Cuff Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “What was the goal?” I piped in. “How would D.O.A. benefit from taking the Sudanese immigrants hostage? Why were the Sudanese of interest to the FBI instead of Immigration?”

  “Classified with the contractor,” Axel said.

  “Hmph. But we’re supposed to figure this all out without pertinent data? Okay, what about the owner of the shed? Do we know that much?” I asked.

  “It belongs to one of the guys in D.O.A. He was in the tunnel with the rest, so he won’t be answering questions,” Axel replied.

  “For sure, he couldn’t have known about the gases, or they wouldn’t try to push us out with flashbang.” Deep said. “Do you think the gas accumulated around the U bend? I wonder why it didn’t kill me and Axel?” Deep picked up a marker and drew two Xs. “We were right about here when we started feeling like we were suffocating.”

  “I think it was a lucky thing for Deep and Axel that the target threw the flashbang to pull them in the wrong direction.” I stood up and walked to the board. “Here are my thoughts. D.O.A. and hostages–I’ll call them the ‘target’—head down the tunnel. They turn to the right, and then go around a switchback and to the right into this chamber.” I put a star on the board. “Axel and Deep had kept straight instead of making the right hand turn. There must have been air flow in this shaft, or it would have exploded with the flashbang.” I drew arrows with different colored pens. “Striker took a hit outside of the tunnel, but thought he was fine. He didn’t realize the bullet pierced his vest. He gets in trouble at the bottom of the ladder. Gater stays with Striker right about here.”

  “Yup, that’s where Striker got dizzy, and we realized he was losing blood,” Gater confirmed.

  I stood back to study the board. “Okay, so by now, the target had moved around the U bend to hide. There must have been an accumulation of gases in this space.” I tapped on my star. “You said they had to step down into the cavity?” I turned to Axel.

  “Titus said it was a three-foot drop, and he had to duck his head in there. He’s six-foot-one, and add another couple inches for the hazmat hood and boots,” he said.

  “Okay. As D.O.A. forces the Sudanese to jump down into this space, the hostages’ movements swirl the air, combining the bad air pooled here at the bottom with the breathable air above. When the hostages sat down, they breathed in the poisonous fumes and would have quickly passed out. D.O.A., seeing them collapse, are caught between the poisonous gas and Strike Force. The only chance of survival would be surrendering. Looks like the D.O.A. collapsed as they came around the U toward breathable air.” I scanned the room and saw heads nodding.

  “With all of this movement by the targets, the bad air seeped out into the rest of the tunnel. Striker and Gater had taken a knee, and got the fumes into their systems. Gater, I imagine your level of fitness kept you from succumbing, and you were able to get Striker up and out.” I had to steady myself with a hand on the board. It was that close. Gater’s determination versus Striker’s death. I cleared my throat and continued. “Axel and Deep start to feel the effects of the gas, but because of their fitness, height, and speed, are able to get out on their own right behind Striker and Gater and just ahead of the D.O.A. members.”

  “That makes sense,” Deep said. “When we felt the gas effects, Axel and I held our breath and sprinted for the ladder.”

  “And of course, we now know that Jack took two bullets outside of the tunnel and Randy provided life support, calling in medevac to God knows whom. Some tango knew exactly what was going on for our team. Their exact movements and locations. And if I’m not mistaken, looks like D.O.A. was set up to take a bad fall.”

  There was nothing that I wanted more in that instant than to be locked in the room with the man or even the men that had the audacity to squeeze the trigger and hurt Striker and Jack. My lips curled back. I felt like a lioness. I wanted to sink razor-sharp incisors into their jugulars and shake my powerful neck, to feel their blood drain from their bodies, knowing they would soon die. The energy I pulled through me felt universal, primal, and extremely dangerous. This energy felt hungry–rabid, even—and now frightening, because it didn’t feel like it originated from me.

  The “buzzing” had started again. Electricity ran from my head down my arms and legs, acidic and bright like a note held by an operatic soprano, a sustained high C with enough volume to shatter glass. I wriggled uncomfortably. Gater and Deep glanced toward me, looking concerned. I didn’t want their concern. I wanted them to rest and recover and figure out what the hell happened, because this still made no sense.

  I paced back and forth in front of the board. “My guess is that an Iniquus team – maybe even us specifically — was the target, not the Sudanese. Or maybe whoever was orchestrating this fiasco needed all three groups out of the picture. They may even have known about the gas, and they were aiming for an efficient kill. That’s especially true if they knew in advance that there was gas down there and instructed D.O.A. to throw flashbang. An explosion would result in no survivors and no bodies. But if that were true, they were measuring air quality back around that U-bend. If the FBI would share, I might be able to puzzle this out. But for now? I’d say we need to watch our backs.”

  A knock sounded at the Puzzle Room door. The team fell silent as I went to see who was there. Leanne gestured me out to the hall. She was pale and nervous. ”Uhm. I have a return message for you.”

  My heart picked up its pace.

  “Mango sorbet, tomorrow morning, eleven hundred,” she said, glancing up and down the hall, then she wiggled her knees like a sprinter getting ready for the lineup to be called.

