CHAPTER 42
W
e’d barely made it to the heavily damaged foyer of the palace when Diego stepped through the front door. He looked small, frailer than I remembered, though the fact that he wore an oversized Iranian military uniform might have had something to do with my impression. I would have insulted him, but we didn’t look much better in our own stylish hand-me-downs. At least his was clean.
When Lyla saw Diego, she ran across the foyer to embrace him.
“
Hola, chica!
You called?” He grinned and lifted her off the floor in a bear hug. Easier said than done since he wasn’t much taller than her. His two-foot black ponytail swung to the side while they spun in a tight circle.
“Sparky. I see the hair grew back,” I told him.
He set Lyla down and pushed back to look at me. The smile was gone. “Well, if it isn’t the Slumberjack.”
He knew how much I hated that goddamn nickname, but I buried my distaste long enough to state the obvious. “You saved our asses. Thanks.”
“Her lovely ass is the only one worth saving,” he said. “
You
just happened to be in building.” Diego said “you” the way most people say “herpes.”
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” I didn’t necessarily
want
to sound like an asshole, but being betrayed and nearly executed had me feeling saucy. “Still pissed-off ?”
Lyla interjected. “Boys . . .”
“I don’t know,” Diego said. “Is Carsten still dead?”
“Jesus, here we go again. Same old Blaster.” I looked to Lyla for support. Her head was down, shaking in what I hoped was frustration.
“Me?” Diego pointed a finger at himself. I almost laughed at the thin arm poking out of the huge army shirt—made him look like a kid wearing his dad’s uniform. Then the finger rose in my direction and Diego got significantly less funny. “You’re clearly the one who hasn’t changed.” He mocked my voice. “ ‘I’m Scott. Nothing is my fault. I only do what the rest of you gutless freaks can’t stomach.’ ”
“Boys, the Iranian army is asleep outside. Let us all calm down.” Lyla fluttered outstretched arms, begging us to take it down a notch.
“I’m not going to apologize for having more guts than you, Blaster.”
“Don’t call me that. I have a new name now.”
I crossed my arms. “This oughta be good.”
“I never liked ‘Blaster.’ Ridiculous. Does not even hint at my true nature.”
“Electrolyte? Static Cling?”
Diego whipped a fist to the side and the air shimmered around it. Light burst from his hand. I winced and blinked at the brightness until I could focus. The little bastard held a three-foot crackling piece of lightning in his hand. Like a spear.
“You’ll call me Zeus,” he said.
I laughed so hard I almost gave myself a hernia. “You’ve got a better chance of me calling you Daddy . . . Blaster.”
The bolt moved above his head. “Why don’t I end you right now? Even the score for Carsten.”
My hand came up and found his button. “Try it, Sparky. See how long that hair is when you wake up in twenty years.” I didn’t think he’d really try to kill me, but how could I be sure? I knew from experience—five years can change a man.
In the end, Diego held his bolt and his sneer a little too long.
“Enough!” Lyla said. “I have neither the time nor the patience for your antics. Diego, look at me.” He turned and saw her eyes in full rotation. “Scott is your oldest and dearest friend. You’ve missed him for five years. His safety and well-being are your greatest concerns.”
Diego’s arm dropped and the lightning disappeared. When he turned in my direction, excitement and happiness overwhelmed his face. He ran across the foyer and wrapped me in a massive hug.
“Scott! My oldest, dearest friend . . . are you all right? Are you injured?” He pulled back and grabbed me by the shoulders, apparently satisfied with my physical condition. “Five years,
mi amigo
! Tell me everything.”
I looked at Lyla. “Seriously?”
“No time. We need to go.”
Diego clapped me on the back and put a thin arm around my shoulders. “Come, my friend. Mighty Aphrodite is correct.”
“I detest that nickname,” Lyla grumbled on her way to the exit. Diego winked at me and cackled. I couldn’t handle it—having a man threaten to kill me in one moment, then share an inside joke the next. Before I could cobble together a response, though, his face changed.
Diego’s eyes glazed over and a low moan escaped through his now-gaping jaw. His pupils rolled up and his skull followed along right after, head lolling back while his body collapsed underneath. I managed to grab him just before he toppled over.
