way. 
A breeze thinned the dust, allowing him to go faster. Then the air was clear 
enough for him to see that he approached an intersection with a paved road.
Where the gravel road continued, there wasn't any dust cloud. Grace must have 
turned right or left onto the pavement, but an equal number of dusty tire tracks 
went each way and made it impossible to follow her trail. "Pick a direction," 
Cavanaugh said. "Left," Jamie said.
Checking for oncoming traffic, Cavanaugh skidded left onto the pavement and 
pressed hard on the gas pedal, urging the Taurus up to a hundred. Trees and 
fields became a blur. Cresting a hill, he was forced to reduce speed so he 
wouldn't be caught by surprise if Grace tried to ambush him on the other side. 
At the bottom of the hill, he stopped at another intersection. Here, the road 
was paved in all four directions.
"Pick a direction."
"Left again," Jamie said.
"Any particular reason?"
"Not much."
"Then left we go."
At the next paved intersection, with the Explorer nowhere in view, Cavanaugh 
stopped at the side of the road. His hands were so tight on the steering wheel 
that it took him a few moments to unclench them.
Sweating, he stared straight ahead. Next to him, Jamie trembled, just as he 
trembled.
"You did good back there," he finally said.
Jamie's voice was hoarse. "Thanks."
"Kept cool." He felt sick. "Didn't panic."
"Wanted to."
"I know the feeling." Sweating more, Cavanaugh kept staring straight ahead. "A 
neat trick, using the flash-bangs."
"I was so furious. I just told myself I wasn't going to die down there."
"Anger's a good motivator." Cavanaugh's hand shook as he wiped his grit-covered 
mouth. "Especially when it comes to dealing with fear."
"1 brought you a present," Jamie said.
"Oh?" Dazed, Cavanaugh glanced down. Next to the Sig Sauer she'd placed on the 
seat was an equipment belt that she must have removed from one of the dead men 
in the corridor. The belt had a holstered Beretta and an extra magazine filled 
with ammunition.
"Thoughtful."
"The way to my loved one's heart. Who has the other Sig? Grace?"
"Probably," Cavanaugh said. "And the car keys. And my cell phone. And my wallet, 
with the ID Karen made for me."
"Reach under the seat."
Puzzled, Cavanaugh did what he was told and held up Jamie's purse. "I'll be 
damned."
The purse's zipper remained closed. Jamie checked inside. "Doesn't look like 
they got to it yet. I still have my wallet and cell phone."
Behind them, the sound of the helicopter descended into the valley.
Jamie glanced in that direction. "Can't be reinforcements for Grace. Otherwise, 
she wouldn't have run."
Cavanaugh nodded. "I'm betting it's John and a team from the Bureau."
Jamie looked relieved. "Then let's hurry back and tell them what we know."
Cavanaugh didn't move.
"What's the matter? If we don't go back, they'll issue arrest warrants for us," 
Jamie said. "Hell, they probably want to arrest us as it is. We took Kline away 
from John, and now Kline's dead. So are all those men back there. And the 
doctor. We've got to explain what happened."
"Can't go back."
"What?"
"Can't trust the FBI. Somebody there worked for Kline. Somebody informed against 
John. If I tell what I know, I might be helping the wrong people get their hands 
on Prescott."
"But John'll find the informant."
"How long will that take, and what if he doesn't? I need the antidote. For that 
matter, even if John does find the informant, even if it is safe to tell the FBI 
what I know, that doesn't solve anything, either. Prescott won't be punished."
"I don't understand."
"The government would protect him. Sure, they'd be appalled by the illegal 
research. Prescott's controllers would be quietly and severely punished. But not 
Prescott. Since the weapon exists and the damage has been done, the Defense 
Department would want to know everything about it, just to have it as an option. 
In the name of national security, they'd hide him some place comfortable, where 
they'd have access to his information. Prescott would get a new identity, a new 
life, everything he wanted in the first place."
Jamie stared at him.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"When we first started this, people were after you," Jamie said. "They wanted to 
kill you. I figured that if I helped you find whoever was hunting you, we could 
get free of it all. We could go back to Wyoming. We could have our lives back."
"Believe me, that's exactly what I want. With everything in me, I want to go 
back to the way things used to be."
"Then why can't we?"
"Karen. Duncan. Chad. Tracy. Roberto. They won't be Prescott's last victims. 
He's paranoid enough that he'll kill again and again if he thinks anybody's 
looking at him wrong, if he fears his safety's being threatened. He has to be 
stopped."
Both of them were silent now. The only sound was a pickup truck clattering 
through the intersection ahead.
"You're going to need plausible deniability," he finally said.
"What?"
"We didn't take Kline. I did. I forced you to go along with me. That's your 
story. Play the victim."
"You think anybody's going to believe that?" Jamie asked.
"Make them believe it. Get yourself out of this."
"You're telling me ..."
"Go back."
"Split up?" Jamie asked.
"You almost got killed because of me. I can't let you risk your life anymore."
"I'm here because I want to be."
"But I can't go after Prescott and worry about you."
"I've handled myself very well."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said. "You have."
"I'm staying."
Cavanaugh peered down at his unsteady hands. Another pickup truck clattered 
through the intersection.
He nodded.
"So what does that nod mean? Where does that leave us?" Jamie asked.
"Somewhere near West Virginia."
"Not funny."
"I've run out of jokes." Cavanaugh studied her grimy arms and blouse, then 
pressed the trunk-release button. Their suitcases were back there. "We'd better 
put on some fresh clothes."
"You're going to need more than fresh clothes."
Jamie's intense gaze made him look down at himself. He was covered with soot 
from head to foot. His pants were in rags. His chest was a chaos of scratches. 
Blood and sweat mingled with the soot.
"We've still got some bottled water in the backseat. I'll wash my face, then put 
on a cap, a shirt, and pants to hide the rest of this until we reach a motel."
"You reek of cordite," Jamie said.
"Some people think it's sexy."





PART SIX
Threat Reprisal





1
The motel on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was two hours north, far 
enough that if Rutherford ordered a search for them, it wasn't likely to be 
successful, especially since Rutherford didn't know Jamie's name or the kind of 
car they drove.
Harrisburg, the state capital, had another advantage. It was large enough to 
have numerous video-rental stores. The Clint Eastwood movie, whose title 
Cavanaugh had remembered but kept secret when Grace had read the list of 
Eastwood thrillers, wasn't hard to find. But the Troy Donahue/Sandra Dee film 
was another matter. After Cavanaugh and Jamie checked into the motel, they 
needed to visit almost every one of Harrisburg's video stores before they got 
their hands on a tape of A Summer Place.
"Star-crossed lovers at a resort town in Maine." Jamie read from the back of the 
VHS box after they returned to the motel.
Cavanaugh put the tape into a player that they'd rented. "Prescott isn't exactly 
a romantic kind of guy, so there's got to be another reason he thinks this 
movie's important."
"Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he wanted to move to Maine," Jamie said.
The tape was so old and worn that it colors were faded and its image had 
speckles. Obviously intended for a wide screen, the panoramic scenery looked 
cramped when trimmed to fit a standard-size TV It didn't help that the screen 
was only twenty inches.
"Music's not bad," Jamie said.
"That's about all that isn't."
While adults had affairs, Donahue and Dee were warned that their own love was 
forbidden. Richard Egan acted almost as woodenly as Donahue. Ponderous scenes 
were punctuated by waves pounding a gorgeous pine-rimmed beach.
"Interesting house."
In the movie, a low, sleek modernistic house occupied a rocky point in a bay. 
Made of stone, the structure resembled the prow of a ship as waves crashed 
against its base.
"Reminds me of houses by Frank Lloyd Wright," Jamie said.
Amid soaring music and scenery-chewing performances, the film mercifully ended.
Cavanaugh pressed the rewind button. "Maine."
"And now for our second feature ..." Jamie picked up Play Misty for Me and read 
what was on the back of the box. " 'Female stalker pursues disc jockey. Clint 
Eastwood's directorial debut. Filmed in his hometown of Carmel.'" She studied 
the picture on the front of the box. "Jessica Walter and a knife. Good. Slasher 
movies are my favorite."
"Actually, it's fairly well made. I saw it so long ago, I barely remember a 
thing about it, but I do recall thinking Eastwood did a decent job. It's nice 
and tense."
"Can't have enough tension," Jamie said.
"California. Maine. Prescott certainly had trouble making up his mind."
"Well, pop in this beauty," Jamie said, "and let's see why Prescott likes it so 
much."
The movie began with a long overhead helicopter shot that moved along a rugged 
coastline with waves smashing against rocks and windblown pine trees hugging the 
bluffs.
Thirty seconds into it, Cavanaugh and Jamie both leaned forward from where they 
sat on the bed.
"Holy shit," Cavanaugh said. "A Summer Place was supposed to take place in 
Maine, but it was actually filmed in—"
"Carmel," Jamie said.
They watched raptly as Clint Eastwood drove his sports car along the craggy 
coast. He and his girlfriend later took long walks along a beach.
"That's the same beach that's in A Summer Place," Jamie said. "The curved shape 
of the bay's so distinctive, I can't imagine there's another like it."
"Look for the Frank Lloyd Wright house," Cavanaugh said.
It never showed up, but that didn't matter. By the time the movie was over, 
Cavanaugh and Jamie were convinced. Play Misty for Me and A Summer Place had 
used the same location.
"What else did you notice when you first met him? You mentioned books," Jamie 
said.
"About photography—one looked like some kind of sex book. And geology. And 
Robinson Jeffers."





2
The Harrisburg library had a dark curved glass exterior and a spacious reference 
area with numerous computer stations. Cavanaugh and Jamie roamed the stacks, 
bringing various volumes to a table in an out-of-the-way area.
"Listen to this," Jamie whispered. "The bay at Carmel-by-the-Sea, as the town's 
really called, is at the tip of a huge underwater gorge that rivals the Grand 
Canyon. Geologists are fascinated by the place."
"That explains one of the books," Cavanaugh said.
"Also, the town's famous for its writers, artists, and photographers." Despite 
the emphasized word, Jamie managed to keep her voice low. "Ansel Adams lived 
there. So did Edward Wes-ton."
"I know who Adams is, but who's—"
"You said you thought the photography book Prescott had was pornographic."
"It had a kind of sexy name and a nude on the cover."
"Passion?"
"What?"
"Could the book have been called Forms of Passion? Take a look."
Jamie slid the book across. The photographer's name was Edward Weston. The cover 
had been removed, but when Ca-vanaugh flipped through the pages, he came to the 
most beautiful nude he'd ever seen.
"This was on the cover," he said.
A slender young woman sat with her head bowed, her forehead resting on an 
upraised knee. She was naked and yet no private part was exposed. Her sensuous 
pose reminded Cavanaugh of an earlier photograph of a pepper that looked like 
two people making love. Another page showed a magnificent seashell with the same 
erotic contours.
"Passion." Cavanaugh stared at the photos. "For everything."
Then Cavanaugh came to landscapes of what the book said was Point Lobos, near 
Carmel. Page after page showed the same beautifully rugged seacoast that had 
been in A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me.
"Is there any doubt Prescott was crazy about this area?" Jamie asked.
A librarian going by didn't seem to notice Cavanaugh's bruised face, but she did 
give Jamie a stare for talking.
Looking apologetic, Jamie peered down at the books. As soon as the librarian was 
gone, she whispered, "You said Prescott had an interest in golf. Pebble Beach is 
one of the most famous golf courses in the world—it's slightly north of Carmel. 
You said he had a gourmet's taste for food. According to this, Carmel has more 
great restaurants per block than just about anywhere. To nail down the 
connection, all we need to do is figure out how Robinson Jeffers fits in."
"I've already done that." Cavanaugh slid his notes across to her. "Jeffers and 
his wife, Una, visited Carmel in 1914 and were so struck by the area that they 
stayed there the rest of their lives. Jeffers bought land, hauled chunks of 
granite from the beach, and spent years building a stone house and a forty-foot 
tower. He called the place Tor House after some rock formations in England. He 
and Una died there."
Cavanaugh showed her a book of Jeffers's poems, drawing attention to two lines.
I built her a tower when I was young— Sometime she will die—
"Prescott and I discussed those lines about the tower when I first met him, but 
I had no idea what they referred to," Cavanaugh said.
"Now you do."
"Now I do."





3
They drove. Because of increased security at airports due to terrorist threats, 
Cavanaugh was leery about trying to get to Carmel by air. At the numerous 
checkpoints, he would have had to show a picture ID, but Edgar had taken the 
fake driver's license and credit cards that Karen had created for him. Moreover, 
Rutherford and the FBI presumably had an alert out for persons resembling Jamie 
and him. Everything considered—the ease of traveling with weapons was another 
factor—driving had a lot to recommend it.
Plus, it gave Cavanaugh a further chance to heal. To passing drivers, the Taurus 
seemed just another car on the road with an ordinary couple inside, although 
injuries to the man's face indicated that he had recently been in some sort of 
accident. Those injuries probably explained why the man was letting his beard 
grow.
Interstate 80 took them through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa.
In Nebraska, studying the flat open countryside, Cavanaugh said, "Reminds me of 
Oklahoma."
"Oh?"
"I spent a couple of years there as a kid."
Curious, Jamie glanced at him.
"My father had the bad luck to drill oil wells after the boom was over."
He hesitated.
"I had a dog. Nothing fancy. A mutt. About the size of a miniature collie."
Jamie studied him, waiting for him to continue.
"My dad and mom and I moved around a lot while my dad looked for work. Sometimes 
the only job he could get was the most dangerous. Once, when I was a kid, I saw 
him put out an oil-well fire. He wore a suit that made him look like an 
astronaut. He used a bulldozer and dynamite. Afterward, he got drunk. He did 
that a lot. He came home that night and argued with my mom. When I tried to keep 
him from hitting her, he hit me. Then my dog starting barking, so my dad showed 
everybody who was boss and kicked the dog to death."
The only sounds became the drone of the engine and the hum of the tires.
"My mom left him after that," Cavanaugh said. "It took a lot of courage for her 
to face up to his anger. She and I were even poorer than when we'd been with 
him. But somehow she made do, found a decent man, even managed to send me to 
pretty good schools. I think my mom and my stepfather expected I'd be a lawyer 
or something. But I had too much anger in me. I wanted to get even for all the 
beat-up moms and kicked-to-death dogs in the world, so I joined the Army and 
went through special-operations training. I had plenty of chances to put 
terrorists and other bullies out of business. But I realized I eventually had to 
plan ahead. There's not much a special-ops soldier can do with his skills in 
civilian life. Become a mercenary, work for the CIA, join law enforcement, or 
get into private security. When one of my former Delta Force instructors offered 
me a job as a protector, I jumped at it. I guess it's not hard to understand 
why. I've got a thing about victims. I'm still trying to help my mother. I'm 
still trying to protect my dog."
Jamie finally spoke. "That's the longest I've ever heard you talk about your 
past. In fact, it's one of the few times you've ever talked about your past."
"Prescott pretended to be a victim and turned out to be a bully. Because of him, 
now I'm afraid of bullies. I won't let him get away with it."
Driving through Wyoming, neither of them commented when they passed an exit that 
would have taken them north to the Teton Range, to Jackson Hole and their home.





4
After four days, Interstate 80 brought them to San Francisco. They followed the 
Pacific Coast Highway south to Carmel and spent the night in a motel. But 
Cavanaugh had trouble sleeping, too preoccupied with what needed to be done.
"Where do you want to look first?" Jamie asked the next morning over a ham and 
cheese omelette in the motel's diner.
Cavanaugh had only coffee. "How can you eat so much and stay so thin?"
"I've got a high metabolism. Besides, when I'm worried, I need to eat."
"We're safe for the moment."
"That's not what I mean." They were at a corner table, their backs to a wall. 
The nearest tables were empty. A television droned behind the counter. Even so, 
she lowered her voice. "You're not being hunted any longer. This isn't following 
orders in combat. This isn't self-defense. It isn't protecting a client. You're 
the hunter now. If you get what you want, I'm worried about how it'll change 
you."
"Prescott raised a similar issue."
Jamie looked puzzled.
"After I rescued him from the warehouse, we nearly got trapped at a shopping 
mall. The team chasing us left a car outside. I managed to sneak up on it and 
shout to its driver to run away. The driver was too startled to move. I had to 
shoot through the car's roof before he got his legs to work. Later, Prescott 
asked me why I hadn't just killed the man."
"And what did you answer?"
"That the man hadn't given me a reason, that I was a protector, not a ..."
Jamie didn't need to say anything further to make her point.
"I wonder if Prescott's counting on that," Cavanaugh said bitterly. "He can't be 
sure I died in the fire at Karen's house. I wonder if the son of a bitch is 
betting that my personality's essentially defensive, that I won't come after him 
for betraying me and my friends."
Jamie stayed silent.
"He'll have changed his appearance," Cavanaugh said. "He'll probably wear 
glasses now. He's had enough time to grow a mustache or a beard. He might even 
have had some plastic surgery. His heaviness will be hard to disguise, though."
Troubled, Jamie started eating her omelette again.
Cavanaugh glanced at the television behind the counter. A commercial for a 
weight-losing product showed before and after photographs of a formerly bulky 
man who was now amazingly thin. He turned toward Jamie. "When I first met 
Prescott, he had shelves of the most carbohydrate-heavy, calorie-rich foods 
imaginable. Macaroni and cheese. Lasagna. Ravioli. Potato chips. Candy bars. 
Chocolates. Classic Coke."
"That would put the pounds on all right."
"Suppose he went on a crash diet."
Jamie looked up.
"It's been almost three weeks since I last saw him," Cavanaugh said. "If he 
starves himself, if he drinks tons of water to flush his system ..."
"A man as determined as Prescott..." Jamie nodded. "It wouldn't be healthy, but 
I bet he could lose a pound or two a day."
"Jesus," Cavanaugh said, "at that rate, he'd soon be unrecognizable."
"But even with that beard you're trying to grow to disguise your appearance, 
you'll be very recognizable," Jamie said. "Prescott could blend with a crowd and 
see you coming."
"Not you, though," Cavanaugh said.
"What do you mean?"
"He doesn't know you're with me. He could look straight at you and not be aware 
you're hunting him."
"Hunting him is what you're doing," Jamie said.





5
Ocean Avenue was the only Carmel street that went directly from the highway down 
to the water. Steep and several blocks long, it was separated by a median of 
shrubs and sheltering trees. Quaint shops and relaxed-looking tourists flanked 
it.
While Jamie drove, Cavanaugh scanned the people on the sidewalk, wondering if 
he'd get lucky and see Prescott.
It didn't happen.
At the bottom of the hill, they came to waves pounding a picture-postcard 
mile-long crescent-shaped beach of amazingly white sand. Sections of bedrock 
protruded. Cypresses spread fernlike branches. Two surfers in wet suits rode the 
whitecaps. Dogs frolicked through the waves while their owners strolled behind 
them. Gulls soared.
But Cavanaugh's attention was focused on the people along the beach, none of 
whom reminded him of Prescott.
Jamie steered left and followed a scenic road along the water. Rustic homes were 
enclosed by trees, some of which were Monterey pines, their guidebook said, 
while others showed the distinctive twisted trunks of wind-contorted live oaks.
Jamie pointed toward an outcrop on the right. "There's the house from A Summer 
Place."
It still reminded Cavanaugh of the prow of a ship, but the constant crashing of 
waves had not been kind to it. "Looks deserted," he said, giving it only a 
moment's notice before continuing to concentrate on people walking along the 
beach or the side of the road.
Prescott wasn't any of them.





