Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “That’s not happy.” Striker sat up and hooked his arms around his bent knees.

  “Nope. Those Greek gods weren’t kind to mortals, but at least Artemis felt sorry.”

  “Spyderman tell you that story?”

  I sat up, too, carelessly picking at the grass blades and twirling them around my fingers. “Yup. Spyderman loves to tell stories.”

  Striker quirked a brow. “He ever tell stories about me?”

  “All the time. You were one of his favorite story topics.”

  “You know a lot about me then,” he said.

  “Well, stuff that you did with Spyder—I don’t know much about your personal life. Like for example, how old are you?” I asked.

  Striker smiled. “Twenty-six, today.”

  I drew up to my knees. “What? Today’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Things are a little hectic.” He reached out to pull a leaf from my hair. His hand rested there, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. His lips looked soft and full. My body urged me into his arms. The pull felt magnetic. I waited for the familiar ‘knowing,’ the words of warning and caution: hell in a handbasket. But all I heard was the wind rustling the last of the crisp autumn leaves in the trees. My breath came short and shallow as I struggled with desire. This was wrong—warning or no warning. These were the wrong feelings; Striker was my friend and protector. I was really missing Angel’s arms.

  I pushed myself to standing and brushed off my sweats. I needed a little space between us. Striker got up, too, folded the blanket, and tucked it under his arm. Neither of us said a word as we went back to his apartment.

  I perched on the edge of the couch across from him. “I’m sorry about …” and I made a vague gesture, “that.”

  He shook his head, his voice sounded low and serious. “Nothing to be sorry for, Chica.”

  “This,” I gestured back and forth between us, “gets hard for me sometimes. Confusing.”

  He slowly nodded, eyes unwavering, body taut. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean for it to be.”

  I pursed my lips then stood up with a wobbly smile. “I hope this turns out to be a wonderful year. Happy birthday.” He didn’t move a muscle, he just looked at me with his green eyes unreadable, closed to me, and I went to my room. Alone.

  I woke up early, packed my bags, and climbed into Striker’s car for the trip home. The team had been putting surveillance in place all week. Cameras and audio devices peppered my neighborhood, moving outward to include a five-block radius. The team would watch remotely from three blocks over, monitoring all the comings and goings, and keeping in constant contact with my watchdog.

  They told me to stay at my house or in my immediate neighborhood, but thought we could speed things up if I hung out on the porch as much as possible. I’d be wearing a Kevlar vest whenever I was exposed, and an escort would accompany me on my errands. So, a little more freedom than at the safe house.

  Walking into my home again felt odd. I loved my refurbished wooden floors. The walls were now painted rich, soothing colors, and, thank God, looked totally different from the night I left in the ambulance. Manny had taken my old furniture down to our neighbor Missy’s house and stored Angel’s and my few belongings in boxes in the closet.

  “Looks Spartan,” Striker said.

  “Ha! Yeah, the painters just got done. My new furniture and stuff are in storage.”

  “Give me the info, and I’ll get everything taken care of right now, before you end up sleeping on a bare floor.”

  Three hours later, a moving truck pulled up, and Iniquus men started to unload. I had Chantal’s interior-design sketches in hand, and as the men brought the things in, I directed them to the correct rooms. They unwrapped my dishes, hung the new lighting fixtures, and attended to every detail. When they left, my home was both stylish and finished. Striker and I wandered from room to room taking it all in.

  “Nice,” he said. “I’d say this suits you, Lexi—artistic, inviting, calm—there’s always some interesting thing to catch the eye. Very welcoming. Yes, you belong here.”

  “Thanks. I think it fits me, too. And, those descriptors are all things I like near me. Hey, are you guarding me?”

  “Yup.”

  I walked back to my kitchen to make some tea. “Any news on Lynda?”

  “She has another surgery scheduled for today. Their rebuilding her ACL.”

  “Shit!” I said.

  “The doctors are optimistic. This is her last surgery before they move her down to Florida.” Striker opened my fridge. “There’s no food. We should go shopping.” He pulled out his keys.

