The Protectors

by Dowell, Trey

  Diego frowned. I extended my arm and said, “Welcome to the shit list, pal.” He grudgingly accepted my hand and pulled himself off the couch—the closest thing to a truce we were gonna get.

  “Is the plane ready?” Lyla asked. I nodded but didn’t move to leave. Both of them stared at me.

  “Don’t everybody talk at once,” Diego finally said.

  “I don’t mind talking,” I said. “Just don’t know if you’ll like what I have to say.”

  “What?” Lyla asked.

  “I’ve got a plan. A good one, I think. But it’s not gonna be easy.”

  Lyla cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’ve had a busy five minutes.”

  “Yeah. Call it runway inspiration.”

  “I figured you might come around,” she said.

  “Well, don’t get too excited. It’s gonna be a bitch,” I admitted.

  Diego scoffed. “It usually is with you,” he grumbled.

  “They think we’ll run,” I said. “Expect us to hide. It’s the by-the-book option, maybe even the smart option. Find a hilltop mansion in Paraguay and hunker down. Might take the Agency months to find us . . . years even. But they will find us.”

  “Who cares?” Diego said. “If they come, we fight.”

  I swallowed the urge to remind him that I couldn’t put cruise missiles to sleep.

  “By then, it’ll be too late. Every government in the world will be against us. You can bet the CIA is already stoking that fire, telling agencies worldwide about Iran and how we tried to wreck a nation all by ourselves. Before long, they’ll leak their insidious bullshit out to the bigger world: TV, newspapers, the Internet. We’ll get packaged as power-hungry supervillains, and half the planet will listen. We won’t just be fighting the CIA then. We’ll be fighting everyone.”

  “What is our alternative?” Lyla asked.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “We don’t run from the Agency. We go through them. I’m saying, walk up to the front gate in Langley, Virginia, and rip the top off the place. Pull that weasel Tucker out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and make an example of him.”

  Diego cackled. “Hombre, tienes cojones. I like it!”

  Lyla . . . not so much. “Scott, the Agency isn’t some playground bully.” Her eyes were fearful, almost pleading. “We can’t just punch them hard and hope they’ll run away. Declaring war on the CIA . . . that’s suicide.”

  I shook my head. “Not a war. A message. In fact, attacking the Agency head-on allows us to deliver two messages. First, the obvious one. The Langley campus is a bitch. We’ve all seen it. Small army of police, military base ten minutes away, and state-of-the-art defenses. One of the most secure facilities in the world. We cut the head off that snake? Message is pretty clear: we can get to anyone, anytime.”

  “And that makes them less likely to kill us?” Lyla asked.

  “No. But it makes them more likely to listen to us.”

  She rolled her eyes. “We can call them on the phone, if you want to talk. Why risk our lives?”

  “Because you’re wrong,” I said. “The Agency is exactly like a bully. And y’know the best way to get a bully’s attention? You don’t call him on the phone and beg him not to steal your lunch money. You kick down the fucker’s front door, walk right into the living room, and smack that little jackwad in the mouth. Sure, he’ll be pissed-off . . . but I guarantee you, he will listen. And so will the CIA.”

  “To what?” Diego asked.

  I smiled. “The second message. The one that’s gonna save our lives.”

  They glanced at each other, then me. I looked straight into Lyla’s unblinking stare.

  “You saw that crowd today. Thousands of people. How did you feel, walking among them? Surrounded by their energy, their power?”

  She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, remembering. After a long moment, the eyes blinked open and her fiery gaze refocused on me.

  “Invincible.”

  “Damn right,” I said. “We can make that happen again, but bigger.”

  Both of them demanded “How?” simultaneously.

  “If you’ve ever had cause to trust me, I’m asking that you trust me here. I’ve got an idea, but I’ll need your help with the specifics. Getting back to the States will take a couple of days, and we can go over everything along the way.”

  Lyla and Diego listened intently.