6
They stopped on a quiet, narrow, tree-lined street that hadn't existed when 
Robinson Jeffers and Una had settled in Carmel.
After walking up a brick driveway, they opened a wooden gate and entered a 
compound.
Cavanaugh had read so much about the place, about the gaunt-cheeked, lanky 
Irishman's epic struggle to build it, that he'd expected something on that epic 
scale. Instead, he was surprised by how intimate it felt. Colorful flowers and 
shrubs reminded him of an English rural garden. On the left was the 
forty-foot-high stone structure that Jeffers had called Hawk Tower, with its 
chimney, staircase, battlement, and turrets. To the right was the low stone 
house with its gently sloped shingled roof and stone chimney.
A brick walkway led to a door, where an elderly gentleman explained that he 
worked for the foundation that maintained the property. "Would you care for a 
tour?" he asked.
"Very much."
"Have you been in an accident?" the white-haired man asked sympathetically, 
noticing Cavanaugh's face.
"A fall. I'm taking some time off from work, recuperating."
"Carmel is a fine place to do that."
Inside, the rooms that Jeffers had painstakingly built were small and yet 
somehow spacious. From the weight of the structure, the air felt compressed. A 
slight chill came off the paneled walls. In the living room, Cavanaugh studied 
the stone fireplace on the right and the piano in the far corner. Windows 
provided a view of the ocean.
The guide took them through the guest room, kitchen, and bathroom on the main 
floor and the two attic bedrooms, one of which Jeffers had used for writing.
"Robin, as we liked to call him, built the house on a small scale," the elderly 
man explained, "to withstand ocean storms. He and Una had twin sons, and you can 
imagine how much they all loved one another for them to be able to live happily 
in such cramped and isolated circumstances. They deliberately didn't have 
electricity installed until 1949, after they'd lived here thirty years."
Cavanaugh felt a curious tightening in his throat.
"Notice the poetry that Robin etched into this beam," the guide said. "They're 
not his words, however. They're from one of his favorite works: Spenser's Faerie 
Queene."
Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life 
does greatly please.
Now Cavanaugh felt hollow.
"If you'll follow me to Hawk Tower," the elderly man said.
Considering Jeffers's somber themes of human frailty as opposed to the abiding 
strength of nature, Cavanaugh was surprised by the humor that Jeffers had put 
into the tower. Intended as a retreat for Una and a playhouse for his sons, it 
had a dungeon and a "secret" interior staircase in which the children could 
hide. From a lookout on top and from several narrow windows, the sea was always 
in view.
"Una died in 1950, Robin in 1962, she from cancer, he from a variety of 
ailments," the guide said. "Robin had bad lungs and hardened arteries from 
smoking, but since he never recovered from Una's death, I've always assumed that 
what really killed him was a broken heart. She was sixty-six. He was 
seventy-five. Still too young to go, some would say, and yet what a full life. I 
don't tell this to the children whose teachers bring them here for tours, but 
I'll tell you. In their youth, at night, Robin and Una would send their children 
up to sleep in one of the attic bedrooms. Then they would"—the elderly man 
hesitated only slightly—"make love in the guest room downstairs before going up 
to the other attic bedroom. The bed that they made love in is the bed that they 
each later waited to die in. Their ashes are buried together in that corner of 
the garden."
On the street, car doors were opened and shut. Cavanaugh looked past the flowers 
and the wooden fence toward a family getting out of a van.
"Here are some samples of Robin's verses." The guide gave Cavanaugh and Jamie a 
few photocopies. "If you have any questions ..."
"Actually, I do." Cavanaugh glanced toward the approaching family, satisfying 
himself that the father wasn't Prescott. "But it's not about Robinson Jeffers."
The guide nodded and waited.
"I'm looking for someone. I'm almost certain he came here recently. He's a 
Robinson Jeffers fanatic."
The guide nodded again, as if it was only reasonable that everyone should be a 
Robinson Jeffers fanatic.
"His name's Daniel Prescott." Cavanaugh doubted very much that Prescott would 
use his real name, but there was no harm in trying.
"Doesn't ring any bells."
"He's in his early forties. Around six feet tall. Wears glasses. He has a 
mustache, but he was thinking about growing it into a beard." Cavanaugh wanted 
to cover several possibilities.
"Sorry I can't help you," the guide said. "That description could fit a lot of 
men. I see so many people, they become a blur."
"Sure. He was also pretty overweight. Under a doctor's orders to drop a lot of 
pounds. Have you seen anybody in his forties who looks as if he lost a good deal 
of weight recently?"
"How would I know?"
"Loose skin around the face and especially under the chin."
"That doesn't ring any bells, either. But if I do see somebody like that, do you 
want me to give him a message for you?"
"No," Cavanaugh said. "The truth is, I'm a private detective, and I'm trying to 
find him."
The guide's eyes widened.
"He's got three wives and twelve kids. When he gets tired of his domestic 
arrangements, he runs. Changes his name. Doesn't pay child support. A real 
sleazebag. We think he moved to the Carmel area and plans to start yet another 
family. Lord knows when he'll abandon his next wife. I've been hired to find him 
and get him to accept some responsibility for his actions. The joke is, he's a 
fanatic about Robinson Jeffers, but he never learned a thing about the devotion 
Jeffers wrote about in his poetry."
The guide looked troubled that anybody could fail to learn the truth about 
Jeffers's work.
"If this joker comes by, try to notice his license plate number or get a name 
from him or something," Cavanaugh said. "Don't make him suspicious, though."
"I'll be as subtle as possible."
"And for heaven's sake, don't tell him I'm around."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"I'll get him," Cavanaugh said.
"I certainly hope so."





7
Pebble Beach was just to the north. They took a roundabout route through 
Carmel's sleepy streets, always on the lookout for anyone who even remotely 
resembled Prescott.
No one did.
At a toll gate, Jamie paid to get onto the area's famous 17-Mile Drive, a 
picturesque route that bordered the extensive golf course, allowing a view of 
its greens, ponds, sand traps, and the ocean in the background. Deer roamed 
freely. Cypresses and Monterey pines flanked multimillion-dollar properties. 
Cavanaugh ignored it all, watching for Prescott.
At Pebble Beach's lodge, Jamie drove through the entrance and parked in an 
out-of-the-way spot, from where Cavanaugh could watch guests arriving and 
departing. Then she went inside, only to come back ten minutes later, looking 
puzzled.
"What's the matter?" Cavanaugh asked.
"If Prescott had visions of playing golf at Pebble Beach all the time, he was in 
for a big surprise. Unless you've got influence, you need to make an appointment 
to play here a year in advance."
"A year?"
"And if you're with a group, it's two years. If you're right and he'd been 
planning this for a long time, he might have made an appointment quite a while 
ago, somehow finding a way to keep his controllers from knowing what he'd done."
"A big risk," Cavanaugh said. "And he wouldn't have known his new name back 
then. He wouldn't have had a credit card to go with it to reserve the 
appointment."
"So unless he found a way to get influence here, which is hard to do in a couple 
of weeks," Jamie said, "you can come back in about a year and see if you 
recognize him."
"I had in mind a little quicker timetable," Cavanaugh said.
"There are at least a dozen golf courses in the area. Some of them might not 
have as long a waiting list. What did you plan to do? Go from one course to the 
next? Find a spot near the links and use binoculars to watch the players in case 
someone who reminds you of Prescott shows up?"
"If that's what it takes."
"A lot of time. Too many chances to miss him. The FBI has enough personnel to 
watch all the golf courses simultaneously."
"No FBI," Cavanaugh said.
"They also have the resources to run background checks on guests who haven't 
played here before," Jamie said.
"No FBI," Cavanaugh repeated.





8
Sheltered by a cypress, Cavanaugh sat at the northeast rim of Carmel's beach, 
close to where the shore rose to the grass of the Pebble Beach links. He was far 
enough inland that he blended with the trees and shrubs behind him. The air was 
balmy, the afternoon sun reflecting so brightly off the water that he had to 
wear sunglasses.
"All roads lead to Rome?" Jamie asked.
"And everybody in the area ends up going to Carmel's famous beach. As much as 
the golf courses and 17-Mile Drive, this is the big attraction." Cavanaugh 
studied the long crescent of white sand. Hundreds of people were on it, reading 
in beach chairs, splashing in the surf, strolling, jogging, or tossing Fris-bees 
to dogs. "I can't imagine that Prescott would live in the area and not come down 
here. At first, he'd be apprehensive about showing himself. He'd probably stay 
close to wherever he's living. But eventually he'd begin to loosen up. He might 
even come down here for exercise. Hell, for all I know, he got himself a dog."
"The FBI could check everybody who recently bought property around here," Jamie 
said.
Cavanaugh continued watching the people on the beach.
"It's just a thought," Jamie said.
"I keep seeing Roberto with his head beaten in ... Duncan with his face full of 
bullet holes . . . Karen literally scared to death in her wheelchair."
"The government might not be as lenient with Prescott as you think."
Instead of responding, Cavanaugh glanced down at a map of the shops in town. 
"The big bookstore is in the Carmel Mall. We could keep a watch on the place. 
Since Prescott likes books, there's a good chance he'd eventually show up 
there."
"Unless he buys books off the Internet."
"There's nothing like a real bookstore, though."
"In that case, he might decide to make the short drive north to Monterey," Jamie 
said.
Cavanaugh gave her a look.
"Just trying to investigate alternatives," she said.
"Which brings us back to sitting here on the beach and watching for him."
"Fine with me. I'll get a beach chair and a book. I can use the rest," Jamie 
said.
"After dark, we'll stake out the best restaurants and see if he shows up."
"I was sort of hoping we could eat in those restaurants, not watch them."
"Given how little he's probably eating these days, he'll want the small portions 
he allows himself to be exquisite. Only the top two or three restaurants in town 
will be acceptable to him."
"Unless he eats at home."
Cavanaugh gave her another look.
A jogger sprinted to their end of the beach, turned, and ran back in the 
opposite direction.
"Weight loss," Jamie said.
"You thought of something?"
"I'm going to hate myself for being honest. It'll take more than dieting for 
Prescott to lose weight fast. He'll need exercise. Hours and hours of it."





9
Cavanaugh waited in an art gallery while Jamie found a break in traffic and 
crossed to the opposite side, where a walkway led to what their map indicated 
was a warren of shops in the center of a block. They'd learned that one of the 
exercise clubs they wanted to check was on the second floor of a building over 
there, affiliated with a nearby hotel. The time was now 4:30. Although there 
wasn't any guarantee that Prescott would use an exercise club, let alone that 
particular club at that particular moment, Cavanaugh couldn't risk entering, 
just in case Prescott might, in fact, be present. Because Prescott didn't know 
Jamie existed, the safer course was for her to go in alone and look around. If 
no one aroused her suspicion, she was to tell an instructor that she was writing 
a health-magazine article about overweight people who'd lost a remarkable amount 
of weight in a short time thanks to their determination. Then she'd ask if any 
of the club's members fit that description.
Pretending to appreciate the gallery's paintings, Cavanaugh often glanced 
through the front window toward the other side of the street. The late-afternoon 
sun put some of the doorways in shadow. As tourists went in and out of the mews 
over there, he checked his watch, then feigned interest in more of the 
paintings.
Thirty minutes later, he was still pretending to be interested in the paintings.
He stepped outside and crossed the street. Pots of brightly colored flowers 
flanked the mews's entrance. Beyond them, shifting among tourists, he passed a 
walkway on his right. According to what he and Jamie had learned, the exercise 
club would be along the next walkway on the right. He turned a corner, passed 
more flowers, and came to steps that led up to the second floor. A sign read the 
fitness clinic.
Upstairs, he scanned the lobby and the long, bright exercise room beyond it. 
Jamie was nowhere in view. Staying to the side of the lobby, he carefully 
assessed the people working the various machines. None of them reminded him of 
Prescott. Amid the hum of treadmills and the clank of weights, he approached a 
muscular man in tight shorts and a T-shirt who stood behind a counter.
"I'm supposed to meet my wife here, but I'm late," Cavanaugh said. "Do you know 
if she's still around? Tall, thin, auburn hair. Good-looking."
The instructor frowned. "Is your name Cavanaugh?"
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Man, I'm real sorry about what happened."
"Sorry?"
"After your wife fainted, her two friends told me she's got some kind of low 
blood pressure problem."
Cavanaugh's hands and feet felt numb.
"I wanted to call an ambulance," the instructor said, "but they said she'd had 
fainting spells a couple of times before. Nothing life-threatening. Something 
about her electrolytes being low."
Cavanaugh's stomach turned to ice.
"So I got them a bottle of Gatorade from the machine over there," the instructor 
said. "They gave her a couple of sips and helped her stand. She was woozy, but 
she could walk, sort of, if somebody put an arm around her."
"Friends?" Cavanaugh could barely speak.
"Two women who came in behind her. A good thing there were two of them. The one 
with the crutches couldn't have handled your wife all by herself."
"Crutches?" The lobby seemed to waver.
"Because of a cast on one leg. She said she knew you'd be worried, so she left a 
message for you." The instructor reached under the counter and set down an 
envelope.
Cavanaugh's fingers didn't want to work as he fumbled to open it. The neatly 
hand-printed note inside made him want to scream.
Tor House. Eight tomorrow morning.





10
Grace, Cavanaugh thought. He struggled to keep control. Despite the weakness in 
his legs and arms, he drove at random through the area, going around blocks, 
making U-turns and heading back in the direction from which he'd just come. He 
timed traffic lights so he got through them just before they turned red, using 
every technique he could think of to make sure he wasn't followed. Cursing, he 
realized that Grace had made the connection between A Summer Place and Carmel. 
With no other direction in which to go, she was searching the area as he and 
Jamie had been doing. Sometime during the day, their paths had crossed. Perhaps 
at Tor House. Grace didn't know about Prescott's fascination with Robinson 
Jeffers, but that didn't matter. Tor House was one of the local attractions and 
had to be investigated. Perhaps Grace had been approaching it when she'd seen 
Cavanaugh and Jamie get in their car and drive away. That would explain Grace's 
choice for a meeting place tomorrow. Or had it been on 17-Mile Drive or at 
Pebble Beach's lodge, or had Grace seen Cavanaugh through binoculars while she 
scanned Carmel's beach?
This much was certain: Grace had followed him, had taken her chance to grab 
Jamie, and was probably following Cavanaugh now. Inhaling sharply, he realized 
that while he'd been away from the Taurus, Grace might have planted a location 
transmitter in the car, making it easy for her to follow at a distance. 
Cavanaugh immediately stopped at a gas station and checked the obvious hiding 
places in and under the car. He used a pay phone to call information and get the 
numbers for Radio Shack stores in the area. One—to the north, in Monterey—was 
open until nine o'clock, he discovered. After asking directions about how to get 
there, he drove the seven miles along Highway 1 as fast as he could without 
breaking the speed limit. Using an FM receiver that he purchased at the store, 
he walked around the Taurus several times, slowly changing stations, waiting to 
hear the beep . . . beep . . . beep of the location transmitter. It would be set 
to one of the unused FM bands in the area. On Grace's end, the loudness or 
softness of the signal would tell her if Cavanaugh was near or far. But if Grace 
had managed to get something more sophisticated, something that used ultrasonic 
transmissions, Cavanaugh couldn't hope to find a comparably sophisticated device 
at Radio Shack to detect it.
After an hour in which he failed to discover a transmitter, he got back in the 
Taurus and resumed his evasive driving, frequently checking his rearview mirror 
to see if any headlights took the same direction he did. At last, fatigue and 
frustration wore him down. He returned to the motel room that he and Jamie had 
rented. Grace might use chemicals to make Jamie tell her the name of the place, 
but as much as Cavanaugh was tempted to spend the night somewhere else, he 
couldn't let himself. If Jamie escaped, she would phone the room or return to 
it, looking for him. He kept the lights out, wedged the bureau against the door, 
and sat on the floor in the corner next to the front window, his knees drawn to 
his chest, his pistol in his hand, not daring to sleep, ready to shoot if 
anybody crashed through.





11
Fog made the morning like twilight. Arriving at 7:00 a.m., an hour early, he 
parked a block away from Tor House. He shut off the headlights, the windshield 
wipers, and the engine, then stepped out into the fog. The car's heater had done 
little to warm him. Now the chill dampness made him tremble. Wanting to button 
his sport coat against the cold but needing to keep it open so he could draw his 
pistol, he forced himself to move. The fog thickened, shadows deepening. The 
echo of his footsteps made him shift to the side of the road, where fallen pine 
needles provided a cushion.
As he approached the street on which Tor House was located, he wasn't sure what 
he hoped to accomplish by arriving early. The fog prevented him from identifying 
any ambush sites. What am I supposed to do when Grace shows up? he wondered. 
Shoot? Hope to wound her? Try to force her to tell me where Jamie is? Grace 
won't let it be that easy, and if this is an ambush, she could just as easily 
shoot me.
Pausing, trying to assess the shadows of trees, shrubs, and houses before him, 
Cavanaugh realized that he should have listened to Jamie and not gone after 
Prescott. Then she wouldn't be missing and he wouldn't be standing here in the 
fog, as afraid as he'd ever been in his life.
No longer afraid for himself. Afraid for Jamie.
He had difficulty making his legs work. If, in the past weeks, anger had helped 
him to offset fear, the need to protect Jamie now proved to be an even greater 
force. During the night, he'd considered doing what Jamie had wanted and asking 
the FBI for help, but with no time to coordinate a plan, with the risk of a 
hastily assembled hostage-rescue team giving itself away, there was every chance 
that Grace would have sensed the danger and not shown up, destroying Cavanaugh's 
potentially single chance to save Jamie.
As he passed murky trees and spectral homes, shifting closer to where he 
estimated Tor House was, the fog chilled him to the core, a sensation he would 
not have thought possible, given the searing heat in his stomach. Because no one 
lived in Tor House, he was tempted to hide somewhere on the grounds, possibly in 
Hawk Tower, and hope that the fog would thin in an hour, allowing him to watch 
Grace's approach.
For all I know, Grace is already hiding on the grounds, he thought. Maybe she's 
in the tower.
Bup-bup.
The sound made Cavanaugh's heart lurch. He stopped halfway through the 
fog-shrouded intersection.
Bup-bup.
The sound came closer.
Bup-bup.
Seeing motion in the fog, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.
Bup-bup.
A silhouette appeared at the edge of the fog. The noises stopped.
In the distance, the surf pounded.
"You got here an hour early, huh?" a voice asked. Grace's. "Trying for an 
advantage. How come I'm not surprised?"
Cavanaugh couldn't speak.
"I'm stepping closer," Grace said. "I'd appreciate it if you don't shoot me 
again."
Bup-bup.
Grace's tall, trim silhouette emerged from the fog. Again, she had a 
pseudomilitary look: khaki pants, a matching tuck-in sweater, and a 
photographer's jacket, the kind with numerous loops and pockets, good for 
concealing a weapon.
But what Cavanaugh noticed most were the crutches she held under her armpits. 
The rubber pads on the bottom accounted for the noise he'd heard on the 
pavement. A cast covered her lower left leg.
"A good thing it's the left one. Otherwise, I'd have trouble driving. Care to 
autograph the cast? X marks the spot where you shot me?"
Again, Cavanaugh couldn't answer.
"Maybe later," Grace said. "After we finish our business." The fog drifted 
around her short blond hair, creating the illusion that the fog emanated from 
it. Her high-cheekboned face might have been attractive if her expression hadn't 
been so disagreeable.
She frowned at the Beretta in Cavanaugh's hand.
He holstered it.
Somewhere in the fog, a door banged.
"Let's go down to the beach, before we wake the neighbors," Grace said.
She swung her feet forward, set them down, and moved the crutches. One landed 
slightly later than the other. Bup-bup.
"Shooting me is something I can understand," she said, "but forcing me to watch 
all those Troy Donahue movies is unforgivable."
Bup-bup.
"I couldn't tell if you were lying that the movie also starred Sandra Dee, so I 
had to suffer through Donahue's greatest hits. Rome Adventure? With so many 
terrorist threats against Americans in foreign countries, someone as suspicious 
as Prescott wouldn't go to Europe. For sure, the tobacco farms in Parrish aren't 
Prescott's thing, even with all the sex-starved women the movie expects us to 
believe lurk among the tobacco plants. Palm Springs Weekend? It has the golf 
course Prescott wants, but because he built his lab in a lush Virginia valley, I 
couldn't imagine him living in a desert. That left A Summer Place and that 
amazing beach, which turned out not to be in Maine at all."
The fog parted enough to reveal that Cavanaugh and Grace had reached the scenic 
drive above the surf. Cold sweat beaded Cavanaugh's face.
"But to find that out," Grace said, "I had to watch every Clint Eastwood 
thriller I could get my hands on. As much as I enjoy watching Clint shoot bad 
guys, a steady diet of it can be a little much after a couple of days. I'm not 
sure I'll ever be able to make myself go to another movie of his. That's 
something else I blame you for."
"Where did you spot us?"
"I concentrated on Prescott's interest in golf. I knew sooner or later you'd 
look for him where every golfer dreams of playing: Pebble Beach. Yesterday, you 
showed up there."
Cavanaugh didn't respond for a moment.
The surf kept pounding.
"Shit," he said.
"Then I waited for my chance."
"How did you manage to subdue Jennifer?"
"Spare me the disinformation. The ID in her purse says her real name is Jamie. I 
called in a favor from a friend. My only friend, I might add. Thanks to you, the 
Justice Department is investigating Prescott's lab and everybody associated with 
it. At the moment, my controllers would prefer that Prescott and I both didn't 
exist. My friend gave Jamie a touch of this." Grace showed Cavanaugh a small 
spray container. It was sealed in a plastic bag. "The guy behind the counter 
seemed relieved that we got Jamie out of there. Fainting isn't the best 
advertisement for an exercise club. My crutches added sympathy. Nobody suspects 
that a woman with crutches is anything but a victim."
It seemed to Cavanaugh that his heart pounded louder than the surf. "Is Jamie 
safe?"
"As much as can be expected. But whether she's going to be depends on you. Have 
you had enough time to think about how much you miss her? Are you ready to do 
what you're told?"
Temples throbbing, Cavanaugh waited for her to explain.
"I need Prescott," she said. "It's the only way to keep my controllers from 
considering me a liability. If I can get him, if I can complete my assignment 
and deliver proof that he's dead, they might trust me again, enough that they'll 
let me disappear on my terms, rather than theirs."
Cavanaugh felt sick.
"You're going to get him for me," Grace said.
"You followed us around the area. Isn't it obvious I don't know where he is? 
Damn it, I don't have any better idea of where he is than you do."
"But you've got two good legs, and because of you, I don't. If you want Jamie 
back, find him," Grace said. "Find him by this time tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"That's how much time you've got. That's how much time I've got. If the 
situation with Prescott isn't settled by tomorrow, my controllers will be so 
panicked, so distrustful of me, I'll never be able to regain their confidence. 
Find him. Here's my cell-phone number." Grace handed Cavanaugh a piece of paper.
"You want me to bring him to you?"
"Bring him to me? Hell no. I want you to kill him, then show me the body."
Cavanaugh couldn't help thinking that setting out to kill Prescott was what had 
caused this mess.
"Here," Grace said. "Maybe this'll help."
She gave him the sealed plastic bag containing the spray container that had made 
Jamie faint.
"It lasts a couple of hours," she said. "The chemical works via skin contact. Be 
sure you wear a latex glove when you administer it." As Cavanaugh put the bag in 
his jacket pocket, she added, "If I don't hear from you by this time tomorrow 
morning, the next thing you'll get from me will be Jamie's corpse."
They stared at each other.
The surf roared.
Grace stepped into the gloom.
As the sound of her crutches receded, the fog became colder. Shaking, Cavanaugh 
wanted to follow her, in the hope that she'd lead him to where Jamie was being 
held. But trying to follow Grace on foot would be useless once she got in her 
car and drove away. Even if he managed to identify the make of the car and get a 
license number, he didn't have a way to trace it. Moreover, he had to assume 
that Grace might have rented a car and would never be associated with it again. 
The alternative was to hurry to the Taurus and drive back to this street on the 
unlikely chance that Grace would not yet have reached her car. But in the fog, 
he'd be forced to use his headlights. She was bound to see them.
If she felt he was a threat, she might decide to cut her losses, kill Jamie, and 
do her best to disappear.
No, he thought. I have to find Prescott.
And then? he wondered. Can I depend on Grace to keep her word and let Jamie go?
Bup-bup. The sound of the crutches became fainter. In the fog, the dim 
headlights of an indistinct car swept past him on the scenic drive. The car's 
engine became a murmur as the vehicle stopped. A door was opened and then 
slammed shut. The sound of the car receded into the distance.
He raced up the fog-choked street toward where he'd left the Taurus. Kill 
Prescott? he thought. No way. I've got to keep him alive. That's my only hope of 
getting Jamie back.
But first, God help me, I need to find him.





