by Fiona Quinn
Striker curled his lips in and shook his head. “Nope. Not it.”
“Um, I train with the Search and Rescue team with my dogs. I volunteer for the EMS every two weeks. I knew a lot of those guys through my mom. They transported her to the hospital fairly frequently at the end. I joined the volunteers while she was in hospice …” Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m going to have to tell him!
“No, this isn’t doing it for me.” He lowered his foot to the ground and leaned forward. “That’s all amazing stuff, but it’s not getting you into the crosshairs of our maniac.”
I took a deep breath—Here it goes. “Then maybe it was my connection to Spyder.”
I saw a flash of surprise. “You mean Spyder …”
“McGraw.” I filled in the blank. My body stiffened with apprehension. God, I hoped I chose the right thing to do. Right now, I was only partially convinced I should pony up this information about Spyder. He had been so insistent on my secrecy.
Striker froze for a heartbeat. “Tell me about your connection.”
“Spyder was one of my apartment teachers,” I whispered.
“Spyderman lived nowhere near you.” Striker’s voice was tight.
Confusion mottled my thoughts. This was the hard-edged, dangerous Striker, the combat-ready Striker. His expression jarred me, especially after … well, after the warmth I felt from him. “I bartered his mentorship for my help with the Agnew family in my apartment building.” I explained.
A long moment stretched out between us. Striker was my protector, but his posture made me feel like I was prey. His rigid stance put me on guard.
“How long did that go on?” he asked, tightly.
My voice quivered as I carefully weighed my words. “Spyder’s been a family friend since I was a little girl. My dad worked on his cars. Spyder started to mentor me when I turned thirteen, and he went off-grid a month before my mom died. So, about six years of study, give or take.”
“What kinds of things did you learn from him?” A glimmer of curiosity shone in his eyes.
How do I answer? Spyder insisted on my training being secretive. How would disclosing this help my case, anyway? “At first he taught me thinking skills: argumentation, logical sequencing. We did mind games to improve my memory and perception. He’s the one who showed me how to do magic, taught me about the stars, and stuff.” That all sounded benign.
“That’s not all. What else?” His voice was accusatory.
More? What more should I give up? “Later, as I grew older, he improved on some of the things my other mentors taught me. Like the driving skills and gun skills I learned from Stan.” I tangled and untangled my fingers. “He taught me other computer skills than what I learned from my dad. He put the dots of my experiences together into a complete picture for me and made me better.”
Striker stared at me like a microbe on a petri dish he was trying to identify. “We know each other.”
“Yes,” I said and stared him directly in the eye. My chin held up. Was I challenging him? Ah, this was a dangerous game to play, Lexi. Hell in a handbasket my mind flashed—was this what the psychic knowing warned me about? Should I have kept this hidden away in my closet? Shit. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.
Wouldn’t it be nice if I had more control over my psychic senses? What if I could just tune in or dial up the information I needed, when I needed it? It hadn’t worked for me when I tried to hone in on Stalker. All I got was the pervasive smell of decay. Helpful? Not! It hadn’t worked for Miriam, either. What good was a warning if I couldn’t understand? “Hell in a handbasket.” What did it mean?
“Can you remind me how we met?” Striker asked.
“I’d rather not.” My answer came out terse and professional. See? I can switch modes just like you, Striker Rheas. Shit. Why was I so angry? Probably because I had backed myself into corner. To solve Stalker, I had to reveal myself—seemed like a sucky deal.
My temples throbbed. I wanted to lie down and bury my head under the pillow. An unwelcome, angry tear, which had clung valiantly to my eyelashes, lost its hold and dripped down my cheek. Striker reached out to wipe it away. I jerked back, blocking his move as if he meant to hit me. Striker’s gaze hardened to alpha dog, and it pissed me off. I stared back at him. He seemed to realize what was going on, because he scrubbed a hand over his face. When he looked at me again, his eyes had softened.
“Lexi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you or to speak to you that way.” He exhaled exasperation. “You’re such a mystery. I don’t understand what I’m dealing with here.”
I didn’t reply.
