Cuff Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “No, they were fortunate moments of serendipity – and no, not Chablis, either. She was your own doing.” Spyder chuckled.

  I blushed hotly. Yeah, it would be farfetched for me to think Mom found a hooker to teach me (in theory) about the birds and the bees. Of course, given the information Spyder was handing me, I also wouldn’t put it past Mom. I mean, she didn’t blink an eye when I told her what I was doing.

  “Miriam Laugherty had been selected early on for your training.”

  “I thought –”

  “There could never be a time when you thought anything other than the illusion that your parents constructed for you. Everything was to seem as if you lived a normal yet charmed life. And that you happened to have developed an interesting array of skills along the way.”

  I shook my head at the enormity of their subterfuge. “That must have cost them a fortune.”

  “Your training was paid for by the money earned at your father’s special job. Other than that, your family lived on the salary that he made with his cover job. It supplied the lifestyle your parents wished to lead. They were very happy with their decisions. You must understand that.”

  Memories sifted through my mind, a different color painted the images, which I had trusted, with my new understanding. With the spotlight turned on, it all made so much sense to me. It was almost like when I read a well-written mystery novel, the seeds of truth sewn throughout the plotline, and now that I was coming to the end of that particular chapter, when the truth was revealed, I wasn’t really surprised. Honestly, I should have put it together right from the beginning. “The willing suspension of disbelief — my mind believed what it wanted to and didn’t seek other options because I liked my life.” I slid my hand into Spyder’s. “Thank you for telling me. And thank you for coming home.”

  “You never called me to you before.”

  “No, I. . . I’m not even sure why I called you now.”

  “You must sense something devastating on the horizon. And I agree.”

  I have only ever seen a peaceful or joyful looks on Spyder’s face. The hard edged determination I saw there now made my heart skip a beat with foreboding.

  “It is time, Lexicon, for us to put a stop to it.”

  Seven

  A click of the door and the heavy tread of booted feet in the corridor, trying to walk softly, woke me. I glanced at the clock. It was six-thirty in the morning. Thursday. Three days after our FUBAR mission.

  Striker went into the bathroom first, then came into his bedroom and slid under the covers. Naked. I sat up in the dim light that filtered through his curtains. I put my hands on him – all of him. I touched every inch of his skin. I made him turn over so I could trace the outlines of his bandages. So I could kiss his burns. Tears dripped from my eyes, landing on his body, and I rubbed them in like salve, wishing I could wash away the purple and green bruises.

  I still found words impossible. I haven’t been able to utter one syllable to him since this all happened. Striker had been quiet in return – like a spell. Striker turned, scooped his arm under my knees, and laid me out on the bed.

  His lips brushed over mine. Feather light. Warm. “I love you,” he breathed into my ear. His lips trailed over my cheeks to the other ear. “You are so beautiful.” He moved to lay his body over mine. My legs bent and shifted to accommodate him. His weight rested on his elbows. He stared down at me. “You have no idea. You couldn’t possibly have any idea.” He shook his head.

  He looked like a lost boy. I reached up and stroked his silky hair, and ran my thumb over his lids when he closed his moss green eyes. Today, there were no laughing golden flecks; his irises were shadowed and dark.

  “When we were in the cave, you were my oxygen.” He took my hand and kissed my pulse point, then lay my hand against his cheek, and held it there. “The gas couldn’t affect me. I pictured you, and I could breathe.” He bent and whispered a kiss over my lips and pushed back onto his heels. Slowly, he worked my nightgown up my body and over my head, tossing it to the side. He gazed down at me, brushing my skin with his calloused palms. “So beautiful. So insanely beautiful.” His lips were on my neck and breasts. He took a deep breath and laid his cheek against my belly. “Sometimes I feel like we spend all of our lives fighting to be together. You told me that I rode out of an Arthurian legend – that’s exactly how it feels. Like the dragons keep snatching us apart. And I won’t let them, Lexi.” He planted his hands on either side of me and pushed up to lock his eyes on mine. “I will never ever let them win. We belong to each other, goddamn it.” The ferocity of his voice was conviction itself.

