into a swimming pool. Then teach him how to jump from even higher platforms wearing a bungee harness that simulates the feel of a parachute. Then show him how to jump from small planes at reasonable altitudes. Gradually increase the size and power of the planes and the height of the jump. By the time he leaps from that plane at twenty thousand feet, he's going to feel the same speeding and contraction of the heart, the same burning in the stomach, the same jitteriness in the muscles as before. This time, though, he's not terrified. He knows how to minimize the risk, and he's experienced hundreds of similar activities. What he feels instead of fear is the sharp focus of an athlete ready to spring into action. His adrenaline is affecting him the same way it always did. But his mind knows how to control it and to appreciate its constructive effects."
"Constructive?"
"The speeding and the contraction of the heart cause a greater output of blood to reach muscles and prepare them for extreme action. The faster breath rate causes more oxygen to get to muscles. The liver creates glucose, increasing the amount of sugar in the blood. At the same time, more fatty acids circulate. Both the sugar and the fatty acids become instant fuel, creating greater energy and stamina."
"Correct," Prescott said. "You had excellent instruction."
"I was trained to welcome adrenaline, to appreciate what it does to help keep me alive. I was also trained to think of gun-fights and car fights and all the rest of what happened today as being . . . not exactly normal, but I know what to expect. I know how to react. I can honestly say that not once today did I feel what's conventionally called fear."
Cavanaugh paused. Not once? he asked himself. What about the strange moment at the warehouse when I went up the stairs to meet Prescott?
"A powerful surge of adrenaline," Cavanaugh said, "but not fear, and that's why I don't think what 1 did today has anything to do with bravery. You're the one who's brave."
Prescott blinked. "Me? Brave? That's preposterous. For the past three weeks--and especially today--I've been terrified."
"That's my point," Cavanaugh said. "You can't be brave unless you're frightened to begin with. What you survived today was violent enough to unsettle even some experienced operators. I can only guess at the strength of character you had to muster to overcome the fear raging through you. You didn't freeze. You didn't panic, even though you must have felt that way. You promised me you'd be compliant, and you were. You're a prefect client."
Self-conscious, Prescott glanced down at the hardwood floor. Evidently, he wasn't used to compliments. "You might not feel afraid, but you still risk losing your life. For strangers. Why do you do that?"
Cavanaugh put on cotton gloves and began inserting 9-mm rounds into the pistol's magazine. In Manhattan, at the Warwick's bar, Jamie had asked a similar question. "Because it's what I know how to do and I'm good at it."
"No other reason?" Prescott asked.
"It's something I don't talk about with most people, because most people can't understand. Maybe you will because of your research into addiction."
"I'd like to try."
"Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines. People can get addicted to a lot of things. Some special-ops soldiers can't bear a quiet everyday life after they leave the service. They become mercenaries or contract operatives for the CIA, or security specialists."
"Or protective agents?"
Cavanaugh spread his hands in a gesture of self-admission. "It's like a race-car driver who isn't happy unless he's on a track, jockeying for position with other cars at two hundred and thirty miles an hour. The rush of adrenaline. To get it, he has to put up with periods of intense inactivity before and after each race. That's the way most protection assignments are. Intensely inactive. Even the inactivity, the constant waiting for trouble, has a rush to it, though. As much as I hate to say this,
"Constructive?"
"The speeding and the contraction of the heart cause a greater output of blood to reach muscles and prepare them for extreme action. The faster breath rate causes more oxygen to get to muscles. The liver creates glucose, increasing the amount of sugar in the blood. At the same time, more fatty acids circulate. Both the sugar and the fatty acids become instant fuel, creating greater energy and stamina."
"Correct," Prescott said. "You had excellent instruction."
"I was trained to welcome adrenaline, to appreciate what it does to help keep me alive. I was also trained to think of gun-fights and car fights and all the rest of what happened today as being . . . not exactly normal, but I know what to expect. I know how to react. I can honestly say that not once today did I feel what's conventionally called fear."
Cavanaugh paused. Not once? he asked himself. What about the strange moment at the warehouse when I went up the stairs to meet Prescott?
"A powerful surge of adrenaline," Cavanaugh said, "but not fear, and that's why I don't think what 1 did today has anything to do with bravery. You're the one who's brave."
Prescott blinked. "Me? Brave? That's preposterous. For the past three weeks--and especially today--I've been terrified."
"That's my point," Cavanaugh said. "You can't be brave unless you're frightened to begin with. What you survived today was violent enough to unsettle even some experienced operators. I can only guess at the strength of character you had to muster to overcome the fear raging through you. You didn't freeze. You didn't panic, even though you must have felt that way. You promised me you'd be compliant, and you were. You're a prefect client."
Self-conscious, Prescott glanced down at the hardwood floor. Evidently, he wasn't used to compliments. "You might not feel afraid, but you still risk losing your life. For strangers. Why do you do that?"
Cavanaugh put on cotton gloves and began inserting 9-mm rounds into the pistol's magazine. In Manhattan, at the Warwick's bar, Jamie had asked a similar question. "Because it's what I know how to do and I'm good at it."
"No other reason?" Prescott asked.
"It's something I don't talk about with most people, because most people can't understand. Maybe you will because of your research into addiction."
"I'd like to try."
"Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines. People can get addicted to a lot of things. Some special-ops soldiers can't bear a quiet everyday life after they leave the service. They become mercenaries or contract operatives for the CIA, or security specialists."
"Or protective agents?"
Cavanaugh spread his hands in a gesture of self-admission. "It's like a race-car driver who isn't happy unless he's on a track, jockeying for position with other cars at two hundred and thirty miles an hour. The rush of adrenaline. To get it, he has to put up with periods of intense inactivity before and after each race. That's the way most protection assignments are. Intensely inactive. Even the inactivity, the constant waiting for trouble, has a rush to it, though. As much as I hate to say this,
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