  I whispered, “Thank you” into her ear and gave her a squeeze. Relief washed over me.

  ***

  I drove an Iniquus pool car across town, past where my apartment building had stood before the fire burned it to the ground. The corner where I grew up had morphed into an office complex. Out of the ashes comes progress, sort of.

  I ticked the left-hand signal down and waited for my turn at the light, checking my watch and drumming nervous fingers on the steering wheel.

  Five minutes down the road, I pulled into a mall parking space, did a quick scan, dragged the bill of my baseball cap lower over my eyes, and moved to the entrance. I wondered if Spyder would be observing me like he did when I was his student, noting where I made mistakes and left myself exposed. I made sure to follow protocol for meeting a contact in public spaces. I went in and out of stores, watching for a tail. I walked with groups so it looked like I belonged and peeled off into the ladies’ room. In the stall, I changed my clothes from my backpack. With a new hat, a new gait, and my backpack stuffed into an oversized hobo bag, I headed to the food court. I scanned, but only half-heartedly. When Spyder wanted me to see him, I’d see him and not a moment before.

  At the counter, I accepted my mango sorbet from the cashier and licked along the edges to smooth the sides and prevent it from dripping. I couldn’t believe the Confucius fortune had worked. Two years. I shook my head and tossed my receipt into the trash. It was that easy. I had simply forgotten how to click my ruby slippers together and transport Spyder home. I bet a psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing the whys and wherefores of that black hole.

  I pretended to window shop, watching the passersby in the reflection on the glass. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a tall man with blue-black skin, long limbs, and graceful movements weave in and out of the crowd. He wore his black fedora pushed forward over his brow, disguising the part of the face that the human eye zones in on as the first point of recognition and description – the forehead and hairline. I watched him head toward the exit, and I followed at a discreet distance out to the parking lot, into the white van with the overly tinted windows, and snapped my safety belt in place.

  “Hello, Lexicon.”

  I stared straight ahead with a grin stretched across my face. “Hi, Spyder. Thank you for coming home.”

  I rode in silence. Easy. Being with Spyd
er was as familiar and as comfortable as lounging around the house in pajamas. Like wrapping up in soft warm blankets on a chilly evening and feeling perfectly content.

  He drove us to the Maryland shore, where we rolled up the cuffs of our pants and pulled off our shoes to walk along the water line. Though it was an almost-hot Indian summer day, and my hoodie kept me plenty warm, the water felt spiky cold. By the time we got to the large rock, our “thinking spot,” I welcomed its radiant heat.

  “I can see from your eyes, Lexicon, that you have forgotten one of the most important lessons I taught you.”

  I quirked my head and waited.

  “You must laugh a deep belly laugh every single day, no matter how the day presents itself. Surely there is one thing in each day that is a source of joy and from which you can balance the darkness with light.”

  In my mind, I became defensive. The last Spyder had heard about my welfare, I had survived the Travis Wilson attacks and was doing fine. If he knew how my life had unfolded over the months since our separation, he would be more patient with me. I lifted my chin a little; the move smacked of belligerence. I worked to take the edge off with a little shake of my head.

  Spyder reached for my hand and looked at me with his steady gaze. “I left my location immediately to return to DC. Spencer and Striker both filled me in on your adventures.”

  Wait. What? “You met with Mr. Spencer and Striker before you let me know you were in town?”

  “Of course, Lexicon. What would a good operative do once they have received an emergency summons?”

  “Obtain intelligence, make a plan, find alternatives, actuate. I could have told you what was going on in my life, Spyder. It feels like you went behind my back and asked people to tattle.”

  He threw his head back and laughed – the laugh I loved. It rolled up from his belly and burst through his mouth with the power of a storm. When I heard his laughter, rich and deep, it reminded me of the title of a favorite childhood novel, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Thunderous — sometimes startling — his laughter cut the air and changed the atmospheric pressure.

  “I’m betting it was you who taught Striker to laugh like that,” I said.

  “Striker and I have been through many a harrowing and life-threatening adventure together. Of course I would offer him my wisdom.” Spyder winked at me.

  “He needs a tutorial,” I said, shielding my eyes from the sun as I scanned over the water.

  “Yes? I always thought he excelled at the art of laughter. His laughs start in his feet and bubbles up through his whole body.”

  “He loses his balance, and he tears up a little. It’s not very macho.” I wrinkled my nose. Spyder rewarded me with another burst of merriment. I settled back on my elbows and watched the gulls sail in circles overhead. Spyder was right, of course. I needed more of this: time spent grounding myself in nature, laughter, balance.

  Spyder seemed content to sit and watch the waves brush white froth onto the pebbly shore. And I knew to wait. Just as the warm sun started to make me feel sleepy, Spyder said, “Striker has asked for the honor of your hand in marriage.”

  “He did?” I still thought of our engagement as private, I was surprised that Striker would share. And a little conflicted that he would ask permission – though that was probably a sign of respect and an acknowledgement of Spyder’s role in my life more than anything else. I sat up, encircling my bent knees with my arms. “That was very traditional of him. What did you say?”

