"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."