Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  The rendering. How horrifically painful was it to see Stalker’s face even in a drawing? And the adrenaline dump that had followed was vicious. The artist got him spot on from what I remembered, though I only saw part of his face in the mirror. He had on the ventilator … ah, chloroform. Of course.

  “What’s her medical status?” Gavin asked.

  “After Lexi got to the hospital, they had a plastic surgeon work on her for about six hours. He was gluing her back together—not enough flesh to sew. Her only other injury is her head.”

  “She wasn’t raped or sexually molested, correct?” Gavin asked.

  “No. Thank God,” Dave said. Thank God! Another pause. Bet he was wishing for a shot of whiskey right now. I knew I was. “Her torso’s painful. Her head’s gonna take a while to heal. When she’s up, she sometimes experiences vertigo. Her eyesight gets fuzzy. She’s dizzy and nauseated. She can fall down from that, though she’s not passing out. I understand the brain swelling is causing her to have these crazy adrenaline dumps.”

  “And how does that affect her?” Gavin’s voice was methodical, running down his laundry list of required information.

  “I haven’t seen it happen to her. Lexi described it to me. She gets a feeling she’s in danger, and then her heart starts beating really fast, she perspires, which makes salt get into all of those cuts. She says the pain is almost unbearable—like the vinegar.”

  The screaming agony of my adrenaline dumps was unbearable. Vinegar on slash marks magnified. The feelings exploded my senses. Every synapse in my body fired all at once, all rational thoughts annihilated, limbic survival mode of hell.

  “As the adrenaline works its way out of her system, she shakes and cries. Then she needs to sleep. Basically passes out with fatigue,” Dave said.

  Escaped. I escaped into my exhaustion. Then I’d wake up terrified I would ever feel that way again.

  “What are the doctors doing to help her?”

  “The nurses apply soft, cool, wet cloths to get the salt off, and to stop her from sweating. If it’s the nice nurse, she’ll hold Lexi’s hand and talk to her about everyday stuff until Baby Girl calms down and falls asleep.”

  “They aren’t medicating her? Giving her Valium or something?”

  “It’s not like they haven’t tried, Lexi’s refusing the medication.”

  “She’s medically noncompliant?” Gavin’s voice tightened perceptibly. He obviously didn’t like the idea of noncompliance. Definitely military. And none of his damned business what meds I decided to take or not to take.

  “On this she is,” Dave said. “She says she’d rather be in pain and have all of her faculties than fuzzy and maybe dead.”

  Sixteen

  There was a pause, then, “That’s impressive.” I could hear respect for my decision in Gavin’s voice. “Most people in her position would be begging for relief. I can understand her thought process. She’s seen him. She’s a threat. Double danger.”

  “Yeah, but shit! She’s being tortured!” Dave all but yelled.

  “The doctors don’t think these ‘adrenaline dumps’ are the product of PTSD?”

  “They’re saying it’s a physical thing from the head trauma and swelling, not mental health. It should get better as time goes on. Look, Lexi is doing as well as anyone could,” Dave said.

  “Alright, what about enemies in the area? … any grudges you’re aware of?”

  Cranky walked in, and I didn’t get to hear Dave’s answer. I wanted more, the whole damned story spelled out like a novel. And it needed a Grimm’s Fairy Tale ending. There, on the last page, I wanted to read how India Alexis Sobado got to live happily ever after.

  My cell phone vibrated against my thigh, pulling me from my re-rehash of the earlier overheard conversation between Dave and mystery Gavin guy. I had been massaging every nuance, trying to understand what was going on. Why did Gavin’s voice sound so familiar?

  “Hey, Baby Girl, did you get everything?”

  “Your conversation with Gavin? Yeah, most of it. Thanks for including me,” I said.

  “I only had a few seconds warning, so I threw a Hail Mary when I made the call.”

  “How’d you like getting raked over the coals?” I pushed the button to raise the head of my bed up higher.

  Dave grunted. “Well, it was interesting. He’s damned intense. You’ll be in good hands; I think. Looks like your days of dealing with Nurse Cranky-Pants are soon over.”

