Cuff Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Yes, the Tsukamoto. All of his works are out on loan to the Hisako Museum of Modern Art. They’re doing a retrospective.”

  Leanne’s gaze rested on me. I shook my head, trying to get a linear thought progression. Your house is on fire. The words screamed in my head. Perspiration shimmered my skin. Static electricity charged the atmosphere around me, turning it bright. Your family will burn. I looked up to find Leanne eyeing me curiously—maybe even with a little concern.

  “Did Iniquus lend all of their Tsukamoto pieces?”

  “There’s one still here. Did you want to see it?” she asked.

  “Could I?”

  “Yes—well, I’m pretty sure it’s okay. Your clearance is the same as the force commanders, after all.”

  Not understanding, I wrinkled my brow and followed Leanne down the hall into General Elliot’s suite, through the doors, past his reception area, through his office, and to a panel, where Leanne tapped in a code. The wall slid to the side. “You need to be biometrically identified,” she said.

  I stepped forward into a space about the size and shape of a closet.

  “Just open your eyes. Try not to blink, and leave your hands by your sides. This is part two of gaining access.”

  The light in the room flashed green, and a panel slid open. This was weird. I turned back to see what Leanne was doing. Small spaces and I did not get along well together since I’d been held in solitary for five months in the Honduran prison. Panic tightened around my lungs and my heart rate accelerated. The buzzing was distracting and irritating, and seemed to grow stronger the longer I stood there. It actually felt like it was pushing me away from the door and back to Leanne. I fought against the sensation. It didn’t seem to come from my interior warning system; this felt nothing like the heebie-jeebies. So odd. So confusing.

  “Only one person can go into the file room at a time. Sorry, I should have explained that. That’s the reason we can’t lend this piece to the museum. A single person couldn’t possibly get the mobile down by himself, and the room will not allow two people to go in.”

  I didn’t really want to know what would happen if a second person were to step into the space. My mind went to James Bond, and what Q would have come up with to protect General Elliot’s private files – flying darts? Poisonous gas? “I’m going in by myself? Will the door shut? Can I get trapped in there?”

  Leanne explained that part three of entry was a palm scan and after that the door would open and stay open, but a gate would shut and the alarms would sound to notify security if anyone entered the antechamber.

  “So the doors won’t automatically shut?” I asked again just to be sure.

  “The doors can’t shut until you put your hand on the outside panel. That prevents someone from being able to get in and hide for an attack, but your biometric scan already brought you to the attention of security, so in the antechamber you’re being recorded.”

  “I won’t be recorded inside the file room?”

  “No, that would be a security risk.”

  “Okay.” I chuckled for her benefit. “You know, this is like acting in some big spy movie.”

  Leanne laughed in return. “Believe me, I understand. Iniquus is so safe, it’s hard for me to wrap my brain around the need for all of this. But, you now, it’s the nature of the beast. The scanners ready for you; go ahead and step up to the door.”

  I nodded and placed my palm on the scanner. The light blinked green again and the door slid open.

  The very second I walked through the opening, relief washed over me.

  “Oh, Leanne, I love it. It’s glorious.” I said, spreading my arms wide and fixing my gaze on the prisms.

  Leanne stood in the office, watching me with her luminescent smile. “Yes, I love it, too. I wish we still had them around. Hey, are you going to want to hang out there for a few minutes?”

  “Is it okay?”

  “Yes, you can’t get into any of the files unless you enter the key code, so you’re okay. I need to go back to my desk. When you’re done, just come back out and put your palm on the scanner above where you saw me tap in the code. The room will lock itself up. Give me a wave to let me know you’re done, though, okay?”

  “Very cool. Yes, I will. Thanks, Leanne.”

  As soon as she left, I lay on the floor directly under the massive mobile. The buzzing that had vibrated through my nerves earlier seemed to disappear upward. I swear, I felt that weird energy get caught and sucked into the Tsukamoto piece like a bug in a Venus fly trap. And I was free. It was a liberating sensation — to feel that energy, and then have it lifted from my brain. Curious, too.

  I thought about the oddity of this particular piece. It could not be removed. Was that by design? That meant the installers had mounted the mobile prior to the security system’s installation, and that for some reason the security system had been developed in such a way that it couldn’t be bypassed. Well, with General Elliot’s files in here, I could understand that part. And I guess then everything would have to be in place if a one-person rule was established. Still, something about the sequencing seemed off.

  The longer I lay there, the better I felt. Weight I didn’t even know I carried seemed to lift off of me in layers. It was as if I was back at the hospital after my airplane accident. In terrible pain, I’d signal the nurse to shoot meds into my IV, and I could float into bliss. Absolute peace.

  “Lynx?” It was Striker’s voice, but I was too relaxed to respond.

  “Lynx.” His voice came stronger, yet . . .

  “Lynx, open your eyes, now.”

  Okay, that one I couldn’t ignore. I blinked my lids open on his command and turned my head towards the door. Striker stood in General Elliot’s office, his toes all the way up to the entrance of the anteroom, his hands gripping the molding that framed the door as if he wanted to launch himself forward. Leanne hovered behind him, wringing her hands.

