by Quinn, Fiona
Striker drove me over to Cachet Mansion, where Babcock’s limo was supposed to pick me up.
I broke the silence. “Is there anything you need to tell me this mission?”
Striker turned his head to glance at me then turned back to the road. “You’re thoroughly briefed. Was there something you need to go over?” he asked.
I crossed my arms tightly under my breasts. Nope. No mention of the Sylanos connection. I sent a vehement look over to Striker.
He glanced my way again. “What?” he asked as he pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the massive carved doors of the mansion.
“Nothing.” I flounced out of the car. Bewilderment etched his face as I slammed the door shut. Well that was mature and highly professional of me.
Twenty-Six
Babcock was an odd little man with a huge, shaggy, prematurely gray head. His body started with thin sloped shoulders from which his belly and hips swelled like a giant raindrop. His tiny feet were ensconced in beautiful leather dress shoes.
“Sei molto bella stasera, mia cara,” he whispered in my ear. His breath smelled of garlic and scotch.
“Grazie non vedo l’ora di una serata favolosa con te.”
“You speak Italian!” He vibrated when he said that. Maybe odd was an understatement.
“I call it kitchen Italian.” I gave him a friendly smile. “My Nona was always busy cooking delicious things for us, and I liked to help her. She was from Sienna and never got around to learning English. And you? Where is your Italian from? Family?”
“No, no. I have a villa near Milan. Do you know Milan?”
“I’ve never been,” I sighed my disappointment.
“If we get along as well as I think we will, perhaps I’ll take you to my villa.”
“Oh, I’d like that,” I smiled. “Now, what shall I call you?”
“Babcock.” He emphasized the last syllable.
I gave him a mischievous look. “Oh you are a bad boy, Babcock.” That sent him over the edge; he giggled madly. He didn’t seem like he could be a Hydra Marionette, I mused.
Our driver pulled up to the hotel. The attendant opened my door, and held out a hand to me. We started up the carpeted entrance, me in my heels towering over Babcock’s five-foot-five frame. Inside, we stood in the receiving line. Babcock was regaling me with an explanation of how automatic windshield wipers knew when to turn on.
After giving the room a cursory scan — getting the lay of the land — I refocused my attention on Babcock, trying to take in what he was blathering about. I prepared myself for a long night of this. I smiled and nodded as if he were telling me the most interesting story in the world.
We rounded the corner, moving toward the head of the line. Security checked our invitation then Babcock’s and my identifications. Thank you, Iniquus, for your attention to detail. We lined up, ready to shake hands in the receiving line, and who should be second hostess in line? Celia. I looked around trying, to figure a way around this debacle. Nope. Nothing. I’d have to move through with everyone else and shake Celia’s hand if I were to get into the ball. My mind flew to all of the things I could say if she called me by my real name, or mentioned where I worked, or… dear God, this was a nightmare.
“Griffin Babcock escorting Miss Gabriella Ricci.” Babcock said.
Celia stared at my dress, her eyes moved to the snake on my arm, then up to my face. For just the quickest flash, just the smallest instant, I could see Celia’s mind hard at work. Then, her face became placid, if a little bored, and she said, “What a beautiful dress; it’s perfect for your coloring, Miss Ricci. I hope you have a wonderful evening.” She turned to the next person in line.
I loved Celia. I’d blown my cover – she’d know I wasn’t an office worker the way I said I was— and I’d need to explain my job to her now, but in this moment, I was safe.
Griffin Babcock was a well-connected man, with obvious intelligence. Men in designer tuxes and women in haute couture asked his opinions on everything from foreign affairs, to the stock market, to art collection. He was certainly not lonely. He seemed to enjoy saying my name as he introduced me to people, trilling the r in Ricci. He looked approvingly at me when I stood next to him, as if we belonged to one another, without my fawning or draping like a hooker.