  “Do you know how many I’ll be feeding?”

  “No way of telling who’s going to be in and out. Probably no more than two—you and a watchdog—at any given meal. Gater’s volunteered to take on that role most of the time. We want someone in your house around the clock. We have to work this so no one clues in to our being here. Most of the traffic will be over at our satellite where the equipment is set up.”

  “What about at night?”

  “Especially at night. Nights I’ll be the watchdog, like at the safe house.” He paused. “You seem relieved.”

  “I am a little bit, can’t tell you why—the other guys are great. It’s …”

  “Let me guess. You’re afraid you’ll get the heebie-jeebies, and you want me to be the only one who knows what a coward you truly are. So, you only want to climb shivering and shaking into my bed, not in bed with every guy on the team?” Striker was teasing me.

  “Yup—jumping into bed with every Tom, Dick, or Harry or in this case every Jack, Deep, or Gater might come off, not only as lily-livered, but also a little slutty, and think about how many loads of sheets I’d have to run through the wash.”

  The surveillance is going smoothly, I thought as I stood in the street chatting with Manny and Justin, catching up on neighborhood gossip. They didn’t bring up my attack. Never asked how I was doing. Where I had gone. Just picked up where we had left off the morning of the football game. Dave said he had briefed them before I got home. If Sarah or Alice suspected that Iniquus watched from the shadows, they never mentioned it. They never looked over their shoulders or stared at the trees and telephone poles camouflaging the equipment.

  Now I spent most of my time sitting on my porch, working on the last little bits of my class assignments, trying to look accessible and vulnerable. The vulnerable part came easily.

  A few days before Halloween, Sarah, Alice, and I decided to throw a party in the empty lot next to Justin’s house. My team gave me permission to be out as long as I had a GPS tracker, a wire, and a bulletproof vest under my black witch’s dress, and Striker and Jack on either side of me.

  Halloween night, a storm brewed overhead. The chilly wind made the hot cider simmering in a large black caldron on the campfire all the more welcome. Homemade cinnamon-apple doughnuts kept warm on the coals. I handed out the refreshments to the adult passers-by and candy to the children.

  When we returned to my house, Striker sat down at his computer. I went to bed early with a book, falling almost instantly into a restless sleep. When icy hands closed over my throat to choke me, I sprang up covered in sweat, gasping. That nightmare felt too real.

  Like a hound, I lifted my nose and sniffed the air. Wilson, magnified. I jumped from my bed and crept cautiously down the stairs, straining to hear. To see. The smell was too strong to miss. Sewage vapors rising noxiously under a blazing sun. The further I moved down the stairs, the more pungent and unbearable the stench became.

  I stood on the bottom tread with my hand clutching the newel post. Crouched. Panting. Swinging my head from the front of the house to the back. Which way? Which way would he come in?

  Striker leapt to his feet. My face must have been an easy read because he pressed the communicator button on his shoulder. “Blaze, what’ve you got.”

  “Crickets,” came the response.

  “Heads-up.” Striker released t
he button. “What’s happening?” he asked me. Steady. So steady and solid. Like a boulder. Like a fundamental belief.

  “I smell him,” I whispered.

  Striker didn’t answer. He was processing, not understanding, waiting for me to elaborate. I couldn’t move—didn’t know where to move. How to react. What to do. An explosion sounded in the distance. The electricity slammed off.

  “Transformer, four blocks over,” came Blaze’s voice from the plastic box on Striker’s shoulder.

  “Send Gater to check it out.” Striker’s hands rested on my shoulders. The world was painted pitch black. Cloud cover obscured the full moon. No streetlights. Nothing. Just darkness and the sound of barking dogs. The wind kicked up to a howl. “Eerie” didn’t even come close to describing this.

  The shiver running through my body garbled my voice. “I have a whole-house generator hooked up outside on the back right, by the wall. Let’s get some electricity on.” We moved together toward the kitchen door.

  “Striker, Code Red. We have night-camera visual of a possible tango. He meets Wilson’s size. Three blocks west. Moving fast.”

