Free The Protectors by Trey Dowell Page A

knew right away that he was hers.
    A second voice panicked.
    “Hawthorne?! Snap out of it! Grab her now!”
    “And you? Tell me your name,” was the only response, producing another mumble.
    “Thomas.”
    In spite of the blinding pain in my jaw, I rolled over and finally got a look at them: two men, wearing black tactical garb and carrying assault weapons, slumped in front of her. Her eyes swirled now; Lyla was turning on the power full-force.
    “Colin, Thomas . . . please protect us from your colleagues.” They turned as one and began walking toward the street, weapons held low. We were lucky Lyla managed to embrace them, because the extreme pain and spotted vision made it impossible for me to focus enough to stand, let alone drop anyone. At least, it seemed lucky at first. As they passed my prone body, I heard Lyla finish her orders.
    “Kill them all,” she said.
    The words were so foreign, I could hardly believe they came from her mouth.
    “No!” I croaked.
    I raised my hand toward the walking men, fighting to concentrate enough. I couldn’t find what I needed in my haze of pain.
    “Stop!” I shouted at Lyla. “What are you doing?”
    Her stare didn’t move from the end of the alley.
    “Make them stop! Don’t do this . . . don’t kill them!”
    Colin and Thomas were almost to the street opening now; I could hear their teammates shouting at them—asking what had happened. I took a long, slow inhale and closed my eyes, trying to purge the throbbing from my head. When I blinked them open, I saw Lyla’s minions’ rifles rise. Now the shouts from their teammates became frantic, and I heard multiple firing bolts being cocked in the distance. I reached out again and marshaled all the strength I had left for one try.
    “Let it happen,” Lyla hissed, turning to me. “I am tired of being hunted like an animal.”
    With that one sentence, I not only understood Tucker’s fear—I shared it. The anger and hatred in her voice . . . backed by unimaginable power. I had no idea if the CIA’s pursuit had created the rage, or if she’d simply “evolved . ” Either way, I couldn’t allow Lyla to murder innocent men.
    My mind cleared as I extended outward and this time, I found the mental buttons. I dropped everyone within a hundred feet. Rifles clattered to the cobblestones and metal struck metal as sleeping drivers on the street lost control of their vehicles. Lyla fell into a small heap in the alleyway next to me. I propped myself up against the graffiti-covered wall and put my head in my hands.
    Somewhere an ocean away, Tucker was probably laughing.
    Asshole .
    The bad thing about doing an indiscriminate drop . . . well, there were several of them: property damage, accidents, injuries, and having to carry a 120-pound sack of unconscious rage over my shoulder were the biggies. The good-news list was a helluva lot shorter, but vital: a getaway car was silly-easy to find.
    I put Lyla in the back of a running Peugeot whose driver was snoring peacefully at a traffic light just outside the alley. After moving the portly fellow to the passenger side, we were on our way—but not before I’d snagged one of the tactical guy’s badges. Wasn’t surprised to see the MI5 designation on his ID. Britain’s version of the FBI was tasked with finding internal threats to the United Kingdom, while its sexier sisterMI6 got all the external, James Bondian glory.
    Knowing about MI5 actually made me feel a little better. When the first dart stuck in my Kevlar, my assumption was I’d made some kind of mistake; I hadn’t lost my CIA pursuit and I’d inadvertently led them right to Lyla’s doorstep. But the CIA would have been prepared for me as well. The sonic suppression strategy and tranquilizer darts were the perfect loadout to capture Aphrodite, not me. Hell, the Brits didn’t even know who I was, based on the cavalier way they popped me in the mouth and walked right by without so much as a hello. Somehow