  “This is our chance. Get onto that campus, send our message . . . and when we walk out, we won’t have thousands of people on our side, we’ll have billions. We can be what we’ve always wanted to be—before the CIA, before all the lies and the bullshit. Get on that plane with me, and I promise . . .

  “We can really be the Protectors.”

  Yeah, they got on the plane.

  CHAPTER 43

  Getting back to the United States took us three days. We went through four countries, rode three planes, and Aphrodite chartered one boat. Only excitement we ran into was on the final leg. The Coast Guard flagged down our yacht from the Bahamas off the shores of North Carolina. When the boat slowed to pull alongside, I dropped the whole crew. Lyla pouted for a half hour; if she’d had her way, she would have stood on the bow of that patrol craft like Captain Morgan and forced the Coast Guard to take us all the way up the Potomac River. I preferred a slightly lower-profile approach until we had the intel we needed and a fully charged “Zeus.”

  The three days were just what we needed. The rare peace afforded by our voyage gave us the perfect window to strategize. Funny how your concentration improves without the impending threat of being obliterated by a tank.

  Once we figured out exactly what we intended to say to the Agency when we had their attention, the how portion of the program took up most of my focus. Assaulting the Langley headquarters was a daunting task by itself, and most of the detailed, step-by-step planning could only be accomplished once we had serious reconnaissance in hand. There was one desire, however, that I could satisfy from the comfort of the yacht.

  Tucker.

  Our message needed to be delivered in person, and since we had to smack the CIA in the mouth to do it, I couldn’t imagine a better person to take the punch than Mr. “Nighty-night, Knockout.” I couldn’t even think about our last conversation without shaking in anger. The smug bastard had tried to kill me twice, but after witnessing the destruction of the armored brigade on the satellite feed, my guess was he was a trifle less confident. Maybe even worried. To guarantee him a spot in our crosshairs, though, “worried” wasn’t enough. I needed “scared shitless”—to the point of making a beeline for the securest location he knew.

  A three-word text message sufficed. I typed it into my burner phone and smiled.

  SEE YOU SOON.

  Nothing like a personal threat/promise from a meta-human to speed Tucker on his way to a high-tech, maximum-security hidey-hole.

  After sailing through Chesapeake Bay and into the winding waters that eventually lead straight to the Lincoln Memorial, we found the perfect place to hole up. Our voyage ended twenty-five miles south of Langley, near the Mason Neck National Wildlife Refuge. Large private homes dotted the shoreline east of the refuge—modern and luxurious homes, yet nestled within the relative privacy of four square miles of forest. Lyla picked one surrounded by tall thick trees and had our captain dock the yacht alongside a hundred-foot private pier jutting into the Potomac.

  The mansion’s owners, a pharmaceutical lobbyist and his aging trophy wife, saw us arrive from the sundeck of the third floor. They were on us before we made it halfway up the pier. The guy stuck a finger in my chest and demanded we get our asses back on our distasteful scow and leave immediately. I wasn’t sure what a “scow” was, but thirty minutes after looking into Aphrodite’s eyes, the two of them were taking a weekend trip to his mother-in-law’s, and I was taking a dump in his master
bathroom. What can I say—a Lacoste-wearing jerk poking me in the chest unleashes my inner jackass. I let my masterpiece bake unflushed behind a closed door; Lyla and I could use one of the other six bathrooms. Six.

  As we settled in, I grabbed my laptop from the dining room table and ushered Lyla and Diego into a dark-wood-paneled study on the second floor to talk strategy. The room shouted ridiculous luxury: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather-upholstered reading chairs next to a stone fireplace, and a desk that looked like it weighed more than my car. Felt like the kind of space where it’s mandatory to swirl brandy in a snifter while you discuss leveraged buyouts. Perfect location to plan a battle against the CIA.

  “First things first,” I began. “We need to know as much as possible about the Langley headquarters, plus verify where that bastard Tucker is hiding. My guess is he’ll be somewhere on-site, coordinating the search for us.”

