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

by Fiona Quinn

  “Can you send the slave market data right now? I think I hear Mushkila’s unit coming back in.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  By the time I made my way back through the series of holes to the section of hallway that now made the façade of the building, the blue sheet had been tied out of the way. The women washed their faces and hands. Smiling at each other, their voices chittered with excitement. They must have been successful.

  I followed them into the space. The air was already beginning to cool as the heat radiated off the dirt quickly, now that the sun was going down. Striker asked in Arabic if we, the men, could prepare a dinner for the women.

  The women caught each other’s eyes and giggled. Mushkila focused on me. I couldn’t remember anything in the Iraqi handbook that addressed a guest preparing a meal. “You would honor us if you would please accept. They’re simple MREs.”

  She hesitated for a moment, a quick glance at her unit, and I could see hungry eyes and a few swipes of tongues over cracked lips. I remembered that Sophia had told me to bring Chapstick with sunscreen as gifts. As I was gassing up my car on my way through Virginia to the airport, I’d gone in and bought the entire box sitting by the register. They were at the bottom of my backpack; I had enough to hand around. Before Mushkila could protest, I added, “Please, I insist.”

  She nodded.

  When I moved toward my pack to find the lip balm, Jack asked if they required their meal to be Halal.

  Mushkila said, “Food is food.”

  Food was food. I’d be grateful for it. Stress sucked at my reserves, and my stomach was growling. Jack was mixing the lemon-lime packets into cups of water. I picked them up and distributed the drinks and the balm around.

  We ate.

  The change in temperature was drastic now that the sun was down. The women lit a fire. Then, making a ribbon by joining hands, they danced and sang.

  Mushkila made her way over to sit beside me. “You are here looking for an American woman.”

  “We are. Our mutual friend Sophia thought you might be able to help us.”

  “Do you see that light?” She pointed at the bouncing movement in the distance.

  “Car?”

  “An American friend. He’s ten more minutes away. Then we can talk, yes?”

  I flexed my back. “John Grey?” I asked using the English pronunciation of his name.

  She patted my knee and went to where her fighters were calling her to dance with them.

  I lay back, pillowing my head on my hands, looking up at the great expanse of sky. The moon was sliver thin. We would be sleeping here tonight.

  I sensed a concerted effort on Striker’s part to keep himself distracted, doing busy things like making tonight’s dinner. He was down at the cars with the others, gathering our sleeping bags and kits for tonight.

  Overwatch had come in to eat.

  Jack and Axel were taking their turn in the sniper’s nest. I’d ask Striker to replace Jack for a while so he could be in on the briefing when I talked to Mushkila about Kaylie and the slave auction.

  ***

  Grey carefully stepped over the debris as he made his way to the campfire. I’d watched him clairvoyantly through Gator when Gator was accepting a mission last July. Gator had wigged out when he had a whole video playing in his mind’s eye for the first time about people and circumstances he didn’t recognize. As he flailed, Gator caught hold of me in the ether, and I watched it, too. I guessed it was that wayward incision that allowed us to do that. At this moment, I was thankful that I knew some back story on Grey. His name had been floating in my brain for days when it had no reason to. And I wasn’t surprised at all that this was Mushkila’s CIA contact. I felt like the universe was lining things up the way they were supposed to be. I’d wait to let things unfold naturally.

  I felt a zap of electricity and turned my head toward Gator. When our gaze locked, he tipped his head toward Grey and mouthed “interesting.”

  I nodded.

  “Right, down to business. Your team is here,” he said to Striker.

  Striker shook his head. “Lynx commands this mission,” he said.

  Grey had a pop of surprise and tamped it down, then turned to me. He was speaking in Arabic so Mushkila could understand. “My apologies,” he said. “Your team is here to find an American woman who went missing in Nigeria seven years ago, Dr. Kaylie Street. The NSA believes they might have an image of her as she moved toward an encampment with a group of women and a few men. Do you have further information that might verify that she’s with this group?”

  “You’re familiar with an initiative by medical groups to spread good health in the area? A hearts and minds project to reach out to every man, woman, and child?”

  “You’re aware of this?” His demeanor changed. I could see him reassessing his first impression of me. “Is that how you tracked Kaylie here?”

  “We tracked three children. Does the name Bakar Wajdi Fayad sound familiar?” Nutsbe had just texted me that the third child’s name included her personal name, a father name, a grandfather name, and less-commonly her great-grandfather’s name. So this would have been the only child of the three who had a name that would tell us who the father was. And, as it turned out, Bakar Wajdi Fayad was a big name in the area.

  Grey’s eyes dilated; this news excited him. “He’s the main slave trafficker in this area.”

  “I met a man with seven wives.” This was him. This was the man I had made the hazardous journey to confront; I knew it.

  “Bakar Wajdi Fayad provides labor for the poppy fields and archaeological digs, and sex slaves for the ISIS fighters.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “Does the CIA believe it would be good to take him down?”

  “Of course, but that’s not going to happen. He holes up over the border in Syria. He sneaks into Iraq, does his deals, and heads right back into his hole to hide. We don’t know what he looks like.”