“We’re on the same team. We’re going to get through this together. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Lexi?”
We were on the same team. I was part of the pack. And every pack had an alpha. I shouldn’t hold this against him. “I trust you because Spyder trusts you.”
“Spyder talked about me?” Striker asked.
“Spyder said if I ever found myself in trouble or needed a job, I should get in contact with you.”
“You didn’t call me when you got the letters.”
“No. I took a different route.”
“Spyder thought you should work for me if you needed a job?” His brows knit together.
“Is that incredulity I hear in your tone? Remember I’m the one who found your flash drive, and your missing suspect. And I got Randy’s gun easily enough.” My voice shot out defensively, this side of combative, terse and pitched low.
Striker changed his tactic. “Spyder was working on a project with me when he went off-grid.”
“Yes. I puzzled the case for him.”
Striker cocked his head to the side. I read this as doubt. Why did he keep doubting me? Maybe because I kept hiding things from him, duh.
“We’re talking about the gun runners from Colombia?” I asked.
Striker nodded.
“I remember a web of crazy intrigue. I handed the file back to Spyder the morning he left, solved.”
“Solved?” Striker’s voice rose in surprise. “I never got it.”
“If he left it on his desk, Spyder probably assumed I’d recognize it and get it to the right people, but I was distracted and upset when he went downrange. So I packed his things without paying much attention.” I paused. “It’s been a long time since I worked the case. If you bring me your copy of the file, I’ll try to remember what I came up with.”
We sat quietly together for a minute.
“So that feels right to me,” Striker said. “Wilson targeted you because of Iniquus. He must think your friendship with Spyder, or your involvement with the cases, one or the other fit with his crusade. I’m thinking he didn’t know you were a functioning operative. He probably saw your close relationship with Spyder, and thought you made a good target.”
“The whole thing’s ironic as hell,” I said.
Striker’s focus drilled in to me. “It’s becoming cliché for me to say how surprising you are, Chica.”
I didn’t waver under his scrutiny, just answered earnestly. “It’s a quality I’ve developed. It’s safest for me when no one suspects I’m anything but a newlywed college student. Spyder thought, for me, normalcy and innocence were an excellent cover. He said everyone develops a persona for the world at large. Some of us do it with more deliberation.”
“Everyone?”
“Like you. You have an aura of honesty, mental and physical strength, power, and supreme control over yourself and over the situation. I’m sure it serves you well.”
“You don’t seem to be fazed. Most women get nervous around me. They get all giggly and chatty. I’ve never heard you giggle. Not part of your cover?” He was teasing me, trying to ease the tension still stirring the air. I wasn’t in a teasing mood.
“Look, I want to go home and live my life without Stalker messing with my head—literally and figuratively. I’m not going it alone against a serial killer. I’m physically unable to function, and I haven’t a clue
, other than what you’ve told me this morning, how to get to him.”
“We’ll get him.” Striker balled his fists.
“I believe that. You’re good at what you do. You’ve got resources not available to me. And more importantly, Spyderman holds you in the utmost esteem.” My eyes were sharp on him. “Right now, I need to believe you’re stronger than kryptonite.”
“That’s a lot to live up to.”
“Probably.”
“So, we were colleagues? And Spyderman kept that to himself?”
“Yes and yes,” I said.
“Could you tell me one mission?”
“Tanglesmeere Corp. I’m the one who bugged Tandesco for the takedown.”
Striker’s mouth dropped open, and I went smiling into the kitchen to start dinner.
Twenty-Six
A knock on my doorjamb turned me away from my clothes-folding chore. Striker leaned against the frame, his arms crossed comfortably in front of him, watching me. We were back to our affable, pre-Spyder-revelation footing, which made me more comfortable.
“India Alexis Sobado, you are a food siren. My men are drawn to the scent of your pots like sailors to a rocky shore,” Striker joked.
“Mmmn, and I’m luring them to their demise on what? Too much saturated fat?” I laughed.
“On the rocks of unrequited love. They all want to marry you, Chica, so you can fill their mouths with wonderful flavors for the rest of their natural lives.”