  Diego waved me off. “I don’t need to know anything. I can go right now, scorch the whole building. You can sift through the remains for this Tucker person.”

  “C’mon, man, use your head. The Agency knows us . . . knows what we’re capable of. They installed tranquilizing gas nozzles around the doors of the training center after Carsten started leaving whenever he wanted. The CIA might be arrogant but they’re not stupid. The complex will have defenses built specifically for us”—I pointed at him—“even you. Plus, our goal here is not to level the entire complex. Destroying America’s intelligence capability and changing the world order of power is a little supervillainy for my tastes. We can save ourselves without leaving the country blind and defenseless.”

  Diego exhaled in disappointment, but perked up when I told him, “Don’t worry . . . you’ll still get plenty of opportunities to show off. You’re my muscle.”

  “I assume I am to be the intelligence gatherer?” Lyla asked.

  “Is there anyone better? I need you to set the table for me and Diego. To that end, I’ve got two options for you. One will take a few days, with almost no risk. The other is faster, but ballsy.”

  Diego rubbed his hands together. “I prefer balls,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they came from his lips. Flustered, he backtracked. “You know what I mean.”

  “You want me to embrace my way into the building itself ?” Lyla asked. “Find the information from facilities or security?”

  “Whoa—there’s a difference between ballsy and insane. I don’t want to risk you walking into one of the most secure installations in the world by yourself and never coming back. Let’s be a little less ambitious to start with.” I opened the laptop, which already had a Google satellite image up. It showed the entire complex, as well as the surrounding area.

  “You ever worked retail?” I asked Lyla. “There’s a Starbucks here, less than a mile from headquarters, off the main access road. If you embrace the staff, get yourself a job handing out orders . . .”

  “. . . look for Agency ID badges, embrace as many as necessary to build a web of minions.” Lyla wasn’t thrilled, but she bought in with a nod. “Depending on who comes in, that would take time.”

  “Two or three days, I’m guessing. Even if you didn’t get any of the major players in security or maintenance, you’d be able to get phone numbers and home addresses we could use to find them. As long as you wear your contacts and a blond wig or ball cap, stay behind the counter, your exposure would be minimal. Think you can find a wig store nearby?”

  “Please. Did you see that preening, ornamental troll of a wife? I am certain there are blond wigs in the next room.”

  Diego piped up. “If that’s the low-risk idea, what’s the . . .” He carefully circumvented any mention of balls. “. . . the risky one?”

  I tabbed to a different browser window—the website of Washington Life, D.C.’s high-society newspaper. If I scoured the mansion long enough, I’d probably have found a hard copy lying around.

  “The other option is tomorrow evening, guarantees a lot of high-level contacts, and puts you right up against them.”

  Lyla stared at the announcement and rubbed a thoughtful finger across her lips. I knew her answer before I asked the question.

  “Wanna crash a wedding?”

  CHAPTER 44

  Victoria Elizabeth Shepherd’s wedding looked a lot like her name sounded: uptight and expensive. If the crowded ceremony was any indication, half of Washington, D.C.’s, upper crust turned out for the nuptials.

  “The CIA must pay better than I thought,” Diego said.

  “I’m pretty sure Director Shepherd didn’t foot the bill for this extravaganza. His son is the father of the bride, and he’s an investment banker in New York. Daddy’s money plus grandpa’s clout gets you this kind of location.”

  Hundreds of people occupied row upon row of wooden folding chairs lining the meadow adjacent to the Jefferson Memorial. Through binoculars I saw the myriad shiny gold watches and bespoke suits. As the ceremony wound down and the blessed couple kissed, I surveyed the perimeter for the tenth time in the last hour.

  “What do you think?” I asked as I passed the binoculars over.

  Diego adjusted the focus. “Decent rack. Too bad her hair is up. I like when women wear it long.”

  “Not the bride, idiot. What do you think about security? How many?”

  He grinned beneath the lenses. “Relax, Jefe. Only kidding. Same as before: so many guys I keep losing track. And I know they’re not ushers, because they’re all looking the wrong way. Also, not positive, but I think there’s a guy with a rifle up between the support columns of the dome. I saw a reflection in the shadows.”

