Read The Protector (2003) for Free Online

as Prescott slid the shelves to the left, revealing a door.
    "Where does it lead?"
    "The warehouse."
    Recalling the army of crack addicts he'd seen when he'd arrived, Cavanaugh wondered how much he could count on Prescott to help. "Do you know how to handle that gun you pointed at me?"
    "No."
    Cavanaugh wasn't surprised. He picked up the .45 and found that Prescott had aimed it with the safety on. Worse, after Cavanaugh freed the safety and pulled back the slide half an inch, he saw that the firing chamber was empty. Releasing the magazine from the grip, he discovered that it did contain the usual seven rounds, however. After he shoved the magazine back into the grip, he racked a round into the firing chamber, ready for business.
    "Do you have extra ammunition?"
    "No."
    Cavanaugh wasn't surprised about that, either. Because the .45 needed to be cocked before it could be fired, he left the hammer back and the safety on, a method preferred by most professionals. After shoving it under his belt, he drew his Sig.
    He took one final look at the monitors, where he saw other ragged men rush into the stairwell, aiming pistols. Like the others, they suddenly hesitated, as if threatened by something the cameras didn't show in the stairway.
    The image that most caught Cavanaugh's attention, however, was one in the middle, where a beard-stubbled man in grimy clothes stood outside, beyond the wreckage of the Taurus, which was still in flames despite the downpour. Drenched, the man held a metal tube that was about four feet long and looked suspiciously like an antitank rocket launcher.
    "Prescott, is there a way to tell what's behind this door?"
    "The top row of monitors. On the right."
    The screen showed nothing but a shadowy metal catwalk.
    "Open the door! Get out of the way!"
    Wild-eyed, Prescott freed the lock and yanked the door open, veering toward the cover of the wall.
    Cavanaugh aimed through the opening but saw nothing except the catwalk he'd observed on the monitor. The suspended metal walkway stretched into the shadows. The warehouse rumbled from the rain.
    "Remember what I said about following orders?"
    Prescott could barely speak. "Yes."
    "Do you have a heart condition? Any serious illnesses that would keep you from moving fast?"
    Prescott squeezed out a "No."
    "Okay, when I run through this doorway, run after me! Stay close!"
    On the middle screen, the drenched, grimy man outside finished arming the antitank rocket launcher. It was short enough that he could easily manage it as he raised it to his shoulder and sighted upward through the rain toward the room's bricked-in window.
    "Now!" Cavanaugh said.
    Charging through the door, then aiming down toward the shadows below the catwalk, he heard his urgent footsteps on the catwalk's metal. An instant later, he was relieved to hear Prescott's footsteps clattering close behind him.
    Then all he heard was a ringing in his ears as the rocket exploded against the side of the building behind him. He felt the concussion, like hands slamming against his back, shoving him forward, and although he couldn't risk distracting himself by looking behind him, he imagined bricks flying into the room, smashing the monitors and electronic consoles.
    The shock wave knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the catwalk, his forehead banging against it as Prescott's heavy frame landed on him. The .45 under Ca-vanaugh's belt gouged into his side. For a moment, his vision turned gray.
    The catwalk swayed.

    Chapter 8.
    Prescott moaned.
    The catwalk swung farther out.
    Cavanaugh's mind cleared. Inhaling painfully, he tried to squirm from under Prescott's weight. Smoke and dust from the explosion swirled over them.
    "Prescott."
    The big man coughed.
    Cavanaugh felt the force of it. "Are you hurt?"
    "Not sure. . . . Don't think so."
    The ringing in Cavanaugh's ears made Prescott sound far away, instead of on top of him. "We have to stand."
    "The catwalk," Prescott warned.
    Its back-and-forth