  “Did they tell you when they’re going to release me?” I combed my fingers through my hair, catching them on a tangle.

  “They aren’t going to officially release you. A security team’s gonna take you to a safe house.”

  Gavin. The FBI. A safe house. This was the stuff of movies. Not reality.

  “Do you know when this is supposed to happen?” I asked.

  “It’s up to them. After this call, I’m no longer attached to your case. They want me hands-off to make sure …” Dave let his words recede and his next thought lap over it like waves on the shore. “They’ll slip you out of the hospital whenever they think they’re least likely to be seen.”

  “I should probably expect this to happen tonight, then?” I stared out my window at the sun setting over an enormous elm still brightly dressed in its golden leaves.

  “I’d say, or early morning. Their Team Lead will introduce himself when he gets there. His name is Gavin Rheas. I want you to ask him for his ID and look it over carefully, okay?”

  “Yes, I promise to be safe.” I used my “I’m a good girl” voice. Rheas. A vibration ran through me. I knew a Rheas. That wasn’t a common last name. “What security team did you say?”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re going to like this or not.” Dave coughed, clearly stalling. “It’s Iniquus,” he said.

  Iniquus! Holy moly. How the heck was I supposed to navigate this obstacle course? Spyder was beyond adamant my work for him be secret and that Iniquus should never realize I existed. Calm down, Lexi. They won’t be able to put this together.

  When I worked for Spyder, I was Alex. So no worries that someone would recognize me like this. Iniquus would still only know me as India Alexis Sobado, even if it turned out Gavin Rheas was … Now wouldn’t that just complicate everything a thousand fold? The words hell in a handbasket vibrated through my brain.

  Okay. So if I played my cards right, I’d stay safely anonymous. No one would know I was mentored by Spyder—though his training most assuredly saved my life—I knew how to get Stalker’s gag loose. Thank you, Spyder, wherever the hell you are.

  “Lexi? Baby Girl? Are you there?”

  “Sorry, Dave, my mind wandered for a minute. I’ll be sure to check the ID for Iniquus, Gavin Rheas.”

  “You sound worried.” Dave paused then said quietly, “Do you know this guy, Gavin? Is this okay?”

  “I’ve never met anyone named Gavin. Iniquus operatives use call names in the field, so who knows? Hey, are there any new developments on my case—do you have anything beyond the artist’s rendering?” My fingers worked the edge of my sheets.

  “Like a name?”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.” I held my breath. A name would humanize Stalker. Was I ready for that?

  “No name, but they’re distributing the police sketch to the media. I don’t think they’re handing out any particulars about your case, though. Just warning people this guy is wanted for questioning, he’s considered armed and dangerous, and there’s a reward for any information leading to his capture.”

  My brow wrinkled, pulling at my stitches. “And they’re going with Iniquus, is that normal? I never knew they could do that.”

  “Special circumstances. Listen. We repaired your window, and Manny set the alarm. He wants to know if it’s okay with you if he gets a crew in to refinish your floors and paint the walls the way you planned.”

  I pulled the sheet up to my chin. “Are the police done investigating it as a crime scene?”

  “They took the tape
down yesterday.”

  “Good. Yes. Tell Manny thanks for the help. I’d really appreciate coming home and seeing it clean and shiny and new. I don’t really want it to look like it did when I left. Bad memories and all. Hey, Abuela Rosa was expecting me. I should have been down in San Juan by now. Can you call her and tell her I’m delayed, but please, please don’t tell her what happened.”

  “Got it covered.”

  “Dave, I’m sorry—this pain is a hot knitting needle sticking through my eye.” I panted. “I need to hang up. Is there anything else I should know? Are we going to be able to talk once I’m at the safe house?”

  “No and no,” Dave said. “You’re going to disappear, so no one can trace you. It’s important. I want you to follow their rules and take real good care of …” Dave broke off.

  I filled in the empty space. “Everything’s going to be fine.” I tried to work conviction into my voice for Dave’s sake.

