The Protectors by Trey Dowell

was Carsten!” she hissed. “Carsten Walker. Don’t you dare talk about him like he was a comic-book character. He was my friend. He thought he was your friend, too. Until you killed him.”
    A five-year-old argument, made new again. Just as painful now.
    “Wow. Thirty whole seconds before mentioning Carsten. Thankyou. That’s about twice as long as I thought I’d get,” I told her. She geared up for another tirade, and I lifted my arm to point a finger in her direction. Surprised, she shrank back in her chair. “Just listen for one minute . . . ,” I started, without recognizing my old habit of extending an arm and pointing at someone before dropping them. As soon as my arm moved, the restaurant changed around me. Conversations— all of them—stopped. I heard a flurry of chairs screech across the wooden floor, plates and silverware clanging, and the distinctive sound of cocking hammers.
    Lots of them.
    I let the arm continue and had my other one join in, pointing at the ceiling. Taking extreme care, I turned my head to look over my right shoulder. Every single customer, every waiter, and even the courteous maître d’, was armed. Revolvers, automatics, and submachine guns of all types, presumably hidden beneath the tables when I’d entered, were leveled in my direction. People near me were crouched on the floor in shooting positions, while people farther away at the front of the restaurant were standing on tables and chairs. It looked like a theater-seating shooting gallery, and I was on the wrong end. I turned back to Lyla. Slowly.
    “Jesus. You embraced all of these people?”
    She looked a great deal more relaxed now, standing by the kitchen doors outside the line of fire.
    “Yes. With your history it felt prudent. Remember how you once told me you couldn’t affect more than forty people simultaneously?”
    “How many of them are there?”
    Lyla smiled. “More than forty.”
    “Well done. Although unnecessary. I’m not here to hurt you, Lyla. I just want to talk.”
    She sneered.
    “ ‘I just want to talk’? Do not try that hostage negotiation drivel with me. I’m not some moronic criminal you can manipulate. I’m disappointed you would even try.”
    “Sorry. Force of habit,” I told her, then offered a mean-spirited chuckle.
    “What is so funny?”
    “You’re offended I’m trying to manipulate you . If that’s not the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is. You’ve got a room full of mind-controlled people with guns standing here, and you’re pissed-off at me ? C’mon, even you have to admit that’s funny.”
    Her expression stayed flat. In spite of my jokes, it took everything I had to hold my arms still and belie my nervousness. I don’t care how powerful you are, having more than forty guns trained on your back generates many sensations, none of them pleasant. I was an inadvertent sneeze away from looking like shredded cabbage. I needed to ratchet the tension down, and it was useless to say anything directly to Lyla’s mob. There was only one person I needed to calm down, so I fell back on the most reliable form of persuasion I know.
    “You look wonderful. Better than I remember. Incredible job on the setup . . . none of them looked embraced.”
    A glint of satisfaction from her eyes.
    “Thank you, flatterer. My abilities have changed over the years. I am . . . better . . . now.”
    “I can tell. Their conversations were so natural, I didn’t see any of the old signs. You totally fooled me,” I told her.
    “Well, I do love making you a fool.”
    Ouch.
    “Happy to oblige, but seriously, could you please ask them to put safeties on or at least lower the guns? They’re making me nervous. Even if it sounds like a line, I am only here to talk. Hate me as much as you want, but you know I’m not a liar.”
    She returned to her seat and stared back at me with those eyes, weighing the decision. My arms were starting to tingle from holding them aloft.