The Protectors Series Bundle (A superhero romance anthology)

by Nana Malone

  Reaper, my ass. Garrett tried not to roll his eyes. He couldn’t get used to calling their head mother fucker in charge by his call sign. His name was Peter Reeser. He wasn’t even being clever with the call sign.

  “Negative,” Garrett murmured. If there was one thing he could do, it was follow orders.

  “Then get it done.”

  When he’d been approached by his commanding officer to be part of an elite Black Ops team, he’d jumped at the chance. With his genetic marker for Lou Gehrig’s disease, he knew his military career would be limited. It was a chance to make a difference before he got sick and was so feeble someone would have to feed him. The Symcore Weapons Super Soldier pilot program had saved his life. Nothing would stop him on his follow-through. Especially not a stunningly beautiful terrorist.

  He kept his distance as Symone turned toward the business district. Her scent was familiar enough that he wouldn’t lose her here—cinnamon and saffron. And if for some reason his sense of smell failed him, he’d still feel her for several hundred feet. He just had to get close enough to place a tracking chip on her before she hit the center of town by the library.

  Mylands was a small enough town that anyone with determination enough could walk the whole town in half a day.

  Symone pulled her hood tighter around her face, and Garrett smiled to himself as he watched her from behind a dumpster.

  She paused at the entrance to an alley between Diamonds and Things Jewelry Repair and The Written Word bookstore. Crouching down, she pulled something out of her pocket and made several kissing sounds. It didn’t take long before a sleek black catch with a patch of grey on his nose meowed and ducked his head under her hand.

  The first night Garrett had watched her, he’d stared perplexed as she pieced out tiny morsels of her Chinese takeout for the cat. Every night after that, she’d brought the little guy actual cat food—though, Garrett had a feeling the fur ball preferred Chinese.

  A tiny voice in his head sent alarm bells thorough his nervous system. These weren’t the actions of a terrorist.

  ***

  Symone Jackson pulled her hood over her head and burrowed into her fleece as she gave the cat a scratch. “Hiya, Bones.” The damn cat had sort of befriended her. Never should have fed the flea-bag.

  She inhaled deeply as she turned onto Milk Street. The scent of leather drifted on the breeze. It was a familiar scent to her now. Somehow comforting. She picked up her pace in a hurry to get home and maybe have a glass of wine. During daylight hours, throngs of people filled this stretch of street of businesses and offices. But unlike Main Street, there were no restaurants here. Not much foot traffic, and only about one street light per three blocks. As she approached the block with The Thread and Thimble tailor, she noticed a thin figure climbing out of the lawyer’s office next door. The scent of blood was fresh and clung to him.

  The young boy stuffed something inside his hoodie as he started to run. Before she knew it, Symone felt her legs pumping after him. “Hey, stop.”

  The slim form picked up the pace, then made a left. Three larger teens waited half a block down. The boy handed over something and put out a hand. The largest of the three slammed a fist in the boy’s face, sending him to the ground. Catching sight of Symone, the thugs took off at a dead run. She followed the three, her heart rate ticking up as adrenaline poured though her veins. She breathed deep as she gained on the slowest runner.

  Snatching him by the hoodie, she yanked him to a stop. “Easy there. Where are you going? I just want to talk to you.”

  His hoodie fell back revealing his face, his young face. “Fuck off, bitch.”

  She tsked. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s not nice to cuss at a lady?”

  “I’ll let you know when I see one.”

  In the distance, his friends’ footsteps grew closer. Evidently, they’d realized he was no longer behind them. Symone shook him by the shoulders. “That snarky tone is going to get you hurt. Don’t you know it’s not right to steal? Give me what your friend took from the lawyer’s office.”

  “Right after you let me go, you stupid—”

  Symone’s only warning was the swoosh of air on her left flank. The little punk had a concealed knife. Just in time, she shifted and ducked to deflect the impact, but still he got a slice of her in her lower back. A stinging burn lanced through her as she glared up at him. “I want you to remember that I tried not to hurt you, okay?”