  I peered out my window, watching the sky fade from black-velvet to indigo. Tina had been in and out all night. She had kind, firm hands. Her caring spirit showed in the way she made the methodical seem personal. Tina made a lot less noise at night than Cranky and didn’t push my bed around. I slept through most of her checks.

  Wide-awake and anxious, I wondered about the Iniquus team. They’d probably show up soon. I’d better go ahead and use the bathroom, so I was ready when they swooped in to bundle me away to God-knows-where. Before I could press my call button for assistance, a light rap sounded at my door. I straightened my sheet, aiming for modesty. I was dressed only in my hospital gown without the benefit of underclothes.

  “Come in,” I called.

  Two men moved silently into my room. One stood near my door; the other strode over to my bed on long legs and extended his hand to me. My breath caught, and my face grew warm as the color rose in my cheeks.

  “Mrs. Sobado, I’m Gavin Rheas from Iniquus.”

  I placed my hand in his. “Lexi,” I said. He stood in the glow of the utility light over my bed as solid and capable as I remembered him—tall, about six foot three. His jacket stretched across the broad expanse of his shoulders. He wore his rusty-brown hair cut short. I wasn’t going to have to ask this man for ID. I recognized him the second he walked in.

  Yup, here was Striker, in all his glory, sauntering confidently into my drama. The irony wasn’t lost on me. How many times had I fantasized about Striker playing my hero? And now here he was—the knight in shining armor, and I was definitely a damsel in distress, though the role felt unnatural to me. I was used to being more Joan of Arc than Guinevere. Under these circumstances, I didn’t really have much of a choice about what role I got to play. Well, when I recovered, everything would change.

  If I had to be a damsel in distress, for the time being at least, I got to do it in the capable hands of Striker Rheas. Spyder would be glad. Striker’s the man he would have picked to protect me.

  Striker moved to pull a chair to my bed. Graceful. Comfortable in his skin. He was one of those rare guys who could be conspicuously gorgeous and not seem to have any awareness of it.

  I got to observe Striker out of uniform, playing spy on a few Heaven-sent operations. Men would instinctively become wary when he entered the room, closing their postures or moving away. The women would hold their ground, giving him long speculative glances. I watched them touch their hair and lift their breasts, subtle communications that they were interested, and his advances would be welcomed and rewarded. Back on those missions, I wanted to do that—lift my breasts and bat my eyes at him to get him to notice me, but Spyder had me insulated in huge, asexual gray sweats.

  Striker looked me full in the face. No, he didn’t recognize me, I registered.

  Hell in a handbasket now blazoned red and pulsing in my mind. It was a “knowing.” My psychic warning system on high alert. Shit. Now what?

  Striker swiveled and indicated his partner.

  “Mrs. Sobado, this is another member of your team, Jack.” I focused on the giant posted by my door. He wore his ebony hair cut military tight. His brilliant blue eyes had a hard, focused edge; I bet he used them to cut through any crap and see the truth. I pulled my sheet up, holding it under my chin.

  Jack was dressed identically to Striker in black-and-gray camouflage fatigues; a charcoal-gray, long-sleeved compression shirt; black Vibram-soled combat boots; and a black windbreaker with the Iniquus symbol on the left breast in silver. Like Striker, Jack had the guise of someone who would take on anyone, anywhere. I recognized Jack from the paintball war, but hadn’t known his name.

  Jack nodded. “Ma’am.” He was at my bedside in two strides, extending his hand.

  Putting my hand in Jack’s massive paw was like a three-year-old holding her dad’s hand. I felt small. Helpless. Dependent. I didn’t like any of those feelings.

  Jack moved to stand sentry at the door again.

  Striker sat down so we were eye to eye. “Here’s the deal—we’ve been hired to put you in a safe house while your case is under investigation. A safe house is a choice. We’re not holding you against your will. Do you understand?” Striker’s focus rested keenly on me. He was trying to gauge me, getting a sense for who I was and how I ticked. His voice sounded different than when he was speaking to Dave. Now his voice, with its gentle warmth, invited me to have confidence in him and his control over the situation. My stomach danced. “I understand.”