  My lips parted as I panted for air. Striker lowered his forehead to mine. “You are my everything, my raspberry girl. You are my springtime. You are hope and strength. You hold my soul in your hands,” he whispered against my cheek. God. His sincerity was so powerful that I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and rolled my lips in to brace against the pain I felt at my near-loss.

  Just as I had needed to touch every inch of his body to reassure myself, Striker seemed to need the same. But he used his lips and tongue along with his fingertips. When he slid into me, filling and stretching me, it pushed my suppressed fears to the surface. Still, I couldn’t speak. Tears dripped down my cheeks. Striker caught each one with his fingers and tongue as he rocked slowly in and out of me. Gently he moved, until my body gave itself over to the sensations and all I felt was love, and lust, and the perfection of us being together.

  “I wish you had called me when they decided to release you from the hospital,” I said, resting my cheek on his chest, and drawing circles through the scattering of hair. We had fallen asleep tangled together and my joints demanded I move, even though I didn’t want to.

  “You’re talking to me again?”

  I peeked up to find Striker smiling at me. That smile told me everything was okay, that he understood me and loved me. I kissed his chest, then lay back down.

  He combed his fingers through my hair. “I wanted to find you in my bed. This turned out exactly as I planned.”

  I rolled over and lifted onto my elbow. “At least sometimes plans work out.”

  His face changed subtly, hardening into his soldier veneer. “I’ve been thinking about what you said back in planning. Two things, actually. The first one you said in my office after you looked like you were going to pass out on the floor, and I had to drag you in there. You were having one of your knowings, and said, ‘We’re under attack.’ Then later in the Puzzle Room, you were antsy and fidgety. We were finalizing the plans and you said, ‘We’re missing something. Something in this report is flat-out wrong. But I can’t pin it down.’ Do you remember that?”

  Fair question. Since my favorite pastime seemed to be cracking my skull open, sometimes my memory faded in and out. But this I remembered clearly. I nodded.

  “Let’s extrapolate this out. Your psychic knowing was about a crime and Iniquus. You intellectually knew that there was something wrong with our planning. Do you think they are connected?”

  I let the thought churn around for a minute. Did I?

  Before I could reach a conclusion, Striker sat up. “Lexi, something is happening at Iniquus. It’s bad.”

  My eyes widened, and I shifted onto my knees. “How bad?” I whispered, resting my hands on his thighs.

  “Missions keep going berserk. Our clients are losing confidence in us. The caseloads are seriously down. Spencer all but begged for this contract with the FBI. Told them he was sending in Strike Force, and you were back on the team. It was Michaels who decided to sign the contract.”

  “The one that gave me the commendation for catching the Dirt Boys in the act the day of the bank robbery?”

  Striker nodded. “He’s the one. Spencer was calling in the chip that he owed us. Owed you.”

  “But if we’re not getting any more contracts. . .” I let my eyes rest on the crease between the ceiling and the wall – my thinking spot. And my thought was - no contracts? No money.
No money meant bankruptcy. The end of Iniquus. How could Iniquus have fallen into such dire circumstances? This was unfathomable. When I looked back over to Striker, I saw him waiting for me to reach those exact conclusions.

  “They’ve already furloughed most of our Middle Eastern teams and one out of Africa. They’re pruning down the workforce here as best they can. Grant and Spencer were depending on a stellar outcome with the D.O.A. mission.” He shook his head. “I’ve had missions fail before—it happens—but not this spectacularly, and not outside of war zones. I’m not sure how they kept it out of the news. It’s a damned good thing that they did, though.”

  That was the second time today Striker cussed. It was jarring. He never used swear words. “Because Iniquus might have dragged down the FBI’s reputation along with our own? The Bureau certainly doesn’t need another Waco or Ruby Ridge.”

