by Fiona Quinn
Soon, the glorious aromas from the oven replaced the safe house’s stale, unused smell. It would take three hours in a slow oven to realize the wonderful, fall-apart-in-your-mouth tenderness of the meat. I was starting to wear down. The anxiety, and the predawn start, were showing up in heavy arms and sagging shoulders.
In the laundry, I found a man’s button-down cotton shirt big enough for a giant. Jack’s? I didn’t think he’d mind me substituting this for my hospital gowns. I took two towels and the shirt into the bathroom with me. I untied the cotton strings, let the cover-ups fall to the ground, lifted off the communications necklace, and set it on the toilet tank for safekeeping.
Kneeling on the floor, I washed my hair under the bathtub faucet with tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner—leftovers from someone’s hotel stay. I climbed into the tub with a little hot water. What I really wanted was a deep, hot bubble bath. Already this was better than the hospital where I had been sponge bathed. How embarrassing was that? I did my best to clean myself off and shave without getting my torso wet.
Suddenly, a bright, metallic clatter sounded downstairs. I froze. My heart hammered. I glanced wild-eyed around the room for a weapon. My gaze landed on my alert necklace. How far away was help? I didn’t expect my team until four. I strained for any telltale sounds. To locate their point of origin and determine what they could mean. To echo-discriminate. My blood drummed so loudly in my ears, the thrumming drowned out any other noise. Shit, Spyder was right. Panic will kill you, Lexicon. It makes you unable in mind and body. I pinched my nose at the bridge to stop my hyperventilation and steeled myself for action.
Holy hell! Crouching low, I crawled out of the tub. I stayed tightly tucked, squatting beside the sink—hyperprotective of my oh-so-vulnerable torso. I didn’t know if the doctors could put me as Humpty Dumpty back together again, since they had already managed the impossible once, barely. My thoughts sped through my brain, tripping and tumbling over each other. The last time I had been alone, naked, and vulnerable in a bathroom …
No. Do not! Do not go there.
I shut my eyes and tried desperately to suck oxygen into my lungs, and transfer it to my veins so my body and mind would respond appropriately.
Reaching out a shaking hand, I pulled the communicator back over my head. My thumb hovered, ready to press the button. I checked the lock on the bathroom door and shoved the doorstop tightly under the crack. Bracing the wedge in place with my heel, I reached for a towel to cover myself.
Ack! The bang sounded again—a sharp metallic clatter. This time, I recognized the clang of pots hitting against each other in the dishwasher. My breath came out in a whoosh. I moved to sit on the toilet seat, and waited for the swirling vertigo to still, and calm to return.
If I didn’t understand before, I certainly realized now that my brain could be my worst enemy. FDR, you weren’t perfectly right—there truly was more for me to fear than fear itself. But in this case, Stalker didn’t need to get to me; I was going to scare myself to death anticipating him.
Once I felt sure I had avoided an adrenaline dump, I pulled on the shirt—and pulled myself together, more or less. Finally, I braved a glance in the mirror. If nothing else, at least now I was more modest than in the hospital gowns. I was cleaner, too. I dragged my fingers through my wet hair like a comb then put the elastic band back around my ponytail. I’d love to have a hairdryer and flatiron.
There. Not my usual standards. Still, I was clean and warm and much calmer. Coping.
I went down the stairs cajoling myself to focus on the mundane.
I can do this.
I cracked the oven door and peeked in at the bread. A craggy peasant crust had formed; I lifted the loaves out and set them on a broiler pan that served as my make-do cooling rack.
Breathe.
After turning off the oven and all of the lights, I slogged back to the sofa.
Good. I’m okay.
I realized I was counting my breaths. Four counts in, five counts out, four counts in … I raised my shirt and smoothed the antibiotic ointment over my torso and pulled the sheet and blankets up. I lay back comfortably against the pillow. Zapping on a cooking show with the TV remote to keep me company, I gratefully fell asleep.
