The Protectors (18 page)

CHAPTER 32

W
hen you actually
see
a guy pull the trigger of a gun pointed at you, a superpowered individual’s options are no different than anyone else’s. You can close your eyes, cuss, or crap your pants—or hell, you can do all three. Luckily for my underwear I got no further than the first.

When the bullet slammed into the chest plate, the impact punched me over like an off-balance cardboard cutout. I heard Lyla scream “No!” as I flailed backward. My head thunked against the carpet, and hundreds of exploding lights filled my vision.

Add another concussion to the collection.

Everything was a little hazy in the seconds that followed. A lot of high-volume Farsi; the general shouting orders and Harandi’s voice yelling back. Then a handful of angry words from Lyla, and a stampede of bodies rushed by me toward the doorway. After that, all I heard were punches and grunts. No more gunshots, at least.

Before I could get over the wooziness and lift my head, I opened my eyes and saw Lyla’s face above mine. Frantic, she kept repeating the word
no
and pawing at my chest. She knelt beside me, pulled the duster open, and poked her finger into the bullet hole above the plate. When she yanked it back and saw no blood on the tip, she whimpered and collapsed on my chest. The weight of her entire body pressed against mine. Her arms couldn’t reach underneath my prone torso to hug me properly, so she just squeezed her forearms against my rib cage.

I sucked air between clenched teeth and shouted, “Son of a bitch!”

She propped up to look at me. Her eyelids were inflamed and
rimmed with tears. “Are you all right?” she half cried. If I doubted her affections moments before the gunshot, Lyla was making an excellent rebuttal argument now.

“As much as I enjoy having you on top of me, this hurts.”

One eye squinted open and saw Lyla’s concern. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank God you’re unhurt . . .” Her hands cradled my head above the rug.

“If you get off, all is forgiven.”

She helped me to my feet, and after a moment of uncomfortable staring at one another, we finally thought enough to find out what had happened to Harandi. Once the sea of bodyguards parted, we saw him. Aphrodite’s mob had given the big man a severe beat-down after tackling and relieving him of his weapon. Harandi hadn’t gone down without a fight, though. His face was bloody and swollen, as were several of his panting, sweaty bodyguards.

“Beaten half to death by your own men. Can’t be a good feeling,” I said. “Why the hell didn’t he listen to you? I heard you embracing him.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” Lyla said. She clamped her arms across her chest. Twice in one night, she’d failed to embrace someone when needed. I’d never seen her fail on a normal person before. Not once.

General Ahmadi approached and pointed to his own ear as he spoke. Lyla nodded and her arms unfurled. “Aha. The general says Harandi is deaf in one ear since last year’s Mossad bombing. I feel better now.”

I reached beneath my shirt to get a hand under the titanium plate and massage my tender chest. “That makes one of us. See if Harandi alerted anyone else, will ya?”

While several guards restrained the big guy, Lyla let him have it up close—eyes, ear, and smell. He couldn’t have been in too much pain, because he took the embrace a lot better than Roof Guy. Harandi smiled like a moron and started talking.

When Lyla stepped away, she looked concerned. “He called for a response team when he got here and didn’t see any gate guards. We need to go. Now.”

The general listened to everything Harandi said and motioned for Fahrook. “I have a car. Take you anywhere,” he said.

Fahrook accompanied me back through the house to the garage while Lyla put the finishing touches on Harandi, bringing him on board with the same line of bullshit all his men and the scientists would spew if anyone asked. When she joined me in the backseat, I asked her how they were going to explain all the injuries.

“Sparring. You know how much boys love to fight,” she said.

“And the hole in the ceiling?”

She laughed. “I left that one up to them. We’ll see how creative they can be. I got phone numbers and email addresses for both Ahmadi and Hooshmand, so we can contact them later if we really want to find out. Not to mention keep tabs on the progress of the nuclear program at our leisure.”

I sank back against the soft leather of the gleaming black Mercedes and we rolled outside. For the moment, my near-death experience combined with our quick escape pushed my embrace-phobic meltdown into the background. More than anything, I wanted to enjoy the silence and bask in the victory—we’d done everything Tucker asked, and then some. Fahrook maneuvered the big vehicle through the gates, then down the street toward the highway. As we accelerated up the ramp and out of Elahiyeh, I turned to Lyla.

“We really did it. Wiped out Iran’s nuclear program in one day.”

I only saw half of her smile because she didn’t turn from the window.

“I believe we did.”