12
"This is Rutherford," the deep voice said.
Outside a gas station, Cavanaugh clutched a pay phone. "Do you still hate 
Chinese food?"
Rutherford hesitated only a moment. "That was quite a war zone you left us."
"Self-defense."
"You'd be a lot more convincing if you'd stuck around to explain what happened. 
Do you have any idea how many agents are looking for you, how many laws you've 
broken? I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where you've been."
"Be glad to, since your caller ID system will tell you anyhow. Carmel."
"Nice to have the leisure for a vacation." Rutherford's voice thickened with 
sarcasm. "Someday, I'll take one"—several voices spoke chaotically in the 
background—"when I'm not up to my ears helping investigate Prescott and his lab. 
The Justice Department thinks it's identified Prescott's military controllers, 
but with the lab destroyed and Prescott missing, there's no way to connect them 
with the lab or to prove it was manufacturing an unsanctioned biochemical 
weapon. The same goes for proving the weapon was tested illegally on civilians 
and military personnel."
"Maybe I can help get the proof," Cavanaugh said.
"Earlier in the week, you had the chance to stick around and do that, but you 
bugged out."
"I've had a change of heart." He gripped the phone with such force that his 
fingers ached.
"How do you explain this miraculous turnaround?"
"My wife's missing." Trying to keep his voice steady, Cavanaugh explained what 
had happened to Jamie and what he needed to do to get her back. "Will you work 
with me on finding Prescott and using him as bait?"
"Work with you? Hey, you wouldn't include us before, so why should we include 
you now?"
"Because that's what it'll take for me to tell you where to look."
"In Carmel? I already figured that much."
"I can give you a lot more focus than that, but listen to me, if this isn't done 
right, she'll be killed."
The voices in the background, presumably an office, were all Cavanaugh heard for 
several moments as Rutherford thought about it.
"So what's the right way?" Rutherford finally asked.
"Check all the golf courses in the Carmel/Monterey area. Get the name of every 
golfer who contacted them within the past three weeks to make an appointment to 
play."
"But that could be thousands."
"Then talk to all the Realtors in this area. Get the names of everybody who 
bought or leased property around here in the past three weeks. If Prescott 
leased, he might have done it through someone other than a Realtor, but we've 
got to start somewhere. Compare those names to the golf lists. Look for the 
common denominators."
Rutherford became briefly silent again. "A lot of people to talk to. This'll 
take time."
"I don't have time. This afternoon, John. I'll call you back this afternoon." He 
almost slammed the phone's handset down in helplessness. As he ran toward the 
car, he couldn't help thinking that phoning Rutherford was exactly what Jamie 
had wanted him to do in the first place.





13
"Bob Bannister." Cavanaugh extended his right hand in greeting.
"Vic McQueen." The instructor put a lot of manly sincerity and strength into his 
handshake.
Cavanaugh let Vic crush his fingers for a few seconds and then withdrew them. "I 
write for a new fitness magazine called Our Bodies, Our Health. It's based in 
Los Angeles, but thanks to E-mail and the Internet, I didn't have to move from 
around here."
Vic nodded in sympathy with anyone who might have been forced to leave the clean 
air of the Carmel Valley for the smog of LA.
"My editors are pretty wild about an idea I suggested," Cavanaugh said. "I want 
to write an article about how quickly people can get into shape if they're 
really determined."
Vic cocked his head in interest. They sat across from each other in an office, 
where shelves supported various fitness trophies and the walls had autographed 
photographs of Vic with other well-built, incredibly healthy-looking people in 
skimpy T-shirts: presumably celebrities in their field.
"I'm talking about worst cases," Cavanaugh said, "people who huff and puff 
crossing a room, who're overweight enough that they look like coronaries ready 
to happen. An article that shows it doesn't matter what kind of wreck a person 
is. With the proper motivation, diet, and instruction, that person can get in 
shape, can dramatically change his or her life in a relatively short time. Not 
the six months or a year you normally read about. For people in really bad 
shape, six months or a year is an eternity. They don't want to imagine suffering 
for months and months. They want quicker results. What's that joke? The trouble 
with instant gratification is, it takes too long.'"
Vic frowned. "How quick are you talking about?"
"A month. I want to know if it's possible to take a guy who's really overweight, 
put him on a healthy, lean diet, teach him how to work the machines, watch over 
him, encourage him, get him coming in here several hours each day, start low and 
build his stamina, vary his exercises—could he lose a lot of pounds in a month 
and start to look like you?"
"Like me? In a month? Hell no, not like me."
"But could he look dramatically in better shape?"
"It'd be dangerous."
"So is being a physical wreck," Cavanaugh said. "What I want to write is a 
before and after kind of article. I want to show that a health club like this 
can work wonders in a very short time. The hook for the piece is: A person 
doesn't have to be patient to be fit, as long as there's motivation."
Vic debated with himself. "Might work as long as you pointed out the risks of 
going too fast."
"I'll have you read the article before I send it in. That way, you can make sure 
I've got it right. Maybe we can get some photographs of you and a couple of the 
miracle cases you've worked with."
"Photographs of me? Sure."
"And what about your club members? Do any of them fit the profile?"
"Well, we had a guy in here six months ago who—"
"I had in mind somebody who started recently, so I can get pictures of him as he 
goes through the process."
"Nobody at the moment." Vic looked crestfallen. "Does that mean you won't put me 
and the club in the article?"





14
"Most of our members are in terrific condition. From time to time, we get 
remedial cases, but not in the past three weeks."
* * *
"We do wonders for people if they give us the chance, but . . ."
* * *
"Not in the past three weeks."
* * *
"I might have just the guy," the Nordic-god fitness instructor said.
Cavanaugh concealed his reaction. This was the tenth exercise club he'd visited. 
Having exhausted Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Monterey, he was now ten miles to 
the east, in the community of Seaside on Monterey Bay, near the former Fort Ord 
military facility. Working to seem calm, Cavanaugh poised his pen over his 
notepad and said, "Really?"
"His name's Joshua Carter. Not Josh. Joshua. He's very particular about that. 
Came in here"—the instructor thought a moment—"a little under three weeks ago. I 
remember because he looked so out of condition I doubted he'd stick to the 
program. But he's been coming here every afternoon since then. I mean every 
afternoon. Stays four hours. At the start, I thought he was going to kill 
himself, drop dead on a treadmill or one of the weight machines, but he paces 
himself, works at a steady rate, doesn't overdo or strain. Afterward, he sits in 
the sauna and sweats off more pounds."
Cavanaugh somehow managed to keep his hand steady as he wrote on the notepad. 
All the while, his heart was on overdrive. "Sounds like he'd be perfect for my 
article."
"Only trouble is, you're a little late for the photographs."
"Late?"
"He's so determined, so strict about his workout and his diet, he looks 
different from when he came in. I almost didn't recognize him when I returned 
from a three-day camping trip. I couldn't get over the rate at which he's 
improving himself. The only 'before' pictures you'll get are ones he might have 
at his house."
"Well, if he doesn't have any photos, I'm wasting my time. What are his phone 
number and address so I can ask?" Cavanaugh phrased the question in positive 
terms that programmed the instructor to act upon it.
"Let's have a look." The instructor pressed keys on a computer keyboard. 
"Seventy-eight Vista Linda. That's one of those new streets that got built after 
the city took over the Fort Ord golf course." The instructor wrote down the 
phone number. "You know, something bothers me here. I've got to be honest."
"Oh?" Tensing, Cavanaugh wondered if the instructor had suddenly suspected he 
wasn't a magazine writer.
"The more I think about it, Joshua might not be right for your article. He's 
getting in shape so rapidly, it's not natural. I sometimes wonder if it's not 
just his determination and his diet and the help we're giving him."
"What do you mean?" Cavanaugh anticipated the answer but made the pretense of a 
frown.
"Well, I don't want to get you in trouble with your magazine if you write this 
article and they print it and down the road somebody finds out a lot of the 
difference Joshua made in his body is due to ..."
"Steroids?"
"All that talk about weight lifters and professional football players using 
them, the steroid scandals in the Olympics, the rumors about some of those women 
tennis players using them . . . It gives the fitness industry a bad name. Some 
people look at me, at all these muscles, and say, 'Sure, if you take steroids, 
anybody can look like that.' I swear to God I've never taken steroids in my 
life. They cause heart attacks and strokes. They're the opposite of every health 
principle that got me into this business."
Steroids would be in keeping with Prescott's biochemical background, Cavanaugh 
thought. "Did you ask Joshua about it?"
"He was shocked at the question. He swore he had nothing to do with that junk."
"But?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Part of me can't imagine how else he could make such a quick difference in his 
body."
"When I meet him, if he agrees to help me, I'll make a point of asking him. 
What's he look like?"
"Around six feet tall. Early forties. Still a little puffy, but not much. He's 
getting more trim and solid all the time. One of the reasons I didn't recognize 
him is, while I was away camping, he got his scalp shaved. He's growing a 
goatee."
The reference made Cavanaugh think of Roberto's goatee, and that, in turn, made 
him think of Roberto's bashed-in skull.
"Sounds like he's photogenic. Great for the article," Cavanaugh said. With 
everything in him, he wanted to see Prescott's skull bashed in, but he had to 
repress his anger. Getting Jamie was all that mattered, but to get her, to force 
Grace to return her, he had to keep Prescott alive. "What time does he usually 
come in?"
"Around one."
Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. Checking so many health clubs had consumed the 
morning. The time was now 12:35. Time. He didn't have much time. "Joshua must 
have a night job or something if he's got so many free afternoons."
"Night job? I don't think he's got any job," the instructor said.
"I don't understand."
"He dresses real well. Has a gold watch. A Piaget or something like that. I know 
it's expensive because when he joined the club, he made a big deal about whether 
the lockers were secure. Drives a brand-new Porsche. Not a Boxter. A Carrera. 
Lives on a fancy street. I get the feeling he's got so much money, he doesn't 
need to work."
A gold watch? Cavanaugh thought. A Porsche? Didn't Prescott remember what 1 told 
him about keeping a low profile?
"Money? I'm sorry to hear that," Cavanaugh said.
"What do you mean?"
"Rich people are usually concerned about their privacy and don't like to have 
articles written about them. They're afraid it sets them up to be robbed or 
something. Do me a favor. When Joshua comes in, don't tell him about this 
conversation. Let me approach him in my own way. Otherwise, I might not be able 
to persuade him, especially if he thinks you've been talking about him. For that 
matter, if he suspects you told me he might be using steroids, he could get 
upset enough to sue you for slander."
"Jesus Christ, sue me?"
"Maybe even sue the club. Rich people are like that. Don't worry. I'll leave you 
out of it. Just don't talk to him before I do."
"Man, I'm out of this, believe me."
"A Porsche, huh?"
"Yeah."
"If I ever won the lottery, I'd buy one. Red. That's my favorite color."
"Joshua's is white."





15
At 12:55, a white Porsche drove into the parking lot to the right of the redwood 
and glass exercise club. Breathing faster, Cavanaugh watched from a Starbucks 
across the street and scribbled the Porsche's license number on his 
stenographer's pad. Pretending to enjoy a latte, he sat a careful distance from 
the coffee shop's windows. He watched the Porsche stop in a parking space near 
the club. A tall, only somewhat overweight man got out. Even from a distance, it 
was obvious that the man's black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover were 
designer-expensive. The man's scalp was shaved. He had a goatee. Tan, he wore 
sunglasses.
Cavanaugh managed to seem calm as he set down his coffee, concentrating fiercely 
on the man who called himself Joshua Carter. If this was Prescott, the change 
was startling. A puffy, awkward, pasty-faced man was becoming something else, 
reshaping his body. Although he still had more volume to lose, what he had 
already lost had modified the contour of his cheeks and jawline. His goatee and 
shaved head altered his profile also, giving him a burly, masculine appearance. 
In an odd way, he was almost handsome. Beneath his comfortably loose clothing, 
Cavanaugh sensed, the man was developing strength and power.
Given the time frame, that doesn't seem possible, Cavanaugh thought. Something 
like steroids had to be part of the self-improvement mix, or else . . . An idea 
struck him: Had Prescott developed some kind of hormone stimulant?
The man paused a moment, scanning the parking lot and the area around him, 
before he pulled a dark gym bag from behind the front seat. Was he checking for 
trouble or simply enjoying his surroundings? His sunglasses prevented Cavanaugh 
from seeing if Carter glanced warily from side to side as he walked toward the 
front of the exercise club. But before he opened the door, there was no question 
that he looked behind him along the street.





16
Fifty. Fifty-two. Fifty-four. Hands tight on the steering wheel, Cavanaugh drove 
along Vista Linda, noting the house numbers. The street consisted of elaborately 
landscaped million-dollar homes with magnificent views of what was called the 
Bayonet/ Blackhorse Golf Course, a name left over from when Fort Ord had been 
active.
Sixty. Sixty-two. Sixty-four. Even with the street's proximity to the golf 
course, Cavanaugh didn't understand why Prescott had chosen to live somewhere in 
the Monterey peninsula area other than Carmel. Perhaps Prescott was staying away 
from a spot that he feared might be associated with him. But if he was being 
extra cautious, why the hell was he wearing a gold watch and driving around in a 
Porsche?
Seventy. Seventy-two. Cavanaugh planned to learn what he could about the layout 
of Prescott's house, find a way in, and use the knockout spray Grace had given 
him to subdue Prescott and arrange to trade him for Jamie. He would no doubt 
have to bypass a burglar alarm, and it wouldn't be easy getting in without 
neighbors seeing him, but he didn't have a choice.
Seventy-four. Seventy-eight was just ahead, an imposing, impressive two-story 
pseudo-Hispanic structure with a tile roof and . . .
Cavanaugh slowed, staring at the for sale sign on the front lawn.





17
"Sorry to bother you," Cavanaugh said to the elderly wispy-haired man who 
answered the door, "but I couldn't help noticing the sign across the street."
From too much sun, the man's leathery brown face had numerous creases. His stern 
gaze deepened them.
"My dad's a surgeon in Chicago, wants to retire out here," Cavanaugh said. "He's 
crazy about golf, so I've been driving around, seeing what places are for sale. 
The house across the street looks perfect, but this is a newly built area, and 
I'm wondering if there's something wrong with the place that it's being sold so 
soon."
"That god-awful sign," the man said.
"Excuse me?"
"I told her to put the house on the market privately. What do we want with a 
sign like that making the neighborhood look junky and Realtors and people who 
can't afford to live here coming around, gawking, cluttering up the street? No 
respect. The minute Sam died, his wife couldn't wait to sell the place."
"Sam?"
"Jamison. He and I moved here the same week two years ago. He dropped dead on 
the golf course yesterday morning, and that damned sign was sticking up in the 
yard by afternoon."





18
At the nearest gas station, Cavanaugh rushed to a pay phone. He shoved a phone 
card into a slot and pressed numbers.
"Rutherford," the deep voice said.
"How are you coming with those lists?" Speaking quickly, Cavanaugh was surprised 
by how breathless he felt.
"We've got a dozen agents working the phones from Washington. We sent agents 
from San Francisco and San Jose down to liaise with the agent we've got in the 
Carmel/Monterey area. But we still haven't been able to contact a lot of the 
Realtors, and as for the golf courses, I wish I had a dollar for everybody who 
wants to play there."
"You've got to hurry. Check this license number. It's a California plate and 
goes with a new Porsche Carrera. White." Cavanaugh dictated the number. "Who 
owns the car?"
"Are you at..." John recited the location and number of the pay phone Cavanaugh 
was using.
"Your caller ID system's damned good."
"Damned and good don't go together," the Southern Baptist said. "Stay where you 
are. I'll contact the California DMV and call you back in ten minutes."
"Make it as quick as you can. I'll be waiting."
The instant Cavanaugh hung up, he hurried to the Taurus and drove away, certain 
that in a very short while, a police car sent by Rutherford would arrive, 
looking for him. He went ten blocks and stopped at another gas station with an 
outside pay phone. Time, having sped by, now dragged agonizingly. Exactly when 
he was supposed to, he shoved his phone card into a slot and pressed numbers. 
His hand sweated on the phone's receiver. "What did you find?"
"You were supposed to stay where you were."
"What did you find?"
"The Porsche's leased."
"What?"
"Only for a month. To someone named Joshua Carter. The company he leased it from 
says he gave his address as seventy-eight Vista Linda in Seaside, California. 
The local police department's sending an unmarked car to check it out."
Cavanaugh could barely speak. "Tell them to forget it. Carter doesn't live 
there."
"Doesn't live there? If you knew that, why on earth did you ask me to—"
"I was hoping you'd find a different address."
"This is crazy. I need you at the command center we're setting up. This time, 
stay where you are."
"Right." Cavanaugh hung up and ran to the Taurus.





19
Jesus, Prescott's so paranoid, he created a false identity within a false 
identity, Cavanaugh thought as he watched the exercise club from the Starbucks 
across the street. The son of a bitch probably did what we told him at the 
bunker. Checked old newspaper obituaries. Found the name of a child who, if he'd 
lived, would now be the same age as he was. Knowing that most parents get Social 
Security numbers for their children at the time they're born, and that some 
states, California among them, include Social Security numbers on death 
certificates, he went to the hall of records in the city where the child died 
and asked for a copy of the death certificate. With the Social Security number 
from the death certificate, he could get a driver's license and a bank account 
in the child's name.
Pretending to read a magazine, Cavanaugh sat back from the windows. The 
instructor had said that Joshua Carter usually stayed four hours. The time was 
now five o'clock. Presumably, Prescott was using his second false identity to 
test his surroundings. If his remarkable transformation at the exercise club 
attracted the wrong attention, he could abandon the easily dispensable Joshua 
Carter persona and go to ground, relying on the absolutely dependable, 
irreplaceable identity that Karen had created for him. When he came out of the 
club, he would revert to that identity and drive to his actual residence.
I can't hope to catch him alone in the club, subdue him, and get him out of 
there without people trying to stop me, Ca-vanaugh thought. But if I can follow 
him . . .
Prescott stepped from the building. Pausing in the sunlight, he stood a little 
straighter than when he'd gone in. His shoulders looked a little more broad, his 
chest a little more solid. His cheeks, flushed from exertion, seemed subtly 
thinner. Whatever chemical he was taking, it worked remarkably in tandem with 
exercise and a strict diet. He wore sunglasses and the same black loafers, gray 
slacks, and blue pullover as when he'd gone in. He carried the same dark gym bag 
as, scalp glistening, he scanned the street and turned to his left toward the 
club's parking lot. At the Porsche, he again looked around, then got into the 
car.
The moment Prescott drove from the lot, Cavanaugh hurried outside to where he'd 
parked the Taurus behind Starbucks. Fifteen seconds later, he followed. That 
length of time was critical because he'd tested both directions on the street 
and had concluded that fifteen seconds was a little less than the time it took, 
at the speed limit, to reach the stop sign at either end. As Cavanaugh emerged 
from the Starbucks lot, he saw the Porsche reach the intersection on the right. 
A moment later, Prescott turned left.
Cavanaugh headed down to the intersection, turned left, and saw the Porsche 
among the traffic a block away. He knew he couldn't keep up with the sports car 
if Prescott used its maneuvering abilities to weave in and out of traffic and 
turn corners with an efficiency that made up for staying within the speed limit. 
But Cavanaugh hoped that once Prescott was away from the exercise club, he'd 
abandon the glitzy persona he'd created and do his best to blend, at least as 
much as he could with so expensive a car.
In keeping with that logic, Prescott drove conservatively along Del Monte 
Avenue, taking that main thoroughfare west into the adjoining city of Monterey, 
where he made two conservative turns in the congestion of five o'clock traffic 
and entered a two-story parking garage next to an office complex.
The exit from the garage was next to its entrance, but Cavanaugh had to make 
sure there wasn't a second entrance/exit and that Prescott had not entered the 
garage only to leave it immediately on the opposite side in case anyone was 
following him. The problem was, while Cavanaugh drove around the block, checking 
for other exits, Prescott might leave through the exit that Cavanaugh knew 
about. But then Cavanaugh noticed that so many drivers were leaving the garage 
at the end of the workday that a line of cars had formed inside, waiting to 
reach the checkout booth, enough cars that Cavanaugh figured he had time to 
drive around the block before Prescott could leave via this exit.
As he hoped, there wasn't another exit. Returning to where Prescott had entered, 
Cavanaugh drove into the garage and wound his way all through the dusky, 
exhaust-smelling lower level, but he didn't see the Porsche. Continuing to the 
second level, he found it in an area marked compact only, along with other small 
cars, next to a door that led into the office complex.
The location forced Cavanaugh to reconsider his strategy. In an ideal situation, 
the Porsche would have been away from a door and parked among larger vehicles, 
preferably SUVs, behind which Cavanaugh could have concealed the Taurus and 
taken cover, rushing Prescott when he approached the sports car.
Now Cavanaugh was going to have to park a distance away. He considered hiding in 
a dark corner near the Porsche, charging Prescott before he could get in the 
car. An alternative was to use the Emerson knife to cut chunks from the seat 
covers that hid Cavanaugh's bloodstains. If he shoved the chunks into the 
Porsche's exhaust pipes, the engine wouldn't be able to function. When Prescott 
got out to see what was wrong, he'd be so distraded that Cavanaugh would have a 
better chance of rushing him.
But would Prescott be distracted? Cavanaugh wondered. Or would the car's sudden 
failure make Prescott wary? If Prescott had a pistol, if there was a gunfight... 
I can't risk killing him, Cavanaugh thought.
Then he realized that the best way to do this was to spray some of the knockout 
chemical on the Porsche's door handle. When Prescott touched it and collapsed, 
Cavanaugh could hurry over, Pick him up as if Prescott were drunk, and get him 
into the Tau-rus.
Cavanaugh put on latex gloves that he'd purchased during the day. He took the 
spray container from the plastic bag, got out of the car, and put his hands 
behind his back to prevent departing office workers from noticing the gloves. 
Thirty seconds later, he was back behind the steering wheel. After returning the 
container to its bag, he cautiously removed the gloves, careful to touch them 
only on their interior.
The Taurus was in a shadowy area. Office workers entering the garage didn't 
notice him. The sounds of car doors being opened and shut echoed throughout the 
garage. Vehicles pulled out of spaces and descended to the lower level. Fewer 
and fewer cars re-mained. By six o'clock, the Porsche was the only car against 
the wall next to the door, and the Taurus was one of only a handful across from 
it.
Cavanaugh moved the Taurus to a farther section of the garage, blending with the 
remaining vehicles.
Six-thirty. A few more office workers departed. Seven.
When eight o'clock came and the only vehicles in the area were the Porsche and 
the Taurus, Cavanaugh had a premonition.





