The Lynx Series Boxed Set II: Books 4-6 (Iniquus Security Action Adventure Boxed Set Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  Gulf Lynx

  Acknowledgments

  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 assistant – Margaret Daly

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

  Copyright

  Cuff Lynx 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

  Publisher’s Note:

  Neither the publisher nor the author has any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites and their content.

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission from the publisher or author. Doing any of these actions via the Internet or in any other way without express written permission from the author is illegal and punishable by law. It is considered piracy. Please purchase only authorized editions. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at FionaQuinnBooks@Outlook.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  .

  Gulf

  Book 5

  Gulf Lynx

  The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

  Dedication

  To the fierceness, capability, and tenacity of women.

  “Credit belongs to the [wo]man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust & sweat & blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds.”

  ~ Teddy Roosevelt

  Chapter One

  Okay, this was uncomfortable.

  I arrived breathless after being summoned to the Commander’s Wing at Iniquus, STAT. General Elliot’s secretary, Leanne, held the conference door wide, offering up a better-you-than-me smile.

  A cloud of turbulent energy filled the spacious room and billowed out like the black viscous smoke of an oil fire.

  A woman—tall and thin, with long brown hair, dressed in a sleek well-tailored pants suit—leaned her face into the wall. One arm curled to protect her head as she sobbed forcefully into the crook of her elbow.

  Leanne squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll get some tissues.” She turned her focus to me. “And you’ll probably want some coffee. Extra strong.”

  I made my way farther into the plush room with its thick carpeting underfoot and the rich glow of the mahogany table that could seat twenty. Two of our three Iniquus owners, Mr. Spencer and Col. Grant, stood by the bank of windows on the far side. Both pressed their cell phones to their ears. It looked to me like they were calling in favors or asking for off the record information. The tilt of their heads, the tight posture of their stances told me they were coming up empty.

  Not knowing what else to do, I pulled out a chair and sat down.

  No one seemed to notice.

  Lacing my fingers, I rested my hands on my lap, focusing my attention on the owners. Their conversations were comprised of grunts and “all rights” with nothing substantive that would give me a clue as to what was going on. Why was this woman here? Why was she so upset? And why was I summoned instead of our team leader, Striker?

  Some people called Iniquus a group of mercenaries. And in most ways, they were right. Yes, our security teams and force missions were for-hire. But in the public’s mind, bad connotations viscously dripped from the word mercenary. News clips and articles talked about rogue and lawless groups that went off into the world and did as they pleased, their guns brandished and triggers pulled at will.

  That didn’t describe Iniquus at all.

  Iniquus prided itself on being the knights in shining armor. For being the saving grace, the miracle when all hope was lost. Our teams carried hostages to safety. They hacked through jungles, jumped from helicopters, swam through oceans toward pirated ships to protect innocent lives.

  Day in and day out, success came because our field operators were culled from those leaving the special forces, trained by Uncle Sam to be the best in the world. Their mission to protect America and her interests hadn’t changed for them. All that had changed for these SEALs and Delta operators, Marine Raiders, and Green Berets was who signed their paycheck.

  And I was none of those things. I was on the Strike Force team as a creative thinker. An out-of-the-box envelope stretcher.

  I didn’t do case intake because I wasn’t a field operator. My contract specifically stipulated that I was not field trained and therefore not deployable on missions outside of a very slim scope. I could go out and do spy work—basic stuff.

  I most certainly wasn’t supposed to shoot anyone or blow anything up.

  I wasn’t saying that was how it always worked out. I was just saying that it was never my intention when I opened a file on any given mission that it should end with a bang.

  Attached to Strike Force, my job mostly kept me here at headquarters, where the operators would hand me bits and pieces of crime puzzles, and I was tasked with figuring things out.

  I’d like to figure this situation out.

  Still, I sat.

  Still, the woman cried.

  Still, the commanders yacked, nodded, and huffed.

  I wondered if this was how this kind of thing always went. I’d ask Striker later.

  Leanne came back with a tray that she set on the credenza. She moved a box of tissues to the far end, closest to the woman. Then, moved a small trash bin to the floor for the woman’s convenience. After setting a bottle of water and a glass near her, Leanne said, “Mrs. Foley, if this would be of comfort.” Without waiting for a response, Leanne moved to pour three coffees. I watched her add cream and sweetener to one. That one, she set down in front of me. She placed the other cups and saucers, black, where I assumed the owners would sit once they got off their phones.

  Leanne reached a platter with artisanal mini-muffins and strawberries to the center of the table with a stack of bread
plates and napkins, took her tray, and left.

