The Protectors (6 page)

CHAPTER 7

I
stand in burning, smoky ruins. Sirens and screams from all directions. A broken rotor from a crushed helicopter whines behind me. The bodies of doctors, nurses, and soldiers litter the rubble. Some are dying, most are already gone. The government calls this place a “psychiatric assessment center,” but that’s just politically correct bullshit. We know what it is—the high-security wing of a mental institution—and we know what it means for one of our own.

It’s the end.

Except no one bothered to tell Crusher. He rises up from the wreckage, all seven feet and four hundred pounds of him. His clothes are burned away, courtesy of repeated bolts of lightning from Blaster. Diego used everything he had before collapsing, brilliant sustained blasts of electricity arcing from his fists across the remnants of the building. Millions of volts, hell, maybe billions, and Carsten just laughed. Didn’t even bother to throw the tank at him. He just went ahead destroying everything else and waited for Diego to wear himself out.

Carsten looks at me now, and his eyes are scary. I don’t know what they see, but it’s more than what’s really here. Everything a danger, everyone an enemy, monsters and demons all. Sanity is like water pumping out of a hand-cranked well—
he’s tried so hard to gather it up, claw at it—but it just slips through his fingers and soaks the ground. He starts toward me and I realize how far gone Carsten is. He roars and takes giant steps across the distance. Lyla fights to embrace him, but he can’t hear her voice. Doesn’t matter—his mind is broken, beyond her power to control. Only one person
can stop him and he knows it. I had to drop Carsten multiple times just to get him to the facility, but each time it was harder to do. He FIGHTS me . . . hell, I didn’t think it was even possible, but he does. Now, with his rage beyond measure, he closes in on the one demon that can actually harm him.

I reach for him, feeling for the mental button I know will turn Carsten off. It’s easy to find, just like everyone else’
s, but when I press it nothing happens. He pounds through the carnage, not bothering to hurl anything—he wants to finish me up close, kill me in person—he needs to feel my body pull apart at the joints. I like my arms and legs attached, so I don’t just press the button—I stab and hold the damn thing down. He feels it now . . . the edge of his consciousness being pulled away . . . and he staggers. I keep right on pushing and pushing, so hard that for the very first time I feel a dull throbbing pain in my own head. He knows he won’t make it to me now, so in desperation he bends over and picks up the only lethal object within reach. The steel-plate door may be crumpled, but it weighs more than I do, and it will cut me in half.

That’s when I know: it’s him or it’s me. So I drop the fucking hammer on his button. I scream, he screams; but in the end, Carsten and the door hit the ground at the same time. Everything falls quiet. I don’
t even hear the sirens or the choppers anymore. I’m aware of only one thing: I’m terrified. Watching Carsten plow through the rubble intent on murder has petrified me, and the only thought pulsing through my brain is I can’t let it happen again. Ever. So I keep a death grip on that button. He’s already down but I don’t care. I keep pressing, pressing, pressing . . . my hand stretched out and straining toward his unconscious body. I’m dimly aware of Lyla touching my arm—soft at first, then insistent, and finally, panicked. She’s screaming now, pleading for me to stop. When I finally do, Carsten isn’t breathing. I sink to my knees, blinking in disbelief.

I’ve killed my friend.

As empty and lifeless as I feel in the aftermath, one look at Lyla makes it worse. Through a prism of tears I see her . . . staring at me as she rises from Carsten’s body. Those hypnotic eyes tell me everything her voice never will: despair, rage, and pity. I’ve made an enemy of the only woman I’ve ever loved.

—

Now, five years later, her eyes are on me again. But this time, it’s harder to read them. Oh, trust me, there’s still anger . . . but anger I understand. It’s the pity I can’t take.

“So, you are haunted by the memory of Carsten’s murder . . . the price of being the general’s assassin has proven too high? I feel so sorry for you. Look at you, the government’s little errand boy, sent across an ocean to fix another broken superhero.”