  She snatched him by the collar and threw him through the nearest window. She clutched her side where that punk had gotten his cheap shot. From her best guess he had just missed her kidney. It still hurt like a son of a bitch. But lucky for her she’d heal by morning. At worst tomorrow night.

  The other punk, with the tear drop tattoo under his eye and greasy hair, stared at her, his mouth gaping open. Then he turned his attention to his partner in crime who lay among the shards of glass. A sneer spread across his face slowly, and dread settled on Symone’s shoulders. He was going to make her hurt him.

  He barreled right for her, trying to put his full force behind a tackle. She easily side-stepped and dropped into a crouch, readying for the next attack. After righting himself, he tried again, but this time, instead of a tackle he tried a different tactic. Light from the streetlamp above reflected on something in his hand. Well if he wasn’t going to fight fair, then neither was she. She didn’t have any plans to die tonight. Pity the same couldn’t be said about him.

  Chapter Two

  Garrett hated the taste of a lie. Bewildered, he watched the fight from his vantage point. He’d been tracking Symone Jackson for over a week, and so far, nothing stood out about her, until tonight. She moved like a trained fighter. Light on her feet, able to anticipate her opponent’s moves. She was quick and agile. Almost too quick and definitely too agile. The cheap shot the tall kid had taken at her side should have gone straight into her kidney, but she’d twisted out of the way and only sustained a slice.

  Reaper had lied to him. She wasn’t some techno-terrorist bent on destroying the government. She was like him. She had powers.

  He sprang into action, taking the fire escape stairs three at a time. He paused just out of sight, around the corner of the building.

  Even though she was fighting a couple of gang members, her countenance was easy. Unhurried as she deftly blocked blows. She easily handled one, then another assailant. A rail thin boy lay collapsed by the brick wall, but one of the players was missing. He’d seen four shadows around the lawyer’s office near the library. Only three were in vicinity of Symone. Had the other one take off and left his friends behind?

  No. Garrett could feel him close by. Feel his fear. His annoyance. His malice. But where was the little shit? And what kind of weapon did he have on him?

  Garrett kept his body against the wall as he moved closer to the fight. For a split second, on the change of the breeze Symone lifted her head and looked around, as if she expected to see him. He froze, and she went back to handling the last punk standing.

  As he moved closer to Symone, the fear form the unseen assailant increased, tightening like a band around Garrett’s chest, squeezing tighter and tighter.

  Risking exposure, Garrett stepped out of shadow to draw his opponent out and luck was on his side. The fight or flight surge of adrenaline poured through the kid like ten-foot waves. When the teenager jumped from one of the abandoned store doorways and sprinted in the opposite direction of the fight, Garrett grinned.

  Going after him wasn’t even a challenge. The boy couldn’t find purchase, and the more he tried to get a hold of his stride, the more his arms flailed and his body rocked. Garrett snatched hold of his shirt easily and backed him up against a moving truck, careful to keep his eye on Symone in case she got herself into any more trouble.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Let me go, shithead. You know who my uncle is? Carlos Santez. He’ll fry you alive when I tell him about this.”

  Garrett smiled, only showing
a hint of teeth. “See now, you’re making the assumption that you’re going to live through our little”—he glanced surreptitiously from side to side—“conversation.”

  The punk began to shake in Garrett’s arms. “If you’re gonna kill me, just go ahead and fucking get it over with. I’m a Street King. I ain’t afraid to die.”

  “So eager to meet your maker? You can relax, I just want to talk”

  A sullen, pursed-lip expression replaced the “oh shit” on his ugly mug. “What do you want?”

  “See the nice lady down that way making mincemeat out of your friends?”

  The kid quickly glanced around the side of the tuck. “What about her?”

  “Any harm comes to her, and I’m going to come looking for you.” Garrett’s orders were bring her in—he didn’t need some snot-nosed asshole killing her.

  A tingle of warning slipped up his spine, and a rush of confidence and adrenaline from the kid flooded through him. Jumping out of the way, he missed a slice to his abdomen by inches. What was it with street kids and their knives?