At four on the dot, according to the wall clock, the telephone rang in the kitchen. The unexpected noise sprang me from my dreams, like a Jack-in-the-box, all wound up then BOING! I gripped my covers and stared at the phone. Supposedly, no one knew I was here, so I decided not to answer. After about ten rings, the caller gave up. Seconds later, the garage door ground open, and a car motored in. My hand wrapped around the Springfield, and I slid behind the back of the sofa, crouching down for the second time today—but I was pretty sure this was my team coming in. A knock sounded at the door that separates the house from the garage.
A voice called out, “Mrs. Sobado? It’s Axel and Deep from this morning, ma’am. May we come in?”
“Yes, hello,” I shouted back. I laid the gun down on the table in front of me and stood facing the door, which swung slowly open. The men paused before they moved cautiously into the room. Eyes on me.
I raised empty hands and gave them a reassuring smile. “I’m unarmed.”
My attention moved to the TV, which droned on about steaming fish in parchment. I pushed the “Off” button on the remote. I had real humans with me now; I didn’t need the background noise to give me a pretend sense of safety. Axel came over and checked my water, medicine, and food.
“You haven’t eaten anything we left you—did you take your meds on time?” Axel’s mouth stretched into a thin, displeased line.
“I had nervous stomach and couldn’t eat.” I gestured lamely at the sofa. “I fell asleep before I was due for my next dose.”
Axel looked closely at me—hard, scrutinizing eyes. My hands fumbled nervously at my shirt. He reached out for the prescriptions, opened the bottles, and put the pills on my open palm.
Deep’s voice came from the kitchen. “Oh, my God! Did you make this?” I looked around. Deep was standing in front of the stew pot, lid in one hand, empty spoon in the other, grin across his face.
“Don’t taste anything yet. Dinner’s not finished. I need to skim and reheat,” I called over to him. “I thought we all might enjoy something homemade. I didn’t know what Striker meant when he said he’d bring food in tonight.”
“He didn’t mean anything like this, that’s for sure.” Deep replaced the lid.
Axel made his way into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer, and pulled out his own spoon.
“Now come on,” I complained. “You can’t taste until it’s ready.”
“Ma’am, we’re charged with your safety. I need to make sure the ingredients are okay before I can allow you to eat this.” Axel spooned a large bite into his mouth and chewed slowly, looking over at me. “Mrs. Sobado, if you weren’t already married, I’d be driving you to the church right now. What is that?” A grin spread over my face—these guys were too easy if I could get them to fall in love with me over beef stew. Standing over the pot with his spoon in the air, Axel was a little less intimidating—a little.
“French stew,” I said.
“And the bread?” Axel asked.
“Beer bread. You didn’t have any yeast for a regular loaf.” I sat on the sofa with my back pressed against the arm and my feet stretching out under the covers. I tried to keep my stomach as straight as I could and still see the men.
Deep tugged his cell phone from his belt and pressed a number on his quick dial. He reported to Striker that I was still in one piece and had dinner ready. Deep looked over at me while he listened. “Striker wants to know if there’s anything else he can bring in with him.”
“Tell him some salad greens would be good, and there’s no milk if you guys like that in your coffee. Oh, and I got tired before I made dessert. If you guys want sweets, he should pick up something already made.” Deep spoke into his cell, “Salad greens and milk … Yes, sir.” He s
hoved the phone back in the holder on his belt.
“No dessert?”
“We usually skip the sugar, ma’am,” Axel said.
I looked over at them. Their compression shirts displayed ripply muscles and six-pack abs. Nope, no love handles from midnight runs to Baskin Robbins.
Deep and Axel had a private discussion in the kitchen, both of them looking at me while they made their plans. They walked lockstep over to the sofa.
“Mrs. Sobado.” Deep crouched beside me. “Axel is going shopping for you. What in particular do you need?”
“I really need you all to stop calling me Mrs. Sobado. I’m Lexi. I appreciate your doing this for me, um …” I looked at Axel; darn, but this was embarrassing. I took a deep breath. “I need some loose fitting clothes. You know, so they don’t pull at my wounds. And some panties.” I blushed as I said that—who would have thought I’d ever be asking a stranger to go to the store to pick out my underwear?