A man approached – it was the one man whom Babcock did not introduce me to. They talked about mergers and acquisitions. This guy cast uncertain glances in my direction, and breathed heavier than perhaps he should, shifting from foot to foot like he wanted to run. I looked impassively back at him, cradling my drink just below my breast-line, and I surreptitiously tap-tap-tapped my wire to give Control a heads up. The conversation sounded innocuous, but it looked and felt like something was being passed under the table. After the guy moved away, I asked Babcock who he was. Babcock changed the subject. Yup. I’d lay money that that was the unknown that Iniquus was trying to catch in their net. Hydra Marionette. I wondered how much Babcock knew, or if he was being duped and used. He reminded me of an over-sized, very shaggy garden gnome – not someone who would be in bed with Sylanos.
After a yummy dinner, the band tuned up to play. Babcock danced hobgoblin jigs to the modern music, but he wasn’t tone deaf. When the music switched to waltzes and tangos, he was much more self-assured, though spinning under his arm gracefully was something of a trick. While I danced, I felt hard eyes on me and caught the mergers and acquisitions guy staring at me. Did something about my disguise shift? Was something off about me that made this guy’s antennae go up? I caught a glimpse of Deep out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, and he gave a discreet tap to his watch - it was time for the main event.
“Babcock, you’re very popular.” I smiled down at him.
He rewarded me with a wink and moved his hand from the small of my back to the curve of my bottom. Ugh.
I tilted my chin and cast what I hoped was a seductive smile his way. “I’m jealous. I’m done sharing you with everyone else. I want you all to myself. Now.”
His smile dropped off, and his mouth hung open; he snapped it shut. Babcock took me by the elbow and purposefully steered me to the front entrance, while he called his limo to collect us.
Into the car, and on top of me. Double ugh.
“Babcock.” I giggled as I pushed him off. “Babcock, you’re going to ruin my dress. If you muss me up, I’ll look like a teenager coming home from the prom. And I want to be beautiful when you walk me through the lobby, and onto the elevator. Don’t you think everyone should be enviously imagining all of the wonderful things I’m going to do to you as soon as we’re in private?”
“Yes.” He nodded his lion’s mane vigorously.
Quickly, I found myself on the elevator heading up to Babcock’s penthouse suite. Two huge body guards paced at our heels. They’d been irritatingly within arm’s reach all night, working hard at their jobs with their sunglasses and ear transmitters. Lots of show. They measured about the size of Jack. Jack was six-foot-five, probably 250 pounds of muscle. Big. I hoped I didn’t end up going hand-to-hand with them, especially in this dress. My mind flitted to my Ruger strapped to my inner thigh.
Standing in the hall outside of the suite, Thing One said he wanted to pat me down. Oh, hell no. I snuggled closer to Babcock. “Baby, the only one who gets to pat me down is you. This isn’t an orgy.” My voice threatened that I’d leave if the guy laid hands on me.
Babcock looked indecisive.
I twirled in front of Thing Two. “Do you see any bulges on me? What exactly do you think your partner is feeling for? Does he always try to horn in on Babcock’s dates?” I asked with derision.
Babcock took his cue from me. No one would touch me but him. Babcock keyed the room open and shooed the two away.
“I plan on giving you a very thorough body search.” Babcock chuckled as he hitched off his jacket and tugged the ends of his bowtie.
“Champagne?” I smiled. “We need to toast this beautiful night and our meeting. I think i
t’s fate. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Babcock called down to room service for champagne and chocolate covered strawberries.
We had come to make-it or break-it time. The mission was riding on me. No pressure, though. I took a steadying breath. “You’re a wonderful dancer. I love how I feel in your arms. Could you find something romantic and slow on the stereo?” I asked.
Babcock headed over to the radio. God I hoped this kept him occupied until Deep could get here. I didn’t think I could hold this guy off with small talk for much longer.
Come on Deep! Where’s that champagne?
Soon, a knock sounded at the door. Deep pushed a cart into the sitting room, popped the cork on the bottle, and poured a glass, assiduously averting his gaze from mine. Lifting the flute, I pressed my lips onto the rim to leave my lipstick mark. I needed to tell which glass was which. I moved to the other side of the room to draw Babcock’s attention away from the powder packet that Deep was tapping into the second glass. Deep left, pocketing his tip with a slight bow.