  The kid took another swipe at him, and Garrett sidestepped the knife in time to spin around and elbow him in the kidney. The boy stumbled but stayed standing. If there was ever a time Garrett wished he had a more active power, this was it. Fire blasting eyeballs would really come in handy here.

  When the kid charged him again, Garrett spun in the direction of the swing. Catching the kid’s arm with his right hand, he braced his left shoulder under the kid’s elbow. Applying some good ol’ force and resistance physics, Garrett shoved his shoulder up while forcing his right arm down, effectively snapping the kid’s arm at the elbow.

  The teenager went still for two beats then let out a raw, primal howl as he dropped the knife. In no mood to play “show me your next weapon,” Garrett yanked the thug into a sleeper hold, applying only enough pressure to put him out. The cops could deal with him.

  Garrett grabbed the handle of the moving truck and jerked it up several feet before picking up his sleeping sparring partner and tossing him in the back. Maybe if he was lucky, the cops would pop him for attempted burglary too. If what the kid said about his uncle was right, Symone Jackson had found the trouble she was looking for. At this rate, Garrett would have a hell of a time keeping her alive.

  ***

  Symone shoved her hands behind her back and yanked off her gloves, then tucked them into her back pocket. Cracking her knuckles, she smiled. “Come on, man. Let me turn you into charcoal so I can go home.” Well, first she’d check on the kid they’d hit, then go home. She’d already exposed too much. She just prayed the lack of streetlights in this area would help conceal her identity.

  Greasy-hair-guy smirked, then dropped the metal object in his hand and picked up something long and thick off the ground. She squinted. It looked like a pipe. He bounced up and down, feinting left and right like every fake fight she’d ever seen in a movie. She half expected to hear Neo say to Morpheus “I know Kung Fu.” Moron. Poor idiot didn’t know that his theatrics gave small hints on his movements.

  He clutched the pipe like a bat and made his best Babe Ruth impression. She spun in the opposite direction of the swing and caught him in the spine with her elbow. Preempting a counter attack, she hopped onto his back and planted both hands on his face. The cry that escaped his mouth sounded like a dying frog. Within three seconds he collapsed on the ground twitching.

  Though she’d only touched him for a moment, Symone struggled to shake off the malevolence the guy was doused in. Thanks to her ability to absorb power, she’d likely be in a hell of a mood for a few days.

  She limped over to the younger kid who’d been sucker punched and knelt by him, checking for a pulse. It was weak, but at least it was there. Symone removed his hood and recoiled at her assailant’s face. Long red hair spilled from under the hood. Delicate features were highlighted in the moonlight. Symone sucked in a startled breath. “But you’re just a girl.”

  The girl groaned and tried to get up. “So are you.”

  The kid had a point. “What the hell are you doing with those thugs? They’re going to get you killed, or worse.”

  “As if there’s anything worse than death.” The redhead rubbed at her nose as she sat up. “What are you, my mother?”

  Symone released her hold on the girl’s sleeve, suddenly aware she didn’t have her gloves on. “Well, from the looks of it, you could use one. You need to get out of here before the police come. No doubt, someone has heard all the racket.”

  The girl narrowed dark brown eyes as she backed up against the wall. “You aren’t going to turn me in?”

  Symone shrugged. “The way I saw it, those idiots were trying to assault you. You’re the victim. You can press charges if you want.”

  The girl’s gaze flitted to the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Did you do that to them?”

  Symone didn’t answer. What was she supposed to say? I’m a Frankenstein superhero? Instead, she said, “I don’t like bullies.”

  “Look, what do you want from me? I don’t sell myself, so if that’s what you—”

  Symone shrank back, unable to keep the revulsion off her expression. “I don’t want anything from you. I only wanted to help. If you’re okay, I’ll be on my way.” She stood and clamped a hand over her wound. “Do me a favor though, stay away from those thugs. I get needing protection, but to run with the Miami Street Kings? That’s asking for an early coffin.”

  “I didn’t have a choice; they had something I needed.”

