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  THE

  PROTECTORS

  TREY DOWELL

  SIMON 451

  New York London Toronto Sydney New Delhi

  To Zack and Adam,

  Who sat with wide eyes, donuts in hands, listening to their big brother tell stories. This one is for you guys. Love you both, forever.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  I knew men with guns would eventually come for me.

  Not like I’ve been counting the minutes or anything, but it was always in the back of my mind—the nagging voice telling me I was living not on my own time, but by the grace of someone else’s.

  Sure, you can fool yourself for a while. Stare at the meadow outside the picture window, take a dip in the whirlpool out back and look at the mountaintops—tell yourself This is a good life, and smile. But the wispy grin never lasts because, well . . . you know.

  In the same way you know after a first kiss in a firelit den, sooner or later she’ll be screaming, “Bastard!” and you’ll be shouting, “Bitch!” Sweetness gives way to anger, and soft meadow grass ends up trampled by meatheads in body armor. I know, I know . . . a little glass-half-empty of me, but the Great Cosmic Bartender dumped out half my drink a long time ago.

  At least there’s a big advantage to being a cynical bastard: you’re never disappointed. Most of the time I add “and you’re never surprised,” but on the day the M-16s showed up, I actually was. They didn’t even try to sneak up on me. Not like they could anyway, but still—it was almost insulting.

  The helicopters came straight through the valley and dropped right on the front lawn. I heard them a good three minutes before they touched down, which gave me plenty of time to empty my hot chocolate and put the mug in the dishwasher. Even had sixty seconds to find the broom and dustpan.

  By the time I pulled a chair around to face the front door, the rotors had slowed. I caught a glimpse of the first squad off the chopper, running around the side of the house. Real go-getters. Special-ops boys carrying assault rifles, tactical knives fastened to their thighs, and gas masks firmly in place. Some of the most supreme badasses the United States government employed—all probably on the verge of shitting themselves, which made me smile.

  When I finally heard footsteps on the creaky porch, I sat down, parked both elbows on the armrests, and raised my empty palms. I mouthed a silent “three . . . two . . . one” and the breach team obliged, smashing my doorjamb to kindling. Four soldiers rushed in, two dropping into crouch positions and two standing tall on either side of my shattered door frame. One screamed, “Freeze! Hands in the air!” which sounded a little comical from behind his gas mask. I looked at him and rolled my eyes from left to right at my already raised, empty palms. Seemed safer than calling a guy with an assault rifle a dumbass.

  I waited patiently for the real threats to walk through the front door, which I knew would take a couple of minutes. The purpose of the armed breach was to scare me, and the short wait with raised arms was meant to establish that they were in control, not me. Neither goal had really been met, but the government’s playbook isn’t exactly big on creativity.

  Sure enough, after a calculated wait they joined me in the living room. The first one through the doorway could have been the door: 6'4", three hundred pounds, with the neck and shoulders of an NFL lineman—with pads. He had a military-precise crew cut perched above a meaty face, and hid his eyes behind round sunglasses. Flat expression, he radiated Grade-A Enforcer. The second one followed—thin, about 5'8", looked middle-aged, but moved like an athlete. Salt-and-pepper dark hair, he wore a set of aviator sunglasses. Worst of all, he was smiling. No question which man was more dangerous.

  Both of them wore immaculate, tailored suits. Bad guys always wear suits. They want you to think they’re respectable, honorable—civilized. Laughable, really, as almost every bad thing that’s happened to the world for the last five centuries, you can trace back to a douchebag in a suit.

  The slim one removed his glasses and beamed a fake megawatt smile, which I’d seen on plenty of government lackeys. The lips may curve up in a big ol’ grin, but trust me, they’re hiding fangs. He pointed to another chair in the living room, and raised his eyebrows—silently asking to borrow a seat for a chat. So polite. I nodded and he dragged one over, letting the legs screeeeeeech as long as possible across the wooden floor—a not-so-quiet message that, with a smile and a nod, he could do what he wanted when he wanted.

  He positioned the chair about five feet from my right side, careful not to put himself between me and the rifles. Mr. Slim casually used his own tie to clean his sunglasses, lifting them to stare through at the skylight after rubbing each lens.

  With arms still aloft, I asked, “May I help you?”

  His smile dropped, but only because he had to use his mouth to speak.

  “Well, well, well. Scott McAlister himself. An honest-to-goodness super—”

  “Please don’t say it.”

  “My apologies. What’s in vogue now? Meta-human? Or do you prefer ‘Knockout’? Regardless, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  I almost believed him, which meant he was an exceedingly good liar.

  “I prefer Scott, or Mr. McAlister if you’re feeling formal,” I said. I put effort into sounding weary.

  “Very well, Mr. McAlister. I’m Mr. Tucker, and behind me is Mr. Reyes. As you’ve probably guessed, we are from the gas company and are here to read your meter.”

  I chuckled at the joke, figuring it was now acceptable to lower my hands. They’d taken the extra five minutes to read my psych profile and judge that I’d respond better to humor. Smart.

