Weakest Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “All done.”

  “You should keep busy. Command asked me to offer you a job at Iniquus—part-time if you like. Full-time if you’re willing. They think you’d be a great asset.”

  “Really?” I perked up, wiggling upright. “Wait. Did you tell them about Spyder?” I didn’t want to ride in on Spyder’s coattails. I wanted to earn my own place.

  “As little as possible while still getting you credit for your work at the safe house.”

  I smiled up at him. “Yes. Thank you. Tell them I accept.”

  “Good. We’ll get you outfitted Wednesday.”

  “Outfitted?” My lashes flew up. “Do I have to wear camo pants and compression shirts?”

  “I meant with your credentials. We’ll issue you a service gun.”

  “In DC proper? My conceal permit is for Virginia. I can’t carry in DC.”

  Striker grinned. “You can if you’re an Iniquus employee.”

  Thirty-One

  Wednesday morning I pulled into an Iniquus parking spot early, so I didn’t need to fight through DC traffic. Last night, as I headed home from the Millers’, after collecting Beetle and Bella, Striker called me to say he needed me at Headquarters by 0630. Two Beta Squad members were heading in with new intel Striker wanted me to hear. Something about a possible terrorist cell. So far, all of the Betas’ leads had dead-ended. Striker thought I could cobble together an idea of where their squad should head next.

  Not wanting to call any attention to myself, I planned to be a fly on the wall in the hopes that someone had seen or heard something they didn’t realize was significant. From being an observer rather than a participant, I might have the perspective needed to put the puzzle pieces together—to understand the whole picture.

  Gray sound-absorbing material covered the conference room walls. A bank of windows hung on the far side, high up toward the ceiling, letting in light and a view of the crimson leaf clouds from the maple trees below. Dressed in gunmetal-gray this morning—the closest thing I had in my wardrobe to fit in with the men’s camo wear—I stood on the right-hand side of the windows and did my shadow walking routine. My breath slowed. I pictured in my mind’s eye the textured, storm-colored wall then projected it out in front of me. As the operatives came in and found their places, no one glanced my way.

  Soon men clad in Iniquus uniforms filled the seats, facing Striker who stood at the front of the room. Everyone from my Save-Lexi Team was there; lots of faces from my time with Spyder, but a few were outright strangers.

  The Beta Squad, I thought.

  As the meeting began, their energy focused sharply on the data the operatives presented. There was no kidding around. The cell activity was picking up. The operatives had confirmed a specific and credible threat repeated in three separate conversations by different sources. Known, reliable sources. The operatives expected an imminent attack.

  As Striker concluded the meeting, the dust from the fabric walls tickled my nose. I sneezed loudly. Striker stared across the room at me. I wasn’t thinking gray-wall thoughts any more. I was thinking I-need-a-tissue thoughts. I watched Striker flip through his mental file folders as I dug a Kleenex from my bag and wiped my nose.

  He pointed a finger at me. “Bingo!” He looked triumphant. “Unbelievable!”

  “What? That I sneezed?” I asked.

  “You’re Alex!”

  Everyone fell silent. The focus in the room rested on me. First, I’d materialized before their eyes, and now Striker had honed in on some discovery beyond me emerging from the shadows.

  “You’re Alex. Tell me you are.”

  “Um, I have been called Alex. My name is Alexis.”

  “Yeah,” Striker pushed. “And people usually call you Lexi.”

  “Or Baby Girl, or Chica, or Raspberries.” I laughed lightly, trying to make this a joke and move on.

  “Lexi, when did you call yourself Alex?” Striker was using his stern-parent voice.

  “Well, my dad called me Alex—he always wanted a boy.”

  “And?” Striker pressed.

  Huh. Should I let him reveal this? Do I care? I guess not, since I’m working here now. What does it matter? “And Spyder called me Alex.”

  The men sucked in audible gasps of breath. They all knew Spyderman, but they didn’t all know me. They certainly didn’t know Spyderman and I had a link. They focused back and forth between Striker and me with curiosity.

