by Fiona Quinn
“No shoes?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
Striker turned to Jack. “We’ll need another hospital gown Mrs. Sobado can wear backwards. Also, get a blanket from the supply closet and bring back a wheelchair. We can’t have her walking barefoot through the hospital.”
Jack nodded.
As he walked out, a medium-skinned black man with a shaved head and dramatically arched brow seamlessly replaced Jack at the door. This guy had a scar running down the right side of his face like a pirate—a muscular, bold, intimidating pirate. He nodded at me when I caught his eye and offered me a formal smile. He would scare the bejesus out of me if I met him in a dark alley.
“Mrs. Sobado, this is Axel. He’s another member of our team. Deep is in the hall, guarding your door. You’ll meet him in a minute.”
I lifted a quizzical brow. “Deep?”
“It’s a call name, ma’am. When we’re on assignment, we don’t use our real names for security purposes.”
“Okay, but how did Deep come to have that one?” My question caught Striker by surprise.
He stared at me for a full minute. “I’d rather not say.”
In that case, I’d probably rather not know! “Well, how would you like me to address you?” I was afraid I’d slip and call him “Striker” before he told me to. Then I’d need to explain.
“By my call name. It’s ‘Striker.’”
“Alright, Striker it is. And I’d like for you and your men to call me Lexi, instead of Mrs. Sobado—that is, unless you want to make up a call name for me, too,” I said with a smile.
Striker’s eyes glittered with amusement. “We’ll try to figure something out for you.”
Jack came back in the room with a wheelchair and waited while Axel removed my IV. Jack handed me a folded hospital gown which I pulled on like a jacket, securing it in the front.
I looked up, “Gentlemen, may I have a moment to brush my teeth and pull a comb through my hair?” Really, I needed to go to the bathroom badly.
The three turned and exited my room, but Striker pivoted with his hand on the knob. “Knock on the door when you’re ready, and we’ll put you in the wheelchair.”
I moved carefully to the bathroom. I didn’t want to have a problem with vertigo. If I splatted out now, I was afraid the men would come in and find me bare bottom up. I used the bathroom, then quickly brushed my teeth. The comb dragged at my snarls, making my head ache, so I gave up and pulled my hair through an elastic band to make a haphazard bun thingy. I splashed cold water on my face to wash away the sleep in my eyes and patted myself dry. That was the best I could do under the circumstances. I walked over to the door, gave a tap-tap-tap, and backed up out of the way.
Seventeen
Axel pushed the chair into my room and put on the brakes. He helped me to sit down, covering my bare legs with a light cotton hospital blanket he had pulled from a warmer. The heat cloaked me, giving me a sense of security.
“You’ve done this before.” I glanced over my shoulder to see Axel’s face.
“Yes, ma’am, everyone on your team is a trained medic.”
“Well that’s good, I guess. How are we getting out of here? I thought I had a police officer guarding my door.” I turned forward again to try to still the vertigo.
Axel’s smile was audible as he said, “The guy felt sleepy and needed a little nap. We said we’d take over for a while.”
“That easy? Yeah. I definitely don’t want to wait for tonight.”
Axel released the brakes and rolled me forward.
Striker peeked his head in. “All clear,” he said.
Axel angled me out while Striker held the door; it shut soundlessly. Striker stayed on my right, his windbreaker pushed aside, exposing the Glock on his hip as Axel quickly wheeled me down the corridor. Jack propped the elevator open with his booted foot, his hand on his weapon. They weren’t playing around. Their eyes cast about, sharp and vigilant. In a way, this felt safe; in another, it felt entirely too dangerous. We entered and rode in silence down to the basement.
The elevator doors opened to reveal the fourth member of the Extract-Lexi Team, Deep. He looked Italian with his dark olive skin and raven hair—glossy even in its tight military cut. His eyes glittered with fun. Hmmm. Glad he found this amusing.
“Clear,” Deep said.