  We changed directions. Striker gripped me around the waist, steering me to the basement door. This was the plan. Go down. Lock down. Let the team handle it. Now that we were in motion, this felt wrong. I wanted to face Wilson. Wanted my fingers around his throat. Needed to be the source of incredible pain.

  Striker told the team where to find the generator. Silence followed their wilco. I stood in the basement to the right of the stair, my breath ragged. Listening. Waiting. Striker didn’t want me in the fight, but if Wilson came into my house, I was going for him.

  “Looks like the tango is using eyedrops by the garage. My guess is PCP. Climbing wall. Randy’s closing. Gater’s two blocks,” came Blaze’s voice over the communicator.

  “Roger. Lexi is secured.”

  Glass crashed in my kitchen, followed by the tinkling of shards hitting tile. The door banged against the wall. My alarm system shrieked. I launched myself toward the stair, hoping the black and noise would get me past Striker’s reach.

  As I leapt forward, Striker’s arm circled my ribs. I had no context for up or down. I found myself helplessly rolled by a massive wave. When I landed on my stomach, Striker had my legs pinioned wide. My wrists were crossed and clasped in a vice grip stretched above my head. My cheek pressed into the cold smooth surface of the painted cement. My head forced back and stilled against my arm. Striker’s thumb pushed up in the soft spot under my chin, effectively gagging me. The only noise I could make were groans and whimpers. Striker’s full weight flattened me. His hips stacked with mine. I couldn’t get enough air. I struggled.

  “Relax,” Striker ordered. I pressed my weight into my knees and elbows trying raise up and find a way free.

  As I fought, a woman’s voice came over my two-way house-alarm monitor, asking for identification. Announcing that police were en route. Warning that they were taping everything and holding it for evidence.

  “Relax,” Striker ordered against my ear. “I’ll end up crushing you if you don’t relax.”

  I was out of breath. I had no choice. I rested, motionless, waiting for a chance to escape.

  “I’m going to lift off. You’re going to lie still.”

  The hell I am.

  Striker shifted his weight to his arms, and when he did, I made my move. Striker’s hips dropped on top of mine, trapping me again.

  “Stop,” he hissed.

  His fingers never moved from my chin. I still couldn’t make a sound. I focused my attention above me. Randy’s voice. Shit, he was by himself in the dark with a cranked-up Wilson. I struggled again, but nothing came of it.

  I wanted the fight. I wanted blood. God damn it to hell that Striker was preventing the very thing I had craved since my wedding day. Since the first letter. I could taste vengeance sweet on my tongue. Hungered for it. Strained for it.

  A hell of a fight raged above us. Now I heard Gater in the mix. A crash. Silence. Holy shit.

  Sirens wailed in the street.

  Blaze came over the communicator. “Perpetrator apprehended. Unconscious. Ambulance and police out front.”

  Striker let go of my chin so he could push the communication button. “Gater and Randy?”

  I worked my jaw back and forth. Striker pressed his body into mine. His thighs pinioned mine against the cold floor.

  “Minor injuries. Gater’s headed for the generator.” And as Blaze said that, as if by magic, an engine whirred, and the basement lights blinked on.

  I managed to suck in enough air to gasp, “Get off of me.”

  Striker pushed to standing. He towered over me, arms akimbo, legs wide. I rocked back onto my knees, dragged a deep breath into my lungs, and moved unhindered up the stairs.

  My kitchen was destroyed. The window had been broken out of my door. Table and chairs lay in pieces. Blood. Wilson lay on his side, eyes closed as if he were sleeping peacefully. He didn’t freaking get to be peaceful. He should be tormented. Terrified. Desperate. I kicked him viciously under the ribs with my booted toe. Kicked the wind out of him. His brain stem fought to make his lungs work. I wasn’t sated. Not even close. Gater reached out and pinned my elbows behind my back in a vice grip. I wanted to thrash against his hold, but with Wilson knocked out, my attack was purposeless. Screw Striker for keeping me from the fight.