  Striker didn’t let up. “Spyderman had you take his part in an interagency paintball war at the Millers’ a little over two years ago.”

  “Correct.”

  “Holy crap!” one of the men, Clay, said. “You’re the Phantom.”

  “What?” Now I was getting confused. What phantom?

  “No one ever found you,” he said. “We were shaking hands and teasing you about having to use the pink paint, then poof. Gone.”

  “Oh man, that’s right,” said Gater. “Our enemies were out stalking and next thing they knew, they got your color splattered all over them. Man, they were some kinda pissed off. Excuse my language, ma’am. They were hollering and accusing us of cheating. They couldn’t explain how we were cheating. Their whole damned team dripped pink paint, and all of them was kill shots.”

  “Well …” This was uncomfortable.

  “Then you disappeared before we got to congratulate you,” Blaze said. “All due respect, ma’am, you were some kinda fierce.”

  “Uh. Thanks.” I didn’t know where to put my gaze, so I fixed on Striker and rolled my lips in tightly.

  Jack stood up grinning. “Hey, I was at that fight. You can’t kill the bad guys all by yourself. It’s selfish.” He gave me a warm pat on my back. “Way to go, Phantom.”

  The men gathered their things and moved out of the room. Striker came over to me, laughing.

  “Alex, the paintball superhero, that’s marvelous,” he said.

  I smiled at him and gave him a shrug.

  “At any rate, you wanted a call name, and it seems like you already have one—‘Phantom.’”

  “Phantom?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong? Too many syllables?”

  “No, I just don’t want to be known as an undead zombie woman with a melting face and rotting flesh. Gross!”

  He offered up a huge grin. “Hard to believe you and Alex are the same person.”

  “Surprising?”

  “That would be an understatement. Who taught you stealth tactics?”

  “Master Wang. He called it ‘shadow walking.’ Seriously, though, you have to make the Phantom thing stop.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Come on. I need you in my next meeting. Are you wearing your thinking cap today?”

  “I stuck it in my purse. I don’t like to put it on unless I really need to—it gives me hat hair.”

  “Oh, a funny girl, huh?” Striker nudged me into another conference room. “You stay visible for this one.”

  Two men sat at the table with a file in front of them. They stood when we came in. “Gentlemen, this is Lexi Sobado. I’ve asked her to come and give us her impressions.”

  “Rod.” The first man extended his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Rod.” I shook his hand firmly.

  “Bonz,” said the man standing to Rod’s left.

  “With an n-e-s or n-z in Bonz?”

  “N-z, ma’am.”

  We sat down. Striker pulled the file over, flipped through, then pushed it over to me. Inside I found several eight by ten photographs. Most of them looked like pictures of woods. I scanned the photos in a grid pattern, searching for anything interesting or out of place while I listened to the men.

  “Langley’s in custody?” Striker asked.

  “Yes, sir. We brought him in last night,” Rod said.

  Striker tapped his pen on a blank legal pad. “He talking?”

  “Silent—waiting for his lawyer to advise him, sir,” Bonz said.

  “We need the list of contacts. Any idea where it might have gon
e? What about the money? The serial numbers on the bills will prove the connection.”

  “Yes, sir. We—”

  I interrupted Rod’s thought. “Hey, Striker, can we pause for a moment? I need a magnifying glass.”

  Striker pulled out his phone and made the request. Within the blink of an eye, someone knocked on the door, handed a large magnifying glass to me, and left without a word. Impressive.

  “Thanks. Go on,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Sir, we only have the information in the file. We trailed him out to the area in the photos. He walked around for forty-seven minutes. He seemed to be hunting for something. Then I think he got spooked, because he looked over his shoulder then hightailed it out of there. We photographed the area and got the GPS coordinates, so we could find the exact spot again for a search—bring the dogs out with us. Then we followed him back and waited for him to be out in public but alone for the arrest.”

  When I laid the glass down, I found Striker watching me keenly. “What do you see?” he asked.

