by Quinn, Fiona
“Striker here. You awake?”
“Is it Spyder? Is he okay?” My hand clutched the sheet up to my throat.
“No, sorry Lexi, I don’t have any new information from the hospital.”
My muscles released their protective clench. I glanced at the clock – 4:37, ugh. “So what’s up?” I scratched my nails over my scalp to rev my brain and swung my feet out from under the covers.
“Sorry to do this to you. We need you in the Puzzle Room. Now.”
“Okay, Give me thirty minutes.”
I grabbed my jeans and turtle-neck from the chair – not my usual professional outfit, but now means now and this would have to do — and ran to the bathroom. What had them pulling me out of bed so early? Must be serious. I wished Striker had at least given me a heads up about what clues I’d find on my table when I got to headquarters.
I put the dogs into the back seat of my new car, a Lexis Rx400, charcoal-gray, just like Striker’s. Command gave it to me as a Christmas bonus — probably “bribe” was a better description. They didn’t want me to leave Iniquus? Fine, if I was going to stay on, at least I wrangled a cool car out of the deal. I slid behind the wheel and headed to Headquarters.
As I drove through the sleeping neighborhoods toward the highway, I called over to the hospital. No change in Spyder’s status – test results not in, no visitors allowed. He was alive. I had to pin that thought to the front of all of the other thoughts pinging around in my brain, vying for my attention. Every time one of those wayward, worse-case-scenario thoughts rushed to my frontal lobe, I pushed it back with my new mantra. “He’s alive.”
The work-crisis was a good thing. If I could do nothing for Spyder – not even hold his hand — then I needed to keep myself busy with something else, or I would go absolutely nutso.
I took the elevator up to the top floor and tramped to my office with snow clinging to my boots. Last fall when I solved a crime that put a lot of very bad men away for a long time, I got my Puzzle Room as a reward. A designer created the space for efficiency and clear thought. Three tables lined up like soldiers in the large square room — plenty of surface area for spreading out the files and pictures – the flotsam and jetsam my team gathered in the field. I had a white board across one wall and a cork board across the other. A cosmetic magnifying glass sat on my desk next to a top-of-the-line computer system with some very kick-ass software – I even had a predictive algorithm to guess who would commit crimes in the future or estimate where they lived once the crime had been committed. The designer even thought to include beds and feeding dishes for my dogs, because they were almost always with me. On the far wall, a little walkway lead to a full bathroom off to the right and a closet to the left.
My job here at Iniquus was challenging and interesting – and all the more so because I got to wear two hats. Working out a recognizable picture from the random puzzle pieces my team handed me was job one. Sometimes I went undercover in the field. I planted transmitters, did sleight-of-hand work; I cracked a safe every once in a while, stuff like that. I’ve only officially worked for Iniquus for a couple of months now. But they know I’ve tucked a few years of experience under my belt. I started working for Spyder when I turned eighteen – and soon I’d be twenty-one.
Under Spyder’s tutelage I was a shadow. No one here had even known I existed. After surviving Travis Wilson, my identity and background were exposed to management. Now that I worked out of Headquarters, Command wasn’t quite sure how to classify me. I mostly winged it.
While the President of Iniquus himself was the only one who could order me around, I always worked with the same seven men. The guys on our team: Axel, Randy, Blaze, Gater, Jack, and Deep along with Striker, the men’s commander, and me, as an attachment, are collectively known as Strike Force.
“Hey, I’m here. What’s up?” I sauntered in. My pups, Beetle and Bella, headed straight to their beds and plunked down. The whole team had gathered except for Randy and Axel who were out in the field. Bad guys didn’t take Christmas holiday, apparently.