CHAPTER 33

T
he drive back to the hotel took thirty of the most relaxing minutes I’d had in the last decade. I cracked the window and let the breeze blow over my closed eyes. Even the acrid scent of smog didn’t put a dent in my mood. What we’d accomplished . . . what we’d changed . . . went far beyond seven scientists and their security entourages. Our intervention meant the Iranians couldn’t grip the nuclear scimitar they coveted—and therefore wouldn’t be able to hold it over the heads of dozens of countries. This corner of the world was now safer for everyone: the Iranian people, America and her allies, and the roughly two billion people in the region. Lyla and I had single-handedly altered the course of the Middle East. It was the kind of thing they’d promised we could do, back when the four of us joined up and saw the first United Nations poster for the Protectors. Back when changing the world sounded like an achievable goal. A
real
thing.

Before the CIA came out from behind the curtain, of course. And the knowledge that the Agency was only concerned with maintaining the status quo, and even more important, America’s spot in the status quo driver’s seat.

But as I slid back deeper into the seat of Ahmadi’s Mercedes, all that bullshit boiled off. I’d finally made a real difference, done what I’d always wanted to do—hell, maybe what I’d been meant to do.

And goddamn, it felt
good.

By the time we pulled around the hotel fountain, my hand was heavy on the door handle.

I turned to Lyla and said, “Have Fahrook take a couple of loops around the block. Consider it a victory lap. I’ll meet you up in the room, although there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be asleep by the time you get there.”

Lyla grinned. “It’s been a big day, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has.” I thumped the leather between us to punctuate the moment. “See you upstairs,” I said, then opened the door and slipped out.

Fahrook must have made his laps quick, because Lyla got up to the room barely three minutes after I did. When I opened the door, she launched through the entryway and jumped into my arms, slamming me back against the wall.

“We did it,” she half whispered, half screeched in my ear, loud enough to make me wince.

As tired as I was, Lyla felt like a refrigerator with arms and legs. I staggered backward until she finally let go and bounced back down to her feet. Victory obviously did something entirely different for Lyla’s energy level than it did mine.

“Jesus! Take it easy.”

She tapped my chest armor with a playful punch.

“Yeah, uh, no chest punches, please. Got shot,” I grumbled.

“Don’t be a baby . . . this is a huge success.”

I nodded. “Now I know how you must have felt after North Korea.”

Her eyes widened. “This is better than North Korea.”

“Because this was your home. I get it.”

Before I could turn and walk back to the bed, she reached out and took my hand. “It’s better because of you, Scott. Because we’re a team again.”

Only then did I notice how she was standing, like before in the alcove. Close. Enough to make me worry—for just a second—that in her manic state, she’d try to kiss me. In my emotional and physical exhaustion, that was baggage I simply did not need.

Instead, she twirled away and ran to the balcony doors, throwing them open to the night. The overwhelming feeling in my gut was surprise. Not that we didn’t kiss, but at the sharp pang of disappointment
that lingered when she didn’t make the attempt.

I flopped onto the bed, still in my duster, while the ceiling fan pushed the heat of the room straight down on my back. Didn’t bother me one bit—victory makes anything feel like a hot-oil massage. When I twisted my head to look toward the balcony, I saw Lyla hopping around like a giddy teenager, stripping layers and flinging them to the floor as she babbled.

“We need to celebrate, don’t you think? I wish room service offered wine. Any alcohol. Even beer would suffice. Oh, wait, you know what I would
really
love? Let’s go dancing! There’s got to be an underground club in the tourist district . . . two or three conversations with locals and I could . . .”

I turned facedown and mumbled, “That is an epically bad idea,” into the beige bedspread.

Her voice morphed into that of a hyperserious, overly important ass clown—evidently what she assumed I sound like. “My name is Scott and I wear tight jeans and speak like an authority on all topics. Things are always epic and awesome and I have a monopoly on brooding thoughts and Lyla is always wrong.”

When I looked up again, her smile broadcast her pride in the imitation.

“I totally don’t sound like that. Lyla is wrong again. Epically.”

She guffawed and ducked down to the floor behind her bed to scramble unseen into a T-shirt and shorts.

“Besides,” I continued, “I’ll celebrate with you plenty once we’re back in the Western world. Dinner, drinks, dancing . . . whatever you want.”

“Promises, promises . . .” The words floated up from behind her bed.

“Besides, now comes the best part of the whole operation,” I responded.

“Which is?”

I sat up and shrugged off the duster, then rolled up my sleeve. “Calling in.”

After I enabled the gauntlet’s comm function, getting through to the States was as easy as punching the tiny icon marked
TUCKER-OPS
. The
video call went through and my least favorite spook was soon staring up from the screen. It was dinnertime back in D.C., assuming he’d gone home from England, and Tucker looked less formal than I’d ever seen him: no uniform or sunglasses, just a plain navy short-sleeved golf shirt. In the background I noticed bookshelves filled with thick volumes, bracketing a redbrick fireplace. He was a suit and tie away from being the host of a PBS program.

“Finally. You’ve been in the field for two days and not a single peep. I assume you’re calling to let me know you’ve arrived?”