  Mrs. Foley, that name was my first bite of information.

  My only information.

  Yup. Here I was, waggling my foot, sending my gaze to the Iniquus owners on my left, back to the woman on my right, back to my hands in my lap.

  Uncomfortable.

  “Lynx,” Mr. Spencer said as he tapped his phone to end his conversation and headed over to the table. “Good that you’re here. We’re waiting for one more—”

  The door swung open, and Damian Prescott moved into the room. As a special agent with the FBI, Prescott led a joint task force that had to do with international criminal organizations that wanted to set up shop here in the United States.

  I had brushed past him on several Iniquus cases.

  Through those encounters, I knew that Prescott was bright and dedicated, but I hadn’t seen enough of his personality to form a solid opinion of him outside of his role with the FBI.

  As he moved into the conference room, I stood and turned to face him with a smile and an extended hand.

  Prescott reached for a shake. “Good, Lynx, you’re here.” He reached for Mr. Spencer’s hand and nodded to Col. Grant, still standing at the bank of windows, working his phone. Prescott ended by resting stormy eyes on Mrs. Foley.

  From his look and stance, Prescott knew her. And he knew exactly what this was about.

  Mrs. Foley was taking advantage of the tissues, blowing her nose loudly, swiping at her eyes. Her mascara blackened her orbs, giving her face structure a skeletal cast.

  “We just buried Kaylie on Wednesday.” Her nostrils flared as she glared at Prescott. “And now—now—you tell me she’s alive?”

  Chapter Two

  That was quite the opener.

  Everyone in the room stilled.

  “Did you realize her funeral was this past Wednesday?” She took an over-long, aggressive step toward Prescott. “My family put Kaylie to rest, in our minds.” She pressed her lips together and swallowed audibly. “The judge issued a declaration of death. We went out and bought a beautiful plot of land.” She turned her attention to Mr. Spencer. “Kaylie’s tombstone is under an oak tree. That oak is over two hundred years old. Its trunk massive and craggy. Kaylie would have so loved that tree. The limbs so wide.” Mrs. Foley reached her arms out as if to give us an idea of the expanse. “Generously embracing our memories.” It sounded like she was quoting something she’d heard at the funeral. Something readily accessible when her own thoughts were so visibly tied up with stress.

  She sniffed and scrubbed a tissue under her nostrils. “Kaylie left funeral instructions with her will. She wanted to be buried in a basket and a tree planted on top. That way, her decaying body could nourish its roots. She wanted, in death, to be a force for good. Of course, that’s not possible when you don’t have a body…” Mrs. Foley looked at the floor and whispered, “We thought she was eaten by wild animals.” Her focus moved to Prescott. “You told us she’d died, and her body was eaten by animals. The ‘most-likely’ that you added, we thought—we believed—was legal speak, something the FBI made you tack on.”

  Mrs. Foley spread her legs to give her wavering frame some stability, tearing and kneading the damp tissue in her hand.

  “Have you any idea about the nightmares I’ve survived over the years, Damian, not knowing how long Kaylie was alive as the animals clawed her skin open and ate her intestines?” She sent honed daggers Prescott’s way.

  She’d called him by his first name…

  “Those are the pictures I’ve lived through night after night as I sleep. Most nights, though, I lay there, wide-eyed in the dark, wondering what it felt like to have sharp teeth puncture my skin, sink into my muscles, scraping at my bone. I wonder how it would feel to have my flesh tear as a beast shook me in its jaws, knowing the pain was going to get worse, and the torture would only stop when I died. Can you see what I see in my mind, Damian? How Kaylie must have screamed? How she must have called out to God to end it and let her die?”

  Mrs. Foley turned her focus to me for a moment.

  She rejected me as a piece of the puzzle that didn’t belong in this box and settled her gaze back on Mr. Spencer. “I’ve watched days, weeks, months of nature videos, studying how the animals kill their prey, hoping against hope that they pierced Kaylie’s artery, and she bled out quickly instead of lying there awake and aware as a predator devoured her thigh muscles.” Her body juddered. She gasped and clamped her lips tightly together, staring at the table for a long moment.

  No wonder there was horror in her eyes—what a grotesque nightmare.

  If Mrs. Foley was watching nature videos, these must be exotic animals on foreign soil.

  Images of lions stalking their prey filled my imagination.

  I sat silently. The men stood stoic.

  Mrs. Foley broke her trance with a flutter of her lashes. Without lifting her gaze, she muttered, “We bought a coffin. With no body, we put her things inside. Pictures. Art. Diaries.” She frowned so forcefully that her mouth hardly moved as she spoke, making her words garbled. She took a staggering step forward.