  I wrinkled my nose and rubbed my face, coming up to a cross-legged seated position.

  “What are you doing down there?” he asked.

  I got to my feet, a little wobbly, and had to wait for my head to clear. I was careful not to look up at the mobile’s mesmerizing configuration. It was hypnotic, and I still felt a little trance-y.

  I smiled. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Seemed like a quiet place to take a nap.”

  “Come on out of there. Leanne called the medics before she called me. They want to give you a once-over.”

  My blush must have been fire-hydrant red. Leanne called the medics?

  I moved out of the file room into the office and put my hand on the biometric identifier. The light turned off in the file room and the doors slid shut.

  Yup. Sure enough, two medics waited with equipment bags in hand, ready to do their thing. I was glad to see they hadn’t brought up a gurney. Striker put his hand under my arm and directed me to a chair.

  The medics whipped equipment out of their bags and got busy checking my vitals. One of them scratched his head, looking at his buddy.”96.2. Hypothermia?”

  The other one depressed his communicator. “I need a gas monitor. Let’s move her and shut this room off until we can get a reading.” One of them lifted my legs, and the other pushed my wheeled chair out of Elliot’s office and into his reception room. I felt ridiculous. Striker shut the door, while one of the medics opened a reflective emergency blanket and wrapped me up like a burrito.

  “I’m fine,” I argued.

  “Ma’am, your blood pressure is extremely low. So is your oxygenation. These could be signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, which can have lethal consequences. Have you had any head injuries lately?”

  “She has,” Leanne said. “She recently came back to work after being in an accident.”

  He pressed his communications button again. “We’ll need a stretcher for transport.”

  “No. No, thank you. I’m fine. I lay down to look at the mobile from underneath and fell asleep. I appreciate your conce
rn, though.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t seem to understand that you might be experiencing —“

  “Brain hypoxia. I’m a volunteer EMT – I know the numbers look bad. But I’m fine. I promise.”

  “Ma’am, company policy states –”

  Striker said, “She doesn’t fall under the normal Iniquus protocol, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll run her over to the hospital and this episode stays in this room. Got it?”

  “Sir,” the medics said in unison as they gathered their things.

  Striker ushered me to his car. He insisted I stay wrapped in my silver blanket, and he wouldn’t listen to reason. “I’m fine, Striker. Please just let me go back to the apartment and lie down.”

  “You need Dr. Jasper to check you out.”

  “Why? I just saw him. He just checked me out.”

  “Because, Lexi, you were supposed to protect your head. And instead you went behind the Veil and got punched a few times, and now you’re showing signs of brain trauma.”

  “I was meditating.”

  “You were passed out on the floor in the file room.”

  “I fell asleep.”

  The look he sent me made me shrink in my seat. I wasn’t going to win this one. Maybe I shouldn’t anyway. A good once-over would reassure Striker . . .and me, too.

  Striker had thrown up his walls, moved his barricades into place. From his rigid features, I knew there was a battle raging in his mind. I wish he’d let me be part of his thought process. But I also knew this was how Striker operated. He had to shave down the different sides until he had a shape and form that he could live with, then I’d hear his conclusions. I needed to sit tight and wait. It was a very quiet ride.

  By the time I got to the hospital, my vitals had returned to normal. No buzzing. No fatigue. Only a high degree of wariness. Striker seemed off in a way I had never experienced before. I wondered if this had anything to do with the headache I could see throbbing at his temples.

  Jasper gave me the once-over and shook his head. “It’s like being a prize fighter, getting smashed in the head again and again. It’s their job. They know the dangers of the sport. Sometimes they move on from a TKO just fine. It doesn’t mean that the long-term and even the short-term outcomes can’t be bleak.”

  Dr. Jasper decided my situation was stable. “Go home and get some rest. Consider wearing a motorcycle helmet whenever you go out.”

  I laughed.

  “You think I’m kidding?” He shook his head, muttering and let the door close behind him.

  Striker rubbed his fingers up and down my back. “Come on.” He took my hand, and we headed back to the Hummer. When we had strapped ourselves in, Striker gripped the steering wheel. “I hate this. I hate not knowing what you’re up to. I hate not knowing who you’re partnered with. Not knowing why you’re back on a case that somehow includes my sister. Or who is after my sister and why. Not knowing if you’re safe.” He swiveled and looked at me. “I hate that you went behind the Veil and got beaten. And I’m so damned proud of your bravery, and your compassion—your willingness to risk so much for me and my family. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I want to shake you and beg you to stop.” A breath escaped his lungs in one big exhale. “I’m riding a rollercoaster.”

  He leaned his head back into the headrest. After a long minute, he said, “I’m scheduled to go out of town.”

  “With Vine?”

  His lips tightened.

  “Projected return?”

  “Three days out.”

  “I trust you. Do you trust you?” I asked.

  His lips curled into the shadow of a sneer. “Really?” he asked. “That’s where your mind went?”

  “Where did your mind go?”

  “I don’t want to leave. Iniquus is getting sucker-punched, and we’re reeling. You’re getting smacked around —”

  “And you feel like the dad – as long as you’re on hand, you know that everything that possibly could be done is being done to save the baby.”