  “Roger that,” he said.

  Iniquus was like the Avengers to me. Unconquerable. Mighty warriors with good on their side, overcoming evil. “Have you talked this over with Spyder?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “He came by the hospital. We weren’t in a secure room, so we didn’t discuss anything mission-related. I don’t know what he knows. He said he had a tiny window to check in before his next mission began.” Concern flickered in Striker’s eyes. “He said he was going to find you. You saw him, didn’t you?”

  He lied to Striker. No, wait. None of those words were lies. He merely offered words that Striker would interpret in a way convenient to Spyder. So Striker didn’t know Spyder had set up shop just eight miles down the street. “We had an ice cream and took a walk.”

  Striker gave me the gentle smile he used when he was charmed. Spyder and I having a walk and an ice cream did seem like a Norman Rockwell moment, and nothing like heading to the shore where no one could overhear us as he told me Dad was an operative, and that I had picked up the spook gene when my very first X chromosomes zipped themselves together.

  Striker lay back down. He was naked, and it was sidetracking me. I reached over and pulled the sheet across him. “So nothing from Spyder’s end. Tell me, when did this start at Iniquus?”

  “I was distracted, Chica. Strike Force’s mission was to find you.” He reached up and spun a piece of my hair around his finger. “Command asked little of us other than that. General Elliot went on vacation with his wife and got sick.”

  “I haven’t seen him since before I was kidnapped.”

  “He’s on medical leave. He’s been out for a while now, since right after Miriam Laugherty started working with our team to try to find you psychically.”

  “Is he in the hospital?”

  “No, he’s in a private clinic called Gildencrest in Bethesda.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” My brows pulled tightly together. General Elliot was our Papa Bear. He had conceived of Iniquus and shaped it into being. I couldn’t imagine an Iniquus without General Elliot at the helm. I couldn’t imagine the US without Iniquus fighting against the bad guys, either.

  “No one knows. Mrs. Eliott says the doctors can’t explain what’s going on. He’s in what they call a semi-comatose or stuperous state.”

  “So not on a ventilator, just not really conscious. Can he open his eyes? Does he try to speak?” I shifted around so I could see Striker’s face. I draped my legs over his stomach, and he reflexively massaged my calves.

  “Mrs. Elliot says sometimes she can get him to come around a little, but it’s not for long, and he’s just squeezed her hand to answer her questions about pain levels and comfort.”

  “Is Mrs. Elliot okay with visitors?”

  “She seems to appreciate it when we stop by.”

  “Good, then I’ll do that today.” I plumped a pillow under my head. “Changing directions. Iniquus has a new Secret Service contract. You’re heading into the field with Vine.”

  Striker was blank-faced. Hmmm Classified.

  “So why would Secret Service sign a new contract if Iniquus is experiencing a high fail rate?” I asked.

  Still nothing from Striker.

  “The only reason I can figure is that Vine insisted on working the case with you. She must have a lot of pull. Does Command know about your relationship with Vine?”

  “Yes, they do. Command decided Vine and me already knowing each other made assuming our undercover roles quicker and more believable.”

  My expression turned decidedly sour. Yeah, I just bet it was Command’s decision.

  “They don’t know we’re engaged, Lynx. For right now I think it’s better that way, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” No one, outside of Strike Force and Command, knew about Striker’s and my relationship, and no one knew we had decided to get married. Well, Spyder knew now. I wasn’t sure why we kept it a secret from everyone. We never discussed keeping things to ourselves – our feelings just seemed precious, and personal, and not available for public consumption. Our dedication to each other was ours and ours alone.

  “How long will this mission continue?” I asked.

  “Unknown.”

  Okay, so he won’t talk mission – let’s try personal. “How long has it been since you two were in a romantic relationship?”

  “Romantic? I wouldn’t label it that way. We dated. That ended a long time ago.” Striker’s voice sounded cautious. “Almost a year before I knew you.”