“We blew a case. We set up a sting with a German executive, Hans Schumann, who has his dirty, little fingers in a bunch of get-rich pies. This is Schumann.” Striker handed me a corporate head-shot of a man with blond hair and watery blue eyes. The man wore a designer suit and square Gucci glasses that seemed a little off on his round face. “Our operative planned to meet him this morning. Schumann was supposed to trade us South African diamonds for US military contract information. Earlier, we picked up a conversation on surveillance; there’s a new player. This guy, whose name sounds like ‘almonds,’ hacked our clients’ system and stole the intelligence we were going to trade.”
“So cyber espionage?”
“Partially. We were lucky enough to get a heads-up. We faked the reports before the hacker got hold of the real data. We may not be so lucky next time. Schumann needs to be stopped before he can do actual damage to American companies competing for defense contracts.”
“What role am I playing here?” I pulled my hair back and quickly knotted it into a braid, wrapping the end with an elastic band I had on my wrist. I liked it out of my face when I needed to think.
“We’d have a pretty solid case against Schumann, if we had the diamonds. The diamonds, unfortunately, are the lynch pin.”
“The almond-guy got paid instead of our operative. He has the jewels?”
“Right.”
“Why did Schumann switch horses mid-stream?”
Striker shrugged. “I’d guess something spooked him, and he went with Plan B.”
“Can’t you fake the diamonds, substitute some in?” I asked, putting a knee on my chair as I stretched out for the file box.
“These are specific diamonds stolen from a diamond rep leaving Johannesburg. Thirty-seven, flawless, colorless diamonds each one weighing from three to five carats.” Jack said. Jack was our team’s second-in-command. He stood like a mountain with black hair and husky blue eyes.
“Wow! Those diamonds must be worth a fortune!”
Jack nodded. “Over a million. If we can’t find the diamonds, our mark is going to walk. Finding the diamonds will implicate Schumann in crimes on three continents; it’ll take him off the playing field for a very long time.”
“So, how can I help?”
“We haven’t got a bead on the guy with the rocks. Where would he go if he were trying to get rid of the diamonds in a hurry? Listening to him, we’re pretty sure he’s an American computer geek trying to cash in and not a player,” Jack said. “He probably doesn’t know what he’s got or have the connections to fence them.”
“Most people would sit on them, or take them to South America somewhere.” I lay the photo down.
Deep shook his head. “We’re confident this guy’s going to dump and run. We’ve brought in everything: pictures, files, tapes. We’re hoping you can make some connections and make them fast.” Deep came from Long Island and his accent was lightly flavored by his Italian background. Built on a smaller frame than Striker and Jack, he stood maybe six feet? Hard muscled, without the bulk, he had the kind of smile that could melt a girl’s heart and will power.
“Hmm.” I rubbed at my lower lip with my index finger. “The fast part’s going to depend on the quality of the information, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“That’s what we need from you, Lynx,” Deep pulled out a chair to my right and sat down. His chocolate brown eyes lost their usual mirth as he focused.
I sorted through the stack of evidence. I asked questions as I went. The men maintained perfect silence, until I spoke to them — a pattern we quickly fell into once I joined the team. Puzzling for me was a meditative and often intuitive progression. If something pulled me out of my thought process, I might lose the tiny thread of understanding I had started to spin and weave.
“This is everything?” I glanced up from the empty box.
“Unfortunately.” Deep moved the box under the table.
“Oka
y, I’d better get to work.”
“What can we do to help?” Jack stood — feet wide, arms crossed over his chest. I had to smile. Standing that way, he looked like a prototype for a Marvel Comics hero.
“I missed breakfast. Could someone call down to the cafeteria for an egg and cheese sandwich and put a pot of coffee on? I’d really appreciate it.” I stood with a file held up in each hand. “And can someone help me with computer searches? That might speed things up a bit.”
“That would be me.” Deep rolled over to sit behind my monitor, shook out his hands like a concert pianist preparing for a performance, and booted up.
I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows. As the conversations played on the recorder, I leafed through police reports and case notes.
Food showed up. Gater took my dogs out and brought them back. Without a window in my office, it was easy to lose the concept of time – not that it mattered. Immediate threat meant immediate action. No rest for the weary.
