by Fiona Quinn
“Just the one. Beefy fist, though. Had I not rolled with the punch, I would have face-planted.”
He frowned. “You called Dr. Carlon?” Dr. Carlon was a traumatic brain injury specialist who treated both of us for our ongoing issues with head traumas—Reaper sustained his from his time with SEAL Team Six. Me, well, I got mine from dodging criminals.
Dr. Carlon was cutting edge with her approach and one of the kindest, most accessible people that I knew.
“I called her first thing after the situation cleared. If it’s an emergency, go to the ER. Other than that, she can work me in on Monday afternoon.”
“Too long.”
“I’m not going to the ER for a swollen cheek.”
“I’m not going to lecture you, Lynx. But I am going to insist you take my appointment with her today.” He pulled his phone from the cargo pocket on his Iniquus camo pants. “I’ll call and tell the receptionist that’s the plan. I can wait until Monday for my checkup. You can’t.”
I touched my throbbing cheek. “Are you sure?”
“I insist.”
“I insist, too,” Kate said. “You know what we’ve been through with Reaper’s brain injuries. You do not want his experience. It’s a terrible way to live, for everyone involved.” She sent a glance toward her husband and swallowed. “You just don’t want that. Take the appointment.”
I nodded. “What time?” I still had the CIA and FBI…
“Four-thirty,” Reaper said. “And I can see you’re mentally checking your to-do list. But this takes precedence.”
“Four-thirty. I can do that. Well, you’re right. No matter what was on my agenda, I would move it for this.” I touched my heart. “Thank you so much.”
“And now that I’ve buttered you up with my doctor’s appointment,” Reaper said, “we have an ask.”
“Sure.” I started climbing the stairs to give Little Guy a kiss.
“We were hoping you’d watch the baby tomorrow night,” Kate said. “Reaper and I are getting some things together for Gator and Christen’s wedding.”
“Oh, that’s an easy yes. Tomorrow is the neighborhood parents’ night out.”
When I was first hiding from the serial killer, I bought my house. It felt safe to live across the street from my dad’s good friends, the Murphys. Dave Murphy was a detective with the D.C. P.D.
It felt safer knowing someone I loved was nearby.
This was a working-class neighborhood. The parents were in jobs that didn’t allow for frills and extravagances. While they might come up with the money to pay for a movie or dinner out, add in the cost of a babysitter, and that was prohibitively expensive.
Once a month, I have a neighborhood sleepover. All the kids come and camp out on my living room rug or under a blanket fort made with my dining room table. This gave the parents a reliable night that they could depend on to relax. The following morning, we had a potluck brunch and hung out together. It was really lovely. I looked forward to my time with my neighbors, whom I regarded as family.
I petted a hand over Little Guy’s silken strands of hair. In his sleep, he was making a silly smile, drunk on his baby formula.
Though he was five months now, Little Guy had never been to one of the sleepovers. Kate wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Even being right next door, she was still a mama bear and didn’t like to leave her baby with anyone other than Reaper, so Kate’s leaving the baby with me was a big deal.
“We won’t leave him all night,” Kate qualified. “We thought we’d work on the wedding list and then get some dinner out. Home by nine.”
“It’s fine. No worries.” My cheek throbbed when I sent her a smile.
“Thank you,” Kate said as she made her way through her front door.
“I’m calling Dr. Carlon now.” Reaper looked down at his phone screen, scrolling with his thumb as he moved through the screen door and out of sight.
“Thanks,” I called after him.
I checked my phone for the time. It was insane all the things that had happened and how hours on my clock didn’t seem to keep up with the frenetic happenings of today.
I had an hour before Striker would pick me up for the CIA.
Could I get myself spiffed up enough in that time that he didn’t freak out?
Hmmm. Doubtful. But I’d try, starting with a shower.
***
When I was Spyder’s mentee, one of the things that Spyder had impressed upon me was that I should maintain a low profile. No one should be able to trace my professional life back to my personal sphere.
Stakeouts, placing surveillance, interacting with the crime players, I should always be incognito.
This morning, I had sort of complied with Spyder’s directive. It had been my intention to play it very low profile. I was just going to slip into a back booth, pretend to play on my phone, and get a lay of the land. Gathering a few impressions of Modesty, Destiny? This would mean I could bring my observations to the FBI with me.
Still, I wasn’t sure I’d connected with the right person.
I guessed I’d find out this afternoon at the FBI.
With my hair in hot curlers, I studied my face. Yeah, I thought that the makeup lessons Spyder had given me would mostly hide this.
Spyder was a skyscraper of a man, thin like a flagpole. His gorgeous skin so richly dark, Spyder was blue-black. I’d once heard someone describe the color as blackberry—I agreed, with the metaphor, not just in his coloration but the fact that he was sweet and nourishing but protected by thorns. As striking in appearance as Spyder was, he couldn’t easily change his appearance to go undetected. So Spyder had learned to manipulate his energy. Calm and cool, he rarely attracted attention to him unless he wanted to. And he rarely wanted to.