  “That I would like to speak with you first. The path you are now walking is difficult. The challenges are multifold when you consider Striker’s position and yours. Few Iniquus operatives are married, and there are very good reasons.”

  “Such as. . .”

  “Come. Let us walk.”

  I jumped down beside Spyder, and he held out his hand. We moved along the shore. “I have known you your whole life, though my role changed when you turned thirteen. Did you ever wonder why I became your mentor?”

  “No, I just assumed it was because I’m a genius and incredibly well-coordinated, and you like it when I cook for you.”

  “Of course.” Spyder sent me a grin. “You are teasing, but I am not.” The scream of a gull pulled his attention out over the water, and it seemed to me as though Spyder was trying to make a decision. Finally, he continued. “Your father and I used to be partners.”

  “At the garage?”

  “No, Lexicon, your father was in the intelligence field.”

  That stopped me dead in my tracks.

  “He was an excellent operative. One of the best I have ever seen. You get your intellectual and physical aptitudes from him. But you get your creative way of seeing the world from your mother. It is a powerful combination.” Spyder pulled my hand to get me walking again. “When your father met your mother, he fell instantly and decidedly in love with her. They married quickly, and your mother became pregnant with you. They were living in Panama at the time. There, your mother became a target. Your father had to fight to save her life. She was injured, and the doctors weren’t sure that she could or should carry the pregnancy to term. Your mother and father came back to the United States so she could get the best of care. She was placed on bedrest until your delivery; during which time, your father never left her side.”

  “That sounds like Dad.” I smiled and bent to pick up a stone, letting it skip out over the water and sink down beneath the surface.

  “More important to their story is the time they took together to talk and imagine other possibilities for their lives and the ramifications of your father continuing his work as an operative. After your birth, once your father saw and fell in love with you, your parents reconstructed their lives so that they could bring you up safely. Of course, your father still participated in government work. The desire to serve his country and to use his skills for the greater good flowed through his blood stream. But he would do nothing that might bring danger into your mother’s life or yours.” He squeezed my hand. “For many, the decision to marry is a not a difficult one, though certainly not a commitment to be entered into lightly. But few have the burdens that you and Striker have when making this choice.”

  “You think marrying Striker would be a bad idea?”

  “I believe that you have much to discuss and contemplate prior to taking vows. Your lifestyle, as you have very quickly discovered, is not only a burden to you, but to those you love. Imagine, if you will, some of the unique problems that you and Striker could face. Imagine the reasons that your parents needed to reconstruct their lives to keep you safe. Their choices need not be yours. But you should never enter a room blindly.”

  Spyder probably thought, as we walked in silence, that I was contemplating my relationship with Striker, but my mind was stuck on the revelations about Dad.

  “So all those times in the closed bay when I thought he was making your car into the bat mobile. . .”

  “He was helping to work through crime puzzles.”

  Wow. That was a lot to take in. “And that’s why you hung out with him in the garage. You weren’t there to play chess.”

  “No, I was not there for the chess games, though they were a very diverting way to pass the day.”

  “And when you offered to mentor me. . .Dad was okay with me following in his footsteps, even though he knew the dangers?”

  “Your operative’s DNA showed as obviously as the color of your hair or the curve of your nose. Do you remember how you would devour the Nancy Drew books and walk around with rubber gloves on all the time, lest you damage any criminal fingerprints?”

  “Ha! Yes, I have pictures of that.”

  “Then when you showed such dexterity with your sixth sense, your parents became afraid that someone would exploit your talents. In fact, we know the CIA was keeping an eye on you.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Pedigree. Talent. Affinity.”

  “They never approached me, though. So somehow I must have come up lacking.�
��

  “This is not true. You father wished to let you find your own calling so he made a deal that kept them at arm’s length.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “That I do not know.”

  This was a lot to take in. “But my parents let me train with you. They were excited about it. Mom and Dad both encouraged me to take full advantage of my time with you.”

  “This is so, Lexicon. They felt sure you would eventually assume your father’s cloak, and they wanted you to have every advantage. They asked me to train you like my own daughter so that in the field, when faced with true evil, you would have the resources and skills to stay safe. They were protecting you the best they could. You have faced worthy adversaries, and you have prevailed. You are alive, where they are not.”

  “So the unschooling, that was because. . .”

  “You were precocious from the moment you first opened your eyes. They believed that a traditional education would make your thoughts linear and confined. They wanted you to see the world as limitless in its possibilities, and let your talents take root so that your blossom would be its most colorful.”

  I could hear my mom’s voice in his words. “All of those mentors I thought I found by accident weren’t accidental at all, were they?”

  He shook his head. “As the direction of your path became clear, your mother and father placed guideposts along the way. Your mentors were carefully selected and some of them moved to the neighborhood to assist. Of course, you could know none of this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they wished that you always had choices. They wanted you to have tools in your toolbox for anything that showed up in your life. But they assumed the things that would show up in your life would not be the normal problems of the everyday person.”

  “Master Wang and my kung fu lessons? My Kitchen Grandmothers?” My body tightened. I loved Master Wang and my Kitchen Grandmothers; they were the close-knit extended family of my youth. Were they paid to act like they loved me? Was I just a job to them?