The Protector (2003) by David Morrell Page B

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