“Yes. We’re in-country, safe and sound. Thanks for asking.”

“We have new intel on your primary targets, which you’ll need to download immediately. It appears as though some of them are being relocated. You know, if you’d keep the gauntlet’s data link active, new information would be pulled down off the satellite automatically.”

“I’d rather not have the Agency know my position at all times.”

“How suitably paranoid of you, Mr. McAlister. Is Ms. Ravzi with you now?”

“She’s in the room, but she says for you to piss off.”

I looked up to see Lyla nodding emphatically in agreement.

“That doesn’t sound like something she would say,” Tucker said.

“I embellished. We’re both still irritated about being shot at by MI5.”

“Bygones, Mr. McAlister—all in the past. I suggest you begin your mission as soon as possible. There are high-level eyes on this operation. Hopefully I don’t need to tell you how badly this will hurt your future if . . .”

“We’re done. Mission accomplished.”

His eyes bulged. “What? Repeat last . . . what did you say?”

“I’m sorry. Did you want to threaten me more? If you worked out a whole routine ahead of time, by all means, feel free.”

He gave an annoyed wave. “Please. Did you say you’re done? Already?”

“Yes. All seven scientists have been compromised.”

Tucker leaned back from the camera and mumbled, “Good Lord.” He sat there, dazed in his chair for a solid five-count. I’d never liked him
so much as during those five seconds.

I went on to describe most of the particulars, including Lyla’s idea to go up the military chain to find the perfect man to corral all the scientists at once. I wanted Tucker to know how much his “broken idealist” had come through for him. When I finished, he ran his fingers through short salt-and-pepper hair and scrubbed his scalp as if waking up from a trance. In the background, I heard a child’s voice yell, “Dinner!” Tucker’s gaze broke to the side. He walked away from his computer screen and I heard a door slam shut.

“I apologize,” he told me after he’d returned. “It seems as though congratulations are in order.”

“Thanks. And our deal? Lyla and I can walk away now . . . no pursuit. That was the bargain.”

He exhaled hard enough to distort the speaker. Relief, disappointment, anger? Hard to tell on a three-inch screen. I waited for the inevitable screw job.

“Very well.”

He agreed. Easy as that. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Mr. McAlister. That was the deal, and I honor my agreements. Of course, we’ll still need you to come in for a full debrief.”

“Yeah, you should hold your breath waiting. Thanks for the memories, Tucker. Now go eat dinner.” I tapped the disconnect button before he could say another word. “Aaaaaand, we’re done.”

Lyla looked decidedly less giddy. “Do you believe him?”

I shrugged. “As much as any government puppet. Job’s finished, he’ll look like a genius to his bosses, and he’ll probably get promoted while riding on the coattails of our work. It’s the CIA way.”

Lyla gathered her legs beneath her as she sat in the middle of her own bed. “You realize he’ll be back, correct? Eventually they’ll have a mission they need accomplished, and despite all promises, we’ll be forced to assist.
That
is also the CIA way.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. The guy busted down my door last week. Point is, we’re not going to be around for him or anyone else to do the asking.”

“Pray tell, where will we be, Strategic Genius?”

I stood up and began my own process of stripping down. “One thing at a time, Aphrodite . . . one thing at a time.”

We barely spoke during our separate rituals of showering, teeth brushing, and winding down . . . but it was clear that the only real “winding down” was being done by yours truly. The stress and high drama of the operation affected me far differently than Lyla. I seemed to wilt in the aftermath of the mission’s stress and pressure, but her energy and enthusiasm only amplified. She bounced from bathroom to balcony to bed like a superball. When I offered up her nightly knockout a little too readily, she declined.

“I’d rather bask in this feeling awhile,” she said.

“Fine. But I need sleep . . . my brain is fried.”

She locked her mouth with an invisible key and tossed it away. When darkness finally settled over us both, I pushed the cotton sheet down to my waist and tried to relax despite the stifling heat. Lyla tossed and turned in her bed as I closed my eyes and tried like hell to live up to my own name.

—

Five minutes later, she came to me.

I heard her slip free of her sheets but didn’t open my eyes until she straddled my hips. I managed a surprised “What . . .” but the protest died in my throat as my hands found her naked torso.

“It’s too hot to sleep in here,” she said. “Can I interest you in some productive insomnia?” I could see the glowing outline of a smile above my head.

The cynical bastard saw it, too, and whispered,
Remember the cabin.

“Um, this isn’t exactly the way to cool off.”

“Are you complaining?”

It’s not real, she’s just using you. Like before.

“No, it’s just . . . I don’t know. With our history . . .”

“You think too much. Trust me, we need this.”

Trust her? Is she kidding?

She lowered her face and kissed me. Long. Slow. Deep.

The cynical bastard shook his head and headed for the door,
You’re
on your own, pal. Have fun.

So I did.