“Oh, just leave it there Babcock; I like that music. Come let’s make a toast.” Our glasses clinked, and I pretended to sip.
“I have to tell you.” I smiled over at him. “I’m not good at holding my alcohol. I’m fun with one, but you need to make sure I don’t drink two, or I’ll pass straight out.”
“I’ll keep you safe,” Babcock told me gallantly. After we drank down our first glass – I dumped mine on the carpet when he wasn’t looking - I poured more into our flutes.
“Hey, you said you should stop,” Babcock protested mildly, but his pupils dilated, and his gaze skated down my dress.
“It’s okay, I’m going to crawl into your bed with you. If I pass out?” I smiled what I hoped was a lascivious smile. “Well, you can do what you want with me.”
Again, with the mouth gaping open — this time he was sucking air.
“Babcock, baby. Are you okay? Was it something you ate? Should I call for a doctor? What’s going on?” I colored my voice with quiet concern.
Babcock’s eyes spread wide with fright. Eyes that trusted me.
“Come on, baby, let’s get you in bed.” I caught him by the arm and steered toward the bedroom. Babcock didn’t make it. He fell trying to reach for the credenza, hitting hard. He knocked over a lamp on his way down, and I knew his security would hear that.
“Ouch! God damn it, Babcock. That hurt.” I shouted for the body guards to hear. “You’ll have to pay extra if you want to play that rough.” I ran to the door to listen and to be close to an exit if I wasn’t convincing.
The guys in the hall laughed. “Holy shit! I didn’t know the pip-squeak had it in him.”
Babcock sprawled on the floor. I turned up the radio and ran back to check his vitals, then over to the balcony door in the bedroom. Blaze and Striker crouched in black cat burglar outfits, right down to the ski masks and rappel harnesses. They slunk in and lost no time getting to work.
I pulled the bed covers down and jumped around on the mattress to muss up the sheets. They stripped Babcock naked and threw him on the bed. Blaze went into the other room to do a search.
I looked over at naked Babcock. “That’s the second hideous troll penis I’ve seen because of Iniquus,” I whispered to no one in particular. Striker shot me a strange look.
“No, really, look at it, Striker. That looks like a tiny grotesque version of the dildo Chablis gave me to practice on, when she was teaching me her techniques. Is it supposed to be purple?”
Striker laughed. “Lynx, focus. You have work to do.”
“Gah! I need to Clorox my eye-balls. That’s not happy. Who would want to have sex with something like that?” I asked as I applied fresh lipstick, then picked up Babcock’s shirt and kissed it from top to bottom before draping it over the lamp. I took the back off of his phone and planted a monitor and GPS, then removed the transmitter I had planted in the breast pocket of his tux on the way to the ball. I pulled out his wallet to photograph the contents.
Blaze glanced up from the computer. “It’s secure; we don’t have time to crack the encryption. Plan B. I’ll have to switch out the memory. Poor guy got a computer virus.”
“Have you tried the usual? 123456, qwerty, password, Griffin, openup…”
“Yeah, none of those.”
“Try ‘12161970,’” I read from his license.
“What’s that?” Blaze looked up at me.
“Birthday.”
“Nope.”
“How about ‘Muffin,’” I said.
“Bingo. Muffin it is. How’d you guess Muffin?”
“Cat’s name.” I held up the photo of Babcock and Muffin; on the back he’d drawn a big heart around the name.
“Huh,” Blaze grunted, as he downloaded the information onto a flash drive, then planted the software so they could monitor his computer remotely.
I took Babcock’s 520 dollars in cash out of the wallet, and put it in my handbag. I wrote a note on the hotel stationary. “Babcock, you’re a wild man! Whenever you’re in town please give me a call. Remember you promised me a trip to Milan in exchange for my doing… what you wanted. XOXO Ella.” I folded the paper and put it where the cash used to be. Striker watched me curiously.
