Free The Protectors by Trey Dowell Page B

they’d tracked and found her, and I was just a spectator who needed to be put down before they took the real target. She’d been fortunate to have a superpowered spectator, too; otherwise she’d have been on her way to a detention cell by now, with a blindfold and gag keeping her powers in check. Somehow I doubted she’d buy that argument when I revived her.
    I flipped a look over my shoulder. Even splayed in the backseat like a sock puppet, she maintained an aura of dignity and almost supernatural beauty. I wound my way through the theater district and out toward North London’s residential area. The score hadn’t changed; I needed a quiet, safe place to talk to Lyla, especially after witnessing her meltdown in the alley. No matter how tempted I was at the idea of her manipulation abilities becoming less dangerous, it really didn’t matter if the woman wielding them was more dangerous. Tucker’s mission was still the imperative: assess the threat, get her to understand the risks of her actions. But let’s be honest, after I heard “Kill them all,” any hope for a nice, calm risk assessment seemed like a long shot.
    After ten minutes behind the wheel, the shops and bright marquees of the district gave way to row houses with manicured postage-stamp-sized lawns. I found a quiet two-story with a narrow driveway, which suited our needs perfectly. The driveway led back to a small detached garage off the street, so I killed the engine and lights and coasted my way behind the house. Leaving my snoring companions, I did what any self-respecting visitor would do—I walked around front and simply knocked on the door.
    An elderly woman with kind eyes and knitted shawl openedthe door. She smiled at me, which was a little surprising when you considered my black leather outfit and the way I was standing far too close to the door when she opened it. I had to be, so I could catch her when she dropped, but to her credit I didn’t see even an ounce of fear right up until her lights when out. A trusting people, Brits. Kind of like Canadians, but without the irritating optimism. I swept us both inside the foyer and flicked the door closed behind me. There was a couch in a tiny, well-appointed sitting room off to the left, so I laid her down as gently as possible. I moved through the rest of the house with purpose but didn’t find anyone else, which meant it was safe to bring Lyla in through the back.

CHAPTER 10
    I carried her over the threshold like a sleeping bride, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. For years I’d imagined what it would be like—just the two of us, no Agency, no tests—a man and woman enjoying a life together. Of course, that’d been my naïveté talking, or her power. Maybe the combination of both. Now it was my ability keeping her in my arms as we ascended the staircase to the bedroom.
    I laid her on top of the quilt and her black hair spread out like a gossamer halo on the pillow, surrounding her perfect face. It was impossible to be this close and not have the old feelings, the ache inside. Couldn’t help but wonder—
    Do her powers work even when she’s unconscious?
    Maybe none of these feelings were my own—that was the problem with Lyla. You never really knew if anything you felt was genuine. She was that good. Or that bad, depending on which side of the half-empty, half-full fence you were sitting.
    I plopped next to her on the bed and bent over to touch her cheek, nudging her awake. She came out of unconsciousness easier than most, probably because her brain was so amped up to begin with. She blinked, confused for a moment, eyes adjusting to the surroundings. I could see the anger start in a hard squint and then spread to pursed lips. She recoiled from my hand and bolted upright.
    “You dropped me!” she growled.
    “Didn’t have much of a choice, Ms. Kill-Them-All.”
    “You . . . you violated me!”
    “Please put the ‘violated’ card back in the deck, Mistress of Mind Control. You