  Prescott reached out, ready to steady her if need be.

  But she caught herself, then tripoded her hands on the table to give herself stability. “It was a lovely funeral service.” She told her warbled reflection, peering up from the polished wood. “Her friends came, and the faculty from her department. The family. Almost two hundred people filled the pews as we praised my sister’s short life.” Mrs. Foley lifted her head toward the recessed lighting and blinked against the brightness, her thoughts visibly sliding sideways. “I held my mother up, physically held her up, as she threw the first handful of soil onto Kaylie’s coffin.” She turned to Prescott. “Mom doesn’t weigh much anymore.”

  Prescott bore her ire with a level of grace I wouldn’t have ascribed to him from our past dealings. I was trying to work out this unusual dynamic between them and wondered if Mrs. Foley and Prescott had dated in the past. The family references seemed oddly placed for a law enforcement relationship.

  “You remember how plump and jolly mom used to be.”

  His teeth tightened down. The muscles at the side of his jaw bulged rhythmically.

  “Mom stopped eating and stopped laughing. It took almost no effort at all to hold her up when her knees went out from under her.”

  Mrs. Foley turned to shoot barbs at Mr. Spencer. “I will not tell anyone, not a single soul, that this is happening. Can you imagine the pain, the horror of finding out your family gave up hope and buried you, when in reality you were alive out there, needing help?” She struck her pointer finger onto the tabletop. “Unless and until Kaylie is back on U.S. soil, there will be no communication that would torture my parents further.”

  “Melody.” Prescott pulled out a chair two down from mine at the corner of the table and brushed a hand toward the seat. “Let’s sit down and talk about this.” He waited for her to comply, then rounded to the other side to sit cattycorner. “We don’t know that she’s alive. First, you know Mr. Spencer and Col. Grant, but let me introduce you to Lynx.” He lifted an open palmed hand my way. “She’s been added to Kaylie’s team.”

  All right, then. I was on Team Kaylie.

  Everyone believed Kaylie was dead.

  Someone now thinks that’s not true.

  Melody Foley focused glassy eyes my way and nodded, turning quickly back to Prescott.

  Tears dripped off her chin as she clutched a fist to her chest. “I’m trying to wrestle down hope.” She sucked in a ragged breath. “But I have found that hope defies gravity. It’s lighter than air. And so painful. I hate hope.” She lifted her head and stared around the table. The censure she was sending out didn’t include me. “And I hate even more that after I finally popped my delusions and buried my sister, so I could find some peace that you suddenly say there’s a possibility that Kaylie can come back to us.” She clutched and pulled at the fabric over her chest as if she was physica
lly trying to release her distress. “And I will not bring this pain to my family.”

  “I understand this is very difficult, Melody.” Prescott modulated his voice to be calm and even. “It’s not my intention to hurt you or your family. I know you’ve been through a lot over these past years. But we do need to check in with you to see if you’d had any further contact with anyone involved in the case.”

  She twitched her head, no.

  “And I need to show you the photo. Images of Kaylie, from around the time of the incident, were entered into the NSA data system,” Prescott said. “That system flagged a picture of a woman in Syria. The computer algorithms have focused on a single image that has a sixty-seven percent probability for being your sister.”

  I couldn’t see Melody Foley’s face, but her whole body jolted.

  “In Syria?” She yanked her head back, tucking her chin. “Syria?” Her inflection scaled up then dropped to a whisper. “It’s been years, and I suppose that if she were alive, she could be anywhere. But she was in Nigeria. The other people’s body parts were found scattered across the northern border near Niger. How would Kaylie be the one who survived? Why would anyone take her to Syria of all places?”

  “We don’t know,” Prescott said. “The computer system offers us a probability.” He slid an eight-by-ten photograph from a manila envelope and laid it on the table in front of Mrs. Foley.

  She reached out hesitant fingers, and raked the photo closer.

  I held my breath as she stared down at the image.

  From my angle, I could see muted earthen colors, and that was all.

  Mrs. Foley lifted the photograph, tipping her head to the side this way then that, far and then near. She blinked her eyes at the face, then pulled the photograph to her chest, hugging it to her. “I want it to be Kaylie so badly that if this were a bearded man, I’d probably say yes, it’s her.” She petted her hand over the back of the photo like she was soothing a young child. “My imagination…I can’t tell.” She stood and stumbled to the space beside the credenza—her crying spot—and pressed herself back against the wall.