Axel didn’t blink. Must be one of those things you learn to do when your job is to pull girls out of their predicaments. “A hair brush, tooth brush and stuff, maybe a hair dryer?” And then came the worst part—I wasn’t sure how long I’d be here, so I might as well get it over with in the first shopping trip, so I’d be set for the long haul. I took a deep breath and said on the exhale, “And a box of regular Playtex tampons and panty liners.” There, I said it. My inner furnace turned up the heat in my face.
Axel ignored my discomfiture. “I’ll be back.” He turned to look at Deep. “If I miss dinner, you’d better save me some.” His tone was playfully threatening.
After Axel took off, Deep asked, “Is there anything I can get you? Or anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Well, now that you ask, Stalker’s head on a platter would go a far piece toward raising my comfort level.
“There are plenty of books.” He gestured over at the floor to ceiling case. “You can use whatever you want in the house, so grab something off the shelf if you don’t want to watch TV. Unfortunately, you can’t have internet here. We can’t take the chance that you’d make outside contact, or that you’d be traced in.”
Wow. That kind of isolation was going to be hard.
“I should also explain.” He pointed to the telephone on the kitchen wall. “We program the phone system. The only lines that go through are your teammates’ cell phones. I’ll post the names and numbers. Of course, in an emergency, you push the button on your necklace. You’ll have a twenty-four-hour guard now, so there shouldn’t be a problem.” He waited for me to nod my understanding. “When a man comes to the driveway, he’ll call in, so there’s no concern about who’s coming up to the house. Like we did earlier. We’re going to try to avoid any situation that might cause you physical distress. We’ve been apprised of your injuries.”
I offered up a weak smile.
“If you’re okay right now, I’m going to go ahead and program your lines of communication, and get some research and paperwork done. I’ll be your watchdog until the rest of the team comes in at six—except Axel. He’ll get here when he can.”
I laid there for a few minutes contemplating my situation, watching Deep do his thing, settling in at the table. I wandered over to the bookshelf to take a good look at the titles. Like the pantry, whoever stocked the house had been eclectic. There were novels and nonfiction of all genres ready to entertain anyone marooned in the safe house. I bet my childhood librarian, Mrs. Shelack, would have loved having the assignment of putting together a collection that held something of interest to whoever ended up here in the little yellow safe house.
I pulled some books down and read their jackets without enthusiasm. They were probably pretty good, but I didn’t think that I could settle myself down to absorb a story. I went over and stood to the side of the window, gazing up the street assiduously, keeping my thoughts neutral, mundane, noninflammatory. Deep looked up from his laptop screen to see if I had spotted anything. I gave him my reassuring smile—nothing out there—and turned back to the gulls circling the sky. Day one and already I was one great big jittery, jumpy, antsy, claustrophobic mess. I had better get hold of myself or this was going to turn out to be a nightmare. Going to turn out to be? I shook my head—shit, it already was.
Nineteen
At five thirty, I went to the kitchen to finish the food prep. Deep closed up his computer and set the table for eight. Striker came in and put a brown grocery bag on the breakfast bar.
“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Sobado,” Striker said.
“Lexi, please. And you’re welcome. Cooking is therapeutic for me. I needed something to do with my hands.”
Striker nodded. “You kept pretty busy today. I thought you’d nap on the couch.”
“I needed help passing time and keeping the heebie-jeebies at bay.”
“Were you frightened being here by yourself?” He stood close, his voice pitched low, the question for me only. His tone made me want to be truthful instead of polite.
“A little.” I veiled my eyes behind my lashes, too embarrassed to admit how scared I had really been. As I glanced up, the room spun wildly. I lost my balance, and Striker lowered me to the floor. He crouched beside me with his hand on the back of my neck. The whirling sensation soon passed.
“Come and sit at the table, Lexi. My men tell me you haven’t eaten all day.” He put a supportive hand under my arm.
“Nervous stomach,” I said.
The phone on the wall rang; Deep lifted the receiver to listen.