“Diego!”
Lyla heard me yell and ran back to assist. I lowered him down to the floor while she cradled his head. Diego felt painfully frail and bony beneath the Iranian uniform; a skeleton dressed up as a soldier on Halloween. He couldn’t have weighed much more than Lyla.
“What the hell happened?” I asked. “He was fine a minute ago.”
Lyla nodded as she brushed some of Diego’s long hair from his brow. “I was worried this would happen. He used up too much of himself,” she said. “The journey combined with the fight must have taxed his energy reserves. A common issue for him now.”
Too much of himself ? That’s a weird way to say it,
I thought.
“Why? I’ve seen him throw a ton of juice around before and never look like this . . .”
Lyla ignored my question while she stroked his hair. “My little glass cannon. So powerful and yet so fragile at the same time.”
“You’ve seen this before—how long does it last?” I asked. She didn’t
respond, remaining focused on Diego’s face. I felt a blast of jealousy before I understood the look. Caring and sadness, yes, but more like the love of a pet owner for a sick dog. I hoped she didn’t look at me the same way.
“Lyla! How long?” I asked with more volume and urgency.
My tone broke her reverie and she gave a panicked look through the foyer at the pile of unconscious bodies outside. “Longer than we have. Can you carry him?”
The mental image of hundreds of armed Iranians waking up from my indiscriminate drop while our Big Gun did his best Sleeping Beauty imitation answered that question real quick.
“You bet your ass I can. Let’s get outta here.”
—
We commandeered one of the remaining operable vehicles (there weren’t many) and said goodbye to Niavaran. Lyla drove back to the highway and headed south. Didn’t take long before we saw a caravan of military vehicles across the divider, going in the opposite direction.
“Man, are they gonna be surprised.” I asked Lyla, “Where are we going, by the way? The airport, I hope.”
“Mehrabad will be shut down with all of the civil unrest. There is a private airport west of the city, though. If we’re going to leave the country, it’s the easiest way. Our best chance is to . . . befriend . . . someone with a private jet. Even one with a short range can get the three of us somewhere safe. Turkey, or perhaps India.”
I twisted around to check on Diego’s sleeping form in the backseat. “The three of us? So I’m guessing he’s gonna be out of it for a while?”
Lyla nodded. “When he runs his reserves all the way down, Diego needs at least a day to recover.”
“A
day
? I’ve got to cart Blaster’s unconscious body around for a
day
?”
A groggy, weak voice came from behind me. “I prefer Zeus.”
I turned around to see Diego rubbing his eyes and moaning.
“As you can see,” Lyla said, “he wakes up relatively quickly, but he’ll be physically weak and almost powerless for another twenty-four hours.”
“Jesus. I’d rather Blaster just stay unconscious if he’s gonna be useless,” I muttered back.
“Be less of a jerk and say thank you to
Diego,
which is the name I’d like to hear from now on,” Lyla proclaimed. “He just saved our lives.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll remind me a few hundred times in the next twenty-four hours.” I turned back to the now-upright Venezuelan, who was blinking and examining his limbs, confused.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“The airport,” I answered. “Not that you need one anymore. You can really turn yourself into electricity now?”
He nodded. “Yes. Takes me less than a second to circle the globe.”
I slumped in the front seat. “Man, this is bullshit. You travel at light speed, she controls minds . . . I’m starting to feel like I got the shaft when it comes to powers. So anytime you want, you can just zip across the planet?”
He yawned and shook his head. “Not quite. Transforming uses more than half my bodily charge. I need to rest for hours before I can do it again. And if I combine transforming with a heavy dose of lightning, well . . . you saw what happens. Plus, there’s the other problem.”
“What?”
He sighed. “My clothes vaporize when I change. Wherever I go, I arrive . . .”
“Naked?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m wearing this uniform. I had to pull it off one of the soldiers. His shoes didn’t fit.” He lifted a bare foot to show me. I hadn’t noticed in the foyer.
“So where were you when Lyla called?”
“Cedar Point, in Ohio. They have an amusement park with amazing roller coasters.” He slumped down and closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry, but I need more rest.”
I couldn’t help but ask one more question. “You can travel through outer space at light speed, and you get your jollies from a roller coaster?”
