Forsaken Protector: Protectors, #2

Chapter One

Icy wind whipped around Garrett Hunter’s body as he watched his quarry leave the Mylands Youth Center. Tonight, the moonlight made Symone Jackson’s skin look like luminescent cinnamon. In the two weeks he’d been watching her, she’d never varied her routine. She showed up for her shift at six and left at ten. She took the same route every time. By now, her lithe movements were as familiar to him as his own. Her strides were efficient and strong, yet somehow balletic. She looked more like a dancer than the terrorist she was.

He’d been lucky to even find her in the first place. Her photo had been in the newspaper for her volunteer work. Just her profile, but it was enough. Sloppy on her part. Fortuitous on his. His mission was to observe, identify any known associates, then bring her in. Observing her at work was easy. He’d been able to plant bugs inside the Youth Center, in particular her office. She counseled young teens trying to help them stay off the street.

Observing her at home was more complicated. He still had no idea where she lived. Every night he followed her, and every night she gave him the slip. Not like she knew she was being followed. But more like it was a habit. Not the act of an innocent person.

Garrett had only ever been able to track her to the Mylands Library, then she’d go all Houdini on his ass. He’d tried everything. Dogged every one of her steps, planted cameras from different vantage points to watch the library. He’d even attempted to plant a tracking chip on her once, in the form of a letter from one of her troubled teens. He’d been sure she’d take the bait and take the letter home with her, but no dice. Symone was beyond cautious. She was a ghost.

Tapping into his empathic ability, he tried to read her emotional grid. All he got from her was satisfaction, exhaustion and—loneliness. He hadn’t had much luck with her friends either. Other than the teens she counseled, he’d never seen her with anyone. She was always alone.

As he watched his mark, the voice in his earpiece cut through his concentration.

Do you have the target? Rex, his commanding officer, asked.

Affirmative. Garrett kept his voice low.

Any contact?

Still none. And still no luck on her abode. Orders were to get her at home, but access is better here. What’s your call?

Negative. Do not engage until I send you back up. ETA forty-eight hours. In the meantime, find her home by any means necessary.

What the fuck? With every target he’d ever acquired, the directive was always to be as quiet as possible. Sometimes drugging his target, sometimes knocking them out, but it was always clean and quiet. He’d never been asked to risk exposure. What was so special about this girl? Acknowledged.

In the shadows of the abandoned warehouses, he tracked her, never letting her out of his sight. Tonight, she followed the same path she always did, from the center, down past the auto repair shop, cutting through the back alleys, heading towards the center of town.

Crossing Wilkins Avenue, he frowned. This wasn’t the most direct or the safest route if she was headed back to the library. It was the path with the least amount of people to run into. He quickly stifled his annoyance. He always kept his empathic ability under a tight rein. On rare occasion it slipped through. From a distance, he could catch the thread of what his tail was feeling. There was always a danger he would sympathize with his mark. But he liked to think that the empathy was a gift rather than a hindrance. That it made him a better soldier.

Except in moments like this when he was following Symone and her emotions were mirrored back at him. Her hurry to get home, her worry over the teenagers. Even though he tried to shut it down, she filtered in. And it pissed him off. She was being careless. If she had something to hide, she should be taking better care to stay safe.

Rex’s voice was stern. Reaper won’t be happy if you can’t pull this off. Are your abilities getting in the way of your orders?

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