Jack went out first and jogged down the corridor. I looked over Deep as Axel pushed me through the doors. No, Deep’s frame didn’t have the bulk of his teammates. Built like a cyclist or tennis player with long, steely muscles, he definitely had the stance of a ladies’ man with a lot of banter practice under his belt. I think I might understand his call name now. He looked dangerous, but not the same kind of dangerous as Axel.
“Mrs. Sobado.” I tilted my gaze as Striker indicated Deep with an open-palmed hand. “You’ve probably figured out this is …”
The room whirled; my eyes lost their focus. With a moan, I supported my elbows on the arms of the wheelchair and dropped my head into my hands. Please, God, please don’t make me puke in front of these men. Please.
Striker crouched beside me. “Vertigo?”
“Mmm,” I mustered.
Axel pulled my chair into an alcove. Deep and he formed a wall in front of me. Striker’s cool fingers on the back of my neck gave me something to focus on other than the bile that tickled my throat. He put a steadying hand on my shoulder; I guessed to keep me from falling out of the chair and splatting on the concrete. I did some deep breathing to center myself. After a minute, I felt well enough to lift my head back up and nod that we could continue; forming actual words still lay outside my scope of possibility.
Axel rolled my chair quickly forward through a maze of corridors—Jack always just ahead, his boots striking a steady cadence. Large cargo doors emptied us onto a loading bay where three charcoal-gray Humvees waited in a disciplined row.
The chill in the air shocked me. When did the weather turn? My nostrils stung with the odor of rotten garbage, making my unsettled stomach slosh. The stench reminded me of the reeking miasma that I smelled when I thought about Stalker. My skin prickled a warning. Shit! Breathe—No! Stop! Don’t breathe. Don’t smell it, just get into the damned car without dumping adrenaline.
The men beeped the cars unlocked with their key fobs; the sound echoed off the cement walls, making me jump. Every nerve in my body stood at watchful attention. Every sensation seemed amplified. My teeth scraped over my lips as I chewed on my apprehension.
Striker reached down to help me into the backseat of the middle Humvee, tucking my blanket up out of the door as he shut it. He sauntered around the car and climbed in next to me. Jack slid onto the driver’s seat. Up ahead, Axel angled into the lead car. I guessed that meant Deep drove the rear. I made up the filling in a protective sandwich.
Reaching for my seatbelt, I pulled it across my lap, and tucked the shoulder harness behind me to safeguard my torso. I shifted on the seat. The cool leather stuck to my bare thighs. Wow, could this hospital gown be any skimpier? I cast a veiled glance over at Striker, who watched me like a science experiment.
I leaned my forehead against the cool windowpane. Ah, some relief. I hoped they had a plan for my clothes. Surely, I wasn’t the only damsel they’d hauled to safety barely dressed. They must have some strategy in place. Striker listened on the phone and signaled Jack to go. I blushed what felt like flamingo pink, radiantly aware that I was riding in a car with two men and no underwear.
I turned to ask Striker where we were heading, but he still had the phone to his ear.
“… no trace of either Cammy or Lynda,” Striker said. “We’re at the twenty-four hour mark. I’ll file a report with the police.”
Two women must be missing. I wondered if they were part of my case. Would Stalker target more than one of us at a time? The thought had never occurred to me before. Why wouldn’t he? Maybe he attacked them outside of their homes and now Iniquus can’t find them. A shudder went through me.
I frantically searched for something else to fill my mind. My gaze fell, thankfully, on a Hispanic man and woman walking toward the hospital, hand in hand. They must be working the next shift. I wondered what Angel was doing now. I had waited so long for any kind of contact from him. Did he try to reach me? Could he be back from his assignment? If he had a single clue what was going on, he would freak out and still have no way to help me. Maybe this long mission helped. Maybe it was the best thing for Angel.
Angel off-grid. Spyder downrange. Now I was no-contact, disappearing from sight like a magic trick. How scary was that? No pack. A lone wolf. Alone.
Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t paid much attention to the direction the car moved. I tried not to look out of the windows. The shifting landscape hurt my eyes. I had the vague sense we’d driven through the city center, onto a highway, and now we exited off into an unfamiliar neighborhood. The houses were small and older. They dotted the neighborhoods like postage stamps on large rectangular lots.
