The Protectors by Trey Dowell Page B

gather it up, claw at it—but it just slips through his fingers and soaks the ground. He starts toward me and I realize how far gone Carsten is. He roars and takes giant steps across the distance. Lyla fights to embrace him, but he can’t hear her voice. Doesn’t matter—his mind is broken, beyond her power to control. Only one person can stop him and he knows it. I had to drop Carsten multiple times just to get him to the facility, but each time it was harder to do. He FIGHTS me . . . hell, I didn’t think it was even possible, but he does. Now, with his rage beyond measure, he closes in on the one demon that can actually harm him.
    I reach for him, feeling for the mental button I know will turn Carsten off. It’s easy to find, just like everyone else’ s, but when I press it nothing happens. He pounds through the carnage, not bothering to hurl anything—he wants to finish me up close, kill me in person—he needs to feel my body pull apart at the joints. I like my arms and legs attached, so I don’t just press the button—I stab and hold the damn thing down. He feels it now . . . the edge of his consciousness being pulled away . . . and he staggers. I keep right on pushing and pushing, so hard that for the very first time I feel a dull throbbing pain in my own head. He knows he won’t make it to me now, so in desperation he bends over and picks up the only lethal object within reach. The steel-plate door may be crumpled, but it weighs more than I do, and it will cut me in half.
    That’s when I know: it’s him or it’s me. So I drop the fucking hammer on his button. I scream, he screams; but in the end, Carsten and the door hit the ground at the same time. Everything falls quiet. I don’ t even hear the sirens or the choppers anymore. I’m aware of only one thing: I’m terrified. Watching Carsten plow through the rubble intent on murder has petrified me, and the only thought pulsing through my brain is I can’t let it happen again. Ever. So I keep a death grip on that button. He’s already down but I don’t care. I keep pressing, pressing, pressing . . . my hand stretched out and straining toward his unconscious body. I’m dimly aware of Lyla touching my arm—soft at first, then insistent, and finally, panicked. She’s screaming now, pleading for me to stop. When I finally do, Carsten isn’t breathing. I sink to my knees, blinking in disbelief.
    I’ve killed my friend.
    As empty and lifeless as I feel in the aftermath, one look at Lyla makes it worse. Through a prism of tears I see her . . . staring at me as she rises from Carsten’s body. Those hypnotic eyes tell me everything her voice never will: despair, rage, and pity. I’ve made an enemy of the only woman I’ve ever loved.
    —
    Now, five years later, her eyes are on me again. But this time, it’s harder to read them. Oh, trust me, there’s still anger . . . but anger I understand. It’s the pity I can’t take.
    “So, you are haunted by the memory of Carsten’s murder . . . the price of being the general’s assassin has proven too high? I feel so sorry for you. Look at you, the government’s little errand boy, sent across an ocean to fix another broken superhero.”
    “Goddammit, Lyla, enough with the superhero crap. I didn’t have orders to kill Carsten. What happened, happened. And I’m not here to ‘fix’ you, either. If I was”—my eyes looked away on reflex—“I would have done it already.”
    She leaned back in her chair, but still kept her annoyingly perfect posture. For the moment, she was on defense—so I kept her there.
    “I’m going to ask a simple question and I want a direct answer. Do you really believe I killed Carsten because of an order? Do you think I’m an assassin?”
    She stared at me, searching my face. Before her lips started moving, I knew she was going to sidestep.
    “What I think is: Carsten was special. A jewel unlike any other, as all four of us were. I think you destroyed