20
"Somebody's got a brand-new Porsche up there," he told the kid with a ring in 
his nose who was in charge of the parking garage's exit booth.
"Yeah, cool, huh?"
"Is this place safe enough for a car that expensive?"
"Somebody like me's always on duty. Nobody's tried to steal it so far."
"So far?"
"The guy who owns it pays by the month. Weird, though."
"What do you mean?"
"The guy never takes the Porsche out except in the afternoon. Half-past twelve 
or so, he leaves. A little after five, he comes back."
And walks away via the office building, Cavanaugh realized. Then he watches from 
down the street to see if anybody followed him.





21
He spotted me. I've got to assume the bastard spotted me. Cavanaugh drove from 
the garage, which he now realized was the dividing line between Joshua Carter 
and whatever identity Karen had created for him. As Cavanaugh headed back to Del 
Monte Avenue, he was absolutely convinced that Prescott had another vehicle near 
the garage, something that didn't attract attention, that blended in, the way 
Cavanaugh had taught him. Cavanaugh took care not to glance at his rearview 
mirror. He couldn't risk doing even the slightest thing that might make Prescott 
realize Cavanaugh hoped he was being followed. As sparks seemed to shoot through 
his nervous system, he turned left and headed deeper into the historic part of 
Monterey. Soon, he discovered he was on Cannery Row, where boutiques and cafes 
had replaced the fish factories from John Steinbeck's day, but he paid no 
attention. To his right, the sun was low over the ocean. He paid no attention to 
that, either.
Follow me, Cavanaugh kept hoping. Follow me.
He tried to imagine what was going through Prescott's mind. One temptation would 
be to flee the Carmel/Monterey area as quickly as possible. But to the best of 
Prescott's knowledge, only his Joshua Carter persona had been uncovered. If 
Prescott concluded that Cavanaugh was acting on his own, which Cavanaugh seemed 
to be doing, would Prescott decide to protect the false identity Karen had 
created for him by eliminating the threat to it, by going after Cavanaugh? It 
all depended on how much Prescott enjoyed his new life, on how much he hated to 
abandon it. Would he run, or would he protect the identity for which he'd 
already killed five people?
Cavanaugh drove as steadily as possible, making no attempt at evasion tactics. 
Cannery Row dead-ended, forcing him to make a left turn and then a right, but 
otherwise he continued in a direct fashion, following the edge of the ocean on 
his right. The sun sank, casting crimson over the whitecaps. Never once did 
Cavanaugh look in his rearview mirror. Never once did he give an indication that 
he hoped he was being followed. He passed several scenic stopping places and 
finally chose one that had few vehicles. Steering from the road, he parked in an 
isolated area, got out of the car, and crossed the pavement, heading toward the 
numerous boulders along the ocean.
There, he did something that he realized with surprise could be considered 
brave, although he didn't think that the act was anything remotely to be proud 
of. As he despondently reminded himself, if he'd listened to Jamie and gone home 
to Jackson Hole with her, he wouldn't need to deny all his protective instincts 
now. He selected two low boulders that were close enough to each other for him 
to sit on one while he propped his shoes on the other. With his back to the 
parking lot, he placed his hands on his knees and waited.
The sunset gleamed across the water. He felt a cool breeze, spray from the waves 
hitting the boulders in front of him. But all he paid attention to was the sound 
of a vehicle pulling off the road and stopping in the parking area behind him.
The engine remained on. A car door was opened and then closed. Despite the 
pounding of the surf, Cavanaugh heard footsteps crossing the pavement. Shoes 
crunched on pebbles as someone approached the boulder he sat on.
The footsteps halted behind his back.
Fear insisted on a fight-or-flight response. As Cavanaugh maintained his 
defenseless position, his central nervous system was on overdrive, speeding, 
pulsing, demanding more oxygen and an even more urgent flow of blood.
"How did you find me?" Prescott's voice shook, just as it had the first time 
Cavanaugh had heard it.
"A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me." Cavanaugh's palms sweated.
For several moments, the only sound came from the surf and the idling engine. 
"Observant."
"And you're a quick learner. In another life, you could have been an operator." 
Appeal to his pride, Cavanaugh thought.
"Do you always speak highly of people you want to kill?"
"I don't want to kill you anymore." Cavanaugh stared straight ahead toward the 
sunset-tinted ocean.
"Is that supposed to persuade me not to kill you?"
"You didn't come here to do that. Otherwise, you'd have pulled the trigger by 
now."
"Then why did I come here?"
"To talk to me." Cavanaugh struggled to control his breathing.
Again, the only sounds were the surf and the idling engine.
"Keep your hands on your knees. Keep looking at the water," Prescott said.
As the breeze strengthened, Cavanaugh heard footsteps on pebbles. To his right, 
a solid-looking figure appeared in his peripheral vision, coming around to a 
boulder a careful distance from him. Prescott had a jacket over his hands, 
concealing what Cavanaugh assumed was a handgun. "You seem to be alone."
"You had plenty of time to watch the garage. You know I was the only person 
keeping tabs on the Porsche."
"What did you put on the car's handle?"
"You had that good a look at me?"
"I hid small video cameras at the top of various support beams in the garage. 
They're tiny. Battery-powered. Barely noticeable. The Internet's crammed with 
advertising for them: 'Check up on your baby-sitter. See your neighbor's 
teenaged daughter sunbathing.' I watched the images on monitors in a van on the 
garage's lower level."
"Then you're aware I don't have help."
"What did you put on the car's handle?"
"A knockout chemical that works on skin contact."
"Why are you doing this alone? Why didn't you tell the government where you'd 
found me?"
"Because the government would make a deal with you, in exchange for your 
testimony against the military officials who hired you to develop the hormone."
"You learned about that?"
"I assume the only reason you're not using it on me now is that the breeze 
coming ashore would carry it away before it did anything to me."
"Who told you about it?"
"A man who called himself Kline. He led the team that tried to kidnap you."
"I know who Kline is." Prescott's voice hardened.
"You don't need to worry about him anymore. He's dead."
"Because of you?"
"No. A woman I call Grace was responsible for that."
"Grace?"
"Five feet ten. Blue eyes. Short blond hair. Looks like she goes to the gym a 
lot. Could be attractive if she weren't so disagreeable."
"1 know Grace also. Her real name's Alicia."
"Seems too feminine for her."
"If you're a female trained in an experimental special-ops program, I suspect 
you lose some of your femininity."
The sun was almost gone. As shadows turned to dusk, Cavanaugh understood why 
Prescott had left his car's engine idling. The headlights were on, glaring at 
them. Prescott wanted to avoid depleting the car's battery.
"She's the one who gave me the knockout chemical I put on your door handle."
"I'm pleased you said that."
"Oh?"
"I doubt your skills extend to laboratories and formulas. Someone must have 
given you the knockout chemical. It goes against your claim to be working 
alone."
"I'm not working with Grace, believe me."
"Convince me."
"I have . . ." With effort, Cavanaugh broke his rule of never revealing personal 
details. "A wife."
"You told me you didn't have a family."
"Imagine that," Cavanaugh said. "Normally, I keep her away from my business. But 
after what happened at the bunker, she was the only person I could call for 
help. She came to Carmel with me. Yesterday, Grace kidnapped her. If I don't 
deliver your corpse, my wife will"—the word caught in his throat—"die."
"A powerful incentive to kill me."
"To the contrary." Spray from the surf sprinkled Cavanaugh's face, but his 
cheeks were so fear-numbed, he barely felt it. "If I delivered your body, what 
motive would Grace have to release my wife? Grace has every reason to hate me. I 
crippled her and eliminated her team." "Crippled her?"
"Shot her leg. Put her on crutches. Her controllers have practically disowned 
her."
"Yes, all of that would definitely have annoyed her," Prescott said.
"So I suspect that if I deliver your corpse, she'll use my wife to pay me back 
for all the trouble I've caused her." "Likely."
"I want you to help me," Cavanaugh said. The surf pounded. The engine idled. The 
headlights glared. "Excuse me?" Prescott asked.
"I have a way to solve both our problems." Cavanaugh's chest cramped.
"Keep talking."
"My wife means more to me than anything else in the world." "More than your five 
dead friends?"
"More than anything. If something happened to her, I don't know how I could . . 
. Help me get her back, and you'll never have anything to fear from me. I'll 
never harm you. I'll never allow anyone else to harm you, either."
"You'll be my protector again?" Prescott scoffed. "And just how am I supposed to 
help you?"
"By solving your problem at the same time I solve mine. I phone Grace and tell 
her I've got you but that I'm keeping you alive until she releases my wife. I 
arrange for an exchange. You walk to Grace while my wife walks to me. What Grace 
doesn't realize is, you're not my prisoner—you're my ally." "Why won't she 
suspect?"
"Because she knows I came all this way to get you. Because she believes you and 
I are enemies." "And aren't we?" "Not if you help me."
"What's to keep her from shooting me the moment I step into view?"
"She'll want the personal satisfaction of being close to you before she harms 
you. But just in case, you'll be wearing a Kevlar vest I've got in my car. Grace 
has seen you only when you're heavy. Because you've lost so much weight, the 
bulk of the vest will make you look closer to the way you used to be. It won't 
attract attention. It won't make her suspicious. I'll pretend to rough you up 
before I shove you over to her. I'll subdue her suspicions even further by 
making it look as if your hands are tied. But the binding won't be secure, and 
the moment you're close enough ... Do you know how to use that pistol you've got 
under your jacket?"
"Every morning, I practice at an indoor range in Monterey."
Cavanaugh didn't bother to point out that shooting a target was quite different 
from mustering the resolve to shoot a human being. As Prescott had repeatedly 
demonstrated, he had no hesitation about killing. "The moment you're close 
enough to Grace, you break the bindings on your hands, draw your pistol, and 
shoot her."
"Easy to say. But suppose she has help?"
"In fact, she does. One other operator. She claims she's been so disowned that 
she can't find more help than that."
"She could be lying."
"We pick a trade-off spot we can get to before they can. That way, we can watch 
for surprises. No matter what happens, you've got me to protect you."
"You're actually serious about this?" Prescott asked.
"Grace hates you so much, she'll never stop hunting you. You'll never feel safe. 
You'll always hear footsteps behind you. If you want to keep your new identity, 
you've got to stop her. Help me get my wife back, and I'll help you get rid of 
Grace."
"And afterward? If we're successful, if you get your wife back, you won't do 
anything to harm me?"
"That's right," Cavanaugh said.
"In spite of what I did to your team? That's one hell of a leap of faith. Give 
me a reason to believe you."
"I'll give you the best reason in the world," Cavanaugh said. "My word."
For the first time, Cavanaugh took his gaze away from the dark horizon. In the 
glare of the headlights, he turned and looked squarely at Prescott, at the 
almost unrecognizable mannish features, the pronounced cheeks and jaw, the 
goatee, the shaved head, and the developed shoulders.
"I give you my word. Help me get my wife back, and you'll never have anything to 
fear from me."
"Your word?" Prescott made it sound like a brand-new concept.
"And my love for my wife."
"How do I know this wife even exists? How can I be sure this isn't some trick?"
"I could have shot you in the parking lot outside the exercise club. I kept you 
alive because we need each other."
Prescott's dark eyes reacted.
"But if that's not good enough, will you believe Grace?" Cavanaugh asked. "The 
phone at the motel where I'm staying has a speaker function. When I call Grace 
and you hear her voice, when she talks about my wife, will you believe me then?"





22
His handgun aimed beneath the jacket in his hands, Prescott followed Cavanaugh 
into the motel room, then told him to lock the door and close the curtains. 
Cavanaugh moved carefully, keeping his hands away from his sides, even though he 
had left his pistol and his Emerson knife in the Taurus, as Prescott had 
instructed.
With the curtains closed, Prescott put his jacket on a chair, revealing that 
he'd followed Cavanaugh's example, even to the extent that his pistol was the 
same kind he'd seen Cavanaugh carrying: a Sig Sauer 225.
"This is how we met," Cavanaugh said, "with you pointing a handgun at me."
The pupils of Prescott's eyes were as huge and dark as they'd been at the 
warehouse.
"Remember the conversation we had about adrenaline?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott nodded, drawing his tongue along his lips. "At the bunker."
"I told you that someone who masters adrenaline, who prefers the 'fight' option, 
can't be called brave. But someone like you, who somehow functions in spite of 
being afraid, who wants to run away but instead faces his threats head-on, is 
brave."
"Don't flatter me. All I want is to be free of my enemies."
Cavanaugh pointed toward the bureau. "I'm going to open this drawer and show you 
something."
"Do it slowly."
Using only the fingertips of his left hand, Cavanaugh pulled out the drawer. 
"Bras. Panties. I gave up cross-dressing a long time ago."
"What?" Prescott's cheeks turned red.
"In the bathroom, you'll find a woman's toilet kit. Hair spray. Lipstick. Facial 
cream. A dinky razor. I don't want you to have any doubt that I'm traveling with 
a woman."
"All right, I'm convinced," Prescott said, uncomfortable. "The question is, Has 
she been kidnapped?"
From his shirt pocket, Cavanaugh removed the piece of paper Grace had given him. 
He went over to the bedside phone, touched 9 for an outside line, touched the 
button to activate the phone's speaker function, then called the cell phone 
Grace had said she'd be using.
Sitting on beds across from each other, he and Prescott, who still had the 
pistol aimed at Cavanaugh, listened to a buzz.
A second buzz.
Just as Cavanaugh started to worry that Grace would be out of touch, a stern 
female voice answered, "Hello."
Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, as if to ask, Do you recognize it?
Prescott's lips became pale.
The cell phone reception had some static. Good, Cavanaugh thought. She won't 
notice the slightly hollow sound a speaker phone causes.
"It's me," Cavanaugh said.
"I hope you're calling with good news."
"I've got Prescott."
"Dead?"
"I want to hear my wife's voice."
"I asked you if he's dead."
"And I said I want to hear my wife's voice."
Cavanaugh heard more static, then muffled, annoyed voices in the background.
At once, Grace's sharp voice returned, saying, "Tell him you're okay."
No response.
"For Christ's sake, tell him!"
"I'm"—Jamie's pain-tight voice made Cavanaugh's throat ache in sympathy—"all 
right."
"There," Grace intruded. "She's fine. Now what about Prescott?"
"What the hell have you done to her?"
"Nothing that I can't make more painful."
Cavanaugh had a sudden harrowing image of Jamie with blood all over her face.
"The sooner you get her back, the sooner she gets tender loving care," Grace 
said in a mocking tone. "Prescott. You said you had good news. Is he dead?"
"No."
"Then that isn't good news at all. Why haven't you killed him?"
Cavanaugh looked at Prescott, silently asking, Do you see? I was telling the 
truth.
Prescott's shaved head glinted with sweat.
"Because I want to make sure I'll get my wife back," Cavanaugh said.
"You don't trust me to keep my end of the bargain?"
"Not if I deliver a corpse to you. What motive would you have to give her to me? 
Now I've got something to trade. When I see my wife, you can see Prescott. When 
you let my wife go, I'll let him go. After that, you can do whatever you want 
with him."
"Damn it, this isn't what we agreed."
"But it's the way it's going to be."
The transmition became silent, except for an electronic hiss.
"I don't like being pressured," Grace said.
"You ought to feel delighted. You told me you had until tomorrow morning to 
regain the trust of your controllers. This way, you're ahead of schedule. Just 
give me my wife, and you can have Prescott. Both our problems are almost over."
Grace lapsed into silence and finally let out an exhausted, frustrated sigh. 
"Where do you want to make the exchange?"
For a third time, Cavanaugh looked at Prescott. On the way to the motel, they'd 
discussed the logistics of the trade-off if Cavanaugh could convince Prescott he 
was telling the truth and if Prescott chose to go forward. Prescott, who had 
spent a lot of time researching the Carmel area, had made the suggestion.
Cavanaugh now told her, "About fifteen miles south of Carmel on Highway One, 
there's a road that heads into the mountains. A sign says historic site."
"Just what I need: culture. What's the historic site?"
"A stone chapel a hermit built in 1906. He was a banker whose family died in the 
San Francisco earthquake. Most of the place collapsed a long time ago. Hardly 
anybody goes there."
"And how exactly do you know about this place?"
"I've been to Carmel before," Cavanaugh said, lying. "Once, when I drove up from 
Los Angeles, I saw the turnoff and decided to check it out."
"And I'm supposed to feel confident meeting you there?"
"Hey, you're the one who's got help. All I want is to get rid of this son of a 
bitch and get my wife back. What you do with Prescott up in the hills, with no 
one to bother you, is your business. I thought you'd appreciate the privacy."
Another frustrated, weary exhale. Grace's suspicions fought with her need to 
regain the confidence of her superiors. "When?"
"An hour."
"Can't get there by then. Make it two." Grace broke the connection.





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."





PART SEVEN
Threat Elimination





1
"Take off your shirt. Put this on." Cavanaugh reached under the cover on the 
Taurus's backseat and pulled out the bullet-resistant vest he'd hidden beneath 
it. "Your shirt's loose enough that it won't be obvious you're wearing the vest. 
Then put on your jacket to conceal your pistol."
The Taurus was parked in a shadowy area at the back of the motel's parking lot. 
Using the car for concealment, Prescott did what he was told. The brief glimpse 
that Cavanaugh got of Prescott's reduced stomach and developed chest muscles 
surprised him.
When Prescott put on his jacket, Cavanaugh grabbed a roll of duct tape from the 
rear floor. "Now get in front. While I drive, wrap this around your ankles."
Prescott looked suspicious.
"Make it appear secure," Cavanaugh said. "Then use this." Cavanaugh opened the 
driver's door and picked up the Emerson knife from where Prescott had insisted 
he put it, along with his pistol, near the car's pedals. With his thumb against 
the tab on the back of the blade, Cavanaugh flicked the knife open and gave it 
to Prescott. "Cut the tape on the inside so the force of your legs can break it 
if you need to."
Prescott continued looking suspicious.
"This close to you, don't you think I could have taken that pistol from you and 
killed you?" Cavanaugh asked. "While you're with me, you're safe. Wrap the tape 
around your ankles; then use this knife. Be careful. The blade's sharp."
Cavanaugh got into the car, picked up the pistol on the floor, holstered it, and 
waited for Prescott to join him. Prescott had to muster more resolve before he 
got in.
Immediately, Cavanaugh drove two blocks to a brightly lit grocery store he'd 
noticed when he and Prescott had gone to the motel. open 'til midnight, its neon 
sign read. He ran in and came back five minutes later with a paper bag, which he 
emptied on the seat.
As Cavanaugh drove away, Prescott peered down at four objects: a bottle of 
colorless corn syrup, a bottle of red food dye, a plastic bowl, and a large 
plastic spoon. "What are these for?"
"Stir some of the corn syrup and food dye together in the bowl." Cavanaugh 
steered toward Highway 1. "For God's sake, why?"
"Without a professional makeup kit, that's the best way to imitate scabs and 
drying blood."
They joined headlights moving south on Highway 1. Despite his impatience, 
Cavanaugh stayed exactly at the speed limit. The dashboard clock showed 10:40. 
Needing to be at the rendezvous site as quickly as possible, they'd already lost 
twenty minutes.
Prescott finished stirring the mixture and reached into his jacket, pulling out 
a gray metal tube. Cavanaugh tensed. "Is that..."
"The hormone?" Prescott nodded. "You were right. I didn't use it on you at the 
beach because the breeze would have blown it away from you. If I twist the cap, 
there's a safety delay of twenty seconds. Then the pressurized contents are 
released." "You plan to use it at the rendezvous?"
"Position us so the wind's at our backs."
"Suppose that's not possible. If I get a whiff of that stuff, I won't be able to 
help you. Or what if Grace and her partner react the way the Rangers did in 
Florida? Instead of running, they might fire in panic. Jamie might get shot."
Prescott didn't respond.
"No," Cavanaugh said.
"But—"
"Put it on the seat."
Prescott stared at him.
"Do it," Cavanaugh said. "Leave it there."
Prescott put the tube on the seat.
"Because of that stuff, for the first time I understand what fear is," Cavanaugh 
said. "Is there a neutralizer?" He hoped the question seemed casual.
"Of course. Otherwise, even with the safety delay, the weapon might affect 
whoever triggers it."
"The antidote doesn't take away fear?"
"Only the fear the hormone causes."
"I want you to give it to me," Cavanaugh said.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I don't have the antidote with me," Prescott said. "But even if I could give it 
to you, it wouldn't make a difference right now."
"What are you talking about?"
"You'd still be afraid for your wife. Once you love somebody, you start fearing 
something might happen to that person. Fortunately, that's one fear I've managed 
to avoid. Now you'll get to find out."
"Find out?"
"What it takes to be brave."





