Cuff Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Sixty-five percent gives a better shot than nothing at all.”

  “Unless we make a decision based on the 35% that may be wrong information, and Striker pays the price.”

  Jack clenched his jaw.

  “Lynx, I’ve scanned through all of the influencing sessions on Striker. I’m only seeing where Vine is trying to convince him he loves her – like a love potion kind of thing.”

  “Indigo’s logs are the same. Negative thoughts about you, loving thoughts about her. We don’t have anything from the work she’s done since Striker’s been drugged. I can’t see how she’d change much,” Blaze said.

  “And Indigo was sick as a dog, and had the breach of his penthouse to contend with, so Striker and wild new seeds were probably not high on his list.” I offered up a plastic smile. “Well, we’ll see when Striker wakes up if he likes me anymore.” Whole and healthy were the things that mattered. Sane and capable. His loving me lay much farther down the list.

  “We only have a short time frame to get an extraction plan together and get ourselves in place. We need a location that Vine won’t be able to remotely view. Let me explain doorknobbing to you. Hmmm. Let me start by saying that this is not a perfect solution because Vine can simply project her mind forward to a time that informs her about the outcomes. Truly, if she is good at this, and she tasks the right question with her remote viewing session, all of this can go very badly. This is a formidable enemy."

  Forty-Three

  Dad – Reservations made for Maryland State Park private site on bay name of Matt Huff. Prepaid. Should be beautiful – romantic.

  Dad – Plan to stay there 2-3 days. I’m bringing food/supplies.

  Cat – Great.

  Cat - GPS says an hour twelve minutes.

  Dad – Did he wake up?

  Cat – He’s awake but groggy, cooperative. He’s restrained.

  Dad – Good. What does everyone want for the campfire?

  Cat – They say steaks and beer. I want shrimp, plz.

  “Pings are still headed east, about thirty minutes out of DC,” Deep said.

  “That’s about right. The park is about forty minutes beyond that for them,” Jack said.

  The guys had changed out of their uniforms and into jeans and flannel hunting shirts. This was a rogue operation. We weren’t functioning as Iniquus operatives. We didn’t have warrants – couldn’t get them, either. The judges were jammed with requests put in from the data release fallout. And too, we really didn’t know whom we could trust. Spyder had a judge he said was golden. But Spyder wasn’t answering his phone.

  This was pushing hard against the limits of the law. Okay, we were stretching a toe well over the line. But we couldn’t see another way around this. So we’d try to stay within the Maryland law and hope for the best. Every single one of us was willing to go to jail to save Striker, but, honestly, we’d rather not.

  Jack set up our campsite at the top of the road. It was the only way in or out of this finger of land. Jack served as eyes and ears, which pissed him off, but he hadn’t recovered yet from the last gun fight, so he’d been sitting on the bench for this one We chose this site because several big battles were fought out here both in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars—it should create enough energetic havoc that our efforts would be covered, just like on General Coleridge’s land.

  Gater and Blaze, our best snipers, lay in the weeds in their ghillie suits on the high ground above the campsite reserved in Matt Huff’s name.

  Deep, swathed in his ghillie suit, hid in the evergreens, a silencer screwed into his Glock. I shadow walked along the tree line.

  We would use no comms—strict radio silence. We would break squelch to signal, and nothing more. In came the signal, right on time—the rasp of the radio must mean Jack saw the camper driving in.

  Exactly as planned, Vine’s RV pulled onto the pad. For several long moments, nothing happened as the engine went quiet—the Omega team was probably observing the area. Finally, the door opened. The operatives descended cautiously, guns in hand. Eyes scanning.

  I worked on projecting the rough browns and greys of the bark in front of me, protecting my presence from their view.

  Keep your guns in your hands. I sent my own thought seeds out into the wind. The Omega team had to be armed when we took them down—it was the best way to keep the law on our side.

  The Omega team stooped to check for tracks, then stood, their eyes searching above them in the limbs of the trees. If they were seasoned soldiers, then they should be able to sense our trap. And it seemed they did sense something. They were nervous, checking in with each other, staying in crouched positions, their guns hugged to their chests, ready to thrust out and squeeze their triggers. Their circle grew wider as they searched for the threat.

  “Hang tight for a second,” one of them called toward the camper door.

  And there she was. Barefooted. Dressed in black yoga pants and a turtleneck, Vine moved down the stairs with her mouth painted bright red, bearing a smile of victory.

  The guy waved her back, and she moved to the bottom-most stair.

  Jack should be making the requisite 911 calls from each of our phones by now. The ones required by Maryland law before we could pull a trigger to protect ourselves.