  Symone wanted to bang her head against a wall. Drugs? She’d nearly been a kidney donor over drugs? She should have known better. “Do yourself a favor. Head down to the Youth Center by Wilkins. The director is a friend of mine. She can help you get clean and off the streets.”

  The girl stood, her hands sliding against the worn brick wall as she steadied herself. “I’m not a junkie. The short one who ran away, he swiped my bag yesterday. It had my mother’s locket in it. They promised me they’d get it back if I went to the lawyer’s office and snagged some files for them.”

  “And you believe them? Must be some locket.”

  “It was. Only thing I had that was worth anything.”

  Tears pricked at Symone’s lids, and she quickly blinked them away. She remembered what it was like when she’d been on the street and desperate. By the time Peter Reeser had found her, it was only a matter of days before she’d have been desperate enough to do anything to survive.

  In the distance, the scream of sirens sliced through night air. Someone had definitely heard the skirmish and played neighborhood watch. She sure as hell wasn’t sticking around to give the cops a statement. She looked at the girl. She couldn’t be more than fifteen. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

  The redhead’s chin went up. “I don’t need your charity.”

  God save her from stubborn teenagers. Symone reached into her pocket and pulled out a card and a pen. She jotted down her cell phone number and flicked the card over to the girl. “These assholes wake up and come for you, or you get yourself into any kind of trouble at all, you call me. I’ll come get you.” She paused. “My name is Symone. You got a name?”

  “Riley.” The girl swiped her hand under her nose. “Why are you helping me?”

  Because I know what it’s like to be all alone. “Because you need it.”

  Chapter Three

  Garrett slammed the rear door of the truck back into place and sprinted around the side in search of Symone. No sign of her, or the kid against the wall. He went to the last spot he’d seen her at to see if he could pick up her trail, and he caught a faint one right up to the stairs of the library, but then nothing. Shit. If she was what he thought she was, and Reaper was looking for her, she was worse off than he was.

  As he headed back toward the warehouse district, he knew what he had to do. Garrett didn’t like it, but he needed some answers before he wandered into this minefield. He slid his phone open. Pressing speed dial, he tried
to follow her scent. Maybe he’d missed something.

  Rex’s voice was terse when he picked up. “Report?”

  Garrett kept his voice even and relaxed, trying to keep the growl from seeping through. “Why does Reaper want the girl?”

  Rex’s voice was cool with a hint of ice-berg. “What, have you lost your fucking memory? She’s a national security threat. She’s hacked into NSA and CIA systems, attempting to access confidential files. Why are you acting like a moron who’s lost his mind?”

  “Is that so? Exactly when were you going to mention that Symone Jackson has supernatural abilities? She’s no techno–terrorist. She’s a Tracker.”

  Rex was silent for several heartbeats as if weighing his options between truth and lies. “No. She’s not a Tracker. But she’s very important to Reaper’s long term vision of this group. You need to proceed with caution and bring her in. Better yet, wait for your damn reinforcements. Where is she?”

  There was nothing Garrett hated more than a liar. “Where did she get her abilities?”

  “That’s need to know, Soldier.”

  Rex was hiding something. “I can’t do my job if you’re hiding things.”

  Rex expelled a breath. “Need I remind you, Soldier, that as we speak, we’re in the process of evaluating your brother’s blood for the genetic markers of ALS? I would hate for Reaper to get a wild hair that we need to see him in person and run tests that way. Some of those tests could be uncomfortable.”

  Michael. Icy dread settled in Garrett’s stomach. His whole life he’d been sure he was doing the right thing. Following the rules. Helping people. But no. He was the bad guy he’d always read about. Somewhere along the noble line, he’d made a wrong turn and hadn’t even seen the marked path. For a moment his head spun as his brain tried to reconcile the people who’d helped cure him with the people who were threatening his family.

  So much for being brothers in arms. Rex had been his commanding officer in the Army Rangers. He’d known about Garrett’s medical history. Known it was only a matter of time before symptoms showed up. Garrett submitted to voluntary medical testing every six months.