  “Who ended it?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  Well, this conversation was getting me nowhere fast. Fine. I’d have to take it one step at a time. “Why did you end it?” It seemed cheap, and nosey, and probably a little juvenile, but I knew if I had at least the basics, I’d feel more comfortable. My gaze drifted toward the window and the autumn-colored trees in the distance. I could still see Striker in my peripheral view as he scratched his thumb over his chin, weighing his words.

  “Continuing to date Vine would have been leading her on. Chica, look at me.” His finger brushed my cheek. “I love you. You are the only woman I have ever said that to because you are the only woman I have ever come close to feeling this way about. And certainly the only woman I could imagine loving for the rest of my life. Please understand that.”

  I nodded my acceptance. “When I saw Vine at the hospital she felt to me like your ex, Felicia, did when we were down in Miami visiting your niece. Like she’s still claiming you as hers. You need to be aware of that going in to the mission. It could shift her perceptions, and her decision making. That could be dangerous.”

  “You love me. And we do mission work together.”

  Wasn’t that and interesting turn of phrase? So he knew this woman was in love with him. “And you don’t think that my feelings for you change our work?”

  “I hope they don’t. If they do, we need to talk about it.”

  “No. We don’t.” Just then the alarm clock chimed. Striker reached out and tapped the button to silence it. I stood and moved toward his closet, re-emerging with a pair of slacks and a blouse.

  “What are you working on?” Striker asked.

  “Right now I’m going to see Dr. Jasper. After lunch, I have a meeting.”

  Striker climbed out of bed and moved toward me. So damned distracting. I wish he’d pull some clothes on – or I’d end up cancelling my appointment.

  “Is this a routine follow up?” he asked with his hand on the dresser as I pulled out a pair of panties and a bra.

  “I wanted to talk to him about some new sensations I’ve been experiencing.” I tried to sound nonchalant as I moved toward the bathroom for my shower.

  Striker followed behind. “What new sensations?”

  “Oh, you know. . .it’s hard to describe. My electrical circuitry is buzzing.” I stopped at the door so he wouldn’t follow me in. I didn’t have enough time to shower with Striker this morning. When I turned to him, I saw concern tighten the muscles under his eyes. “We’ll talk about it tonight.” I stood on my tiptoes, stretching up to plant a kiss on his lips. Striker didn’t look too ha
ppy when I closed the bathroom door.

  I was glad he didn’t ask me about my meeting this afternoon.

  Eight

  With boxed lunches from Lemon Grass Thai Cuisine, I pushed my way through the industrial gray door and into Spyder’s off-campus apartment. I wanted him to explain his situation. Why didn’t he work out of the Iniquus Headquarters? And why did he insist that no one beyond Mr. Spencer and me know he was in town?

  I found Spyder sitting in meditation in front of a beautiful orchid, amid a swirl of incense smoke. I locked the door quietly and set the bags on the tabletop.

  Without opening his eyes, Spyder called to me. “Lexicon, it is good that you are here. Did you take time this morning to center yourself?” He pointed to the deep violet cushion that nestled beneath his makeshift altar.

  “No sir,” I said, moving to retrieve it and positioning myself next to him, folding my legs into lotus position.

  “You have been taught this lesson by many of your mentors — Master Wang and your martial arts, Biji and your yoga, and myself, certainly. It is the same admonishment that they offer on all flights. ‘If you are travelling with someone who requires assistance, secure your oxygen mask first, and then give aid to the other person.’ If you are to help others find their equilibrium, then first you must stabilize your body and mind.” With that, he returned to his meditative state, and I followed his lead.

  As always, when I meditated next to Spyder, I descended into a deep state of relaxation where full breaths weren’t necessary, and I lost the boundary between my body and the atmosphere. I chanted a mantra that Master Wang taught me from the Buddhist tradition, Om ah ra pa tsa na dhi but soon even that trickled away, and I was left floating in nothingness. After some time, I heard the strike of a bell calling an end to the meditation.