  “Not sure. Was this guy a history buff?”

  The three men focused on me with clear astonishment.

  “How did you know?” Striker asked.

  “Here, in this one photo.” I handed Striker the magnifying glass and pointed. “There are three rocks semistacked and a branch leaning on them. There are no rocks in any of the other pictures. This area isn’t rocky. The only way for rocks to be here is for someone to have placed them. Also, look at the branch. The leaves are fall colored. This branch has recently been broken off; otherwise, the leaves would be dead. We haven’t had a storm lately with enough power to break off a branch of this size. This is an oak. These are pine trees. It would take a major gust to move this branch any distance, and if it blew to this location, the heavy part would be on the ground not sticking up. My conclusion is that someone walking in the woods would miss this, but whoever set the marker up would easily find the location.”

  “And the history buff thing?” asked Striker.

  “In the time when the pioneers went west in covered wagons, they often had problems and had to leave their things behind. These items were precious to a group of people who had little. Many times, they’d bury their belongings in the ground and mark the spot with a gravestone, much like the way this area in the picture was marked.”

  Striker rubbed his thumb along his chin. “So others would think they found a grave …”

  “And leave it alone. The family would recognize it, and be able to retrieve their property at a future date. When I saw the stones stacked like they were, I was reminded of the pioneer false graves.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I suggest you go and investigate why those rocks are piled up. Give me a full report when you get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men said as they stood and left.

  “Do I get a prize if they find something good buried underneath?”

  “We’ll figure something out for you.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Now, we need to work on a call name for you since you don’t like Phantom.” Striker leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers while he studied me.

  “How about Artemis? You told me her story; the goddess of the hunt and hounds.”

  “No, thanks. She vowed off men forever, and while I’ve never been with a man, I am married, and quite frankly the wait is killing me.”

  Striker quirked a brow.

  My face prickled as I turned pink. What had I just said? Shit. “Uh. Artemis won’t work; it has three syllables, and calls only have one or two.”

  Jack walked in at the end of my sentence. “Hey, Phantom.”

  “Stop. I refuse to respond to that, and we won’t be friends anymore if you continue to call me the undead.”

  Striker shook his head, amused. “You need a call name to go out on assignment.”

  “I’m in the field? What for?”

  “We need you to plant a bug,” Jack said, looking down at the photos on the table.

  “Oh. Is that all? ’Cause you know, I don’t do those daring deeds of do-or-die.”

  “Wouldn’t think of putting you in danger,” Striker said. “So, about your call name—what do you think, Jack?”

  “Excel,” he said immediately.

  “Sounds too close to Axel,” Striker dug through his briefcase.

  “Houdini?” Jack asked.

  “Nah. Too many syllables, right Lexi?” Striker tucked the photos away and clicked the briefcase toggles shut. “How about Stealth?” He raised his brows in my direction.

  I shook my head—that was too far over the top, like a character in the Hunger Games.

  “Cookie … nope, too girly—need to keep her gender a secret,” Jack rested a hip on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Smoke,” he said.

  “I like smoke—how about you, Lexi?” Striker asked.

  “What? No!” Smoke? Gah!

  “Mensa.” Jack tried. The two of them going back and forth.

  “Magic.”

  “Panther.”

  “Lynx,” Striker said, and they stopped and looked at each other.

  “Beautiful animal, excellent hunter, mysterious, and smart,” Striker said. “Could mean the animal or could mean the links Lexi puts together to solve our mysteries.”

  “Not too many syllables, not gender specific, no one has a rhyming name,” Jack said.

  Striker turned to me and asked, “Do you like ‘Lynx?’”

  “It’s pretty good.” Lynx … huh. And his description … Very flattering. Embarrassing. Cool!

  “Done. Now let’s take you home to get gussied up for your little adventure.” Striker maneuvered me out the door and down the corridor. Jack followed behind.