2
They passed Carmel, moving farther south, the headlights of traffic dwindling 
until there were only occasional vehicles as they reached the mostly unpopulated 
area around Point Lobos.
Soon, through the shadows of trees, Cavanaugh saw the lights of isolated houses. 
"What's this place?"
"Carmel Highlands. It's a small community of houses on a bluff above the ocean."
Cavanaugh saw a road on the right leading into it. Headlights piercing the 
shadows, he steered onto the road and parked among the trees.
He shut off the headlights. "I couldn't do this earlier because there was too 
much traffic. A policeman might have seen your face and stopped us."
Cavanaugh took the plastic spoon, dug it into the mixture in the bowl, and 
smeared the red-tinted corn syrup across the left side of Prescott's mouth, onto 
his left cheek and temple, and like a gash across his shaved skull. Exposed to 
the air, the mixture had started to coagulate, making Prescott look as if blood 
had thickened on his face.
When Cavanaugh switched the headlights back on, the glow from the dashboard 
allowed him to study the effect. "It looks like you belong in the emergency 
ward."
"But I can smell the corn syrup."
"By the time you're close enough to Grace for her to smell it, she'll be dead."
"I have to be sure."
"What do you mean?"
"Do it for real."
"I don't know what you're—"
"Cut me," Prescott said.
"What?"
"My scalp. Scalp wounds are terrific bleeders. The coppery smell will disguise 
the corn syrup."
"Jesus," Cavanaugh said.
"Do it." Prescott flinched as Cavanaugh raised the Emerson knife.
Cavanaugh could only imagine the control Prescott needed in order to remain 
still while he cut a two-inch slit across the top of Prescott's forehead.
Blood streamed.
Cavanaugh wiped the side of the knife over Prescott's face and the drying 
mixture.
Prescott now looked like the living dead.
"Hold out your hands," Cavanaugh said.
The hands shook as Cavanaugh twisted duct tape around Prescott's wrists. 
Inserting the Emerson knife between Prescott's wrists, Cavanaugh carefully cut 
the inside of the tape in front and back. He made the tape look intact from a 
distance but weakened it so that Prescott would have no trouble snapping it.
"Okay?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott tested the tape on his wrists, almost pulling it apart. His breathing 
trembled when he inhaled. "Okay."
Cavanaugh reversed direction and returned to Highway 1, continuing south. On the 
right, the moon cast a glow over the ocean. On the left, there were only 
occasional lights in the mountains. Except for the Taurus, the road was 
deserted.
"Around the next turn," Prescott said, his voice strained.
"You know this area fairly well."
"When I started losing weight, I avoided crowds until my appearance was 
sufficiently changed. I spent a lot of time hiking around here."
As Cavanaugh rounded the curve, the Taurus's headlights revealed the historic 
site marker. He steered to the left onto a bumpy dirt lane that went up through 
murky trees.
The lane reached a moonlit meadow, then zigzagged up through more trees. A few 
times, furrows in the lane caused the Taurus's underside to bump across stones 
and dirt. Overhead, branches blocked the moonlit sky. Bushes scraped the car.
"Soon there'll be another meadow," Prescott said. "The chapel's built against a 
slope on the opposite side. Not that there's much to see." Prescott's breathing 
was more rapid and strident. "Except for a little tower with a cross on top, 
everything's collapsed."
"Count to three slowly as you inhale."
"What?"
"Hold your breath for three counts. Then exhale for three counts. Keep doing 
that. It'll help. Now slump down before they see you. Pretend you're 
unconscious."
Pale even in the darkness, Prescott obeyed.
Cavanaugh listened to the exaggerated, measured pattern of Prescott's breathing. 
Simultaneously, he felt each jounce of the car along the lane as if it were the 
lurching of his heart. He turned a sharp corner and emerged from the dark trees 
into another meadow, this one illuminated not only by moonlight but also by the 
sudden glare of headlights where Prescott had said the chapel would be.
"Damn it, she's here ahead of us," Cavanaugh said.





3
He didn't slow, didn't react as if he was alarmed, just kept following the lane, 
heading toward the headlights. "Ready?" he asked Prescott on the floor.
"It's a little late to say I want to back out."
"Five minutes from now, you'll be safe. I'll have my wife, and you'll be free."
"That trick with the future tense did wonders for me when you were rescuing me 
from the warehouse," Prescott said. "Yes. Five minutes from now, you'll have 
your wife, and I'll be free."
Hearing Prescott say it, Cavanaugh felt some of the magic of the words. "Let's 
see if you're as good an actor as you are a biochemist."
"And let's see"—Prescott held his breath for three beats—"if you're as good a 
protector as you promised to be."
The Taurus came closer to the headlights. Grace stood on crutches next to a car 
whose popularity and hence ability to blend made it a favorite among security 
specialists: a Mercury Sable. Behind the vehicle, the cross on the chapel's 
tower caught the glare of Cavanaugh's headlights. Collapsed walls lay below it.
He stopped eighty feet from Grace's car, out of practical nighttime pistol 
range. There was always the chance that she had someone with a rifle hiding 
among the trees, but the shooter would need a night-vision scope to aim 
properly, and Cavanaugh doubted that Grace could have gotten that sort of 
sophisticated equipment this late and so quickly. Besides, the glare of both 
sets of headlights would interfere with most night-vision equipment, which 
worked by magnifying the illumination from the moon and the stars and which 
would be overpowered by the headlights—in effect, blinding a sniper.
Cavanaugh left the engine idling and the headlights on as he got out. The night 
was cold, exaggerating the already-cold feeling in his chest.
Squinting from the lights, trying to keep his voice steady, he called to Grace, 
"You got here early." It reminded him of the start of their conversation at 
fog-enshrouded Tor House that morning. His voice echoed off the surrounding 
wooded slopes.
"You don't sound surprised any more than I'm surprised that you tried to get 
here early," Grace said. "Open all your car doors."
Cavanaugh did. The only reason for Grace to tell him to open the doors was for 
someone among the trees at the side to be able to see if anyone was hiding in 
the car, he knew. It made him worry that he'd miscalculated, that a sniper was 
indeed concealed on a slope and that the night-vision scope the sniper had was 
one of the few sophisticated enough, based on heat detection, rather than light 
magnification, not to be compromised by the headlights.
Sick, he opened the left rear door, rounded the back of the car, opened the 
right rear door, and then came forward to open the passenger door. Again he 
stood next to the headlights, hoping that instead of revealing him, they gave 
him cover.
But he suspected that his worst fears were about to come true, that the plan 
wasn't going to work.
Please, God, help me get Jamie back, he thought.
At once, Grace said something that changed everything and gave him hope. 
"Where's Prescott?"
Why would she say that? Cavanaugh wondered. With all the doors open, Prescott 
would be visible to someone on the side. A sniper, seeing the car's interior, 
would use a walkie-talkie or similar two-way radio setup to tell Grace that 
Cavanaugh hadn't brought help.
"He's half-unconscious on the front seat." The bit about opening the doors was a 
bluff, Cavanaugh realized, his pulse speeding with hope. She wants me to think 
there's a sniper in the trees. But there isn't. Otherwise, Grace would have been 
told where Prescott was and that he was the only person in the car.
"Drag the bastard out."
"Not until I see my wife."
Looking impatient, Grace raised a hand from one of her crutches and motioned to 
someone hidden among the collapsed walls of the chapel.
Two figures rose and emerged into the headlights. One shoved the other. The one 
doing the shoving was a solidly built woman. Except that her short hair was dark 
in contrast with Grace's blond hair, she and Grace looked remarkably similar in 
height and physique, perhaps because they had both belonged to the same female 
special-ops training group that Prescott had referred to.
The person being shoved was Jamie. Her hands were tied in front of her. She 
lurched forward, stooped, as if in pain. When she looked up, Cavanaugh saw blood 
on her face. Anger made his muscles feel on fire. He wanted to scream.
"Drag Prescott out," Grace said.
Cavanaugh went to the passenger door and made sure that Prescott had followed 
orders—the metal tube remained on the seat. When he hauled Prescott from the 
car, Prescott landed so hard, he moaned.
With equal force, Cavanaugh tugged him around to the front of the car. In the 
headlights, in full view of Grace and the woman pushing Jamie, Cavanaugh kicked 
him several times in the side, feeling his shoe collide with the 
bullet-resistant vest under Prescott's shirt. While the vest protected his vital 
organs, Prescott would nonetheless have felt the shock of the impact. Again 
Prescott groaned. He rolled with the fourth kick and came to a stop, clutching 
himself.
"On your feet," Cavanaugh said. "There's no way I'm dragging you all the way 
over there."
Cavanaugh undipped the Emerson knife from the inside of his pants' pocket, 
thumbed the blade open, and slashed the duct tape around Prescott's ankles, 
freeing it. The moment he folded the blade and reclipped the knife inside his 
pocket, he yanked Prescott upward. Prescott's head jerked from the force with 
which he was raised. Cavanaugh stood behind him, holding his shoulders, trying 
to steady him as Prescott listed to one side and then the other.
"You want him, you got him," Cavanaugh told Grace.
"What do you think you're doing?" Grace demanded. "That's not Prescott."
"The hell he isn't."
"Prescott doesn't look like—"
"He lost weight as part of his disguise. I'll prove it's him. Hey, jerkoff, say 
something to her."
Prescott kept swaying.
Cavanaugh drove a kidney punch into the back of Prescott's bullet-resistant 
vest. To save his knuckles, he held back the force of the impact at the last 
second, when Grace wouldn't be able to see the blow.
Prescott groaned and bent forward.
"I told you to say something to her!"
"Uh ..." Seeming in pain, Prescott raised his head. "How's it..." He coughed, as 
if something inside him were broken. "How's it going, Al?"
"It is him." Grace said. "Jesus, look at his face. What did you do to him?"
"Gave him some payback for what he did to my friends. Now it's your turn to give 
him some payback. Let my wife go. I'll let Prescott go."
Balanced on her crutches, Grace looked at her companion and nodded.
The companion pushed Jamie past the car. Silhouetted by the headlights, Jamie 
stumbled forward.
"Your turn," Grace said.
Cavanaugh shoved Prescott ahead. As if he were a marionette being manipulated by 
the strings of a spastic puppeteer, Prescott listed this way and that, his legs 
barely able to support him.
"Jamie, just a little farther." Cavanaugh watched her stagger toward him. 
"You're going to be fine. All you have to do is reach me."
Meanwhile, Prescott wavered toward Jamie and her companion.
Abruptly, he collapsed to his knees.
Cavanaugh went to him and yanked him to his feet. "Keep moving, damn it. People 
are expecting you. I've got better things to do than hang around, waiting for 
you to put one foot in front of the other."
Again, he shoved Prescott, who seemed even more controlled by a spastic 
puppeteer.
As Prescott tottered nearer to Grace and her companion, they seemed appalled by 
his grotesque appearance.
Jamie stumbled closer, her green eyes now distinct in the headlights.
For a second time, Prescott halted, about to collapse.
"Move!" Cavanaugh went to him, once more shoving him. They were now midway 
between the cars.
As Prescott reeled forward, Jamie and Prescott passed each other. Lips bleeding, 
she looked horrified by the damage that had apparently been done to Prescott's 
features.
Almost over, almost free, Cavanaugh thought, praying. For all he knew, Grace 
would shoot at him now that he seemed preoccupied with Jamie. Everything 
depended on the next few seconds.
"Let's go home," he told Jamie. About to put an arm around her, he motioned for 
her to keep moving toward the car.
But activity beyond Prescott caught Cavanaugh's attention. Balancing on one 
crutch, Grace raised the other crutch to strike Prescott across the face as he 
lurched in her direction. Meanwhile, Grace's companion aimed a handgun at 
Prescott.
I gave my word, Cavanaugh thought.
As Grace swung the crutch, Prescott fell to avoid the blow. The crutch whistled 
over his head. He hit the ground, his hands out of sight beneath him.
Now he's snapping the duct tape, grabbing the pistol under his jacket, Cavanaugh 
thought.
Grace balanced herself to swing the crutch again.
The moment Prescott rolled to get away from it, his movement much quicker than 
his presumed dazed condition would have allowed, Cavanaugh drew his pistol.
Three shots from three different weapons were so near in time, they were almost 
indistinguishable as Grace's companion shot Prescott in the chest. Shuddering, 
Prescott shot Grace in the head while the crutch hurtled toward him, whacking 
the ground beside him. Cavanaugh heard screaming as his bullet hit Grace's 
companion in the chest, jolting her backward. A fourth shot, this one again from 
Prescott, stopped the screaming when the bullet hit the woman's face and dropped 
her.
The smell of cordite hung in the air, wisps of it floating in the headlights.
Ears ringings, nerves on fire, Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, relieved to see that 
she'd dropped to the ground the moment the shooting started. "Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He spun toward Prescott. "Are you okay?"
Lying on the ground, needing to catch his breath from the bullet's impact 
against the Kevlar vest, Prescott didn't answer right away. Presumably, he also 
needed to adjust to the realization that the crisis was over, that he didn't 
have to continue to be terrified. "Yes."
"I kept my word," Cavanaugh said. "I helped you. I protected you. Because you 
helped me, you have nothing to fear from me. As much as I hate you, I'll never 
come after you again."
Prescott nodded, continuing to lie on the ground and catch his breath.
"If you didn't remember to wipe your fingerprints from the cartridges before you 
loaded them, find the empty shell casings and take them with you," Cavanaugh 
said.
"I remembered."
"Use Grace's car to get away from here. When you abandon it, remember to wipe 
your prints from everything you touch."
"I won't forget."
"Then our business is finished."
Facing Prescott, continuing to hold his pistol, Cavanaugh backed toward Jamie, 
helped her to stand, and continued backing toward the car.
"Are you okay?" he asked her again. "Do you need a doctor?"
Prescott remained on the ground, holding himself where the bullet had struck the 
vest and no doubt bruised him.
From behind Cavanaugh and Jamie, the Taurus's headlights cast their silhouettes. 
Its engine kept idling.
"I don't think anything's broken," Jamie managed to say.
Cavanaugh reached the Taurus and guided her toward the passenger door.
Suddenly, Jamie trembled harder against him. Cavanaugh's legs felt weak. A 
pungent smell coming from the car filled his nostrils and sent his heart racing. 
His mouth became drier. His breath rate soared.
The metal tube on the seat, he realized. Prescott twisted the cap before I 
dragged him out of the car!
As the hormone spewed from the Taurus, Cavanaugh grabbed the tube off the seat 
and hurled it toward Prescott. Toward where Prescott had been. While Cavanaugh 
had been distracted, Prescott had scrambled out of sight.
As Cavanaugh spun toward Jamie, urging her into the Taurus, a shot from the 
darkness slammed her against him.
"No!" The hormone crammed his lungs. Terror overwhelmed him. Unable to stop 
shaking, he held Jamie with one hand while he used the other to fire toward 
where he'd seen a muzzle flash. He thought he saw a blurred shadow ducking 
behind Grace's car. Exposed in the glare of its headlights, he shot at Grace's 
car, trembling, missing the right headlight, shooting twice more. The lamp 
exploded, the right side of the car going dark. But before he could shoot at the 
other headlight, Prescott returned fire, the bullet passing so close that it 
made a snapping sound over Cavanaugh's head.
Aware that the open passenger door was useless as a shield against a bullet, 
Cavanaugh lifted Jamie urgently into the passenger seat, appalled by the blood 
spreading along the right side of her chest.
A bullet punched a hole in the windshield.
Cavanaugh bent over her. The Taurus's engine now provided effective cover as he 
ripped her blouse open. Her lung wheezed. The pungent smell of the hormone 
almost made him gag as he grabbed the roll of duct tape from where Prescott had 
dropped it. Frantic, trembling harder, he tore off a section and pressed it over 
Jamie's chest, sealing the entrance wound. Her lung stopped wheezing.
He tore off a second piece and pressed it over the exit wound on her back. 
Flinching from several more bullets whacking through the windshield, he crawled 
over Jamie and slammed the passenger door. Then he hunched behind the steering 
wheel, yanked the Taurus into reverse, and tried to put strength into his legs, 
flooring the accelerator. As the tires spewed up grass and the car rocketed 
backward, he released the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel a quarter 
turn. The car pivoted 180 degrees and suddenly faced away from Prescott. 
Desperate, Ca-vanaugh yanked the gearshift into drive and sped away, the force 
of his acceleration slamming the rest of the doors.
Hunched to avoid making his silhouette a target, he was so busy concentrating on 
his driving that he could barely fumble for the buttons that lowered the 
windows. He managed to get some of them down a few inches, starting to clear the 
air, when a bullet blew a hole in the rear windshield. As glass flew, he hunched 
farther down, shaking as if he had a fever. Then Prescott lowered his aim, his 
bullets hitting the trunk. Obviously, he hoped that they would plow through both 
seats and strike Cavanaugh. Instead, they walloped against the sheet of steel 
that Cavanaugh had installed against the back of the trunk.
Speeding toward the dark trees at the end of the meadow, Cavanaugh felt no 
confidence from knowing that Prescott had almost emptied his pistol. Prescott 
still had Grace's weapon and her companion's.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Cavanaugh saw the remaining headlight on Grace's 
car bob into motion, the Sable pursuing.
The son of a bitch, Cavanaugh thought, fumbling to secure his seat belt. I 
promised to protect him!
The Taurus's headlights entered the trees, revealing a sudden downward turn that 
Cavanaugh's impaired reflexes barely anticipated.
I gave him my word I wouldn't hurt him!
Trees scraping the car, Cavanaugh struggled with the steering wheel and entered 
another sudden turn. Looking in his rearview mirror again, he saw the occasional 
flash of a headlight through gaps in the trees. The car sped closer.
With Jamie wounded and the hormone shocking his nervous system, Cavanaugh knew 
that Prescott had the advantage. As if to prove the point, a sharp downward turn 
almost toppled Jamie off the seat. Cavanaugh had to reduce speed again so he 
could take his right hand off the steering wheel, grab Jamie, and secure her 
safety belt.
The murky trees vanished, the Taurus's headlights illuminating another meadow. 
In the rearview mirror, the single headlight rushed closer. Cavanaugh heard the 
impacts of more bullets hitting the steel plate in the trunk.
Racing across the gloomy meadow, he fumbled for the toggle switch that he'd 
clipped to the bottom of the dashboard. Instantly, he squinted from a glare in 
his rearview mirror, the fog lamps that Jamie had installed in back blazing 
toward Prescott's car. One-hundred-watt quartz halogens, they were tilted up to 
blind a pursuing driver, a candlepower of 480,000 hitting Prescott's windshield.
Cavanaugh sped farther across the meadow. Checking his rearview mirror, he saw 
the fog lamps gleaming so brightly toward Prescott's car that its remaining 
headlight wasn't visible. He imagined Prescott raising a hand to shield his 
eyes, reducing speed, trying to regain his sight.
I lost him, Cavanaugh thought. I need to get Jamie to a hospital.
She moaned.
Dear God, please don't let her die.
Another section of trees loomed. At once, the Taurus shook as Prescott's car 
slammed it from behind. The force was so great and surprising that Cavanaugh was 
thrust forward, jerking against his safety belt. Jamie's head jolted back and 
forth. No!
Instead of easing back because he couldn't see, Prescott had used the blazing 
fog lamps as a target. His eyes almost useless, able to see only the fog lamps 
at the back of the Taurus, Prescott had rushed toward them. Colliding with the 
back of the Taurus, he was now so close that the fog lamps reflected off the 
front of Prescott's car. Their light filled the inside of the Taurus, gleaming 
off the rearview mirror, blinding Cavanaugh.
Cavanaugh flicked up the rearview mirror, deflecting the glare. Fighting to 
control the steering wheel, he felt Prescott's car again strike the back of the 
Taurus. Prescott evidently hadn't learned anything from the chase away from the 
warehouse. The vehicle Cavanaugh had stolen had been struck repeatedly from 
behind—with little effect. Bumpers got damaged. Passengers got jolted. But the 
car remained capable of moving.
Again, Prescott's car struck the Taurus, its closeness neutralizing the glare of 
the fog lamps. Or maybe he's trying to smash the lamps, Cavanaugh thought. 
Needing to reduce his speed to enter the looming dark trees, Cavanaugh felt the 
constant pressure of Prescott's car against his and realized what Prescott was 
doing. Jesus, he's trying to push me so I can't control my steering. He's trying 
to shove me into the woods.
Despite the risk, Cavanaugh had no choice except to increase speed. While he 
did, the reduced glare behind him indicated that Prescott had, in fact, managed 
to destroy one of the fog lamps. Then Cavanaugh had time to think only about 
braking and steering through the trees. Skidding around the first turn, he 
banged a fender. A bullet blasted through a window. Others struck the steel in 
the trunk. Then one hit the remaining fog lamp, and the glare behind the Taurus 
vanished. The only illumination back there was Prescott's single headlight.
Abruptly, the trees opened, and Cavanaugh swerved to the right, entering the 
darkness of the Pacific Coast Highway. His tires squealed as he pressed a 
trembling foot on the accelerator and sped north toward Carmel.
Jamie moaned again.
"Stay alive," he begged.
Behind him, Prescott skidded onto the narrow highway. To Cavanaugh's left, 
moonlight glowed off the ocean. To his right, tree-covered hills receded into 
the distance. No lights of cars or houses beckoned. He raced around a curve and 
had trouble coming out of it. The steering felt mushy, as if something was 
broken. Then Cavanaugh feared that the problem was his tires. If Prescott had 
managed to shoot one of them, it wouldn't have exploded, but it would have 
started leaking air, going soft.
Already, Prescott was gaining distance on him. When Cavanaugh entered another 
curve, the faulty steering forced him to go slower. Rushing behind him, Prescott 
rammed the Taurus's back end, sending a shudder through Jamie, making her gasp. 
Cavanaugh didn't dare think about her. All he could allow himself to focus on 
was trying to drive.
The mushy steering got worse. Passing the lights of houses, Cavanaugh hoped he 
had a chance. On a straightaway, he floored the accelerator, attempting to gain 
distance, but the softening tire kept the Taurus from responding.
Headlights appeared. As a minivan sped past, Prescott again rammed Cavanaugh, 
backed off, sped closer as if to ram him again, then veered unexpectedly into 
the left lane, about to come abreast of the Taurus.
No! Cavanaugh thought.
As he'd learned from Cavanaugh, Prescott tapped his right front fender against 
Cavanaugh's left rear fender. Aided by Cavanaugh's faulty steering, the 
so-called precision immobilization technique caused the Taurus to spin to the 
left. While Prescott's car rushed safely onward, Cavanaugh found himself gaping 
in the direction from which he'd just come. Headlights flashing, the Taurus hit 
a guardrail next to a low bridge, broke through, listed down a slope, turned 
onto its side, its roof, its other side, and righted itself as it dropped. 
Cavanaugh felt a sickening shock as the car struck water.