Striker came in and looked over my shoulder at the lists printed neatly in different colored pens on my whiteboard.
“Still working?” He moved around me to rest his knuckles on the table, reading the board. “Where’s Deep?”
“I sent him home around three this morning.” I yawned loudly and stretched. “I didn’t need any more computer support. I’m reviewing, but it’s a little bit like throwing a dart blindfolded. Honestly, there’s not much here.” I shoved the files to the side and rested a hip on the table. I gestured toward my whiteboard. “I’ve narrowed my guesses down to these four strategies. If Command is serious about making this capture, and money’s not a problem, I’d put a team on each of these scenarios. If I had funding and man power for a single shot, this would be my door number one.” I pointed to the list written in green marker. “It’s all speculative though. A lot of the records I need are classified with the client, so they’re not even in-house. What data we’ve got is weak.”
“Understood. What are these addresses? What is Slaybourgh Jewelers?” Striker read down the list.
“The first address is for a Jamal Omondas. Does his name mean anything to you?”
“Nada,” Striker turned as Jack came through my door.
“I think he might be the guy with the diamonds in his pocket. Slaybourgh Jewelers is my best guess for where he might try to unload them fast. Jessup Slaybourgh and Jamal Omondas have a long, reckless history.” I sat down and laid my forehead on the table. “My brain’s fried.”
“Criminally reckless?” Jack stood behind Striker, reading the board.
“Sort of? Here’s my theory why I think this is the right route — the Defense Department let Omondas go on Friday morning for ‘failure to follow protocol.’ I’d guess it’s code for ‘he was sniffing around where he didn’t belong’ and someone in his division clued in to his odd behavior. Omondas worked cyber security. I agree with you this was probably Schumann’s Plan B and seemed like the safer path. Omondas seems easily manipulated, so easier to hold in check, and I wouldn’t doubt that Schumann had plans for retrieving those diamonds once the deal was done. Schumann’s not stupid. He wouldn’t go after the diamonds himself, so if you’ve got a tail on Schumann, that won’t get you what you need.”
“Agreed.” Striker poured a cup of coffee from my machine. He held the mug out to me, and I shook my head. Striker drank it black - yuck.
“You said Omondas and Slaybourgh have a past?”
I rubbed at my eyes. “They went to MIT together. They were in the same class, same fraternity, and lived at the same address for two years after school. They had a few brushes with the law together during their college days: drunk and disorderly, public nudity, mostly young guys-gone-wild on campus sort of stuff.”
“That’s everything on their record? Some college pranks?”
“Nope. They both got arrested for hacking into the Pentagon computer system. The charges were dropped and Omondas got hired by Defense the same day. They hired Slaybourgh, too, but he quit within the month to open his jewelry shop.”
“And the other lists?” Striker gestured toward my whiteboard.
“Defense personnel – so they’d have access—whose names vaguely sound like ‘almonds’.”
“Got it.” Striker caught Jack’s eye. Jack copied down the information from the white board.
“I came across the file on Johannesburg.” I turned to face Striker. My hands went to my hips. “You and Jack were down-range that week. Was it you?”
“Classified.”
“I read between the lines. A hell of a mission, Striker.”
Striker didn’t answer. Which confirmed what I was saying. Even though this happened a month ago, fear for them ran through my body, making me shiver. Unprofessional emotions pressed behind my eyes. I was trying to develop a stoic exterior, like the guys on my team – mostly without success. “God, I feel puny standing in your shadows.”
Jack glanced up. “We’ve each got our talents, Lynx. You’re on our team for this.” He waved the paper at me, turned and left.
Striker eased me toward the door and called Beetle and Bella to follow.
“Where am I going?” I asked.
“To bed. I can either drive you home, or you can bunk in my guest room at the barracks.”
I checked my watch - five-thirty. “Maybe your place for a couple of hours. I want to get to the hospital by nine and find out if they have any news about Spyder. Maybe they’ll let me check in on him for a minute.”