  I was dressing for a cocktail party—black-tie affair. Fancy. I needed to fit in, but fly under the radar. While Jack and Striker waited for me on my porch, I showered and did my hair up in hot curlers. I upped my makeup from the everyday, but kept it well below the vamp rating. I wore a little black dress with a knee-length full skirt to cover my thigh holster. The neckline exposed enough cleavage to get me up close and personal, but hopefully not enough to stand out in the target’s mind. When I was all fluffed and buffed, I went outside and twirled for inspection in my four-inch satin heels. Both men looked me over with shit-eating grins. Striker let out a wolf whistle.

  “Good enough?” I asked.

  “Maybe too good. Jack, what do you think? Will she cause a riot?”

  “Near thing, Striker. I think it’ll get her where she needs to be.”

  A Lincoln Town Car had appeared at my curb with Bonz playing chauffeur. Striker rode with me in the backseat. He’d stay with the car. Jack was moving into position at the rear of the building. That was my emergency exit strategy—get to Jack.

  Striker handed me a photo and gave me the target’s name. Soon, we pulled up in front of the art gallery. Bonz came around and opened the door for me. I accepted his hand as I got out, and walked self-assuredly up to the doors. As others held out identification and their invitations for inspection, security checked them off the list. I went around them confidently and finger waved at the guards like I belonged. They nodded me in.

  The party shimmered with diamond jewelry—opulent wealth on high display. I understood the high security. I scanned the room, searching out my target. I was hoping he’d already arrived and had time to settle in, maybe even tipped back a few drinks. And, sure enough I spotted him over at the bar. I edged toward him and pretended to be in line for an order.

  “Lewis Romalowski?” I asked the short balding man with his tuxedo beautifully tailored over his enormous paunch belly.

  “Do I know you, sweetheart?” he asked with a strong Brooklyn accent.

  “Hi, Lewis, I’m Pamela, we met last summer.” I extended my hand with my full-on sweet-girl-next-door smile and a bat of my fake lashes—why not slather it on thick?

  He grasped my fingers and bent to kiss my hand. “Pleased to
meet you again, Pamela. This was at Domenico’s pool party?”

  “Probably?—I’m not sure. What I do remember is meeting you and being impressed.” Keeping my smile in place, I stepped closer to him. This seemed to make him happy. He rubbed his little sausage fingers up my bare arm. Ew!

  “Well, I’m so glad we did meet. May I buy you a drink?” He chuckled and gestured toward the server. An open bar—such a droll wit. A real ladies’ man.

  “Thanks. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “Scotch straight up? You sure?”

  “Oh, that’s too strong for me.” I giggled. “I’m a real lightweight around alcohol. Maybe a Cosmo?”

  This not-being-able-to-hold-my-booze business got his attention. He leaned toward me. Good thing, too. I had the transmitter palmed—if I could just find an empty pocket …

  Romalowski turned and handed me my cocktail. I raised a finger. “I’m so sorry. Would you excuse me for a minute?” As I pretended to head toward a dowager in a silver gown, another woman moved into the space I had vacated. I didn’t think Romalowski was going to miss me. When you had bucks like this guy had, you weren’t lonely long.

  I put my glass, untasted, on a passing waiter’s tray and left out the front door, calling Rod on my cell as I crossed to the stairs. I kept away from the windows as I waited for the Town Car to roll around. The back door popped open, and I swiveled myself in.

  “We’re recording, Lynx. Excellent job,” Striker said.

  “That was a joke, right? A test?” I narrowed my eyes at Striker.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean his tuxedo jacket pockets were all sewn shut. In his front-right pants pocket he had a money clip for tips. In his left, he had a car key and fob. He only had one back pocket, and that had his wallet. The inside breast pocket had his glasses. If I had put the transmitter in any of those places, he could easily find it.”

  “So where did it end up?”

  “I replaced his right cuff link.” I handed Striker the gold cuff link I had removed from Lewis’ shirt.

  “Why right?”

  “He’s left handed—maybe he won’t notice it. Hopefully his scotch is doing its thing. So, not a joke?”