“Roger.” He turned to me. “Our car is coming up the drive.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The other members of my Save-Lexi Team packed the room: Jack followed in Blaze, Gater, and Randy. They gathered around the table, and with playful banter and clattering spoons, noisily filled their bowls, passing the bread and salad around. As they shoveled up their first taste, the table fell silent, and they fixed their gaze on me.
“Woo-eee. That sure is some kind of good.” Gater stuffed another bite in his mouth. The men grinned, nodded their agreement, and worked on eating in earnest. A blush crawled up from my neckline.
When the men’s appetites were sated—and I kept a close eye on the pot to make sure Axel wouldn’t go hungry—I started around the table, making sure I had the names straight. “Okay, you all go by your call names.” I began with Striker. “You got yours on assignment in Africa.” Striker’s face turned hard-edged and questioning—whoops! I wasn’t supposed to know that.
Better be careful, Lexi-girl. Hold those cards up until you’re ready for everyone to see. I shifted my attention to Jack. “If Jack’s not your real name, what does it mean?”
Deep bent over the table, pointing his spoon at me. “If you mess with my man, he’s gonna jack you up.” They hooted over this and high-fived.
I looked at Blaze. He had intensely blue eyes like cornflowers—though I’d never say that out loud—and bright copper hair curling disobediently, even in his tight military cut.
“And, you’re Blaze because of your hair?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Blaze for my motto, ‘If I’m going out, it’s going to be in a blaze of glory.’”
“Ah, I see. And you, Gater?”
“Well, ma’am,” Gater eased into his story with a slow southern drawl like a ladle of warm, spicy gumbo. “I used to be in the Marines. I spent a right good amount of time mucking around in them swamps. One morning, I were out there on maneuvers, and I had a ten-foot ’gator sneak up behind me. Before I could blink, he had me in a death roll.”
“You’re obviously here, and in one piece, so there must be a happy ending to this story.”
“For me there is, ma’am.” He gave me a wink. I had the impression Gater used this yarn to pick up women in bars. “I had my knife on me. Not so much so for the ’gator, though. He were spit-roasted on our fire come nightfall.” Gater’s sun-bleached hair, sable-brown eyes, and scattering of freckles across his nose gave hi
m a boyish look, which was incongruous with his gladiator physique. I watched him as he spoke—a little hyperbolic maybe, but he told the truth.
“I hear they taste like chicken,” I said. The guys guffawed and slapped Gater’s back.
“And you’re Randy, and you are Deep.” I turned my head toward the other two men.
“Yes, ma’am,” Randy cleared his throat. “I got my name …” He stopped when I held up my hand.
“That’s okay, I think your names can stay private.” More laughing and elbow jostling.
Jack leaned toward Striker and asked quietly, “Any news on Lynda and Cammy?”
Those names had my full attention. Striker’s posture took on a rigidity; his face turned stony. I could tell he was worried about them. Very worried. I wondered if these were two separate cases or if somehow these two women were linked.
“Nada,” Striker said. He glanced my way, and I quickly took a sip of water to cover my eavesdropping.
Striker lifted his spoon toward his mouth and paused, focusing in on Randy and Blaze. “Deep and Axel completed their assignment this morning before coming in to guard Lexi. How about you two? I understand you made your capture. Did you get the flash drive?” He finished his bite.
Blaze straightened his back and tucked his chin—back in military mode. Commander Striker Rheas was reviewing his troops. I wondered what kind of assignment the men had on the table, and I got a twinge of nostalgia—the fun of unraveling a crime.
“Yes, sir. We made the capture. We had eyes on her throughout the operation. We followed her to the apartment building, where she entered her address for five minutes, and exited. When she got curbside, we made the arrest. We searched her person, bag, and car—nothing there.”
“You posted someone at the apartment?”
“Rod stayed back on guard duty while we delivered the prisoner to our client and signed her into their custody. They conducted a more thorough personal search and weren’t able find the flash drive, either. We went back to the apartment and shook it down, but we can’t find where she hid it. We’re hoping they’ll be able to get her to cooperate in questioning.”