The Humvees turned left and slowly maneuvered into the driveway of the last house on the road. Three sides of woods surrounded a huge, open yard. No one would be able to see this house unless they drove down to the end of the cul-de-sac. Anyone from the house had a clear line of sight to approaching vehicles. The trees would mask any lights or activity at the house, and yet the house wasn’t so secluded that I couldn’t run for help if I needed to. This felt like a safe safe house. I imagined Spyder picking this place. That thought bolstered my confidence.
The driveway gently curved behind the house to the attached garage. Axel’s vehicle parked to the left of the opening. Jack pulled ours right into the garage and lowered the doors with a button on the dash.
I slid down from the car seat, supported by Jack’s massive hand. When my foot touched the freezing-cold cement floor, it sent a stab of pain up my calf. I carefully wrapped my blanket around me toga style and walked through the door into the house proper, glad for the carpeting.
I went directly over to the sofa, where Jack had already spread a sheet for me. Thankful to stretch out horizontally and put my head on a pillow, I lay there childlike as giant Jack spread the blankets over me. My head pounded rhythmically.
“Would you like something to eat, Lexi?” Striker asked from the end of the couch. I shook my head no; I had my arms crossed over my closed eyes. The men moved around the room quietly. Water poured at the sink. I peeked past my arm as Jack placed a small table beside me. Striker laid a pitcher of water, a glass, and my bottles and tubes of meds on the table.
Jack tucked a small cooler underneath. “These are sandwiches and fruit for when you get hungry,” he said.
Striker crouched down so we were eye to eye. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am I have to leave you right now.” His voice sounded earnest.
I nodded by way of reply.
“Deep and Axel will be here at four o’clock. The rest of the team is scheduled to arrive at six. We’ll bring dinner with us. I’ll call in to ask what you want to eat, okay?”
“Thanks.”
He held up a Springfield 9mm. “I know you shoot a Ruger. Are you familiar with this gun?”
“I have one.” Numb. My brain, my limbs, my emotions. It was as if I turned the volume down too low.
“It’s got an extended clip.” He slid the magazine in place, chambered a bullet, and put the gun in its holster on the table beside me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace with a large white circle pendant. “This is a communication device like they have for the elderly who live alone. You’ve seen the commercials, ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up?’”
“Yes.” I was monosyllabic. My tongue and lips couldn’t seem to collaborate on the task of communication.
“This is the same type of thing. In an emergency, you push this button and a two-way transmission will open between you and Iniquus. You talk right out loud as if we were in the same room. There are speakers that will pick up your voice. I think you have something similar at your house.”
“Yes.” Come on Lexi, maybe just one full sentence?
Striker slipped the cord around my neck, and the device settled between my breasts. “You have help if you need it,” he said and checked his watch. “We have to go now.” He gave me one last questioning look. I guessed he was trying to decide if leaving me was a good decision or not. What he saw in my eyes seemed to satisfy him. He covered my hand with his. His callused palm felt very capable.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said, and I believed him.
Jack handed me the remote for the TV. He laid a cold, damp cloth over my forehead. It offered me some relief.
I rolled my eyes up to get Jack in view. “Thank you so much.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then they left. And I lay there. Alone in the safe house.
The wide sofa cushions were comfortable, but I still flopped like a fish in the sun as I tried to find a position to fall asleep. I always slept on my belly, curled around a pillow, one knee folded up jack-knife style—obviously not a possibility right now. After a few minutes, I gave it up, picked up the remote, and flipped through the television channels a few times. I hoped something would catch my attention. I desperately needed a distraction.
I flung my covers off and clambered to my feet. Okay. I needed to keep my hands busy. Lying here listening to my mind whir around the details of my mess was making me go nuts.
I went to the kitchen, searching for something to make for dinner. The fridge stood completely empty except for various opened condiment bottles, two cans of beer, and some wilted vegetables. On the other hand, someone had stocked the freezer with all kinds of meats, frozen vegetables, fruits, some phyllo dough, and an empty Breyers ice cream box. Huh. I pulled the box out to throw in the trash.