4
"Jamie!"
She'd been jerked against her seat when the car flipped and fell. Now she 
groaned beside him.
Stunned, Cavanaugh tried to clear his mind. As the Taurus began to submerge, the 
pressure of the water against the side made it impossible to open the door until 
the car was filled with water and the pressure was equalized. During the chase, 
he'd managed to lower the windows a few inches. Now he touched the button that 
would take the driver's window down all the way. Hoping to shove Jamie through 
the gap and then go after her, he was dismayed when the window didn't budge.
Cold water soaked his shoes as he undipped the Emerson knife from inside his 
pants pocket and slammed its butt against the safety glass on the driver's side, 
shattering the middle of the window into pellets. He pounded the knife's butt 
against the rest of the window, trying to clear its edges, when a dark shape 
made him stop. Moonlight, in combination with the Taurus's fading headlights, 
revealed that the dark shape was a boulder.
Turning toward the passenger window, Cavanaugh saw a boulder on that side also. 
The Taurus had landed upright in the water in a trough between shelves of rock. 
On each side, there was no way to get out through a broken window, no matter if 
in front or back.
Kick through the front windshield, Cavanaugh thought. Instantly he became aware 
that when the car had rolled, its roof had been pushed down, crushing the 
windshield and the window over the trunk, making the space too narrow for him to 
squeeze Jamie through.
The cold water now reached Cavanaugh's knees. As the Taurus continued sinking, 
the headlights and the lights on the dashboard flickered. Trembling from the 
cold, Cavanaugh pulled Jamie into an upright position, trying to give her air 
for as long as possible. His feet felt numb.
Doors. Blocked by boulders.
Windows. Can't get through them.
The roof.
Cavanaugh thumbed the Emerson knife open, slashed at the roof's liner, and 
yanked it down. The roof was buckled inward. Its support struts had widened, 
creating enough space for someone to squeeze through, provided a gap could be 
created in the roof itself.
Gripping the knife so its blade pointed in the same direction as his thumb, 
Cavanaugh stabbed upward into the metal. Among operators, the Emerson knife had 
a worldwide reputation as a hard-use tool. Its edge was razor-sharp and 
chisel-ground, its metal astonishingly strong, its point engineered for maximum 
durability. Its serrations were designed to cut along metal. It could pierce a 
car door, and Cavanaugh knew of instances in which it had struck through the 
fibers of a Kevlar vest.
Indeed, its sharpness, its strength, and the force with which he hit the roof 
caused the blade to go through. He sawed, withdrew the knife, pounded it into 
the roof again, sawed, and withdrew the knife, straining to cut a hole. As the 
cold water reached his groin, he punched the knife into the roof again and 
again, the impact of the blows jarring his arm and his shoulder, radiating 
through his body.
He jabbed the knife through the roof yet again, groaning from the pain it caused 
him. Alarmed, he saw that Jamie had listed sideways, drooping toward the rising 
water, which was now at his stomach. In a frenzy, he propped her upright again, 
then pounded the knife at the roof, straining to make a circle. His breath 
echoed loudly. He saw its vapor. The water reached his chest. Again, he stabbed 
the knife toward the roof, but the resistance of the water robbed him of 
strength, and this time the blade didn't pierce the metal.
The lights went out. In darkness, as the Taurus sank farther, Cavanaugh inwardly 
screamed. With the water restricting his movements and without lights to see 
where he was cutting, he would never be able to get through the roof. He felt 
Jamie slide sideways toward the water and again propped her up. He touched her 
face. Close to tears, he thought, I'm sorry. If I'd loved you enough, if I'd 
listened, we'd be home right now. I didn't protect you well enough. So sorry.
As the water rose past Cavanaugh's nipples, a fierce anger possessed him. God 
help me, there has to be a—
Immediately, he pushed the trunk-release button. He kicked off his shoes, 
squirmed over the seat, and splashed into the back. Trembling from the cold, he 
yanked away the seat cover and drove the Emerson knife into the back support, 
hacking at it. Tearing, ripping, he widened a hole and shoved at the steel plate 
that he'd put against the rear of the trunk. Then he took a deep breath and swam 
underwater into the submerged trunk. The weight of the water had kept the trunk 
from opening. He pushed at the hatch, but although he'd used the trunk-release 
button, nothing happened. The trunk must have been damaged when the car rolled, 
he realized. He pushed harder. Lungs aching, he twisted the knife against the 
latch, pried, levered, and felt something give. Shoving up with his back, he 
forced the lid up.
Breathe. Need to breathe. Desperate, he swam back through the hole in the rear 
seat, reached the car's interior, and raised his head, only to bump it in the 
darkness. Exhaling, his lungs made a roaring sound, amplified by the confined 
space. He frantically estimated that there were barely five inches between the 
rising water and the roof. Without pause, he inhaled as much air as he could, 
then plunged under the water, groping into the front seat, finding Jamie and 
raising her into the airspace.
Her moan filled him with a hope. You can't moan if you're not breathing. He 
pulled off her shoes. Then he turned her to face him, opened her battered mouth, 
and breathed into it, trying to fill her lungs, to give her enough air that she 
could survive what he was now forced to do, which was to pull her over the seat 
and swim with her through the hole in the backseat. He tugged her into the 
trunk, braced his feet against the floor, and shoved upward, clearing the open 
lid, fighting to rise with the current.
He had a powerless, disorienting sensation of being buffeted this way and that.
One thousand.
Two thousand.
Three thousand.
Four thousand.
He seemed to hear explosions as he and Jamie broke through the surface—the 
impact of waves hitting rocks. As Jamie gasped, he gripped her around the 
shoulders and kicked through the water, using his free arm to fight to swim.
A flashlight's glare almost blinded him. It was aimed from a bridge about twenty 
feet above him, from near the bluff over which the Taurus had fallen. Prescott, 
Cavanaugh thought. Now he's going to finish it. Struggling to swim toward 
boulders, Cavanaugh waited for the bullet he would never feel, which would blow 
his skull apart. He knew that Jamie would drown, if Prescott didn't shoot her 
first. Their corpses would be caught in the current and swept out to sea.
Close. We came so close.
"You son of a bitch!" Cavanaugh managed to yell.
"What? I can't hear you!" a man's voice yelled back, not Prescott's. "Try to 
reach those rocks!"
Cavanaugh didn't have the strength to answer.
The flashlight kept blinding him. "When I saw the broken guardrail, I stopped 
and spotted your car going under! I called the police! Swim closer! I've got a 
rope in my truck!"





5
An oxygen mask over her face, an IV blood line going into her left arm, Jamie 
lay on a gurney that two nurses wheeled urgently through electronically 
controlled swinging doors toward a brightly lit corridor flanked by operating 
rooms. Two surgeons quickly followed. A clock on the wall showed it was 12:35. 
Watching the doors swing shut, Cavanaugh tightened his grip on the blanket 
wrapped around him.
"I heard you stopped the bleeding with duct tape," a voice behind him said.
Cavanaugh turned toward Rutherford, whose husky dark features looked pale with 
fatigue. Like Cavanaugh, he still bore the marks of the beating he'd received.
"We're going to have to start teaching that at the Academy," Rutherford said.
Cavanaugh's hollowness made it difficult for him to speak. "Good to see you 
again, John."
"Hard to believe, given how much trouble you took to avoid me."
"When did you get in?"
"This evening. As soon as it was obvious you were jerking us around again, 
several of us decided to go sight-seeing in Carmel. In fact, I received your 
second phone call in a Bureau jet somewhere over Ohio."
"You told the police to report any incidents involving people who matched our 
description?"
"It seemed a reasonable tactic. Trouble has a way of happening to you." 
Rutherford nodded toward the doors to the surgical area. "Is she going to be all 
right?"
Cavanaugh glanced down at his hands. "They don't know."
"I'm very sorry. We could have tried to help you get her back."
" Tried.' A lot to coordinate. No time to do it. The government would have cared 
more about keeping Prescott than helping me. I couldn't risk it."
"Did the doctors tell you when they'd have word about her condition?"
"Four to five hours."
"A long time to wait," Rutherford said. "You can spend it in jail, or you can 
spend it with us. Do you think you're ready now to help us get Prescott?"





6
The squad room in the Monterey police station had two rows of desks at which 
weary-looking Justice Department and local law-enforcement officers sat, 
listening to Cavanaugh. Throughout, phones rang. Each time one was answered, 
Cavanaugh tensely expected it would be word from the hospital. It never was.
"We'll get a sketch artist working on the description you gave us. The airports 
along the coast have already been alerted," Rutherford said.
"I don't think he'll leave the area," Cavanaugh said. The overhead lights were 
painfully bright. "To the best of Prescott's knowledge, we're dead."
The possibility that Jamie might, in fact, be dying at that moment made 
Cavanaugh hesitate.
Somehow he continued. "I told Prescott that the government didn't know I'd 
tracked him to Carmel. He believed me. After all, if I was working with the 
government, I wouldn't have been alone. In his arrogance, Prescott might decide 
he'd finally covered his tracks. He might do the unexpected and stick close to 
home. Where's the list I asked you to make?" He referred to the names of men who 
had bought or leased property in the Carmel/Monterey area within the previous 
three weeks and who had also made appointments to play golf at the best courses.
Rutherford handed Cavanaugh several sheets of paper. "This is what we've got so 
far. It doesn't include men who've rented property without using a broker. We're 
checking past 'For Rent' ads in the local papers to try to contact property 
owners who made direct arrangements with new renters."
The overhead lights seemed harsher as Cavanaugh studied the list. "There're more 
than I expected."
"It's a popular area."
"How come there aren't many names in Carmel itself?"
"Expensive real estate. Not many people can afford it. The location's so prized, 
very few sell."
Cavanaugh kept scanning the names. Noting occupants in Pacific Grove, Monterey, 
Seaside, Carmel, the Carmel Valley, and the Carmel Highlands, the list went on 
and on.
"It's going to take a lot of personnel to check all this," Cavanaugh said. "And 
a lot of time and effort not to make Prescott suspicious if you get close to 
him."
"We were hoping we'd save some of that time and effort if any of those names 
caught your attention," an FBI agent said.
"When Karen was preparing Fresco It's new identity," Cavanaugh said, "she 
wouldn't have picked an unusual name. Nothing that stood out. And nothing that 
anybody would associate with Prescott's former life."
The group looked more weary.
"Unless Karen got a bad feeling about Prescott," Cavanaugh said.
They glanced up.
"If Karen knew she was in danger," Cavanaugh said, "she might have chosen a name 
for Prescott that meant something to me and led me to him."
"You?" an agent asked.
"She had every reason to expect I'd go after anybody who hurt her."
"You and she were that close?"
"Her brother and I were in Delta Force together. He bled to death in my arms."
The group became silent, sobered.
Cavanaugh scanned the list. "His name was . . ." Cavanaugh tapped his index 
finger on a name. "Ben."
Rutherford came over and stared at the name he indicated. "Benjamin Kramer."
"The Carmel Highlands." Cavanaugh remembered steering onto a road that led to 
the Highlands and asking Prescott the significance of the name. "It's a small 
community of houses on a bluff above the ocean," Prescott had said 
matter-of-factly. The bastard lives there, Cavanaugh thought. Without knowing 
it, I was close to Prescott's home.
"How strongly do you believe there's a connection?" Rutherford sounded like he 
wanted desperately to believe. "It could be a coincidence."
"I didn't notice it at the start because Ben never used the formal version of 
his name. He was always just Ben. But Prescott has a thing about nicknames. He 
insisted that his first name was Daniel, not Dan, and when he created the Joshua 
Carter identity, he was firm to the staff at the exercise club that his name was 
Joshua, not Josh. On this list, some people used abbreviations to identify 
themselves—Sam, Steve. In contrast, Benjamin seems awfully formal."
"What about the last name 'Kramer'?" an FBI agent asked.
"Before Karen had the car accident that put her in a wheelchair, she was engaged 
to a guy named Kramer. As soon as the creep found out Karen was permanently 
crippled, he broke the engagement. Ben said the only good thing about Karen's 
accident was it kept Kramer from marrying her."
"Let's find out where this address is. Who's familiar with the Highlands?" 
Rutherford asked.
"My aunt lives down there." A female detective grabbed a phone.
Rutherford turned toward another detective. "Does your department have detailed 
maps of the communities around here?"
"A computer program and a satellite image from the Internet."
"Let's get a precise location of the house."
A phone rang. As a detective answered it, Cavanaugh hoped but also dreaded that 
this time the call would be from the hospital, but it turned out to be about 
another matter.
Someone put a CD-ROM disc into a computer. A layout of the few streets in the 
Carmel Highlands appeared on the screen. The detective typed the address. 
"There. At the end of this ridge. Directly over the ocean." A magnified 
satellite image showed the tops of homes, the patterns of vegetation, and the 
contours of streets. The detective zoomed in on the property they wanted to know 
about.
"A big lot," Cavanaugh said.
"In the Highlands, some of them are an acre and more."
"Sprawling house."
"Compared to the shadows these other houses give off, it looks like it has only 
one level."
The female detective finished talking to her aunt and set down the phone. 
"Everybody knows everybody down there. When this guy moved in, she took him a 
fruit basket to welcome him. He was overweight. Gruff. Said he was dieting. 
Couldn't eat fruit because of the fructose in it. That's the word he 
used—fructose. The few times she's seen him since then, he'd slimmed down. 
Shaved his head. Grew a goatee. She says she can see through the trees to his 
house. The lights are on."
"At one-thirty in the morning?" an FBI agent asked.
"Maybe he leaves them on when he's not home."
"Or he could be packing," Rutherford said, grabbing a phone, "in which case, 
there isn't much time to trap him."





7
On edge from tension and lack of sleep, Cavanaugh stood behind one of the three 
police cars that formed a barricade at the entrance to the dark street. 
Increasingly worried about Jamie, he'd phoned the hospital before he'd arrived, 
but there had still been no word about her condition. Next to him, Rutherford 
and his team used night-vision binoculars to scan the handful of shadowy, widely 
separated houses and then concentrated on the one at the end of the block. 
Perched on a bluff, its low-sprawling profile would have been silhouetted 
against the whitecaps of the ocean if not for the numerous outdoor lights that 
glared around the house's perimeter. Several of the windows were illuminated 
also.
"I still don't see any shadows moving behind the curtains," an agent said.
"Maybe Prescott's gone, and the lights are supposed to make us believe he's 
there," someone else said.
Despite dry clothes, Cavanaugh crossed his arms over his chest, trying to 
generate warmth, continuing to feel the chill of what had happened to Jamie—and 
another chill: fear. "You don't see movement because it's not in Prescott's 
nature to go near windows."
Movement attracted his attention, figures emerging from trees and shadows, 
policemen escorting a family up the street toward the protection of the 
barricade. Wakened with a phone call, warned not to turn on their lights, they 
had been directed to leave their house via a back door, where the heavily armed 
officers had been waiting.
"Is that the last of them?" Rutherford asked.
"Six houses. Six families. All clear," a detective told him.
Behind the barricade, next to an open van, equipment made scraping sounds as 
shadowy black-clad figures put on two-way-radio gear, equipment belts, armored 
vests, night-vision goggles, and helmets, ten members of a SWAT team looking 
like starship troopers while they checked their pistols and assault rifles.
Rutherford went over to them. Cavanaugh followed.
On the far side of the van, a middle-aged male civilian, one of Prescott's 
neighbors, showed the SWAT commander a diagram he'd made of the interior of 
Prescott's house. The muted red flashlight the commander used to study it 
couldn't be seen beyond the van.
"How recently were you in there?" the commander asked.
"Five weeks ago. Just before the previous owner moved. Jay and I were very 
close. It's a damned shame he got sick."
"Any construction work since then? Workmen showing up? That sort of thing?"
"None that I saw."
"Okay, so we've got a living room past the front door," the commander said. 
"Media room, spare bedroom, and bathroom to the right. To the left, the kitchen, 
two more bedrooms and bathrooms. A home office. Friggin' big house. These are 
French doors leading off the living room?"
"Yes. There's a terrace in back. A waist-high wall looks over the cliff to the 
water."
"What's this area in back of the garage?"
"Laundry room."
"And this next to it?"
"A darkroom. Jay and I like—" The man became more somber and corrected himself. 
"Liked to take photographs, until Jay got sick."
The commander showed the diagram to his team and explained the procedures they 
would use to enter. When there weren't any questions, he nodded to Rutherford. 
"Ready when you are."
"I need to emphasize we want him alive," Rutherford said.
So the government intends to make a deal with him, Cavanaugh thought.
"Is he armed?"
"To the best of our knowledge, he has an AR-15 converted to full automatic. He 
also has probably more than one 9-millimeter pistol."
"If he fires at us ..."
"You have tear gas. You have flash-bangs. If you absolutely need to defend 
yourselves, do your best to wound him."
"He also has a Kevlar vest," Cavanaugh said.
The SWAT team turned toward Cavanaugh and studied him as best they could in the 
shadows.
"You're the bodyguard?" the commander asked.
Cavanaugh ignored the reference. "I've had several run-ins with him. He's 
extremely dangerous."
The commander looked toward Rutherford. "You said the target was a biochemist."
"That's correct."
"A wanna-be who thinks he's a runner-and-gunner."
"And who's killed five people that we know of," Cavanaugh said. "He's 
intelligent. He has an aptitude for this. Don't underestimate him."
"We'll toss him so many flash-bangs, he won't hear for a week."
"Were you told about the weapon he developed?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Some kind of fear thing?"
"An aerosol-delivered hormone."
"Hormone?" The commander gave Cavanaugh a "Get real" look. "Most of my team's 
been doing this for seven years. A biochemist is almost a vacation after some of 
what we've rammed into. We've sort of gotten accustomed to being afraid. To 
handling it, I mean."
"I understand," Cavanaugh said.
The commander studied Cavanaugh as if he couldn't possibly have a background 
that allowed him to understand what members of a SWAT team felt.
"But unless you've experienced this thing, you can't realize how powerful it 
is," Cavanaugh said. "If you smell something pungent..."
"It'll be his bowels letting go when he panics at hell on earth storming into 
his house," the commander said.
"I think I should go in first," Cavanaugh said.
"What?" Rutherford asked.
"I know what to expect." Cavanaugh dreaded the emotions he would feel when he 
confronted the smell of the hormone, but he couldn't let these men go first. 
They had no idea of what would happen to them. "I've got a better chance to—"
"Look at yourself," the commander said. "As messed up as you are, you're in no 
shape to go in there. This guy already beat you once tonight, so what makes you 
think he won't do it again? I'm sure you're a good bodyguard, but this is a case 
where professionals should do the heavy lifting." The commander turned to his 
men. "Let's go."
As angry as Cavanaugh felt, he gave them credit. When they separated into two 
groups and shifted past the barricade, heading through the trees and shadows on 
each side of the street, they looked as trained and experienced as any SWAT 
group he'd seen. In a very few seconds, they were invisible.
Slowly, one by one, the lights went off in Prescott's house.
"What the ..." someone said.
"Maybe he's finally going to bed."
"Or the lights are on timers," a detective said.
"You've got to stop this," Cavanaugh told Rutherford.
In the van, a policeman with headphones murmured, "The commander says they'll 
wait ten minutes and see what else happens. If the target is, in fact, going to 
bed, all the better—Prescott'll be nice and sleepy when they burst in."
Colder, Cavanaugh stared at the outdoor lights of the now-dark house. He felt 
the apprehension he'd have suffered if he'd been with the SWAT team.
Ten minutes passed. At 4:40, the man with the headphones leaned from the van. 
"They're entering."
Cavanaugh watched dark figures emerge from the shadows. Rapidly, they reached 
the glare of the outdoor lights. Racing across the front lawn, two of them 
carried a compact battering ram, whose handles they gripped and crashed against 
the front door, breaking it in. Cavanaugh assumed that the other half of the 
team was using a similar battering ram to smash in through the back. Weapons 
ready, the helmeted men charged inside. Strobe lights flashed behind the 
curtained windows. A siren blared.
The shooting and screaming started.