  “You’re being taken to the safe house for your protection, and also because you’re an eyewitness to a crime connected to a series of crimes that are of great concern to various agencies.”

  My gown slipped down my arm, exposing my shoulder. Striker’s eyes shifted from mine, following my hand as I slid the thin fabric back into place. I blushed and wished I had more clothes on in front of these two men.

  Striker refocused on my eyes. “You may leave the safe house at any time, though it would be unwise. We’re dealing with a dangerous criminal.” He paused, and again I nodded.

  “I understand.”

  “We were brought in on your case yesterday morning, and we’ve had to scramble a bit to get things in place. The FBI asked us to keep you as local as possible; that way we can bring you in easily if they need you for an ID.”

  “Do they know anything more about the guy who did this to me?” I choked on the last word, and Striker’s eyes warmed a little from their professional detachment.

  “No, ma’am. We’ll keep you apprised, though. We have a house in the area that meets our requirements for your safety.” Striker glanced down at his watch as he spoke. “We’re handling you carefully. I’m lead on this case, and I handpicked each of the other six men on your team. We’ve had a heads-up the media is trying to get information about these crimes. We want to move you out before anyone gets to you to ask questions about what happened. Right now your location is undisclosed, but we don’t think this window will last much longer because …”

  Striker stopped. I had reached up, cupping my hand over the bandage covering the stitches in my head. He waited.

  “I’m okay, go on.” I willed myself to focus on his words instead of the pain shooting burning arrows into my eye.

  “We don’t want to give anyone, even at Iniquus, any information. Only your teammates will have contact with you or the safe house. This presents somewhat of a problem. It’s safest to move you out now, but I can’t assign a guard until four today.”

  I wrinkled my brow, confused.

  “It’s not unusual, Mrs. Sobado, to leave a witness unattended in a safe house for days at a time. This will not be the case with you. You’ll have watchdog support.”

  “Oh? Why am I different?” This was all such freaking blood-and-dagger novel fodder. Watchdog support?

  “Because of your medical condition. My only concern about extricating you now is your physical state. How do you feel physically and mentally about making this move to the house, knowing you’ll have to spend some hours alone?”

  �
�I don’t understand.” Alone? I couldn’t defend myself in this state. “Wouldn’t I be safer staying here under police protection, and you can pull me out tonight?”

  “That was our original plan. We can still take that direction if you prefer. It’s a coin toss. You’re under police guard here, but medical staff has access. It’s not as protected as it might seem.”

  “But you said your plan was to leave me until later. What changed?”

  “After media was given the artist’s sketch of your attacker to put over the airwaves, they swarmed Police Headquarters, trying to find out what ‘armed and dangerous’ meant. It must be a slow news day—or they can smell a bigger story. If the press gets to you or your records, they’ll advertise your location. And …”

  “And I don’t want my location advertised.” I inhaled noisily, trying to get my foggy head to make a good decision. “It’s a very safe safe house?” My voice sounded small and childlike in my ears. Years of fluff training reared its head when I’d much rather be giving off the impression I was capable.

  Striker smiled one of his contagious smiles—slow and slightly crooked; beautiful, white, even teeth; the merest hint of dimples at the corners. His smile started in his moss-green eyes, warming them. I found myself smiling back at him.

  “It’s a very safe safe house,” he said.

  “Can I have a gun?”

  “I understand you’re well trained, so we’ll make sure you’re armed while you’re alone.”

  “Okay—I think that will be okay.” Vulnerable. My skin tingled with trepidation.

  “You’re up to this physically? I know you’re having problems from your head injury.”

  “I’ll probably lie on the couch and sleep while I’m alone.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Striker stood. “Your meds are already in the car. We need to get you dressed and make our move.” Striker cast his gaze around the room. “Where did they put your clothes?”

  “I don’t have anything here other than my toothbrush.” I pointed to the bathroom.