  “Yeah, sorry about being so late with my bill . . .”

  “It happens,” Tucker said.

  “So, are you guys from Central Intelligence Gas, or the Federal Bureau of Gas?”

  “Oh, I can assure you, we’re the intelligent ones,” he said.

  “Good to know.”

  Tucker ran his fingers along the creases of his pants and looked around the living room.

  “Nice place, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Decorated it myself.”

  “Uncle Sam must pay you more than me . . . I can’t afford a mountain retreat on my salary,” Tucker said.

  I frowned at the obvious attempt to make me feel obligated. “I’m not a government employee.”

  “Really? I thought that if someone receives compensation for their work, cashes the government’s checks—that’s considered employment. I must be wrong, though.” He leaned back and spoke over his shoulder, “How about it, Mr. Reyes? That sound like employment to you?”

  Reyes maintained position, completely stoic.

  “He’s not much of a talker,” Tucker confessed, “but boy, is he adept at other things.”

  “He looks like a knitting and scrapbooking kind of guy.”

  Tucker’s mouth laughed, but his eyes were cold. “You’ve got him pegged.”

  “So, what about you, Tucker? Any unique talents?”

  “I am so glad you asked. I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned in, motioning me to bend closer. When I did, he whispered, “I have special powers, too.”

  My smile was genuine. “Don’t be shy. Impress me.”

  Tucker rose qu
ickly and took a few steps around the room, moving through the entry team’s field of fire. He swept his arms around him, indicating the surroundings.

  “My superpower is the ability to let you continue living this idyllic life you’ve made up here in the mountains. With your wonderful view, your nice car, your trips into town to visit the bookstore. Heck, you can even keep dating that pretty little thing you met down at the diner. All of this tranquility and safety—this peace—can be yours. Forever.” Tucker made a loop back to his chair and sat. “Pretty cool power, huh?”

  I sighed. “And here I was, hoping your power was the ability to fix my door. I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Tucker, but I was told this setup was permanent just five years ago, when your predecessor moved me in.”

  “Mr. McAlister, you are here by the good graces of your benefactor, the United States of America. While we are sincerely grateful for the help you provided your benefactor five years ago, a situation has arisen that requires special handling. The kind we think you can provide. Maybe only you can provide. The need is pressing enough that we feel it necessary to alter the nature of our agreement.”

  I chuckled under my breath and shook my head. “Tucker, do you have a dog?”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve had one for most of my life. You know what the most annoying time for any dog owner is?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “When you’re eating potato chips.”

  “Really? How interesting,” he said in a way that meant it was so completely not.

  “A dog hears that bag crinkle from three rooms away and comes running. He licks his lips, whines, and sits six inches from you. Makes you feel horrible every time you put a chip in your mouth. He stares and begs, to the point where you can actually hear his thoughts.”

  “And what would those fascinating thoughts be?”

  “I want only one thing in the world to be happy, and if you were to grant my one request, I would never ask anything of you ever again. All I need from that big, full bowl is a single, solitary potato chip.

  “And you, being a total sucker,” I continued, “see no other option than to give that dog a chip. And the dog is so very happy and runs away and devours it. But then, you know what happens?”

  Tucker leaned back and yawned.

  “The dog comes back, and this time he’s singing a different tune: Look, I know what I said earlier and I completely meant it. But I slightly underestimated. I now realize that the number of chips I need to be happy is TWO. So if you could find it in your heart to give me just one more, I will be forever in your debt. Manipulative little beast, right? But the crazy part is the dog actually means it. He’s not lying. He believes his own bullshit like he’s got one paw on the Bible. He’s just too stupid to know any better. And in case you completely missed the analogy, let me be clear . . .

  “Tucker, you are a dog. A well-financed and well-supplied one, but a dog nonetheless. And I’ve got nothing left to give you.”

  Just like that, Reyes lost consciousness and fell to the ground, ripping the pants of his really nice suit.

  CHAPTER 2

  It’d been a long time since I’d dropped anyone, and it felt surprisingly good—even if I only had about two seconds to revel in it. Without so much as a glance at Reyes’s heap, all four members of the entry team yanked the bolts of their assault rifles back, chambering live rounds. Another theatrical display meant to send a particular message. The message received however, was that the team had breached my door without planning to shoot. Before one of their suits dropped, they had no imperative to hurt me . . . they wanted Knockout nice and healthy. I knew from the moment I heard the rotors they needed my help. Now I knew how badly.

  Tucker’s smile evaporated, and he wagged a nagging finger over his shoulder at the troops, gaze still fixed on me. “Settle down, gentlemen. Everyone take a deep breath and relax.”

  “How do you know that was me? Maybe he was just tired,” I offered.

  “Mr. Reyes does not suffer from narcolepsy.”

  “He looked tired when he came in.”

  Tucker sighed. “Well, for your sake, I hope everyone else had a full night’s sleep, because if another body drops, I’ll have to use the broom and dustpan over there to clean up all the spent cartridges. And whatever other mess is left.”