8
"My God, what's happening?" Rutherford said. "What's that siren? What are those 
strobes?"
"Prescott," Cavanaugh said.
The shooting and screaming worsened.
"Call for backup!" Rutherford yelled to the radio operator in the van. He drew 
his pistol. "We've got to get in there! We've got to help them!"
"They're shooting each other," Cavanaugh said.
"What?"
"Anything that moves! If you go in there, they'll shoot you, too!"
"But we can't just let—"
The shooting stopped. The screams diminished as the siren persisted. The strobes 
continued to flash behind the windows, their pulse so rapid that it made 
Cavanaugh nauseated to look at them.
"For God's sake, don't go in there until I tell you," he said. "Somebody give me 
a pistol!"
"You're not authorized."
Cavanaugh grabbed a flashlight from the van. As he did, he noticed a pump-action 
shotgun lying on a table and grabbed it also.
"Hey!" the radio operator said.
Before anyone could stop him, Cavanaugh hurried past the barricade. He reached 
the rustic house on the right and moved from tree to tree through the darkness, 
darting across the big lots toward a utility pole that Prescott's outdoor lights 
illuminated against the night sky.
The pole was to the right of Prescott's house, and the closer Cavanaugh came to 
the strobes and the siren, the more he slowed. When he reached the final house 
on the right, he veered along its murky side and crept through its narrow 
backyard, where a waist-high stone wall separated him from a cliff that dropped 
to the ocean. The siren almost overwhelmed the pounding of the surf as Cavanaugh 
came to a tall redwood fence that separated this property from Prescott's. Past 
the fence, the utility pole stood next to Prescott's house. A large gray 
transformer capped it.
Cavanaugh considered climbing the fence, dropping to the ground, and searching 
for the exterior breaker box, which would usually be next to the electrical 
meter. A switch inside the box would shut off the power to the strobes and the 
siren. But the thought of raising his head over that fence and not knowing what 
might confront him made him hesitate. Besides, he took for granted that the box 
would be locked and that Prescott would have rigged some kind of device to 
incapacitate anybody who might try to open it and cut off power to his house. 
Given the time pressure, there was only one choice.
He pumped a shell into the shotgun's firing chamber, aimed at the transformer on 
top of the pole, and pulled the trigger, absorbing the recoil against his 
shoulder. With a roar, a ten-inch gap appeared in the transformer, buckshot 
reaming it. But the siren and the strobes persisted. He pumped out the empty 
shell, chambered a full one, and fired a second time, the roar of the shotgun 
accompanied by a roar and flash from the transformer, sparks falling as the 
strobes and the siren stopped.
Prescott's house became totally dark.
Wary, Cavanaugh shifted through shadows along the fence and crouched at its end, 
peering around it toward the front of Prescott's barely visible house.
Hurried footsteps sounded along the street.
Urgent voices came nearer.
Suddenly, Rutherford crouched next to him. "Okay, since you know so much about 
this, now what?"
"Before anybody goes in, we have to break all the windows."
"Break all the—"
"So the breeze from the ocean can clear the air inside, get the smell of the 
hormone out of the house. Otherwise, anybody who goes in will panic enough to 
start firing at shadows, and anybody still alive in there will do the same."
Two FBI agents joined them. Across the street, police officers and other agents 
took cover among murky trees and bushes.
The only sound became the muffled pounding of waves at the bottom of the cliff.
A moan drifted out the front door.
"Tony?" Rutherford shouted to the SWAT commander.
No answer.
"Tony, can you hear me in there?"
Still no answer.
That didn't mean anything, Cavanaugh knew. If Tony was all right, he might not 
want to give his position away by answering the shout.
Again, a moan drifted from the front door.
Rutherford pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. "Anything from their radios? 
Over."
The walkie-talkie crackled. "Nothing."
Cavanaugh heard sirens in the distance. "Anybody who isn't dead will bleed to 
death if we don't get them to a hospital."
"And Prescott can pick us off as we try to go in for them." What Rutherford said 
next seemed to come out of nowhere. "Do you know what Baptists believe?"
Cavanaugh assumed he was talking to calm himself. "No, John. Tell me."
"Humans are sinful." "Truth to that," Cavanaugh said. "Our only hope is God's 
mercy." "Truth to that also."
"Well, God have mercy," Rutherford said. He darted toward a pine tree in front 
of Prescott's house.
Cavanaugh wanted to follow, but his legs unexpectedly resisted. Imagining the 
smell of the hormone, he felt an impulse to back away, to get as far from the 
house as possible.
Rutherford said something into his walkie-talkie. As the sirens wailed closer, 
the FBI agents and the police officers shifted toward the house.
"God have mercy is right," Cavanaugh said. Hearing another moan through the open 
front door, he bolted from the fence. Punishing himself for having almost been a 
coward, he raced across Prescott's lawn, reached a space between two windows at 
the front of the house, pressed himself against the stone wall, and smashed each 
of the windows with the butt of the shotgun.
Next to him, he heard other windows being smashed, the agents and police 
officers following his example, using the butts of shotguns to shatter the glass 
while pressing themselves against the front wall. A half minute later, the 
windows in back were shattered, as well.
As Cavanaugh waited for Prescott to shoot, an ocean breeze drifted through the 
house, fluttering curtains. "What's that smell?" a police officer said. "Get 
away from the house!" an agent yelled. "Take cover! I saw something move!"
"Don't shoot till you're sure of the target!" Rutherford yelled. A policeman 
raced from the front of the house.
Two agents followed, scrambling toward the barricade of police cars at the end 
of the block.
Cavanaugh tried to hold his breath.
Then he had to inhale, the breeze carrying the pungent smell to him. Even 
diluted, it shocked his brain. Instantly, sweat burst from his body, soaking 
him. He'd have run if panic hadn't paralyzed him. With tortuous slowness, the 
breeze took the last of the hormone from the house. But even though the only 
smell was now one of salt and kelp from the ocean, Cavanaugh continued to 
tremble.
"Living room's clear!" someone shouted from inside. Because the team in back had 
followed the breeze into the house, the hormone hadn't overcome them.
"Media room clear!"
"Guest room clear!"
"Bathroom clear!"
Beyond the broken windows, flashlights zigzagged, moving through the house. 
Agents and policemen slipped in through the front. More flashlights zigzagged.
"Second bedroom clear!"
"Second bathroom clear!"
"Office clear!"
As the litany continued and the search team shifted toward other rooms, 
Cavanaugh eased through the front door. In place of the hormone's pungent smell, 
the air was filled with cordite and the coppery odor of blood.
"Move the barricade! Get the ambulances down here!" Rutherford yelled into his 
walkie-talkie.
Cavanaugh saw him hunched over a body on the floor. A flashlight showed blood on 
a SWAT uniform. The man had been shot in the face.
As Cavanaugh moved from room to room, he saw more bodies, more blood. Thank God, 
some of the men were squirming, moaning, their armored vests having saved them 
from center-of-mass damage. But the wounds to their arms and legs might still 
cause them to bleed to death.
Through broken windows, he saw the flashing lights of two ambulances approaching 
the house. He shifted his attention to the array of strobe lights mounted at the 
corner of every room, sirens next to them.
"Master bedroom clear!" "Master bathroom clear!" "Garage clear!" "Laundry room 
clear!" "Darkroom clear!"
Amid the glare of more flashlights, ambulance attendants rushed into the house 
and hurried from body to body, doing their best to keep the wounded alive.
"You were right," Rutherford said. "They shot at each other." Cavanaugh pointed. 
"The way the strobes were set up, the flashes probably looked like automatic 
gunfire. Maybe they even created a flashing image of somebody with a weapon. The 
sirens would have engaged a startle reflex. Wherever those guys turned, they 
couldn't tell the difference between a threat and their own men. All it took was 
for one of them to panic because of the hormone and start shooting. Others would 
have followed suit. Scared beyond any extreme they'd ever experienced, they cut 
each other down in a cross fire." "Professionals," Rutherford said.
"Just like the fifteen Rangers who lost control and shot at each other in the 
swamp. Damn it, where's Prescott?" Cavanaugh asked.
Reinforcements arrived, more flashlights filling the darkness as two dozen 
agents and police officers searched the house repeatedly.
"No basement, no attic," Rutherford said. "It's a sloped roof. There'd be some 
kind of space under it," Cavanaugh said.
"Two agents checked every inch of it twice. Prescott isn't up there."
"As the SWAT team approached the house, he shut off the lights," Cavanaugh said. 
"He rigged a motion sensor for the strobes and the siren."
"Then he slipped out the back way," Rutherford said. "Check the neighboring 
properties. Search the houses. Get squad cars on the streets and the highway. If 
he's on foot, he can't go far."
"Well, that's the problem," an agent said.
"Problem?"
"There aren't any cars in the garage. Maybe he's got a vehicle hidden around 
here."
For the first time, Cavanaugh heard Rutherford swear.
Rutherford's walkie-talkie crackled. A voice Cavanaugh recognized as belonging 
to the van's radio operator asked, "Is that bodyguard with you? Over."
"Right next to me. Over."
"Tell him we just got a phone call from the hospital."





9
Cavanaugh sat in a corner of a blindingly bright room in Intensive Care. Across 
from him, Jamie lay unconscious, her face pale, EKG electrodes attached to her 
chest, a hospital gown and a sheet covering her, an IV tube leading into her 
left arm, a respirator tube going down her throat. Behind her, pulse, blood 
pressure, and heart monitors flashed and beeped.
One of her surgeons, a slender Hispanic, turned from examining her. "She's 
remarkably strong."
"Yes," Cavanaugh said.
"I'll know more in twelve hours, but her vitals are encouraging. We've got 
reason to be optimistic."
Staring at Jamie, Cavanaugh nodded.
"She'll have you to thank," the surgeon said. "She probably would have died 
before she got to the hospital if you hadn't stopped the bleeding with duct 
tape."
"No," Cavanaugh said. "She doesn't have anything to thank me for at all."
The doctor looked curious.
"If I'd listened to her," Cavanaugh said, "she never would have gotten shot."
The heart monitor beeped.
"Can I stay in here?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Normally, we don't allow ..."
Cavanaugh looked at him.
"Yes," the surgeon told him.
"The lights," Cavanaugh said, squinting from their brightness. "Can you put 
something over her eyelids?"
"As soon as we're finished in here, we'll dim the room."
"What about for now?"
"I'll have a nurse bring a washcloth."
"Thank you."
Thirty seconds later, Cavanaugh was alone with her.
The respirator hissed, wheezed, and thumped, Jamie's chest going up and down.
"I'm sorry," Cavanaugh told her.
His muscles ached. His eyes felt as if sand scratched them. Closing his lids to 
shield his eyes from the stark overhead lights, he leaned back in the plastic 
chair and managed a fitful sleep, even when nurses came in to check Jamie and 
replace her IV **ch**10
Around two in the afternoon, Cavanaugh drove a borrowed unmarked police car 
along Highway 1 and stopped at the side of the road just before the Carmel 
Highlands turnoff that would eventually lead to Prescott's street. He got out of 
the car and stayed close to the trees at the side of the road as he walked 
toward the turnoff. The afternoon was pleasant, with a gorgeous sky, but 
Cavanaugh paid attention only to the high branches on the trees just in from the 
turnoff. He approached them slowly from an oblique angle, craning his neck, 
taking off his sunglasses to get a better look at the trees.
When he didn't see what he wanted, he raised binoculars and scanned the 
branches. Continuing to remain carefully to the side, he paid particular 
attention to where the branches met the trunks. After ten minutes, a high 
Monterey pine—on the left, about forty feet in from the turnoff—became the sole 
object of his concentration. He focused the binoculars on a gap in the branches 
and nodded.





11
Near the entrance to Prescott's street, Cavanaugh stopped again, got out of the 
car, and stayed well to the side as he approached the turnoff. Now that his eyes 
were practiced, he took only five minutes to find the miniature TV camera, its 
lens about the size of a flashlight's, attached by a metal strap to the crook of 
a branch in a Monterey pine about thirty feet in from the entrance. The strap 
was painted the brown of the trunk. The camera was the same type that Prescott 
had said he'd hidden in the parking garage to watch for anybody who might be 
following him. "The Internet's crammed with advertising for them," he'd said. 
"Check up on your baby-sitter. See your neighbor's teenaged daughter 
sunbathing."
Or watch the police stake out your house and try to catch you by surprise, 
Cavanaugh thought. Last night, Prescott saw every move we made from when we 
drove into the Highlands to when Rutherford set up the roadblock here to when 
the SWAT team snuck up on the house. Cavanaugh recalled how the lights in 
Prescott's house had gone off a few seconds after the SWAT team had started to 
approach it. Sure, he thought. Prescott hoped that a brightly lit house would be 
a deterrent and buy him some time, but when he saw the police move toward it, he 
proceeded to stage two, shut the lights off, set the motion detectors for the 
strobes and the siren, then filled the house with the hormone.
Staying out of the camera's sight, Cavanaugh returned to the car. When he drove 
onto Prescott's street, he peered toward the end of the block and for the first 
time got a clear look at Prescott's house, which was low, modernistic in design, 
and made from flat sections of stone set on top of one another. Flanked by 
shrubs, a curved driveway led up to the front entrance. The door to the 
double-car garage was open. Yellow tape with police crime scene do not cross on 
it went from tree to tree, encircling the property. Other things caught 
Cavanaugh's interest. On the right, a large truck had a platform raised next to 
the utility pole, two workmen replacing the electrical transformer Cavanaugh had 
shot the night before. In the driveway, a bearded man in coveralls was removing 
sheets of plywood from a pickup truck. Half of the broken windows in front of 
the house had already been covered with the wood. To the left, parked along the 
street, pointing in Cavanaugh's direction, were two police cars and an unmarked 
car that Cavanaugh recognized as the dark sedan belonging to Rutherford and some 
of his fellow agents.
Cavanaugh made a U-turn in front of the house, doing it slowly, taking the 
opportunity to study the corners under the house's eaves without seeming to. 
Small boxes with peepholes might have been birdhouses, or they might have been 
receptacles for miniature TV cameras hidden under the eaves.
After parking in front of the police cars and walking toward the house, he saw 
Rutherford come out and study him wearily.
"Is your wife's condition any better?" Although Rutherford had changed his suit 
and shaved, he looked haggard. The lingering bruises on his face made his black 
skin seem pale.
"She's still unconscious." Cavanaugh made himself continue. "But the surgeon 
says her life signs are better than he expected. We're more hopeful."
"Good." Rutherford sounded genuinely relieved, despite the betrayed tone in what 
he said next. "Incidentally, I just found out her name's Jamie, not Jennifer."
"I'm sorry."
"Of course."
"I figured if I kept her real name a secret, in the long run she wouldn't be 
involved," Cavanaugh said.
"But she got involved anyway, didn't she?"
"Yes," Cavanaugh said, "she got involved."
"Why are you here?"
"There's nothing I can do at the hospital. The waiting ..." Unable to finish the 
sentence, Cavanaugh looked around. "I hoped you could use my help."
"I don't see how. Prescott's long gone. Either he had a vehicle hidden in the 
area or he managed to steal one," Rutherford said. "We've got an alert out to 
every community north and south of here. Highway Patrol. Airports. Marinas. 
Train depots. Bus stations. Name it. We've staked out the car he left at the 
scenic lookout in Pacific Grove when he made contact with you. We're also 
watching the van he told you he kept in the parking garage where he stored the 
Porsche."
As the repairman nailed a plywood sheet to another broken window, Cavanaugh 
nodded toward the open front door. "Is the lab crew finished?"
"They didn't find anything useful. We confiscated Prescott's computer and all 
the documents he had. Maybe they'll point us in his direction."
Entering, Cavanaugh heard voices from various rooms to the right and left, FBI 
agents and detectives presumably making a final inspection of the house. In 
daylight, the building's sprawl was dramatic. Its expensive modernistic 
furniture matched its architecture, although bullet holes had destroyed most of 
the chairs, sofas, tables, and lamps. The walls and framed black-and-white 
photographs of the Carmel region had been similarly destroyed. Broken glass lay 
everywhere. Through the shattered rear windows, an ocean breeze dispelled any 
lingering odor from the bloodstains amid the chalk outlines on the hardwood 
floor.
Cavanaugh stared at the strobe lights mounted in a corner. Their variously 
colored compact bulbs had been discreetly arranged to look like an abstract 
artwork and wouldn't have attracted suspicion if seen through a window.
"Is the casualty count still the same?" he asked. "Five dead. Five critically 
wounded. In stable condition. It looks like they're going to pull through." 
"Something to be thankful about."
Cavanaugh crossed the living room, heading toward the French doors, then ducked 
under more yellow crime-scene tape and stepped out onto a flagstone terrace that 
had shrubs and flowers in pots. Preoccupied, he peered over the waist-high stone 
wall toward where a forty-foot cliff dropped sharply to the crashing surf. Spray 
rose toward him.
"We have boats searching for a body in the water, in case Prescott was crazy 
enough to have tried climbing down there," Rutherford said.
"It's worth checking."
Doing his best to seem casual, Cavanaugh turned from the cliff and glimpsed two 
more birdhouses mounted under the eaves, one to the extreme right, one to the 
extreme left. They were angled toward the opposite corners. If miniature TV 
cameras were in them, as Cavanaugh was certain, their position would have 
allowed Prescott to see anyone coming around either side of the house.
When Cavanaugh reentered the house, the repairman hammered another sheet of 
plywood over a broken window. Four detectives headed out the front door. Two FBI 
agents waited for Rutherford.
"We'll stay and lock up after the electricity's back on and the windows are 
sealed," Rutherford said.
Cavanaugh nodded.
He checked the office, the bedrooms, and the bathrooms. He went into the garage 
and inspected the laundry room and the photo-developing room.
All the while, Rutherford followed him.
After Cavanaugh returned to the front of the house and studied it some more, he 
finally shook his head from side to side.
"See, I told you," Rutherford said.
"At least you can't blame me for trying."
"Right. This is one time I can't blame you."
"I should have stayed at the hospital."





12
"No, sir. No change," the nurse said.
* * *
"May I help you?" the sinewy, mustached gun-store clerk asked. "I need a 
shotgun." "Any specific kind?" "A Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump."
"Yeah, that's certainly specific. You wouldn't happen to be with law 
enforcement?"
"No. What makes you ask?"
"Just that most police departments prefer that model. It's also the shotgun of 
choice for U.S. special operations."
"Is that a fact," Cavanaugh said.
* * *
"I need the strongest hacksaw you've got and several blades for it," Cavanaugh 
told the clerk at the hardware store.
* * *
"I need a wet suit," Cavanaugh told the clerk at the diving shop.
* * *
"I need an inflatable boat that'll accommodate an outboard motor," Cavanaugh 
told the clerk at the military-surplus store.





13
In the motel room, Cavanaugh stared at the makeup kit Jamie had left on the 
bureau. When he phoned the hospital, he was again told there was no change.
He pulled the mattress off the bed and used clamps that he'd bought in the 
hardware store to secure the shotgun to the bed frame, stabilizing it so the 
barrel protruded. Then he picked up the hacksaw and started sawing four inches 
off the barrel's eighteen-inch length, reducing it to the compactness that many 
police departments preferred. The effort took him an hour and several blades, 
but he wasn't conscious of the time passing—he had a great deal to think about.
After another phone call to the hospital ("No change"), Cavanaugh opened two 
boxes of federal double-aught "tactical"
buckshot. He liked that ammunition because the large pellets gave him a compact 
pattern over a long distance.
To make the pattern even tighter, he thumbed open a new Emerson CQC-7 knife that 
he'd bought at the gun store and used its blade to cut around the plastic shaft 
of each shell. He chose a spot about two-thirds down each of them, at the 
dividing line between the gunpowder and the pellets that would be discharged 
when the gunpowder was ignited. He had to be careful not to cut so deeply that 
the plastic cylinder would break in two while he worked on it. At the same time, 
his cut had to be deep enough that two-thirds of the shell would break away when 
the shotgun was fired. The blast would thus propel not only the pellets but the 
plastic shaft in which they were contained. The consequence would be that the 
pellets would not spread but would remain in a tight clump, causing 
near-explosive force when they hit their target.