“Gabriella would have taken the money. I’ll be donating it to the SPCA in Muffin’s name, unless you can think of something better.”
My next task was to open up the room safe, so we could catalogue the contents. It wasn’t terribly high-tech, easy enough to crack with a stethoscope. Once that was done, I went through all of the rooms to stage them as if we had had a night of sexual debauchery. My team couldn’t leave any tell-tale signs that we had tampered with Babcock’s belongings.
“Looks fine,” I said to Striker. “Was there anything else on the to-do list?”
“Nope. I think we’re done here. Deep’s in the hall, he’ll shadow you out. A limo is waiting for you downstairs.”
When I got back to Striker’s, he was sitting in his armchair, watching the city lights, and drinking a glass of port. My trip home in the limo was uncomfortable; my thoughts virulent red with anger. I planned to confront Striker as soon as we were together. But all of my rancor dissolved when he greeted me with that warm slow smile.
I shook my head, and focused on the ceiling. I could give in right now and go cuddle with Striker or I could challenge him. Neither seemed like the right thing to do. I walked over, sat down, and looked him straight in the eye. “I had a ‘knowing’.”
“And?” Striker shifted, leaning forward with his forearms balanced on his knees.
I stopped for a minute picking out my next words. I thought maybe Deep’s slip-up – when he assumed I knew about the Schumann/Sylanos connection – would get him in trouble. I needed to choose my words carefully. “I know many things,” I said.
Striker’s gaze became opaque, unreadable.
“Were you going to tell me that Schumann and Sylanos were linked?” I asked.
No response.
“Or tonight for that matter. Didn’t you think it would be important for me to know that Babcock was a Sylanos puppet?”
“How would that be important?” Striker tipped his head to the side.
“Let’s see, maybe I would like to know when and why I’m spying on members of a group that thinks I am equally worthy of their in-kind attentions? Maybe that?”
“Lynx, you are a paid Iniquus operative.” His voice was deadly calm. “You were trained by Spyder, but let me review your job description with you. Your work is mission-specific — that means you will function within the confines of your orders. You will perform the duties required of you, and that is that. You don’t get to know unless knowing will advance the cause. If you are not offered information, it’s because the information is deemed unnecessary for you to know. Clear?”
Something tickled at the edge of my consciousness. “Brennon, too?” I whispered.
Strikers lips formed a long tight line. That was my c
onfirmation.
“What about the FBI debacle?” I asked.
“No. Not every case. Not that one.”
“Seph Richy?” I held my breath.
I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten. Yes, Seph Richy, too. Shit! Hydra on steroids. Three really high up, well placed moguls. When I had some down time to think…
“It shouldn’t matter, Lynx.”
I stalled, wide eyed, breath coming in shallow pants. “But I’m Lexi, too. I was Lexi before all of this.” My voice was small. I spread my hands wide. “It’s Lexi they’re interested in.”
Something moved across Striker’s face. Oh. I think I get it now. I knelt at his feet, gazing up into his eyes. “Striker, I can’t live life in neatly compartmentalized boxes – that’s your problem isn’t it? I’m supposed to be mission specific, and I’m just not.”
Striker watched me warily.
“I don’t fit neatly into one of your boxes, do I? A box for Lexi, and a box for Lynx.”
Striker waited a beat. “That is the understatement of the year, Chica. You’re right though. It’s very hard for me to balance personal and professional. Especially knowing what you’re doing. It’s not like we’re accountants, working in the same office, and the worst that could happen would be a paper cut.” He wanted me to smile, as usual, wanted to take some of the heaviness from the air.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to manage it?” I held my breath. My scalp prickled. I was suddenly very afraid I’d have to choose which box to live in. I manically twisted my rings back and forth on my finger.
Striker looked down at what I was doing with my hands. “We said we’d take it slow. I’m not the only one who needs to adjust.”
I sat down, my legs curled underneath, the silken fabric of my gown puddled around me. We watched each other.
Striker broke the silence. “The mission went smoothly. I liked the little touches, the lipstick and the note. Woman’s perspective - very helpful.”