  “That’s right, except there is no baby in this scenario, especially if you’re referring to yourself. You are more than capable. I am going to marry you and love you for the rest of my life. I know there are no guarantees but, damn it, Chica, I want you whole and happy. I’ll push you around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from your chin if that’s what’s required, but I so much prefer that you’re healthy. And I know for sure right now you are not happy.”

  Nineteen

  The next morning, I helped Striker pack. Putting his things in his bag for him made me feel a little like a dog marking its territory. I left my scent on his clothes to warn the other dogs to keep moseying along. This tree was mine.

  Striker seemed charmed by the domesticity of the process. We both carefully steered our conversation to lighter subjects. We were relaxed together. Being with Striker could be as normal and easy as an inhale followed by an exhale. I wanted to feel this way all the time.

  Before he took off, we lay on the bed. Striker hugged me to his chest, playing with my hair. “I know you’re feeling guilty about not telling me anything about the case you’re working on, especially since it somehow caught up with Lynda.”

  I froze, wondering where this conversation might be going.

  “You shouldn’t,” he said. “There are very good reasons for maintaining information in as tight a circle as possible. It’s what we have to do. If I wore your shoes, I would have walked the exact same line you walked.”

  I nodded. He understood. It still sucked not being able to tell him things I thought he should know – had every right to know. “You’re letting me off the hook, but lies of omission were a major breech at my house growing up.” Memories of standing in the corner for long lengths of time and losing privileges in ways that seemed to far outweigh my slight offense came back to me. “I guess being off on my own as an unschooler, Mom and Dad needed me to tell them everything of importance—even things that I thought were inconsequential, people I had bumped into throughout the day. . . Huh. That makes so much more sense now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When I was having that ice cream with Spyder, he told me when my dad was alive, he was an operative.”

  Striker smiled with a slight nod. He had known.

  “Did you work with my dad?” I pushed my weight into my elbow so we were face to face.

  “That was a bit before my time. And to be honest, I’m guessing he is who I think he is based on your connection with Spyder. Some of the stories you told from before your dad’s death—I also had a hand in those cases, only later down the road. And it was pretty unusual for you to show up on the scene all Lara Croft at your age. Usually CIA waits until their operatives have finished their college degrees before they get trained. So I figured your dad and his friends handled a lot of your education.”

  “You said CIA?”

  “Different alphabets use different tactics. Yours, while eclectic, have a definite CIA flavor. When you were in the safehouse, I wondered how you got tapped so young.”

  “I wasn’t tapped at all. I’ve only played on Spyder’s team, and now Iniquus’s. So dad was CIA?”

  “Speculation. Spyder didn’t fill in the blanks?”

  “He blew a few of my paradigms, and I was pretty stunned from the concussion of the shock wave. I wasn’t in a good place to ask him the right questions. I will later. See what he’s able to share.”

  I laid my head back down and circled my finger on his chest. “Back on subject, I never got punished so severely as I was when I gave information around a subject instead of telling the whole story. Lies of omission come with a railroad car of personal baggage for me. Guilt doesn’t even touch on it. In my family, it was the worst sin I could commit.”

  “I don’t know how to help you get over that.” Striker kissed me. “I don’t have an issue with the protocol, though. I may be frustrated when I’m in the dark, but it isn’t the same.”

  I’d have to t
hink that nuance through. Maybe the distinction Striker pointed out could make a difference for me. I guess if I applied that logic to whenever Striker was on a case with Vine, it might make me feel better. I understood the need for secrecy and the need to go. I just didn’t like that I couldn’t chaperone, and make sure Vine played by the rules.

  I nodded against his chest. I was going to miss him. I turned my face and kissed his neck. “Hey, are you taking any of the team with you?”

  “Axel’s my eyes and ears. The rest are working the Brody case. If you had a spare minute, I’d appreciate you taking a glance at the data. Whoever took Brody is a highly skilled player. Left nothing in the way of evidence, and thwarted all of the hospital’s security systems.”

  “Since the rest of the team is on hand, can I borrow Deep?”

  “Are you going into the field?”

  “I doubt it. I have some computer searches to make, and I could use his expertise. I promise not to break him. On purpose, anyway.”

  ***

  “Okay, Lynx, I’m ready. Where are we starting with the Lacey Stuart information?” Deep clapped his hands together then rubbed back and forth like a street fighter ready for the jump.

  I pulled the loan agreement for the Tsukamoto art between Bartholomew Winslow and Iniquus from my stack of photographs. I found a page with Colonel Grant’s signature. “I’m going to read through this contract. Can you authenticate Colonel Grant’s signature for me?”

  Deep reached for the page, and scanned it into the computer system, tapping in his security codes and chewing on his upper lip.

  “Okay, the signature. There are some anomalies. The software is giving this an 72% chance of being Colonel Grant’s. Now, this isn’t as good as using a handwriting expert, but it gives you a ballpark estimate.”

  I nodded and pulled out my phone. “Leanne? Hey, it’s Lexi.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been praying for you. Are you in the hospital?”