  Knowing these men would probably be wearing body armor, Blaze and Gater aimed at the spot between the men’s eyes that would stop the brain stem completely on impact and plunge them straight down to form lumps on the ground, like so much dirty laundry.

  As the subtle crack of rifles with sound suppressors sent the birds winging noisily into the air, Deep took his shot at the man in front of the camper. Three men dropped dead.

  I ran full out for the door towards the gaping Vine. That’s the joy of shock—unless you’ve had a hell of a lot of experience with it, it freezes you like a statue. I had seven seconds to make my sprint. I didn’t make it in time.

  Vine whipped out her gun and shot wide. The bullet ricocheted off the door frame and pinged back into the camper.

  “Are you crazy? Drop your weapon,” I ordered, hoping to forestall her next shot.

  Her gun fired and the bullet whizzed over my ducked head and out the door. I barreled into her, jamming my head into her gut and thrusting her backward with my momentum.

  She pulled her leg in to thrust-kick me away, but I spun in place, and her foot kicked the counter instead. She screamed.

  I was desperate to see Striker and make sure he was okay. But right now, my full focus needed to stay in the fight. She threw elbows, and I blocked them. I heard Gater’s yell. Vine glanced up and kicked a button by the door, as my fist crushed her nose with a sickening crunch. The door immediately shut and a metal mechanism slid into place. She’d locked us in.

  She grabbed hold of my hair and yanked as I ground her toes with the heel of my boot and wrapped her arm to trap and snap it. There was little room for a fight. Barely any room for our feet. No space for a takedown throw. Even chambering a punch meant knocking elbows into the fixed furnishings of the camper. I palm-fisted her chin, knocking her head into one of the cabinets that loomed in at us from the sides.

  Sirens sounded from up the road–the park rangers had gotten here fast. Faster than we’d accounted for.

  They can’t arrest her, was the thought I had pinned in the front of my brain. But she was fighting without a weapon. I wasn’t in fear of my life. If I killed her, then it was murder, pure and simple. We had all agreed—if nothing else came of this, Scarlet Vine had to be neutralized. If she was in prison, America wouldn’t be safe. But we also assumed she’d have a weapon in her hand, and I would have every legal right to protect myself and Striker. Now all I could do was subdue her for arrest.

  Vine grabbed canned goods from the counter with her one functional arm and slung them at my face. I grabbed up a cushion to block them and push her back farther and farther in the camper. Back to where Striker had his hands cuffed over his head. I wouldn’t look at him.

 
Bare-handed, I worked to wear her down. A broken nose. Swollen eyes. Knee kicks to the diaphragm. She had backed herself into a corner, trying to reach the door to the bedroom in the back and respite.

  The sirens wailed outside of the camper. Over Vine’s screams, I could hear the park rangers demand that we come out with our hands up.

  I was done. I needed to end this before she somehow got lucky with a blow to my head. I jumped as high as the ceiling would allow, landing the solidity of my forearm on her carotid artery, dragging the weight of my bones across her neck as my feet hit the ground. I squatted to hold the pressure for an extra nanosecond.

  Vine sagged toward the floor.

  I watched as she used the move to lift the leg of her yoga pants and pull a Sig from her ankle holster.

  Relief swept over me as I swung behind her, crossed a hand to her shoulder, and grabbed her chin. With every drop of energy in my body, I pulled in opposition, snapping her neck like a dry stick for the campfire. Her lifeless body slid to the floor.

  ***

  I lay on the hospital bed with Striker. He was so handsome now that his face had lost the slack look of sedation and his eyes no longer held the glazed-over opiate haze. The doctor said Striker hadn’t suffered any ill effects from Vine’s drugs, and we were waiting for his release papers.

  “So, ‘Hiking Heroine who Helps Hidden Hunk’. . .”

  I smiled a thin-lipped smile and shook my head. “I’m glad the news stations are busy with the data release, or this could be a real problem. Surely the police realize it was an operation.”

  “Absolutely.” He guided my head back down to his shoulder and stroked my hair. “And Iniquus has helped them enough times that they’d turn their heads. But it was smart the way the team played it. You did them the courtesy of seeming to jump through their requisite hoops.”

  I scooted down until my ear rested on his chest. “Are there any other crazy exes I need to prepare myself for?” I asked.

  He laced my fingers with his and pulled my hand to his lips for a kiss. “I hope not.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Spyder and General Elliot walked in together. I pushed to sit up, but the general waved me back into Striker’s arms.

  “You, young lady, are a miracle,” the general said, pointing his finger.

  I blushed hotly.