  I blew a long, slow breath through puffed-out cheeks and let the tension drop. There wasn’t any need for further delay just because I was enjoying myself. They certainly weren’t going to leave on their own.

  “Okay, Mr. Tucker. Let’s get this over with. Today’s Meat Loaf Tuesday down at the diner.”

  “Excellent. Let’s set up at the table, if you don’t mind.” He rose quickly and strode into the kitchen, motioning to one of the soldiers on the porch as he went. By the time we were seated, the soldier had already planted a thick dossier in Tucker’s quick hands. The dossier was emblazoned with the Department of Defense seal, and once it was opened I saw four individually banded folders within. I knew he’d only take out three.

  “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way from Langley to ask about the others.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. McAlister. I’ve come all this way to tell you about the other members of your illustrious team.”

  I snorted. “We were never a team and you know it. We were a publicity stunt.”

  Tucker tapped the dossier. “A publicity stunt? With twenty-seven successful covert operations? You might be underselling your contributions just a tad. How unusual for you.”

  “What you call ‘successful operations,’ I call ‘baby steps.’ And of course, the key word there is covert. After recruitment, the only time we were allowed in public was in those ridiculous costumes for one of the CIA’s dog-and-pony shows.”

  “You mean the United Nations.”

  “Riiiiiight.” I rolled my eyes at his “we-are-the-world” bullshit. That might’ve comforted the uninformed millions who watched video of us on YouTube, but there wasn’t a single government on earth who believed the Protectors really worked for the United Nations. Everyone in power knew the American government pulled the strings.

  “Protest all you want, but I think the Protectors were an amazingly effective team, particularly in those public appearances. All it took was a few televised spectacles for the world to watch and wonder, and you were exactly what America needed. Check that—you were everything the world needed you to be.”

  “And what was that?” I asked.

  “A deterrent. A wonderfully cheap, United Nations–sanctioned, nonnuclear deterrent.” He sat back in his chair and focused on nothing in particular in the distance. I realized he was looking really far into the distance—about seven years back. “God, it was amazing, wasn’t it? A public relations dream come true—the only four human beings on the planet gifted with extraordinary powers, and each from a different country. The United States, Iran, Venezuela, and Canada. Two from allied countries, two from rival nations—perfect symmetry. Together on one team—a team of heroes, ready to protect the planet.”

  I’d seen the look on his face too many times. Wonder, awe, the idea of limitless possibilities. The look of a sucker.

  “Yeah, we did a bang-up job, didn’t we? I’m expecting that Nobel Peace Prize any day now.”

  “You don’t hold much nostalgia for the past. That’s unfortunate. Understandable, but still . . . ,” he said.

  As predicted, Tucker pulled three folders out of the dossier, twirled them around to face me, and opened the first one. “Scott McAlister.” He cocked his head and added my alias with a sarcastic, fanboy whisper. “Knockout. So pugilistic!”

  “Don’t hate. I wanted ‘the Sandman,’ but somebody had it trademarked.”

  “A shame. Although you weren’t short on alternatives . . . according to yo
ur file, the focus groups came up with several impressive monikers. My personal favorite was ‘the Slumberjack’—”

  Jesus. Not that bullshit again. I tapped my old DoD photo to cut him off. “You guys need an updated pic. I’ve let my hair grow out. Plus the sun turned it all sandy blond, just like I wanted.”

  “While I’m certain your worn-down-surfer imitation plays well to the waitress crowd, color me unimpressed. Besides, we have plenty of current pictures. Though you may not see them, our friends at the NSA check in on you from time to time.”

  I always knew when I was being watched, but there was no need to let the government in on my bigger secrets, so I let him have his smug moment.

  “Nice to know I still warrant a telescopic lens.”

  “The brightest member of the Protectors, able to see the big picture, the only leader in the bunch,” Tucker started. I threw him my best self-satisfied smile. “. . . and almost completely incapable of taking instruction; arrogant, with little regard for the chain of command.” My smile morphed into a mock pout. “And of course, your particular power set—certainly the least flashy of the team—the ability to put someone to sleep instantly.”

  “Ask Mr. Reyes over there if he cares about flashy.”

  “No, no . . . you misunderstand. I’m not trying to offend. In practical situations, your ability is more powerful than anyone’s. There is literally no place on earth you can’t go. You can walk to the front gate of Fort Knox, put the guards to sleep, and go straight through. Anyone approaches, and snap! Spontaneous narcolepsy. You can walk back out with stacks of bullion.”

  “Nah, gold is heavy, and Fort Knox has snipers. A bank vault would be quicker, easier,” I said.

  “I’m disturbed to hear you’ve given it that much thought,” Tucker replied. “But, speaking of your ability, the gentlemen in lab coats would be simply incensed if I neglected to ask—any chance you’re willing to come back for more tests? They’d love to see if your ability is evolving. Like Blaster’s.”