the consequences?"
"He's got plenty of incentive," Cavanaugh said. "As one of his attackers told me on a cell phone, they'll keep coming. In fact, I'm sort of the quarry now, too."
"Oh?"
"The man on the phone almost made it personal between him and me."
Duncan thought another moment and picked up a phone. "I'll speak to my contacts at the DEA and get more details about Prescott's situation."
"While you're making your calls ..."
"Yes?"
"At the warehouse, some homeless people helped Prescott and me get away. I promised them a truck of food and clothes would be delivered there tomorrow. Maybe some sleeping bags."
Duncan smiled. "I'll make it like the Ritz."
Chapter 6.
Cavanaugh had his handgun apart (in addition to gunpowder residue, he'd found rainwater on some of the interior parts) and was cleaning it on a towel on the living room's coffee table. Seeing movement, he looked up as Prescott entered.
"Did you get some sleep?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott nodded. "I surprised myself. I felt so tense, I expected just to keep lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling."
"Was the sleep any good?"
"When I woke up, I felt wonderful for a second. Then . . ." Prescott's voice dropped. He looked awkward in jeans and a denim shirt, evidently more accustomed to suits and ties. But, unlike the coveralls he'd worn on the helicopter, at least the clothes fit his heavy frame. Duncan prided himself on keeping various sizes at the bunker.
"Where is everybody?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh wiped gun oil on the Sig's various parts, which were laid out neatly on the towel in front of him. "Duncan's making phone calls. Tracy's in the control room."
"Control room?"
"Similar to what you had in the warehouse. This place is surrounded by security cameras. Tracy's watching the monitors and a radar screen that'll warn us if any aircraft are in the area. Roberto's maintaining the helicopter. Chad's cooking."
The smell of beef Stroganoff drifted pleasantly into the room.
"What about you?" Prescott surveyed the jeans and denim shirt that Cavanaugh now wore. "Were you able to rest?"
"I had a report to write and then some chores to do."
"Like this?" Prescott indicated the disassembled weapon.
"After action, the first thing I was trained to take care of is my equipment." Cavanaugh put the barrel into the slide, then secured the recoil spring and its guide rod into place. When he compressed the spring, he made sure to point it away from Prescott and himself, lest it catapult free and injure one of them.
"What did you mean, 'conditioned'?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh shook his head, confused.
Prescott continued. "When I told you that what you'd done to save me was one of the bravest things I'd ever seen, you said you're not brave--you're conditioned."
Cavanaugh slid the assembled slide mechanism onto the Sig's frame and secured it. He thought a moment. "People are brave when they're terrified but force themselves to risk their lives for somebody else."
Prescott nodded, listening intently.
"Why do you care about this?" Cavanaugh asked.
"My specialty is how the human brain functions, how it releases hormones and controls our behavior," Prescott said. "Epi-nephrine--what's commonly called adrenaline--is one of the hormones associated with fear. The speeding and contraction of the heart. The feeling of heat in the stomach. The jitteriness in the muscles. How someone like you overcomes the hormone's effects interests me."
"But I don't overcome it's effects."
"I don't understand."
"In Delta Force, I was trained to use those effects, to treat them as positives, instead of the negatives people associate with fear."
Prescott kept listening intently.
"Put a parachute on someone and tell that person to leap out of a plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to be terrified. It's a potentially life-threatening activity and one that's totally unfamiliar- But train that person in small increments, teach him how to jump off increasingly high platforms
"He's got plenty of incentive," Cavanaugh said. "As one of his attackers told me on a cell phone, they'll keep coming. In fact, I'm sort of the quarry now, too."
"Oh?"
"The man on the phone almost made it personal between him and me."
Duncan thought another moment and picked up a phone. "I'll speak to my contacts at the DEA and get more details about Prescott's situation."
"While you're making your calls ..."
"Yes?"
"At the warehouse, some homeless people helped Prescott and me get away. I promised them a truck of food and clothes would be delivered there tomorrow. Maybe some sleeping bags."
Duncan smiled. "I'll make it like the Ritz."
Chapter 6.
Cavanaugh had his handgun apart (in addition to gunpowder residue, he'd found rainwater on some of the interior parts) and was cleaning it on a towel on the living room's coffee table. Seeing movement, he looked up as Prescott entered.
"Did you get some sleep?" Cavanaugh asked.
Prescott nodded. "I surprised myself. I felt so tense, I expected just to keep lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling."
"Was the sleep any good?"
"When I woke up, I felt wonderful for a second. Then . . ." Prescott's voice dropped. He looked awkward in jeans and a denim shirt, evidently more accustomed to suits and ties. But, unlike the coveralls he'd worn on the helicopter, at least the clothes fit his heavy frame. Duncan prided himself on keeping various sizes at the bunker.
"Where is everybody?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh wiped gun oil on the Sig's various parts, which were laid out neatly on the towel in front of him. "Duncan's making phone calls. Tracy's in the control room."
"Control room?"
"Similar to what you had in the warehouse. This place is surrounded by security cameras. Tracy's watching the monitors and a radar screen that'll warn us if any aircraft are in the area. Roberto's maintaining the helicopter. Chad's cooking."
The smell of beef Stroganoff drifted pleasantly into the room.
"What about you?" Prescott surveyed the jeans and denim shirt that Cavanaugh now wore. "Were you able to rest?"
"I had a report to write and then some chores to do."
"Like this?" Prescott indicated the disassembled weapon.
"After action, the first thing I was trained to take care of is my equipment." Cavanaugh put the barrel into the slide, then secured the recoil spring and its guide rod into place. When he compressed the spring, he made sure to point it away from Prescott and himself, lest it catapult free and injure one of them.
"What did you mean, 'conditioned'?" Prescott asked.
Cavanaugh shook his head, confused.
Prescott continued. "When I told you that what you'd done to save me was one of the bravest things I'd ever seen, you said you're not brave--you're conditioned."
Cavanaugh slid the assembled slide mechanism onto the Sig's frame and secured it. He thought a moment. "People are brave when they're terrified but force themselves to risk their lives for somebody else."
Prescott nodded, listening intently.
"Why do you care about this?" Cavanaugh asked.
"My specialty is how the human brain functions, how it releases hormones and controls our behavior," Prescott said. "Epi-nephrine--what's commonly called adrenaline--is one of the hormones associated with fear. The speeding and contraction of the heart. The feeling of heat in the stomach. The jitteriness in the muscles. How someone like you overcomes the hormone's effects interests me."
"But I don't overcome it's effects."
"I don't understand."
"In Delta Force, I was trained to use those effects, to treat them as positives, instead of the negatives people associate with fear."
Prescott kept listening intently.
"Put a parachute on someone and tell that person to leap out of a plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to be terrified. It's a potentially life-threatening activity and one that's totally unfamiliar- But train that person in small increments, teach him how to jump off increasingly high platforms
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