The Protector (2003) by David Morrell Read Free Book Online Page B

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!"

    Chapter 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