  “As I lay there, fully able to think and reason but unable to move, I thought, ‘Lynx is my only hope.’ As a matter of fact, I had a lucid dream a couple of weeks back—I was crawling toward you and calling your name, and you answered me. You said you’d figure it out and make this stop. And that’s the first time I had hope.” He put his hand on my foot and waggled it the way my dad used to do when I was a child.

  “I’m so glad to see you’re okay, sir.”

  “You saved me. Saved your commander–and I’m guessing, from the position you’re lying in, your something more.”

  Striker held up my hand, where my engagement ring shone.

  “Ah, wonderful. I am truly happy for both of you.” He turned to slap Spyder on the shoulder and gave him a nod that Spyder returned–some thought of significance passing between them.

  “Welcome home from your adventure,” Spyder said to Striker.

  “I hear you’re a divine hero now,” Striker said. “And you’ve retired the ‘Spyder’ call sign. Lynx says your new name is Hercules?”

  Spyder threw back his head and laughed his whole hearted laugh. As he sobered he said, “Sadly, evil is like a leopard gecko. You can cut off its tail, but very quickly it will regenerate. The job will not be accomplished as long as man walks the Earth.”

  “So why call this Hydra?” I asked, bending my arm so I could post my head and gain a better view.

  “Perhaps I am just growing soft in my old age, wishing that evil could indeed be cuffed and removed from society,” Spyder replied. “Oh, now don’t get sad-eyed, Lexicon. I am here to answer the question Striker posed the last time I saw him in the hospital.” He came closer and laid a hand on Striker’s shoulder. “You have long lived in my heart, Striker, and I could have no greater joy than to call you son, as I call Lexi daughter. I wish you both every happiness.”

  Striker and I smiled at each other. I wished us both every happiness, too. I was bending to kiss Striker’s lips when General Elliot’s aide moved into the room and whispered in his ear. The general’s face clouded, and he was no longer the benevolent grandfather. He was back to his rough and ready warrior stance.

  General Elliot pointed his finger between us. “On your feet as soon as possible. I need you,” he barked, then raised his eyebrows to Spyder, and they left together.

  I turned my gaze back on Striker. “It’s nice to be needed. . . I guess.”

  “I’ll show you all about being needed.” He pulled me into a wonderful kiss—the kind that said I’ll be kissing you this way for the rest of our lives.

  Of course, with the lives we’ve chosen, now was all we had. We couldn’t possibly have guessed what tomorrow was bringing.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed CUFF LYNX, I’d love for you to leave a positive review – just a few words means so much. You can click HERE to leave a review on Amazon.

  I invite you to visit my author page to read about my other books, too.

  Coming 2016

  THE STRIKE FORCE SERIES

  Starting with Book One,

  In Too Deep

  Now that we’ve met Deep Del Toro and Lacey Stuart, don’t you think they should have their own adventure? A romantic mystery

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  Acknowledgements

  My great appreciation ~

  To Allan Leverone—you are so good to me, thank you for your kindnesses. Though my friend Allan lent my evil doer his name, Indigo is antithetical to the real Allan Leverone.

  To Stephen Templin for his wonderful support.

  To my editor Lindsay Smith

  To my early readers, who were honest and supportive at the same time: R. Soper, A. Matheson, J. Scaparroti, M. Carlon, E. Gates, J. Skutelsky, C. Miller.

  To all of the wonderful professionals whom I called on to get things right especially: Angel Fraguada, J. Critser, Dr. M. Carlon, E. Gates, S. Templin, W. Whittom, V. R. Annunziato Please note: this is a work of fiction and while I always try my best to get all of the details correct, there are times when it serves the story to go slightly to the left or right of perfection. Please understand that any mistakes or discrepancies are my authorial decision making alone and sit squarely on my shoulders.

  Thank you to my family for their support.

  Kid #4 for her astute observation and patience as I read this book aloud to her – over and over again; for her naming Lynx, and coming up with the title of this book. As well as naming many of my characters.

  Kid #3 for eating cereal for dinner and turning the sound down on his electric guitar so I could write. And of course, the eyeball rolls.

  Especially to my husband, Todd, he is the spin and the gravity in my life. T, I adore you.

  And of course thank YOU for reading my stories. I’m smiling ear to ear as I type this. I so appreciate you.

  Canadian born, Fiona Quinn is now rooted in the Old Dominion outside of DC with her husband and four children. There, she homeschools, pops chocolates, devours books, and taps continuously on her laptop. She is the author of the Amazon bestseller, The Lynx Series, Mine, and Chaos Is Come Again. Quinn is the creative force behind the popular blog ThrillWriting. She is presently writing her Strike Force Series.

  Copyright

  Chain Ly
nx is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ©2015 Fiona Quinn

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindlecovers

  Garamond and Calibri used with permission from Microsoft

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