  “Information about his movements, his contacts, those might be important pieces, wouldn’t they? And someone who could identify his image?”

  “You’re saying he fathered a baby with Kaylie Street?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Believe.”

  “If you could talk to Kaylie, her knowledge would be a boon.” I paused to observe Grey. Nope, that didn’t do the trick. “If she was his slave, and even if she was his willing wife, it’s very possible that she saw and heard things that would be helpful in not only disrupting the slave trade but the effects of the slave trade—lower fighter morale, lower fighter recruitment, fewer slaves for labor thus affecting their money flow. And not just the money flow, but the people with whom he would have done business.”

  Grey whistled between his teeth. “Are you kidding me right now? This would be gold.”

  “Golden enough that you can get us help going after her?”

  “Here in Syria? You’re a hundred percent positive you know where she is?”

  “We have a guess.”

  “Not good enough. There’s no way I’m going to get that green-lighted. Let’s get you all the data we can. I can help you plan. I can probably even get your equipment. I just can’t get you boots or gunslingers.”

  He stood and strode into the distance with his satellite phone in his hand.

  My own phone buzzed. It was Prescott. I walked away with my finger in my ear so I could focus.

  “Hey,” he said. “We had some Marines in the area of Kaylie’s third child. The baby’s in the wind. The village where they had done the medical intake was flattened three days after the medical.”

  “All right. We’re meeting with Grey from the CIA now. Sophia sent me pictures of what looked like it might be the start of a new permaculture footprint. I wouldn’t get too excited. It could be that someone who learned Kaylie’s system and is implementing it. I’m thinking of Sophia’s tomato story.”

  “I got the images from Sophia, too. Unless Zoe has another location hit on one of the fa
mily members from the dad’s side, I don’t know where to go from here. We’re going to gather some more information, and I’ll keep you abreast. How’s it going with Kaylie?”

  “We should know by tomorrow night if it’s her or not.” I turned my head to see Deep standing up, waving me in. “They’re flagging me over. Any last thoughts you want me to share with Grey?”

  “Not with Grey, but with you. Stay safe.”

  “Roger that,” I said as I moved back to the circle.

  “Lynx, you’re looking for a woman in a place where women are invisible. It’s already astonishing that we’ve found two of her children. If you and your team can find Kaylie, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “We’ll pray for a miracle then.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It was well over an hour before Grey came back to the circle. Mushkila’s unit had gone off to their sleeping mats.

  Strike Force and Mushkila herself had waited for Grey’s return.

  “Our intelligence says that Sophia found the right spot,” he said without preamble.

  “We have to go in tomorrow night after dark. My team and Mushkila’s, we’ll need every advantage. Striker, Jack, and I had the computer booted up and spent time imagining different scenarios.”

  I gestured Grey over to see the screen.

  “That’s it. Our satellites have movement in the area.” He used his finger to point out the area, and I zoomed in. “We project from the number who were on the trail that there are about two hundred women who survived the ISIS attack,” he said, shifting his weight and putting the soles of his feet on the ground, wrapping his knees with his arms and holding a wrist with his opposite hand. I looked around, and everyone was sitting this way.

  I had pulled a sleeping bag over my lap and was sitting cross-legged with the computer resting on my thighs.

  “We believe they’re in this building here. There’s no movement in or out of this building in the last twenty-four hours. But we’re familiar with it. We know that ISIS has warehoused women here before. There are ten trucks lined up here.” He pointed behind the women’s barracks. “If we can get to them, we could use the trucks to transport the women out of the conflict area.”

  “That would solve a lot of problems,” Mushkila said. “They’ll probably be too weak to walk.”

  “We’d be hard-pressed to get in there without giving them a big ol’ heads up that we were moving in,” Gator said.

  Grey nodded. “I’ve been working the phones. I was able to get your air transport.”

  “Eleven per bird if they’re Black Hawks,” Jack said. “We’d need three to get Strike Force and Mushkila’s unit in.”

  “You’re going to have to winnow that down. I can only get you two birds. They’re drop and go. Once you’re in position, it’ll be up to you to get back out.”

  Mushkila nodded. “I can leave some of my fighters back.”

  “The two helicopters drop you on this side of the mountain.” Grey reached over. “Here.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The rise in elevation would mask any noise. If they fly dark, no one would ever know you were there. Eyes in the sky would tell us if you have anyone patrolling the area.”

  Strike Force nodded. They all had what I called their “combat faces” in place. Focused. Processing. Visualizing. They’d be looking for holes in the plans from their vast collective experience and training.

  I wondered if they were being quiet, so I looked like I was in charge. That wasn’t a good idea. “If you have thoughts or questions, I want everyone sharing.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Grey said. “You’re going to have to go in fast and hard, take out communications, so they don’t have back up heading your way. You’ll have to kill or incapacitate every single one of ISIS fighters. I’ve seen women in this situation. They are going to be weak, ill, and traumatized. The faster you get in, the faster you get out, the further you get away, the better your chances. Remember, I got approval for the helicopters because we’re getting as many women out as possible. It’s the morale blow we’re after. I get that your job is to find Dr. Street, but you’re getting an assist for a bigger picture.”