14
After dark, Cavanaugh drove along Highway 1 to a low bridge located just south 
of Point Lobos, near the Highlands. The terrain there suited his needs. It was 
also where Prescott had forced the Taurus into the water. He parked along the 
side of the road, waited for a break in the passing headlights of traffic, then 
lugged the collapsed rubber boat down the slope to the water. After using a 
pressurized canister to inflate the boat, he anchored it to a rock and made two 
more cautious trips back and forth from the car, bringing the small outboard 
motor and a buoyant waterproof bag containing his equipment. He had put on his 
wet suit in the motel room. Now all he had to do was take off the sport coat 
that disguised what he was wearing. Rubber gloves and diver's boots protected 
his hands and feet as he pushed off from the rocks. He started the motor and 
headed out to the moonlit sea, staying a hundred yards offshore, following the 
contour of the bluffs of the Highlands, the speckled lights of houses guiding 
him.
When he came abreast of the bluff upon which Prescott's house was positioned, he 
shut off the motor and switched to a paddle, heading in silently. With the 
electricity restored, several lights around the outside of Prescott's house 
provided a beacon. But the waves and the undertow made it difficult to control 
the boat. Sweating from exertion, he had to alternate between port and starboard 
as he paddled closer to the cliff.
Then he got so close to the surf pounding the rocks that the boat would crash 
and overturn if he went any nearer. Spray chilled his face. After putting on the 
wet suit's rubber hood, along with flippers and a face mask equipped with a 
snorkel, he gripped the buoyant bag that contained his equipment and eased over 
the side. For an instant, the water was shockingly cold, nearly robbing him of 
the ability to move. Then the water seeped into his wet suit and formed a thin 
layer between the wet suit and his skin. Almost immediately, his body heated the 
water to its own temperature, so that only his face felt cold. The undertow was 
frighteningly strong, however. Using all the power in his arms and legs, he 
struggled through the turbulent waves, tugging his equipment bag via a strong 
nylon cord looped around his left wrist. A wave lifted him, threatening to smash 
him against the looming rocks. His heart raced sickeningly fast, making him 
almost change his mind and thrash back to the boat before the current could 
carry the boat away.
But he couldn't allow himself to back off, couldn't give in to his fear. If he 
did, he knew it would be the first of many times when he would give in to it. 
The surf took him under, lifted him, dropped him. With a mighty exhale, he blew 
water from his snorkel and stared through his water-beaded face mask. Judging 
the surf, he worked his legs and his arms, straining to avoid rocks projecting 
from the ocean. A wave slammed him against the cliff.
If not for the buffer of his wet suit, the granite would have flayed his 
shoulder. Wincing from the impact, he grabbed for an outcrop, was swept away, 
then was caught by another wave and again slammed against the cliff; but this 
time, as he groaned, his gloved hand caught a fissure in the rock. He gripped 
harder and pawed with his other glove. Finding a higher fissure, he pulled 
himself up before the next wave struck his legs and almost tugged him off the 
cliff.
As he dangled above the thunderous water, Cavanaugh released one hand from the 
cliff and pulled off his face mask and snorkel. Breathing greedily, he dropped 
the mask into the waves, then kicked off his flippers and dropped them also. He 
crammed his rubber-protected feet into a niche, hung for a moment, sucked more 
air into his lungs, then slowly began his ascent through the darkness. Spray 
flew around him. He'd cut off the tips of his rubber gloves so that his fingers 
would be better able to grip outcrops, but the remainder of the gloves 
interfered with his mobility. He soon had to release his hands, one at a time, 
use his teeth to pull off each glove, then drop them to the waves beneath him. 
Instantly, his palms were cold, but not enough to immobilize his grip, his 
fingers continuing to grab and hold.
He pulled himself higher. The cord looped around his left wrist was attached to 
a spool that had a release switch. He'd pressed the switch just before he 
reached the rocks, allowing the cord to unwind as the waterproof bag floated in 
the crashing surf. Thus, he could climb without the weight of the bag dragging 
him back. Higher. He had the sense that his fingers were bleeding. They didn't 
matter. Only not giving up mattered. He reached for a handhold, shoved his feet 
into another fissure, reached again, and touched the rock wall at the top, 
gaining energy from knowing that this part of the ordeal was almost over.
The miniature TV cameras hidden under each corner of the eaves were aimed toward 
each other. They could show someone creeping around either corner, but the 
limited field of vision afforded through holes in the birdhouses made it 
impossible for them to provide a view of the waist-high wall above the cliff. 
Ca-vanaugh raised himself, balanced on the wall's foot-wide rim, and pulled the 
cord looped around his wrist, hoisting his equipment bag. Water dripped from the 
bag as he set it down. Throughout, he studied the back of Prescott's house. 
Harsh lights illuminated the corners and the French doors across from him. Like 
the shattered windows, the doors were covered with sheets of plywood. A padlock 
secured the doors. Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched across them. A police 
department sign nailed to the plywood warned that trespassers would be 
prosecuted.
Cavanaugh unzipped the waterproof bag and pulled out the sawed-off shotgun, 
along with a nylon bag of shells that he hitched over his right shoulder. He 
removed the Emerson knife and clipped it to the neck of his wet suit. He took 
out a pouch of his lock-pick tools. Finally, he threw off the wet suit's hood 
and reached into the bag for night-vision goggles that he'd found at the 
military-surplus store while buying the Zodiac boat. He draped the goggles 
around his neck.
Ready, he dropped to the terrace, sank to the flagstones, and squirmed across 
them toward the French doors, the bottom of which was another area that the 
angle of the TV cameras couldn't reach. When he came to a crouch, he at last 
risked being seen as he hurriedly picked the lock. He opened the doors, rushed 
into the dark house, shut the doors, put on his night-vision goggles, and aimed 
the shotgun.
His goggles gave the dark interior a faint green illumination as he checked the 
wreckage of the living room and then shifted left into the media room, then the 
guest bedroom and bathroom. These areas weren't his main interest, but he had to 
make sure they weren't a threat. Satisfied, he crept toward the opposite side of 
the house, broken glass scraping under his rubber-protected feet. The vague 
smell of cordite still lingered in the air. At once, Cavanaugh knew that the TV 
cameras had at the last moment revealed him crouching to pick the padlock and 
enter the house—
because the smell of cordite was overpowered by the sudden pungent stench of the 
hormone.
Until now, Cavanaugh's wet suit had been comfortably warm. Now the sweat that 
squirted from his body raised his temperature so much that he felt as if he were 
in a sauna. Almost dizzy from the heat under his wet suit, he risked taking his 
right hand off the shotgun for the few seconds he needed to pull down the wet 
suit's zipper, exposing his chest. The effort made no difference.
In Karen's basement, he had thought he'd endured the full force of the hormone, 
but now, as the smell became almost unbearable, he understood that he had no 
idea how powerful Prescott's weapon could be. His legs threatened not to support 
him. His stomach felt simultaneously scaldingly hot and polar-cold. His pulse 
was so fast, he came close to fainting.
Part of him wanted to roll into a ball and pray for this nightmare to end. 
Another part compelled him to pivot in an increasingly rapid circle, pointing 
his shotgun anywhere and everywhere. His body heat misted the faint green images 
of his night-vision goggles. Surrounded by every imaginable threat, seeing 
through fear-narrowed vision, he spotted a man with a pistol aiming at him from 
the corridor that led to the master bedroom. He came within a millisecond of 
pulling the trigger, then realized that the man with a pistol was merely a 
shadow, that this was how the Rangers and the SWAT team had reacted.
Cavanaugh's only advantage was that he'd suffered the hormone's effects and knew 
what to expect. Even so, as the pungent smell became strong enough to make him 
taste bile, he heard unnerving noises that he realized were pathetic whimpers 
forcing their way from his throat. The heaving bellows of his lungs made the 
whimpers come and go, come and go, each time stronger, building to a scream that 
he repressed by racing along the corridor to the master bedroom.
Charging inside, he didn't dare think, didn't dare hesitate or second-guess 
himself. The huge bedroom had an arcade video game next to a luxurious reading 
chair. A large flat-screen plasma TV was mounted to the wall at the foot of the 
bed, a cabinet of electronics next to it. To the right of the TV, a sliding door 
led into a closet. That afternoon, Cavanaugh had looked into the closet and seen 
Prescott's designer jackets hanging on a rod, cedar shelves of expensive tank 
tops, T-shirts, and sweaters behind them.
Now he shoved a bureau from the side of the room and rammed it into the closet 
so hard that he broke off the pole that supported the jackets. He yanked down 
the electronics cabinet and the plasma TV, shattering its screen. With the 
closet blocked and the wall at the foot of the bed fully exposed, he pulled 
earplugs from his bag of shotgun shells and put them on. His shaky fingers could 
barely do the job. The pungent smell was so overpowering that he came close to 
bending forward and retching. Cursing, he stepped back, raised the shotgun, and 
fired at a spot three feet from the ceiling. Nearly knocked back by the recoil, 
which his shuddering body could barely support, he was gratified that the 
almost-severed plastic shell separated from its base when the gunpowder 
detonated. Like a miniature rocket, the main part of the shell and the buckshot 
within it roared toward the top of the wall, blasting apart on impact, creating 
a fist-sized hole, through which the buckshot burst like shrapnel. An eerie pale 
light was visible through the hole.
Cavanaugh yanked the pump on the shotgun's forward grip, ejecting the remainder 
of the empty shell, chambering a full one. In a fury, he fired just below the 
ceiling again, aiming toward an area three feet to the left of the first hole. 
Another miniature rocket seemed to blast a fist-sized hole in the wall. And 
another. Each hole revealed more of the eerie pale light. The Remington 870 held 
four shells in its magazine and one in the firing chamber. Cavanaugh rapidly 
discharged all five, blasting more holes in the wall, working his way downward. 
The odor of cordite helped to mask the stench of the hormone as he fumbled for 
more shells and forced his trembling fingers to shove them into the slot under 
the shotgun. Despite his earplugs, he heard muffled screams behind the wall just 
before he started shooting again.
He moved the pattern of the fist-sized holes lower, soon reaching five feet down 
from the ceiling. Prescott screamed more fiercely behind there as Cavanaugh 
reloaded again and fired, the holes showing even more of the light. The bedroom 
was filled with a haze of gun smoke. Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire. Now Cavanaugh 
lowered his aim to three feet above the floor. Prescott's screams came from down 
there, where he'd taken cover as the descending movement of the blasts pressed 
him toward the floor.
"You had me believing you'd gone!" Cavanaugh shouted. His fear and the earplugs 
caused his voice to sound as if it came from a disorienting distance.
"Then I spotted the miniature TV cameras outside the house!" Cavanaugh pumped 
the shotgun and blew yet another hole in the wall, keeping it three feet above 
the floor, forcing Prescott to huddle in panic down there. Wood and plaster 
flew. More of the glowing light was exposed.
"So many cameras!" Cavanaugh's shout was primal.
"Cameras need monitors! So where the hell are the monitors?" As Cavanaugh 
blasted yet another hole in the wall, the hormone made his bladder want to let 
go.
"Where's the walk-in closet that ought to go with a bedroom this huge?" 
Cavanaugh pumped the shotgun and fired. The glow of the monitors streamed 
through the increasing holes, revealing where they were stacked on shelves 
against the far left side of the enclosure, away from his shots.
"It couldn't have been hard to put up a wall inside the closet! Something you 
could pivot like a door and lock on the other side!" Again Cavanaugh pulled the 
trigger. He knew that the neighbors would hear the shots and phone the police. 
He didn't care. By the time the police arrived, his business would be finished.
"What did you do, use the van from the parking garage to bring in construction 
supplies?" Again, Cavanaugh's shotgun roared. "Your neighbors wouldn't have 
realized you were dividing the closet! Shelves for the monitors! A ventilation 
duct connected to the main system! A cot! Preserved food! A portable toilet! 
Like the first time I met you! You were in a hiding hole then! You're in a 
hiding hole now!"
Cavanaugh pulled the trigger and blasted the middle of the wall. So much light 
from the monitors now glowed through the holes that it compromised his 
night-vision goggles, forcing him to raise them to his forehead. "Everybody was 
so impressed by the huge TV on the wall, they didn't realize you were hidden 
back there! A couple of days from now, when the police stopped searching for you 
around here, you could have left the house after dark! You could have stolen a 
car and been in San Francisco before anybody realized the car was missing! 
Nobody would have made the connection with you, especially if you remembered to 
wipe your fingerprints the way I taught you!"
Cavanaugh's hands and face dripped with sweat as he pumped out a final empty 
shell and started to reload.
Abruptly, he was stunned by a chaos of bullets erupting from the ravaged wall. 
Wood and plaster flew as an assault rifle fired an automatic volley from the 
other side. Roberto's AR-15, Cavanaugh thought, diving to the floor. His 
earplugs only partially muffled the stuttering clamor. Chunks of the wall spewed 
across the bedroom, bullets rupturing the headboard and the wall behind 
Cavanaugh. Lamps and picture frames shattered. Amid the widening gaps in the 
wall and the increasing glow of the monitors, Cavanaugh saw the staccato muzzle 
flashes.
At once, the shooting stopped. Cavanaugh thought he heard a curse, the scrape of 
metal, the struggle to release a jammed cartridge. The next instant, what was 
left of the wall burst apart, Prescott shrieking, his muscular body ramming 
through the cluster of holes. His upper torso was bare, except for the Kevlar 
vest he'd pulled over it. The glow of the monitors reflected off the sweat on 
his powerful-looking arms and shaved scalp. Even in the dim light, his eyes 
blazed. The sharp contours of his jaw and chin radiated the fury of a cornered 
predator. Throwing the assault rifle while he charged, he leapt over the broken 
TV and dove toward Cavanaugh. The impact was so great, Cavanaugh felt air being 
slammed from his lungs. The Kevlar vest's rigid structure reinforced the 
solidity of Prescott's body, stunning Cavanaugh to the point that his mind 
turned gray. Then Prescott's powerful hands clutched Cavanaugh's throat, sending 
a further shock through his nervous system. Breathless, Cavanaugh felt the bones 
in his throat bending inward, about to snap. He slammed his hands across 
Prescott's ears so hard that Prescott screamed in pain and fell back. Gasping 
for air, Cavanaugh rolled toward where he'd dropped the shotgun. But Prescott 
kicked his hands away and got to the shotgun first, pulling the trigger. Even 
with the earplugs Cavanaugh wore, the noise of the shell rocketing past him was 
overwhelming. The shell hit the arcade video game, the cylinder of buckshot 
exploding on impact, blowing the machine into pieces. Because Prescott was 
unfamiliar with the mechanics of the shotgun, he took too long to pump out what 
was left of the cartridge, giving Cavanaugh time to charge. The collision sent 
the two men crashing against already-shattered French doors. Plywood nailed to 
the doors' exterior gave way, Cavanaugh and Prescott smashing through onto the 
brightly lit terrace.
The floodlights hurt Cavanaugh's eyes as Prescott scrambled back and raised the 
shotgun.
"It won't do you any good." Cavanaugh's voice wavered, fear coursing through 
him. The strong, cool ocean breeze surged into his mouth and up his nostrils. "1 
had time to reload only one shell before you crashed through the wall."
"Right," Prescott said.
Cavanaugh undipped the Emerson knife from the top of his wet suit and thumbed 
open its blade. He took several deep breaths. The clear air wouldn't take away 
the effects of the hormone, but it stopped them from getting worse.
"Dummy, you brought a knife to a gunfight," Prescott said.
"An old joke."
"But I'm the one laughing." Prescott pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
"School's back in session," Cavanaugh said.
As Prescott gaped at the empty shotgun, Cavanaugh removed the plugs from his 
ears. He heard sirens in the distance.
"How'd you like to learn about knife fighting?" Cavanaugh lunged with the knife.
Prescott jumped back.
"Part of it has to do with balance." Cavanaugh lunged again.
Prescott dodged to the side.
"Part of it has to do with dexterity." With dizzying, eye-blinking speed, 
Cavanaugh flicked the dark blade back and forth, up and down.
Prescott raised the shotgun as if about to swing a baseball bat.
"And part of it has to do with knowing which areas of the body to cut, depending 
on if you want a quick kill," Cavanaugh said, "or a slow one."
Prescott stood his ground. He inhaled violently, unintentionally warning that he 
was about to act. Then he charged.
As Prescott swung the shotgun, Cavanaugh ducked, nicked Prescott's right arm, 
and skipped back before Prescott could swing again.
Prescott looked shocked that his arm was bleeding.
The sirens wailed closer.
When Prescott glanced in their direction, Cavanaugh darted forward and nicked 
Prescott's other arm.
Furious, Prescott swung the shotgun again and gasped when Cavanaugh ducked it, 
then plunged the Emerson knife through the Kevlar vest into Prescott's stomach.
Weak-kneed, Prescott stumbled back in shock, staring down at the bloody knife 
Cavanaugh pulled from the bullet-resistant vest. Blood trickled from the bottom 
of the vest, crimson spreading down Prescott's sweatpants. Prescott's eyes 
widened in denial, communicating that he couldn't believe what had happened was 
possible.
"The wound's too shallow to kill you for a while," Cavanaugh said. "You've still 
got a lot of bleeding to do."
"How did ..." Prescott's question was a gasp.
"Surely a smart guy like you can figure that out. The vest's made of polymer 
fibers. It's designed to resist only the blunt force of a bullet."
"The knife's sharp enough to slip past the fibers?"
"You pass the quiz." Cavanaugh jabbed again.
But Prescott had used the pause to regroup. Instead of lurching farther back, he 
surprised Cavanaugh by throwing the shotgun and charging, pinning Cavanaugh's 
arms to his side before Cavanaugh could do anything more than nick him again. 
With his hands clasped behind Cavanaugh's back, Prescott flexed his muscles, 
tightening, squeezing.
Cavanaugh felt as if metal coils were around him, contracting ever tighter. He 
couldn't move his chest, couldn't work his lungs. Staring at Prescott's frenzied 
eyes a couple of inches away from him, he suddenly felt light-headed. The 
floodlights on the terrace seemed to dim. His arms were so tight against his 
sides that he couldn't use the knife. He was so close to Prescott that he 
couldn't raise his knee to kick him in the groin.
In desperation, he hooked his right leg behind Prescott's left ankle and yanked. 
As Prescott toppled backward, Cavanaugh pushed, landing on him, knocking the 
wind from him.
Prescott's arms loosened just enough for Cavanaugh to pull free. They rolled 
away from each other and scrambled to their feet.
Cavanaugh jabbed with the knife.
Prescott dodged back.
Cavanaugh jabbed again.
Prescott dodged farther back, hit the waist-high wall, and went over.
"No!" Cavanaugh shouted.
Rushing, he grabbed Prescott's left arm just before he would have dropped out of 
sight.
Prescott dangled, his shoes scraping against the cliff. He could barely speak. 
"Please . . . don't... let... go."
"My shoulder still hurts from when you shot me." Cavanaugh stretched over the 
wall, clinging to him. "I'm not sure how long I can hold you."
Prescott jerked his other arm up and grabbed Cavanaugh's hands. Far below, the 
waves pounded the rocks. "Scared."
"I know," Cavanaugh said. "Thanks to your hormone, I'm so frightened, I'm not 
sure I can control my hands."
As if demonstrating the point, Prescott's blood-streaked arms began to slip 
through Cavanaugh's grasp. "For God's sake," Prescott said.
"Where's the antidote?"
"What?"
"Tell me where the antidote is."
Sirens blaring, cars stopped in front of the house. Doors slammed.
"Tell me where the antidote is. I'll let you live."
Prescott's arms slipped farther.
Cavanaugh's trembling hands weakened.
Prescott gasped.
Wincing, Cavanaugh gripped tighter. "Where's the antidote?"
"Put your hands where I can see them!" Rutherford yelled from the side of the 
house, aiming a pistol at Cavanaugh.
"I guess I'd better do what the man says." Cavanaugh made a motion as if to 
release his hands.
"No, wait!" Prescott said.
"The antidote! Where is it?"
"In the house!"
"Keep talking." Cavanaugh clung with all his might.
"Where I was hiding! Behind a monitor! In a red aerosol container!"
"It better not be bug spray, or I'll make you wish I'd dropped you!"
"Pull him up!" Rutherford rounded the corner, accompanied by FBI agents and 
police officers, all aiming pistols. A similarly intense group rounded the 
opposite corner, pistols and shotguns aimed.
Still hanging over the wall, clutching Prescott, Cavanaugh asked, "What's going 
to happen to him, John? Will the government make a deal?"
"Not anymore. Too many people know what happened last night. The newspapers and 
TV stations all along the coast are asking questions. So are the cable news 
channels, the networks, the East Coast papers. If the government bargained with 
a multiple killer in exchange for what he knows, there'd be even more questions. 
He'll be punished."
"Whatever it is, it won't be enough. Prescott, listen to me," Cavanaugh said, 
pulling him up. "In prison, you'd better let yourself go to pot again, because a 
buff guy like you will attract a lot of romantic attention from the inmates. Or 
maybe you'd better take a new batch of muscle stimulant and buff yourself up 
even more so you can fight off all their advances. You're just beginning to 
understand what fear is."





15
In the mercilessly bright lights of the ICU room, Cavanaugh sat sleeplessly next 
to Jamie, watching for the slightest flicker of her eyelids, the slightest 
twitch around her mouth. The respirator had been removed from her throat. Her 
chest rose and fell on its own. The flashing, beeping monitors for her pulse, 
blood pressure, and heart rhythms showed steady improvement.
"Twenty-four hours, and no setbacks," her surgeon said. "An excellent sign."
Cavanaugh nodded, hoping.
"Why don't you go away for a couple of hours and get some rest?" the surgeon 
suggested.
"If it's all right with you, I'm staying."
At 6:37 in the morning (Cavanaugh noted the time precisely), Jamie's green eyes 
finally opened. She looked groggy, dazed, in pain. But when she recognized him, 
her bruised face managed a look of affection.
"Can you understand me?" he asked.
She nodded almost imperceptibly, the effort tiring her.
"In case you don't remember, I'll tell you often," Cavanaugh said. "As soon as 
you're able, we're going back to Wyoming. We're heading home. We're staying."
Groggy, she tried to study him.
"If I'd agreed to go home when you wanted, you wouldn't have gotten shot. I 
don't know how to make it up to you, but somehow I will."
With effort, she asked, "Prescott?"
"I found him."
Worry clouded her eyes.
"He's alive. John has him in custody," Cavanaugh assured her.
The beeping of the monitors filled the silence between them.
"I want to prove to you how sorry I am," Cavanaugh said. "You're more important 
to me than anything. From now on, there's nothing I won't do for you."
Her eyelids weakened.
"I'm sure that's too much for you to understand right now. But I'll be here the 
next time you wake up, and I'll tell you again. I'll keep telling you." 
Cavanaugh had trouble with his voice. "Until you forgive me."
Cavanaugh touched her hand.
Jamie's fingers nudged his, almost too faintly to be noticed. But it was enough.
"I'll be here," Cavanaugh said. "Feel how steady my hand is." The antidote was 
working. "I'll watch over you."
She nodded, her closed eyelids relaxing. As she drifted back to sleep, her 
bruised lips formed what might have been a smile.