Since my looks were more malleable, Spyder taught me the CIA techniques for highlights and shading to transform my facial features into something I decidedly was not. Smoke and mirrors. Colored contacts could change my blue eyes. Temporary dye transformed my blonde hair.
Today, I wanted to set a tone. Not under the radar…hmm. Girl next door. Innocuous. Yeah, that’s what I would do.
I picked up my makeup brush and got to work, seeming to repair this morning’s damage.
I released my hair from the hot curlers and combed my fingers through the strands to make gentle curls and waves, then I pulled a headband in place. That took about five years off my face. I smiled at the effect in the mirror. I looked like a teen.
Under the radar and unexpected were the traits I liked to cultivate. Bonus, the curls fell softly over my cheek.
Now for the right outfit…
I moved to my closet.
Striker and I had three places between us. My house here in D.C., Striker’s house on the Bay, and we also had an apartment on Iniquus campus where all of the operators had living quarters should worse come to worse, and we needed to be all hands-on deck twenty-four/seven.
That seemed extreme. When would that ever be required?
Well, it had when Spyder and I were taking down the Hydra and two of the three heads—Omega as security and the Assembly as the political and legal power—came crashing down.
This week, though, because I’d be having the kids over, and because I wanted to have time in the evenings to read through my mom’s journals, I was home.
And it felt good.
I pulled a pink dress from the rod, looked it over, and put it back.
Next, I chose a yellow fit and flare with a mid-century feel to it—the days of innocence. Yeah, I’d go with this one.
I laid it carefully on my bed. My fingers touched the white sheet.
The fabric wrapped into my fist, a memory flashed of another time when my hand was holding a white sheet in just that way.
I was back on the road next to the crushed tangle that had been our car. Dad’s head rested in my lap. On that day, when the siren’s wail pulled me away from my prayers for Dad, I had looked up to see a man standing with one hand on a tree across
the street, vomiting. The next time I looked up, police officers were making him blow into a device. They were handcuffing him; they were walking him away.
A woman, dressed in a rescue worker’s jumpsuit, had snapped a neck brace in place to protect my spine. She gently leaned me onto a backboard.
I reached out for my dad’s hand, but he was already tucked under a white sheet.
With a shake of my head, I forced myself to look at the yellow fabric on my dress. To bring my attention back to the here and now.
Why were these memories flooding back to me?
It felt like the accident had happened just yesterday and not back when I was seventeen.
Those emotions felt fresh and raw.
I put my hands on my knees as I panted through an anxiety attack.
I was going to make it through today.
I would make it through tomorrow.
Then the wedding.
And everything should go back to normal after that, right?
Chapter Ten
What I needed now was something happy.
I wanted to disperse this gloom and doom energy before making my way to the CIA with Striker.
Since Little Guy was coming over early tomorrow, I should think of how I would entertain the kids and get set up while my hands were free.
I opened the door that led to the storage area under my staircase, where I kept my kiddo supplies. First, I tugged out my collection of cartoon character sleeping bags and the pile of pillows. Next came the laundry basket where I kept a fresh stack of pillowcases, the pile of fort building sheets, and the bag of clips to hold things in place.
I pushed that to the side to make room next to me for my box of old-school children’s movies.
The last time we had our overnight, we decorated cupcakes, and I didn’t want to do repeats. Every time the kiddos came over, I wanted things to be fun and new. I dragged out the box I had of art supplies, picking through the loose button bin, the bag of toilet paper cardboard cylinders, and the jar of googly eyes.
Uninspiring.
My hand landed on a box of finger paints I’d picked up at a close-out sale. I looked them over. The thing I liked about this set was that these were professional finger paints—who knew that was a thing? The pigments were rich, and they stayed moist and silken so they could be blended and manipulated on whatever surface the artist was working. And they were water-soluble, which was a huge bonus when it came to kids and art.
It was satisfying to use one’s fingertips to experience texture.
I loved eating my kitchen grandmother Jadda’s traditional Middle Eastern and African recipes where I could pull off a piece of injera or pita to use as a utensil. Scooping the food into my mouth using my fingertips, feeling the heat and moisture, and the bread's grain made the flavors come alive in my mouth.
Same with fingerpainting. Getting right in there with the tactical experience of paint on the sensitive pads, swirling over the paper, I thought of it as full-contact art.
I thought it was a blast, so joining in with the kids would be totally fun for me, too. Later, when our communal painting dried, I could hang the length of it on my wall. That way, in the morning, when their parents came for brunch, they could ooh and ah over the clever artistry.
Next out was the roll of newsprint I’d bought for a song when I first moved here. No matter how much the kids and I used from the roll, it never seemed to grow smaller in circumference.
I dragged it over to my dining room table, where I put down four layers to protect the wood underneath. Taping the corners to keep everything neatly in place, I put the paints in the middle.
Art could be our starter and could be ongoing, then snacks, movies, stories, and bed. And I could easily do that with Little Guy in my arms with Striker’s help.
Oh! Art shirts to keep the kids’ clothes clean.
Striker came in and found me dragging the bag of old extra-large T-shirts out. “Hey there,” I called over my shoulder.