  I didn’t see any other way, so I said, “Okay then, let’s all get some rest, and tomorrow we’ll fine-tune our strategy.”

  ***

  The women from Mushkila’s unit had never been on a helicopter before. Neither had I. Strike Force had outfitted them with night vision goggles. They already wore camouflage pants and boots. Striker insisted that they wear the heavy bulletproof vests even though we didn’t have any that were woman-sized, even for me.

  We made do.

  In the Blackhawk, they held hands like a family saying grace over the Thanksgiving turkey as we sat behind our Army pilots, getting ready for takeoff.

  As we climbed into the air, they gasped and clung tighter. After about ten minutes, they relaxed, and I even caught a few smiles.

  The pilots flew low and without lights, using their night vision and the helicopter readouts to keep us safe.

  I tried not to think about it.

  Just as planned, the Blackhawks set down on the side of a hill, two kilometers from the compound. We’d hike in.

  I guessed my gear was only about fifty pounds. Much of what I carried in my pack was first aid. Things that might be needed to save one of the women’s lives that we found in the camp. Things that I might need to save one of our teams’ lives.

  I tried not to think about that either. I tried not to think anything at all.

  The pilot had called into the TOC, the tactical operations center, where Grey and his team were monitoring the situation. I knew that the CIA had a whiteboard up where each step of our mission was listed and the time that the piece needed to be completed. The goal was to stick with the plan and keep the mission on track. I could imagine Grey pulling off the top of the marker and putting an X in the box next to “Insertion.”

  The next step was getting from point A to point B.

  Maybe I’d underestimated the effect of being wrapped in an extra twenty pounds of armor while carrying fifty pounds as I hiked through the desert night.

  I looked around, and no one seemed fazed by the packs they carried. Strike Force was weighed down with the equipment—ladders, crowbars, bolt cutters, and blast strips. They came ready for any eventuality.

  Or most eventualities.

  The fathomable ones.

  They do this. This is what they do. Everyone here was battle-hardened and battle-ready, except me. I knew they were trying not to call too much attention to that fact. And I didn’t want them to think they needed to circle the wagons to keep me safe.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t have skills.

  It was just that I’d never applied my skills in this type of event before.

  “Striker.” He used his call name to announce who was speaking over the comms. “We’re in position.”

  “TOC. Good copy. If you see anything that we didn’t plan for, you let us know STAT. You hear?”

  “Copy.”

  Blaze and Axel were on overwatch. They moved up into the hills and set up their sniper rifles.

  We laid on our stomachs, watching through binoculars. The first step was up to them.

  “Blaze. I’m in place, and I’ve located two of the three perimeter guards. I’ll paint him with my laser.”

  “Striker. Got him,” Striker said. “Do you see that, Axel?”

  “Axel. Roger. I have the third one in my scope, and there’s a guy at the door where we think the fighters are sleeping. That’s all I see.”

  “Striker. Copy.”

  “TOC. That’s the count. Four heat signatures outside of the buildings.”

  The women’s faces, glowing green in my night vision, were set with ferocity. While Strike Force was calculated, methodical, and unemotional, these women were controlled, but they seethed with anger. Those men were enslaving their women. This was personal.

  I thought back to
Melody’s nightmares of the lions ripping flesh from her sister and devouring her. That wild hunger was what I felt in these women as they champed at the bit.

  One by one, I watched Strike Force turn their heads toward the women, feel their power, and turn back to the task at hand. I wondered what they were thinking right then.

  “Striker. Snipers, I’m in control.” Striker paused with his binoculars up. “Three. Two. One. Execute. Execute. Execute.”

  Four suppressed pops from a distance. Four bodies down. We waited to see if anyone heard that and were coming out. It was easier and safer for us to attack from a distance, but too, we didn’t want anyone calling in reinforcements.

  “Striker. Forward.” By the time we got to this point, Mushkila didn’t seem to question why Striker was yelling orders and not me. Surely, her warrior’s eye noticed I was out of my element, and the men were a cohesive fighting machine.

  I clomped and slid down the hill and over the open land, ready to throw myself on the ground and wait for orders should someone from their side start shooting. That was the plan for Mushkila’s unit as well as for me.

  Not a sexist thing. Again, Mushkila didn’t argue the point. She must have also realized that these weren’t your every-day kind of mercenary units; these were elite soldiers. They needed us down so they could maneuver. No one wanted a teammate to die from friendly fire.

  Now that we were within the perimeter, we ran forward to the positions we’d been assigned. I was to head right to the women’s barracks and report on the locking system and door. Whew. Now I knew that I needed to practice my morning jogs with a bullet-resistant vest on and build up my pack weight. Fifty pounds hadn’t felt like much until I tried to maneuver in it. And a vest that included boob space would be awesome.

  I knew that from the safety of the TOC, Grey had us up on the computer system, watching real-time with drone imagery. Green blobs against black. Each of us had a decal on the top of our hat that made us identifiable as being team Kaylie. The fibers in our body armor lit us up on the night vision, so we wouldn’t target each other.