“Goddammit, Lyla, enough with the superhero crap. I didn’t have
orders
to kill Carsten. What happened, happened. And I’m not here to ‘fix’ you, either. If I was”—my eyes looked away on reflex—“I would have done it already.”

She leaned back in her chair, but still kept her annoyingly perfect posture. For the moment, she was on defense—so I kept her there.

“I’m going to ask a simple question and I want a direct answer. Do you really believe I killed Carsten because of an order? Do you think I’m an assassin?”

She stared at me, searching my face. Before her lips started moving, I knew she was going to sidestep.

“What I think is: Carsten was special. A jewel unlike any other, as all four of us were. I think you destroyed that jewel and it is now gone from this earth. Do the conditions of such a travesty really matter in the long run?”

Her arms folded to punctuate her rhetorical question.

“It matters to me. I’ve had a long time to think about that day, y’know. Five years of rewind gets old, but a while back, I stopped cursing my memory because it finally let me see something. I was astonished I’d overlooked it . . . but with all the depression and anger, I guess it was understandable. Just like knowing I was buried under a mountain of guilt probably warms your heart.”

A whisper of a smile on her face. “A little.”

“Well, when I finally came up for air, guess what I remembered? I wasn’t the only one there that day. You were, too.”

“A shocking revelation. Yes, I was there, trying to stop Carsten . . .
keep him safe. So the government did not just give up and kill him. Like they asked you to do.”

“Which I refused.”

“Correct. You refused the general in the morning. Then things get uncomfortable and by afternoon you choke the life out of Carsten’s helpless body.”

“While you stood there and did nothing.”

“You know quite well I could not reach him. His . . . mind . . . was . . .” She searched for the word. “. . . chaotic. There was nothing for me to embrace, nothing I could hold on to once his rage began.”

Now I had her. I hated myself for going in this direction, but if she hadn’t faced the truth yet, it was time. Hell, it was way past time.

“You couldn’t stop Carsten. But you could’ve stopped me,” I told her.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You could have embraced me immediately after he fell. Just as I’m sure you planned to that morning while you scowled at the general when he asked me to terminate Carsten. You could have sat me down, made me recite the Pledge of Allegiance, or tap-dance in the rubble. You could have stopped me. They’re the two worst words in the English language, but listen to them:
could have.
”

No surprise, no affront registered on her face. She knew. She’d always known.

“But you didn’t,” I said. “Let me tell you what I think: Carsten was sick. He had been for a very long time, and he was only getting worse. And yeah, I know he wasn’t the only one. There are plenty of people out there with invisible demons . . . I get it. But those people can’t throw railroad cars at their demons. Their bodies aren’t impervious to drugs. News flash, Lyla: the world can’t handle a psychotic Superman.

“You wanna blame me . . . you wanna go on thinking you had nothing to do with it? Be my guest. But it doesn’t change what happened. I killed Carsten, yeah”—I pointed my finger at her chest—“and
you
let him die.”

I expected her to recoil, if for no other reason than my harsh tone, but her eyes merely drifted to the wine, focusing on the lip of her glass.
She said nothing. The silence felt good, but only because I was tired of hearing angry voices. Finally, she spoke.

“Are you happy? Does it feel better to know your burden is shared?”

I told the truth.

“Not even a little bit.”

CHAPTER 8

N
either of us was very interested in conversation. We just sat there, two people in a cozy romantic restaurant in London . . . surrounded by bodies, shattered dinnerware, weapons, and worse, our shared guilt and loneliness. A standard dinner date.

It was a solid five minutes before she spoke. “You know, I don’t hate you.”

“Yeah, well, that makes one of us.” I suddenly felt old and tired. The wineglass in front of me drew my attention.

“I could use a drink . . .” As I reached for it, Lyla’s hand flashed out and smacked my fingers.

“Hey!”

“Sorry. It’s drugged. Just in case.” She handed me her own. “This one is safe.”

A silly, simple gesture, but it lightened the mood. The wine went down smoothly and the warmth in my chest felt nice. I leaned back and thought about how much I missed Carsten. The big lug could drink an entire barrel of wine (and often did) with absolutely no ill effects. Before I became misty-eyed, though, Lyla reached under the table and pulled up a handbag, her arm buried up to the elbow.