“Good thing I’m already safely married. No need for a battle to break out over my pot roast. I will tell you, compared to the grandmas, I’m not a very good cook. Your men are simply under a food spell.”
“You aren’t a siren? You’re a kitchen witch?”
“Warts and all.” I loved playing with Striker—maybe that wasn’t such a good thing given my past feelings for him. “Hey, let me ask you about this ‘Chica’ business. Chica means ‘girl.’ Back in my neighborhood, all of the men call me Baby Girl. Do I come off as overly naïve or childish?”
“I’d say you come off as fresh.” Striker tilted his head to one side as if to observe me from a different angle.
“Fresh like baked bread, or more like garden salad?” I walked over to stand in front of him, holding the half-folded shirt against my chest.
“More like the early morning of a day filled with possibilities.” He smiled, reaching up to brush a piece of hair from my face, tucking the strands behind my ear. The touch felt … private, connected … intimate. Not sexual. More … possessive maybe?
I reached for casual banter. “Since I usually wake up sluggish and grumpy, I think you need to work on a different simile.”
“How about ‘raspberries?’” He flashed his infectious grin.
“Okay.” A smile tickled the corners of my lips. “I’ll take ‘raspberries.’”
Striker reached out again, this time I took a step back before he could touch me. “When you say ‘Chica,’ the way you say it, makes me feel pretty. Maybe even a little sexy. I’m not sure those are good feelings to have when I’m around you. It confuses for me.”
Striker’s eyes sparked with curiosity, then a flash as he realized he’d crossed a line. He readjusted to humorous sincerity. “So, I should stick to ‘raspberries?’” he teased.
“Sometimes you’re a jerk.” I pushed past him and headed down the stairs. He laughed as he followed behind me. I grinned despite myself.
The men gathered around the table. I only counted six. “Where’s Jack? Should we stick his plate in the oven to keep warm for him?” I asked.
The kitchen phone rang, and an Iniquus Hummer roared up the drive. Jack strode in with a thick manila envelope in his hands. He moved to hand it to Striker, but Striker shook his head and pointed to me. Jack stilled for a minute, confused, then handed the file over. I got up and put it on the buffet.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll read through it after dinner.”
I ate a quiet meal of Nana Kate’s delicious pot roast recipe, letting the men share their news and stories. My mind slid back to my apartment with all of the sticky notes on the wooden floor of my bedroom, running strings from one to the other, trying to get hold of the relationships hiding the secret to this puzzle. I remembered a web of deception. The case was a jumble of confusing players. Most were innocent; the roles they played stayed within the boundaries of the law. It wasn’t until … I jumped up, ran over to the file, and flipped through. Striker watched me, eyes sharp as obsidian.
“I remember now,” I said.
This got the men’s attention. What did I have to do with an Iniquus case? They stared at me, but no one asked the obvious questions. They put their heads down and made a show of eating, finishing their plates in silence.
Evidently, Striker hadn’t explained my secret to them yet. Now, I wished he would tell them about Spyder. I wanted the men to know I was one of them. We really did play on the same team—were part of the same pack. Cognitively, I understood they worked hard on my case—were out in the field night and day, following up on leads, but I wanted this to be personal for them. I wanted them fighting for one of their own. Would that change the outcome? Speed things up? Make them more effectual? Jeezus, I sounded manipulative. Ugly. I didn’t particularly like myself in that moment. Or many of the moments during this whole fiasco. I sighed loudly. All I could do on my end was keep proving myself worthy of their best efforts, and keep my head screwed on as tightly as possible. Having Spyder’s case back in my lap would help with both of these goals. Maybe. Hopefully.
Jack and Gater took off on assignment while Randy and Blaze did KP. Deep tapped on his laptop over on the sofa, and Striker and I sat side by side at the table.
“Let me try to reconstruct the web for you, so you can follow. Back in my apartment, I did this with Post-it notes and string. That’s the only way I could keep track of all the players.”
Striker produced a pen, a pad of sticky notes; and, after looking through the garage, he found a ball of twine. As he handed them to me, Striker’s phone vibrated.