The pantry housed a treasure trove of spices and canned goods. Nori sheets, Vegemite, shortbread, sauerkraut, dried ancho chilies. It seemed that whoever put together the cupboard was thinking United Nations. The wine rack in the space above held various reds and whites.
If I wanted to get something together for dinner, I needed to get the meat defrosting. The deli sandwiches or fast food I imagined would come in with the crew didn’t seem at all appetizing. Cooking would be therapeutic; I needed to sense my grandmothers were close. This seclusion wasn’t going to be as easy as it sounded when Dave told me the plan.
I rifled through the freezer to see if I could find ingredients for a stew, maybe even a boeuf bourguignon if I was lucky. Focus on cooking. Focus on something wholesome.
I had my head in the freezer; the cold air swirled around my face. It felt soothing and seemed to help me solidify some of my wobbly thoughts. Okay, my problem—a freaking serial killer was on the loose and on my trail. I needed to think, to systematically go through the information, to work with Iniquus to come up with a plan, and get Stalker chucked into prison.
My other problem—when I thought about that night, when I tried to think and puzzle through everything, I had an adrenaline dump. Even the fear of an adrenaline dump was punitive enough to make me want to cringe, hide, throw up my hands in surrender. I couldn’t … I just couldn’t deal with the physical and emotional pain.
I needed a strategy. How would I deal with my situation? Nothing like this ever came up in my training. I blew out through pursed lips, trying to slow my breathing and contain my anxiety as I dug around in the freezer and came up with some bacon.
Come on, Lexi. Take a step back, don’t think specifically about the case. What if you were dealing with someone else—a victim? How would you advise her? What would Spyder do? Well, he’d say trust the experts. Trust your team. I pulled out a bag of pearl onions and put them on the counter. If I were down for the count with medical issues, my Save-Lexi team members would have their eye on me and not on the ball. If I got medically worse, I’d end up back in a hospital and in more danger. Logically, the best way to move forward was to allow my team to do their job.
And for me to fo
cus on healing as quickly as possible. What did that mean? Well, it meant focusing everywhere but on that ball. Take my head out of the proverbial game. Act counter to my intuition and training, and be that damned damsel in distress. I needed to let those knights ride after my dragon … while I sang a song with my fingers stuck in my ears and my eyes squeezed tightly together, focused on everything but him.
Could I do it? Hell, I didn’t know. Fluffy was my exterior disguise. I had never tried to disguise my interior thoughts before. It was going to be a challenge, for sure. Just like every other damn piece to this whole puzzling situation.
Eighteen
I located stew meat. From what I had seen with the first four Iniquus men, these guys were massive; I’d wager they had appetites to match. We were eight in total. I’d better triple the recipe, which meant nine pounds of meat. I set the beef on the counter in a giant pile.
While the makings defrosted in the oven, I piddled away some time looking through magazines, pacing at the windows, and startling with every little sound. When the ingredients reached the point that they were usable, I sautéed my beef cubes and followed the inner voice of Nana Kate, adding the components to the stew pot, methodically going through Julia Child’s exacting steps.
Yes. Focus on Nana Kate. If she were here, she’d have me knitting. “Idle hands are the tools of the Devil,” she’d say. My hands weren’t the problem, Nana Kate! It was my mind. My idle mind was devilish for sure, dragging me toward my hellish thoughts of pain, and fear of pain … and fear of death.
“Lexi!” I admonished myself out loud. Okay—Nana Kate. Nana Kate, my Kitchen Grandmother from Nebraska, had a good, steady, no-nonsense attitude and a steel-colored bun on the top of her head. On most days, Nana Kate fed her family from the four food groups—good old-fashioned, tried-and-true, patriotic menus. But every once in a while, she got a touch of the mischief in her, and she’d pull out her Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking cookbook. Then we’d revel in cassoulet and chocolate mousse, baguette, and tart tatin. And tonight boeuf bourguignon. Thank you, Nana Kate.