“I have something to show you. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

Her hand withdrew a piece of paper, folded over twice. I recognized it immediately. The cover shot from
Time
magazine,
our
cover shot. Our first exposure to the world as the Protectors, sponsored and endorsed by the United Nations. All in costume, trying to look imposing for the
camera. Man, we looked young. Carsten was the only one who actually
achieved
imposing, but then again, it was easy when you took up half the frame. His spandex overalls looked perpetually ready to rip apart at the seams. Diego, holding his hands out with upturned palms—one of his electrical arcs jumping from one hand to the other. No idea if the camera actually captured the energy or if it was a special effect added later, but damn, it looked cool. Lyla in her Greek goddess toga, pure white against olive skin. The robes never covered as much of her legs as she wanted, but hey, modesty takes a backseat in the public relations business. And the diamond tiara! I couldn’t help but smile thinking about how much she’d argued with the design people on that.

Then me, the leader of the Protectors—off to the side in my black duster with the
KO
belt buckle and the big
P
on my chest armor. My left hand, outstretched to the camera as if I were about to drop the photographer. Which, trust me, I almost did by the end of the two-hour photo shoot.

God, we argued so much that day about where to stand, what poses to take—a bunch of costumed divas. But strangely, looking at the cover, even though I remembered all the frustration, the jealousy, the arguments—they had no power. Instead, my overwhelming feeling was one of happiness. The cover reminded me of a time when we were all alive, all friends, and the world seemed a great deal warmer. I knew why she kept it with her.

“We were glorious, weren’t we?” Lyla asked. The voice was lower, with a vibrating bass I’d never heard before. Her eyes came alive, focused on the page, churning their colors and making me swoon. I was dizzy for a moment, then felt energy pulsating outward from her, hitting me in waves—each one making me feel warm, safe . . . loved. The feeling was overpowering, nothing like I’d experienced before. I craved more—to feel more, to be surrounded by her voice, enveloped by her energy. To feel that warmth—

“Wait . . . Lyla. Wha—what’s happening?” I stammered. Her eyes were focused only on the
Time
cover, lost in her moment of reverie.

“Stop. Lyla, stop . . . you’re . . . embracing . . .” And then it no longer mattered. There could be nothing better than this, the two of us here,
alone, together again. There was nothing more I could ever want. Just us. Forever.

She looked up, face twisted in concern. Immediately, the pulses cut off like a lead barrier had slammed down between us.

“Scott, I’m sorry! I had no idea! Please, it was not intentional!”

I tried to shake the feeling. My mind was hazy, like coming out of a dream. “Whoa. What the hell?” I said.

“The downside of greater strength,” she explained. “When I become emotional, it can initiate without my awareness. I am sorry, my love.” She reached across the table and grasped my arm.

My love.
For an instant, her old pet name for me was like a warm blanket thrown over my shoulders, a two-word reminder of the happiest time of my life. But that memory died when splashed with cold reality. Five years of exile had shown me the truth behind those words now: we’d never “dated” and Lyla sure as shit never loved me. Hell, I don’t know if she’d ever loved
anyone.
If she even understood what the word meant to other people. For Aphrodite, love wasn’t about affection. It was about control.

I yanked my arm away from her grip. “Don’t call me that.”

Her hand withdrew as if shocked, and she placed it back in her lap, bumping the table on the way down.

“I’m sorry. Force of habit.”

It would have felt good to hold on to my anger—make Lyla feel bad for the pain she’d caused me—but the raw intensity of what I’d just experienced wouldn’t let me.

“Your power . . . it’s different now,” I said. “Overwhelming.”

She seemed to appreciate the topic change. “It comes at a high price. My brain is hyperactive in all respects. CAT scans of my cerebrum look like firework displays. It feels as though I’m constantly riveted and on alert. I have not slept more than an hour a night in the last three months.”