He focused tightly on what the other person said. “You have a lead on both? Or just … No … Where? … Right, we’ll wait for the call.”
Deep had moved over to stand next to Striker, hands on his hips, looking intent. “Lynda and Cammy?” he asked under his breath.
Striker gave an almost imperceptible nod and glanced at his watch. “Bonz thinks he had eyes on her, we’ll rally with him at twenty-hundred.” Striker’s voice mirrored Deep’s guarded tone.
“Things are ratcheting up,” he said. “Lots of chatter between the players. Something’s gone wrong, and Lynda’s got herself caught in the middle, dragging Cammy in. Again.”
Striker shot a glance at me, but I was well practiced in the art of watching from behind veiled eyes. His expression was a mixture of exasperation, anger, and fear. There and gone. A brief moment when his stoicism wavered. Whatever crime he was working on had a personal connection to him. Very personal.
“We’ll find them.” Deep said.
I hoped they’d confide in me, bring me data to puzzle. I wanted to help find Lynda and Cammy, too. We were teammates after all, even if Striker was just starting to realize this.
I busied myself flipping through the file, filling out each piece of paper, arranging them on the table, rearranging them on the table, moving the string around, working slowly through the process of trying to remember how this had all fit together. At some point, Striker interrupted to let me know Deep, Randy, and he had to leave for a couple of hours. Blaze would be my watchdog. I nodded my understanding without looking up. For me, working a puzzle was like meditation. I had no concept of time floating by.
I startled when the garage door crashed open. No warning call. Blaze leaped forward. Gun aimed. His body shielding mine. Unarmed, I squatted. My eyes went wide in my head as if with more light, I could better grasp the moment. I peered around Blaze’s leg and forced my mind to focus and understand. Jack—and behind him, Gat
er. Ripped clothes. Blood. Gater glowed ghostly white beneath his tan. He gripped his chest and leaned into the wall. Jack held a hand out toward Blaze, as if to ward off the bullet that could fly his way. He swayed and went down on a knee.
Blaze was focused. Body taut. He thrust his gun into my hand, grabbed Jack’s from his shoulder holster, and raced out, slamming the door shut behind him. I assumed he went to secure the perimeter. He trusts me to protect the interior, flashed through my mind. Trust!
Jack looked me straight in the eye. “Ambush,” he gasped. “Not Wilson, Lexi. It was not Wilson.”
Relief cascaded over me like cooling water. I switched gears immediately to EMT mode. I pushed the Glock into my back waistband for easy access. In case … As I rushed forward, my mind registered exposed road abrasions, and jagged raw skin.
Jack’s injuries were the most obvious. I laid him on the ground. I turned to Gater and used my hands to scan over his body, using Reiki energy to check his status. Obvious injuries weren’t always the most dangerous injuries. I needed to triage the two to know what to do next.
I lead Gater to a chair in the dining room, helped him cross his arms on the table, and laid his dazed, concussive head down. I was kneeling beside Jack when the door opened. My eyes flew up as I jerked the Glock into position and lined up the sight. Blaze had a phone to his ear, reporting to Striker. I stuck the gun back in my pants and turned my attention to Jack.
A scorch mark covered most of his arm. I brushed the air above the damaged skin. Justin’s barbeque burn was nothing compared to this, and I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to heal, or even soothe, something this severe. I mumbled a prayer for divine help under my breath.
As I brushed, the red and heat left the wound and soon became imperceivable. I tore open the ripped cloth of Jack’s camo pants, and brushed his thigh and calf. He must have come up against the exhaust on a motorcycle. Nothing else would leave this kind of wound.
Jack gritted his teeth and balled his fists. Stoic. Steely.
“Jack, I can help you,” I whispered in his ear. “I’ll need you to trust me, open up to me.” My hands rested lightly over his eyes; Reiki energy streamed from my palms. I had never experienced the energetic force coming through me this strongly before; it made me dizzy and nauseated. Jack murmured a thank you. My eyes sought out Blaze, who had a first aid kit beside him. He was cleaning the gash on Gater’s head.