He saw my cheek immediately. Nothing ever missed his scrutiny. That was why he was stellar at his job. “What happened?” He came to a halt beside me, stabbing his hands onto his hips.
“Three guys wanted to kidnap a woman.” I stood. Grabbing the bag's handles, I walked the shirts into the dining room and set them on the chair.
“And you stepped in instead of calling the police.” He strode after me, closing the distance until he stood at my side, eyes scanning my length just like Reaper had done.
“I called the police. The police came and arrested the men. I shadow walked out of there. The police didn’t see me.”
He gently pinched my chin between his fingers and thumb, tilting my head back, turning it this way and that. “Not right away, you didn’t. You tangled with them, or you wouldn’t have that shiner on your cheek.”
“It got a little rough, but that’s the worst of it.”
“You can’t take anymore strikes to the head, Chica.” He crossed his arms over his expansive chest and rocked back on his heels, ticked. “You’re not made of steel. Did you go by the hospital?”
“No, but I talked to Reaper.”
Striker canted his head.
“Look, I took a Lyft home, and on the way, I called Dr. Carlon. She was booked through next week, except for emergencies.”
“And you didn’t count this as an emergency?”
“I made an appointment to see her. And if you can let me finish before you get too upset with me, Reaper has an appointment this afternoon with Dr. Carlon. I’m taking his appointment, and he’s taking mine since the first I could get was Monday.” I smiled. “See how responsible I was?”
“The responsible thing to do was to leave the crime to the police.”
“Three men were going to drag a waitress into their car. You know what would happen to her.”
“I get why you would do it.” He looked down at his boots for a very long moment. “I’m so proud you would do it. I hate every second that you put yourself in danger’s way.”
“Same here. That’s exactly how I feel about you jumping out of helicopters in the Gulf of Aden, swimming up to the pirate boats, and rescuing hostages. Do you honestly think that it doesn’t impact me?”
He stepped forward and gathered me gently into his arms, dropping a kiss into my hair and again onto my lips as I tipped my head back.
“I got a job at the diner,” I said. “So that’ll be a bonus for getting to know the woman the FBI is focused on.”
“But it’s a rough neighborhood?”
“Not that bad. I spent a lot of time there as a teen.”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“Dad died in a car accident. The guy who caused the crash was charged with DUI and something else—murder, manslaughter…but all the charges were dropped because he had diplomatic credentials. Spyder told me I couldn’t take direct retribution, but Spyder didn’t stop me when I tried to stop my dad’s murderer.”
“I’m not following.”
“The diplomat liked to get drunk at a bar in that area.”
“Seems strange for a diplomat to go into a dangerous area for a drink.”
“He came from a country that prohibits alcohol. Shame maybe? That’s what I thought at the time. Anyway, I was watching him and disabling his car so he couldn’t drive drunk and hurt another family.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“No. It wasn’t. The guy is dead now, so no need to be thinking about it. Memories are bubbling up, is all. It’s because I was in the neighborhood.”
I felt my parents’ presence as I said that; there was an eagerness, a Yes! Yes! Pay attention! to the sensation.
Striker nodded. With a delicate touch, he petted over my bruise with the pad of his thumb. “How bad was the punch?”
“His knuckle grazed me as I spun.”
Striker didn’t answer. I know he tried hard not to smother me. It was a balancing act of being loving and concerned and knowing that I was a mag
net for crap.
Hmm, I should stop using that phrase as it applies to me.
Spyder would tell me that what we put out in the world comes back to us. I didn’t feel like my external life over the past five years was a reflection of my internal thoughts.
In this instance, I knew from Spyder’s spiritual convictions and basic psychology that if I think it, I’ll bring it into being.
Believing that I’m a magnet for crap means that I will consistently find crap to roll around in.
Like today.
It wasn’t my moral or ethical duty to intervene beyond making a call to the police.
I could have gone inside and alerted the restaurant that the woman was in danger.
But I didn’t.
And I helped.
There was risk. I’ll have to admit, things could have gone very badly. One of those blows could have landed. Blue had me off my feet. Shoved into the back of the car and held by the three men might have turned out to be all kinds of horrific.
Yeah, I didn’t want to think about it.
“You can’t do that anymore, Lexi. You just can’t. And you’re going to be mad at me for threatening you, but so be it. If this happens again, I’m going to talk to Command.”
“And tell them what? I was doing my job.”
“That your job needs to be constrained to the Puzzle Room and to outside meetings with our contractors in their offices.”
I didn’t know what to say to his threat. I understood it, I guessed. He meant it from a place of concern. My knee-jerk reaction to this threat was pretty juvenile—I’ll show you who you get to boss around. The reality was that he loved me and wanted me safe. What happened to me had ramifications for both of us.
Granted, his job was a heck of a lot more dangerous than mine. But there was only one time I’ve ever known him to get injured. Shot. It took me days to speak to him. It was a weird way to cope. But that’s what I did.
Would I ever say to Striker, if you get hurt, I’ll tattle to Command?