Only then did I recognize the signs of true exhaustion. Beautiful, yes, but the shoulders slumped. The skin beneath her eyes, slightly darker than the rest. Chest heaving with deep breaths, even without visible exertion.

“If your power didn’t render one into an unconscious, dreamless coma, I would have contacted Knockout long ago.”

She was right—my induced sleep was far from refreshing. No recovery, no REM stage, no deep alpha waves to rest your brain and body. Shutting down someone’s consciousness was like hitting the
PAUSE
button on a DVR.

“One hour per night? How are you even walking around, operating on that little rest? Your ‘evolved’ power sounds more like a curse.”

Her face softened.

“No, you misunderstand. I would not trade my abilities now at any price. They are a gift beyond measure,” she said. She looked like a child about to regale me with stories of Santa Claus. “I was clumsy when we knew each other, encouraging slavish devotion for the tiniest of tasks. Like wielding a sledgehammer to press a thumbtack. My evolution has granted me nuance . . . the ability to use only a fraction of my power when I need it.”

From a former thumbtack’s perspective, the change was intriguing. “Let me get this straight—you’ve gotten stronger by getting weaker?”

“Strangely enough, yes. I can now influence people to speak or act, yet they feel as though it is their choice to do so. Without requiring them to be in my thrall . . . to feel like a lovesick minion.”

My eyes grew wide as I considered the impact of what she described.

“What about the hangover? If you’re able to influence without enslaving someone . . .”

A smile reanimated her tired face.

“I do not leave people brokenhearted and bereft of hope—I have no need to release someone unless I’ve used the full extent of my power.”

“And this nuance? Is that what you did in North Korea?”

“Yes.”

“How long does it last?” I asked, holding my breath.

“We are about to find out. If I hear saber-rattling coming from the Korean peninsula, I will simply plan another visit.”

So easy, so matter-of-fact.

So Lyla.

If what she said was true, it invalidated almost every concern Tucker
implanted back in Colorado. The ability to guide an entire region of the world back from the brink, all through subtle manipulation of one key man, with no destabilizing emotional effect—the possibilities were astonishing. The chance to change the world for the better, without endangering herself or others.

Tucker was wrong. Stop her? Hell, I wanted to book her next plane ticket.

“How about you, Knockout? You’ve grown more powerful as well. Does the government still believe you use pheromones to render people unconscious?”

I smiled at the memory of the squads coming off the helicopter three days ago.

“Amazing, right? I’ve never dropped anyone wearing a gas mask, so they believe that’s how it works. Nice insurance policy on my part.”

“Always the wise one,” she admitted. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

I wasn’t quite ready to give away my trump card. Not yet.

“Yeah, but nothing too spectacular. I certainly can’t go planet-hopping like Diego.”

She stared back, unwilling to take the bait on my topic shift. I thought I saw her eyes start to rotate, so I looked away. A flash of panic hit my brain as I considered possible responses if she decided to push, because
nobody
could push like Lyla. Then, as if my mental locomotive weren’t steaming fast enough, she dropped another bombshell, which threatened to derail the train entirely.

“Do you remember the
Time
article? The one in the same issue as our cover story?”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I remembered. The article about how much money the world’s governments spent on defense. The conversations it sparked. The nights spent debating the future. What the world could be like, if only someone had the guts—

My mouth dropped, and my voice, too.

“
That’s
what you’re planning to do? You can’t be serious. Lyla, they’ll kill you,” I whispered.

She stared through me.

“They can try. I am quite resourceful.”

Behind me, I heard groaning—the telltale sign of Lyla’s army coming back to life. Rather than do a blanket drop on all of them again, I wanted some true alone time with Lyla. I had questions to ask, things to consider.

“Do you have somewhere we can go? Just to talk.”

For an instant, her face flashed a familiar expression: wrinkled nose, dimples, and a grin that touched her eyes. A look from years ago, when she’d led me by the hand to her room, just to “talk.”

But memories like that had a short half-life—and once decay sets in, the shine never comes back.

Lyla must have agreed, because her features melted back into exhaustion. “Come with me, I have access to rooms not far from here,” she said without smiling.