  I wrenched myself free, stormed up the stairs to the bathroom, ripped off my clothes, and submerged myself in a tub of hot water, hoping something would soothe my turbulent emotions. Wash them away.

  I could hear the men downstairs talking to the responders. The ambulance left without the siren. That meant Wilson’s injuries weren’t life threatening. I slammed my fists through the surface of the water sending a spray across the bathroom.

  When I emerged, wrapped in my terrycloth robe, I found Striker sitting outside the door with his back to the wall, arms resting comfortably on his knees, looking relaxed, which I knew was a lie. He didn’t get up or move a muscle as I glowered down at him.

  “If I had let you attack him, it would have messed you up in court.”

  “There wouldn’t be a court.” I spat at him.

  “You planned to kill him?” His question sounded more like a statement. A true, obvious statement.

  I sunk down the wall opposite Striker. “Yes.” Simple as that. I hadn’t thought this all the way through before. But I didn’t have a single doubt that killing Wilson had been my strategy all along. I meant to extract my pound of flesh, and then make sure this chapter was finished for good.

  “The police would have taken your background into consideration; you would have been charged with manslaughter. You’d be headed to jail,” Striker said evenly.

  “Screw you,” I spat out.

  “Yeah. I know. I’ve been there.”

  “You exploded the house. You got your revenge.”

  “Not every time. But yes, I got justice for my sister.” Striker stretched out his long legs. “We’ll get justice for you.”

  I glared at him.

  “I get it. The look and the feelings behind it. And I’ll tell you something else, you’re going to have to make friends with it, because you’ll be living this forever. Lexi, it’s how the capture had to go down.”

  “You made me weak,” I practically growled. “You stole my chance. I wouldn’t feel this way if you had just …”

  “Failed to do my job? Failed to protect you? I’m here for one reason and one reason only—to save you. And somehow you thought with that genius brain of yours, I’d turn my back and let you race into a fight with Wilson on PCP? In what universe are you living?” He waited for my answer. I could sense him wanting my … What? Certainly not my appreciation or my gratitude. Perhaps forgiveness? Understanding? I had nothing to give him that wasn’t colored bilious green. He was acting his code. His code was why he was solid. It was his core strength. Like Spyder. My core was hollow; all I wanted was …


  “For him to get a taste of what you went through—you and the other women.”

  Huh. Maybe Striker had some ESP, too. I glared at him.

  “He wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, doped like that. What were you going to do? Tie him up and wait the six hours for the PCP to clear his system so he could feel fear or register pain?”

  I hated that Striker was being practical. Pragmatism had no place to land on my swirling emotions. There was no point in continuing. I stood up, went to my room, and slammed my door in Striker’s face.

  The next morning, I sat in my living room, curled into a subdued ball on my sofa, thinking how Iniquus would be out of my life now that the mission was accomplished. It was going to be like losing Spyder again. Like losing family. Again.

  The work crew put in my new door. Boomer would be over later to move the alarm system—not that it much mattered anymore. Gater—with a hell of a shiner—carried in chairs for my replacement table. Clean up. Finish up. Move on to the next assignment. I was bereft.

  Striker crouched beside me so we were eye to eye. “You look like you’re brooding.” A touch of wariness shadowed his voice. Probably thought I’d hiss like a tomcat and scratch at his eyes. But the morning light had brought fresh perspective, and I didn’t have any anger left—not for my team, anyway.

  “I know. I am. I am so grateful lunatic Wilson is in custody, and I can move on with my life. There’s always some bad with the good, though, isn’t there?”

  “I guess. What’s bad here?” He cocked his head to the side.

  “Well, now I’m going to have to go to trial with this guy. A nightmare for sure.”

  Striker nodded.

  “And, there’s Iniquus.” I held Striker’s gaze.

  “What about Iniquus?” he asked.

  “I’m going to miss … everybody, and doing the puzzles. I had fun figuring out those crimes.”

  Striker reached out and rubbed his finger lightly over my wrist. “How are your classes coming?”