“Okay, but I’m driving you. I don’t want you behind the wheel until you’ve had a good night’s sleep. It’s been a long couple of days for you.”
I nodded. What a gross understatement.
When I walked into Striker’s apartment, calm enveloped me. A panoramic view of Washington DC filled a whole wall of his great room, while a stone fireplace scaled another wall from floor-to-vaulted-ceiling, flanked by book shelves. The other walls were neutral shades and showed off oil paintings that Striker had painted for relaxation —huge modern seascapes in cobalt, indigo, and violet. He chose manly and substantial furnishings made from natural materials: leather, marble, granite, mahogany. It was gorgeous and luxurious, urban, maybe a touch of Zen quietude.
I slogged into the guest room. My dogs trailed behind me and plopped on the floor by the bed. Here, the walls were painted a rich teal. I flung myself face first on to the winter-white linens.
Striker followed me in and handed me one of his T-shirts. “Here. You won’t get any rest bunched up in your street clothes. I’m taking the girls for a run, okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” The pillow muffled my words. I pulled myself back up and yanked off my boots and socks. Mazel tov for wanting to run in the snow. I thought the girls would be just as happy on the treadmill in the gym downstairs.
I heard Striker in his room changing into jogging clothes, while I climbed under the covers. He came back in and gave me a kiss on the forehead and turned out my lights, softly calling the pups to go with him.
I burrowed under the covers and shut my eyes. I liked being in Striker’s apartment; it felt like Striker to me. Striker makes me feel good. Mostly. Sometimes I felt compressed by him, uncomfortably wedged into an odd posture. Our relationship was both years old and brand new.
Striker and I had met on many occasions. But when I was Spyder’s side kick, Striker didn’t even know I had girl parts. He thought I was a teenaged boy named Alex.
It was a shock when Striker walked into my hospital room after Wilson’s attack and introduced himself. Striker Rheas was to play knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress. My teenaged fantasy, in the flesh, acting itself out. Okay, well, there was no dragon, but Wilson made a fair approximation.
While Wilson acted as an external dragon Striker could slay, fighting the internal dragon that roiled up the sediment of my past desperation for Striker’s attentions belonged to me alone. I thought those fantasies would lie dormant after I met my husband, Angel. But there they were, all
of those Striker emotions, clouding my perception of my husband and of my marriage. Though I never acted unfaithfully while Angel was alive, I wasn’t without sin. Was it so different to think things a faithful wife shouldn’t?
Guilt poisoned me as Striker and I wove ourselves more tightly together. While Striker has never talked to me about where he thought all this was going, his feelings hung in the air, palpable at times, thick like a Tar-Baby catching and holding me tight. Not to say that Striker was ever outwardly anything less than a gentleman, anything less than professional. . .
Gah! Where is this going?
We were friends and co-workers…And then Christmas, and the mistletoe, and that kiss. I have never been kissed that way before. When I think about it, I can still taste him, his soft lips against mine asking for more. Not demanding more. Asking. And as I complied, he asked for still more until my head swam drunkenly with him…
I took my muddled emotions into my sleep with me. Strange dreams danced in my brain. At one point, I was spinning around until I fell just to get up and do it again, and again. I was relieved when Beetle and Bella prodded me awake with their wet noses.
Striker stood over me, breathing heavily from his workout. “I’m getting in the shower. Are you sure you want to get up now?”
“I’d better or my sleep patterns will be all off. I’ll be fine. Are you going to the hospital with me?” I pulled his T-shirt down modestly before I threw off the blanket.
Twenty minutes later, Striker steered an Iniquus Hummer onto the highway. I stared out the window at the mountains of black snow shoved aside by the plows to let the bumper-to-bumper traffic pass.
“Lynx, I know you’re exhausted, and your mind’s on fast forward, but I’m going to throw something else into the mix,” Striker said. I twisted my body around to face him and waited.