  “If it was my granddaughter’s wedding, that’s where I’d stick him. Only high vantage point. Jefferson would be so proud to have a sniper in the attic of his memorial.”

  “And a terrible one, too, if we spotted him.”

  “Just be sure to point the binoculars in another direction for a while. We’re tourists, remember?”

  We were a long way from the ceremony, but to a guy with a twenty-power scope, we’d be uncomfortably noticeable. Luckily, our bench was set behind the walking path across the Tidal Basin from the meadow. There was a half mile of greenish gray water between us and the wedding, plus the setting sun bathed the marble structure in golden light, while we hid in cool shade under a copse of cherry trees. To our left, another couple used binoculars of their own to survey the area between the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials. I relaxed a little when I saw how similar they were to us; easier to breathe when you don’t look conspicuous to a guy with a bolt-action rifle. Still . . .

  “If you had to take that guy out, could you hit the dome from here?”

  He answered without moving the binoculars. “Yes, but only with a burst from my fist. It’s sunny, not enough charge in the air to bring down an indirect strike. I’d give away our position.”

  Which meant if he didn’t take out the sniper with his first shot, we’d be sitting ducks. Lyla couldn’t rely on much backup from us.

  “How’s our girl doing?” I asked. Diego’s gaze shifted.

  “Still in position. Doing her thing.”

  The muted patter of clapping rolled across the water of the Tidal Basin.

  I said, “Sounds like Ms. Shepherd is now a Mrs.”

  “The guests are moving into the covered tents for the reception. How much longer does she want to stay?”

  “I don’t know, let’s ask.” I toggled the switch on my earbud microphone to transmit/receive. “You get what we need?”

  “Not yet.” Tough to hear her quiet voice; evidently she wasn’t in a position to talk freely. “Many people skip the ceremony and only come for the reception. Give me another half hour.”

  “Roger.” I turned to Diego. “She wants more time.”

  He lowered the glasses and stared. “Roger?”

  “That’s what you say on the radio
when you understand. It’s a real thing.”

  “On television, maybe.”

  “Shut up, man.”

  “Roger that. Security is moving the director under the tent.”

  “How many agents?”

  “Still has four right by him. They’re keeping people away. Lyla would never get close enough, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s like they’re expecting her. She’s crazy to be this close as it is.”

  I relayed the info to Lyla before telling Diego, “Hey, she signed up for it. Besides, we don’t need the director. She knows what she’s doing.”

  Thirty minutes later, she proved it.

  —

  Diego and I estimated the Shepherd-Kalish wedding had at least forty armed guests, none of whom knew the bride or groom. They were interspersed among the wedding party, staff, and invited guests. Security stood watch on the perimeter, as well as inside the reception and dining tents. They even parked a couple of guys by the refrigerated catering trucks, monitoring every white-coated server holding a silver tray. Not to mention the eye in the sky hidden among marble pillars, probably watching everything with his finger on the trigger.

  No one but family was allowed within twenty feet of Director Shepherd, who arrived at the Jefferson Memorial two hours before anyone else. From what I could see, the top-notch security force did their job well. Of course, they were so concerned about protecting the director that none of them gave much thought to protecting the guests. Or cared what happened outside the memorial grounds.

  I’m sure Director Shepherd loved the entire affair, safe and secure under his blanket of protection. He wore a proud smile throughout the ceremony—and like all members of the power elite, he wanted to share that pride with as many of his coworkers as possible, even if his security team kept them at a distance. Hell, he probably didn’t even notice most of them.

  I know he didn’t notice the slightly pudgy blond girl, in sunglasses and a ball cap, wearing six shirts under her white CAPITOL PARKING jacket. She looked like all the other valets, taking car keys from guests at a ritzy wedding. And wouldn’t you know it—almost every person who handed their keys to her stopped long enough to answer a few short questions.