The Protector (2003) by David Morrell Page A

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

    Chapter 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