by Dowell, Trey
“We’re not taking over. We won’t replace anyone in power. And it’s not like we can keep it up forever . . . but I figure ten years is a good start. Ten years and trillions of dollars to change the world. And the people get to decide how to do it.”
Tucker spoke up behind me. “What if some of these governments you hate so much decide your pacifist nirvana isn’t in their best interests? There’s a reason we need armies, McAlister. There’s a reason the world needs men like me.” He sounded more desperate than ever.
I made sure the camera saw my grin.
“Then Lyla, Diego, and I do our job,” I said. “Haven’t you heard? We’re the Protectors.”
When I walked back to Tucker, his head was on the table; the guy still thought I was gonna kill him.
“Relax. I don’t want you dead. Not anymore,” I said. He lifted a newly hopeful face. “Tucker, I want you to see that different world. How else can I prove you wrong?”
He took a deep breath. “Ten years is a long time. I think you’ll be surprised at what happens.”
“Don’t worry. For you, the decade will be over in a blink.”
“What?” His eyes bugged out.
I patted one of his shaking hands. “Sorry. Consider it an extended nap, or an ‘asshole tax’ for trying to murder us.” Tucker averted his eyes like a dog expecting a smack.
A savage part of me wanted to keep him cringing for hours, but the practical part remembered the inbound troops. I pulled back to conversational distance and relaxed. “Time to wrap things up. But before I go, I want to know one last thing because I can’t resist. What’s the deepest, darkest secret the Agency’s got?”
His openmouthed gape still focused on the thought of being in a coma for ten years, but his mind heard the question loud and clear. I expected the answer to who killed JFK, but I hoped for aliens at Area 51. What I got was better than either.
Holy. Shit.
Made me clap my hands in excitement.
“Well, we’re all done here. See you in ten years.”
I raised my hand like the old days.
“Nighty-night, douchebag.”
EPILOGUE
Come on! Just a little bit farther.”
I pulled Lyla behind me by the hand. The blindfold was getting on her nerves.
“We’ve been walking for ten minutes. May I please take this off ? I can feel things sticking to me,” she said.
“It’s prairie grass. Nothing is sticking to your clothes, you big baby.”
“I love a surprise as much as the next person, but this is ridiculous. We’ve been on a plane for an hour, a car for another two, and now you’re walking me across a . . . prairie? Please, I’ve had my eyes covered all day!”
Which meant she couldn’t see my smirk. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of the two of us, I’m not the one with trust issues. I have to beg you not to put me to sleep every time you leave the house.”
“You have a habit of getting into trouble when I’m not around. I can cite references.”
She chuckled. “Still, honesty and trust are the foundation of any solid relationship.”
“I went to a strip club with Diego last week and told fifteen different women I was gay. How’s that trust card working out for ya?”
When I looked back, she was grinning. “Point taken.”
“We’re here.” I removed the blindfold.
Golden afternoon sunlight made her face glow. Her lips parted in a surprised gasp and she pirouetted to take in our surroundings. We stood on a gentle slope covered in three-foot-tall yellow grass. The grasses extended for miles in every direction, a breeze blowing them into undulating swells. For the first time, I finally understood the “amber waves of grain” lyrics. In the far west, we could see the foothills that eventually grow into the Rocky Mountains. The sky was perfect blue, unblemished by a single cloud.
“This is Colorado?” Her voice was soft, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s the part hardly anyone ever sees. We’re close to the Kansas border.”
She took my hand, then looked at me with concern. “You’re shaking. Are you all right?”
I bobbed up and down a few times, bleeding off nervous energy. “Yeah, I’m just excited. Took me a couple of weeks to find out exactly where to go, and now we’re here!”
Down the rise and across a half mile of waving terrain was the only visible dwelling. A squat concrete block of a building, no bigger than an RV, lurked in the middle of acres of grass. There wasn’t even a road leading to the structure; only an imposing perimeter fence, ten feet high with loops of barbed wire atop.
“What is that?” Lyla asked.
“It’s the entrance to an underground missile silo. An old one, taken out of service by the CIA almost five years ago.”
She frowned. “What a dreadful thing to install in such a serene place.”
“Yep. Goes almost two hundred feet down. Dug out back in the 1970s.”
“Enough history, what is my surprise?” Patience is not a goddess’s strong suit.
“Remember when I told you I read Tucker’s mind at the end?”
“Of course. You saved my life.”
“Well, the part I didn’t tell you was that I asked him what the CIA’s biggest secret was, right before I put him into a coma.”
She thrust her palms in front of her, questioning. “And?!”
“This is it.” I took her gesticulating hands in mine. “We have a chance to make things right. To start over.”
“I know we do, silly. We’re already making headway on the plan.”
I smiled. “That’s about the world. This is different. This is about us. Our past. Do you trust me?”
Lyla leaned in and we kissed. I heard wind rustle through deep grass and felt the warmth of her lips against mine. A perfect day.
As we drew apart, her eyelids fluttered. “Bring it on,” she whispered.
I turned back to the silo, reached out . . .
—
Two hundred feet below the Colorado prairie, on a gurney, beneath a respirator and a feeding tube—Carsten Walker’s eyes popped open.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First off, I want to thank you—the reader—for making it this far, and bothering to read the boring endnotes that always mention tons of people, none of whom you know or care about. Nevertheless, while reading and writing are solitary pursuits, creating a novel from scratch is rarely a one-man/woman job, so here come the gracious thank-yous. I owe a debt of gratitude to my writing group, Writers Under the Arch—for critiquing me as I read this story to them, one chapter at a time, during our weekly meetings. And to Matt Pallamary, the talented author/editor who was the first professional to see any part of this book. He read the first chapter, stared at me over the top of his reading glasses, and said the one sentence that gave me the confidence I needed to see the novel through to the end: “Dude . . . you’re a good writer.” To Margaret Bail, my agent, whose calm and reserved nature was tested when her client called to say, “Yeah, uh, those edits you wanted? I had a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery. Gonna be a couple of months.” And to Jon Cox, my editor, who took a chance on a complete unknown, and helped turn a good book into a great one. And my parents and family who encouraged me and believed, even when I didn’t. And my friends—Brian, Tawn, Anjanette, Dan, Rick—you’re the best. And finally, to the wonderful woman who insists I achieve that rarest form of success—fortune, limited fame, and absolutely no groupies—I love you, Steph, no matter how crazy you sound.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trey Dowell has been a finalist for the Derringer Award and the Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Award for his short stories. The Protectors is his first novel. Trey is a member of International Thriller Writers, and the St. Louis writers group, Writers Under the Arch.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Trey Dowell
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon451 ebook edition October 2014
Author photograph © Stephanie Gold
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ISBN 978-1-4767-8844-9
Contents
* * *
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part Three
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author