Diego shrugged. “Can’t feel the wind in your hair in space.”
Hard to argue with that.
—
We made it to Payam Airport just before 10 p.m. A cargo airport that doubled as a private field for the rich and privileged, Payam was the perfect place to hitch a ride. Lyla got us on an oil company’s private jet to Istanbul, although to be fair, we didn’t need mind control. Every worker in the place was in such a good mood, we probably could have just asked nicely.
The airport was abuzz with the latest news: the Ayatollah had agreed to new elections, he’d allow international oversight to keep everything fair, and he’d placed the reviled Basij under civilian control. Even though we’d escaped the Niavaran deathtrap, the Supreme Leader seemed to be honoring his deal with the CIA and shutting down the prospect of a civil war. Apparently, he didn’t want to join the list of “former” Middle Eastern leaders, now that Lyla had fast-forwarded the Arab Spring to his front door. Wasn’t exactly the American Revolution, but the Iranian people were going to get a taste of democracy, at least. Lyla wasn’t doing cartwheels on the runway, but for her, mildly happy was an acceptable minimum. As for me, “happy” wasn’t even in the ballpark.
The Gulfstream V took almost an hour to fuel and prep. Lyla kept watch over Diego, which gave me plenty of time to wander the tarmac by myself. I needed the solitude, if for no other reason than to come to grips with my near execution. Plus, you can scream all you want in a passing 747’s jet wash, and not one damn person will hear you.
By the time I looped back to the hangar, I still didn’t feel like going inside. I grabbed a spot on a concrete divider with a view of the flashing boundary lights and just . . . sat. Watched the planes come and go. Eventually, I heard footsteps behind me on the asphalt.
My voice stopped them. “How’s Diego?”
“In and out,” Lyla said. “I released him, by the way.”
“Good. Freaked me out, seeing him like that.”
“I didn’t want to do it. We didn’t have any time.”
I had no energy to argue over the merits of being a slave, temporary or otherwise. We both stayed silent for a long moment. Then, Lyla stepped closer.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I didn’t bother turning around. “I’m pretty far from ‘all right.’ But at least I’m done yelling.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
I lifted a hand. “I know. It doesn’t matter now. Tucker was nice enough to inform me our termination was scheduled before your little revolution began.”
“I heard.”
“Looks like the Protectors were a bigger liability than I thought.” I snatched a pebble off the divider and tossed it into the night air. “So much for my critical thinking.”
“The entire mission was an elaborate trap?”
“Not even that elaborate. Send us on a farewell tour, get one more victory out of Aphrodite and her sidekick, then sell us out. Hasta la vista.”
Those words, coming out of my mouth . . . surreal. A few short words that showed just how disposable I was. How stupid. Worthless.
I grabbed a bigger lump of concrete, jumped to my feet, and
really
chucked it.
“I did what they asked! I’ve
always
done what they ask. Sure, I bitch about it . . . but I deliver, goddammit. And what’s my big reward? A hearty ‘up yours, Mr. McAlister’ and death-by-
tank
!”
“So, still a little angry?”
“You better believe I’m fucking angry.” I counted off the “cons” list on my fingers as I recited them. “I’m alone, my own country—my
home
—just tried to have me killed, and now I’m gonna have to run. Maybe forever. Do you have any idea how that feels?”
Took me a good five seconds before I remembered who I was talking to.
“No. I have
no
idea what that feels like,” Lyla finally deadpanned.
I turned and looked at her for the first time. “Shit. Yeah, I guess you do know. It’s . . . horrible.”
“Don’t worry. It gets easier.” She smiled.
Right then, it connected. The way I felt now—practically choking on bitterness and regret—was damn near the worst hour of my life.
And Lyla had felt that way for more than a decade.
Ever since the day her own parents sent her away, to protect their daughter from a homeland that wanted to abuse her, lock her up, or worse. A homeland that killed her mother and father for their trouble.
No
wonder
she couldn’t resist the opportunity to act—to make certain no other sons, daughters, or families would have to suffer like that again. And for me to think I could stop her from trying, by reciting by-the-book arguments about following the
Agency’s
orders? That made me a first-class . . .