Free The Protector (2003) by David Morrell Page B

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