Chain Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  “Joe” was back by my side. He had gone down to the hospital gift shop while I was playing pincushion. He came in with an armful of flowers, balloons, some chocolate — always a good thing — my favorite novel, Pride and Prejudice, and a bobble head alligator wearing sunglasses and a smile. We waited for test results.

  After dinner, Gater got a text from Striker and set up the computer so we could all chat over Skype. Randy and Striker looked like they’d come in from a sandstorm. There were sweat streaks on their faces that made mud rivulets down their cheeks.

  “Hey, guys. Been playing in the sandbox?” I asked.

  “Something like that.” Striker took a cloth and rubbed it over his face.

  I cocked my head to the side. “Successful?”

  “Mostly. The client still has boots on the ground. Our part is over,” Striker said. “I hear you got bored at the bay house, decided to go in to town, and do some shopping.”

  “They have a lovely antiques mall here,” I replied.

  “Cute. What’s really going on? What are the doctors saying?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. They think they figured out my migraines and fixed it.”

  The nurse peeked around the door. “Good news. That was a negative on your arteriogram.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I gave him a wave and the door shut.

  “What test was that?” asked Striker.

  “It was the craziest thing. Chris told the doctor that when I set my glass on the counter, I missed by about six inches. I looked down to the left at where the glass crashed and passed out. So there’s this weird medical problem that trauma patients can develop, something to do with the artery running up the back of the head. It’s called vertebra-basilar insufficiency. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Can’t say that I have. It didn’t come up in SEAL medic training.”

  “Yeah, well, it seems there are some people who aren’t allowed to look down at their left armpit, because it makes them black out.”

  “Every time?” asked Randy.

  “Yup. If the test had come back positive, I would never see my left armpit again except in a reflective surface.”

  “Glad that’s not an issue, Chica. It is kind of funny if you think about it — you’re in a fight with a bad guy; he throws a right upper-hook. You look down for the block, and he TKO-ed you without landing a single blow.”

  “Less bruising that way.” I smiled. “Yeah, I was afraid I was going to be the Harriet Tubman of the spy world.”

  Striker laughed. “That would have made life interesting.”

  “Is that a client? I don’t know that name,” Randy said.

  “No – sorry, Randy. Tubman was a slave here in America back in the 1700s. She’s one of my all-time heroes. When she was a little girl, her owner hit her in the head with a heavy weight. After that, she would fall into a deep sleep just whenever, and no one could wake her up. When she grew up, she escaped from her owner, ran away to the north, and later she made a bunch of trips back down to the south and brought other slaves up to freedom, too. Can you imagine how courageous that woman had to be? I mean, Tubman could have had a bloodhound on her heels, chasing her down, and she’d take an unexpected nap. She was awesome. But I’m not her kind of brave. If I really had that arterial thing going on, it would change a lot of things.”

  “You couldn’t do field work, that’s for sure. You’d put the team at risk.” Randy reached up and scrubbed a hand over his head, sending sand flying.

  “You’re right. Command would put me in the Puzzle Room, and I wouldn’t get to go out and play anymore.”

  Randy’s hands landed on his hips. “Glad to hear you’re okay.”

  “Thanks, Randy. Me too. And so?”

  “So we’re headed home. What is that thing?” Striker squinted at the screen.

  I had been absentmindedly flicking the alligator, making his head bobble around. It was close to the computer. I pulled it back so Striker could see. “My boyfriend, Joe, brought it to me with these beautiful flowers and the balloons.” I gestured with my hand. “He was down in the gift shop, enjoying himself, while I had an elephant’s hypodermic stuck in my spine. Least he could do, don’t you think?”

  “The very least,” Striker’s voice sounded as dry as the dirt on his uniform. The look he shot me was the same one my dad used when he caught me in a lie of omission – a huge sin in our household. I ducked my head and coughed to hide the heat rising to my face and the guilty tears that stung my eyes. My reaction was surely the result of childhood habit; I was just too tired and too provoked to push it to the side. “When can you come home?” I asked when I looked back up.

  “There’s a carrier heading stateside in an hour. Randy and I are going to catch a shower and hitch a ride. We’ll be on the bay tomorrow.”

  “I hope I beat you back to the house,” I said. “I have to wait to hear what the doctor thinks went wrong with my head.”

  Twenty-Nine

  After Kloss released me from observation, my team waited until dark. Spotting a tail was easiest when they had to use headlights, especially on lonely country roads. We drove over a lot of those roads. Deep and Chris were in the follow-car with extra firepower in case we picked up a shadow.

  The house was empty when we got back. Striker still wasn’t in the next morning when I got up. I was anxious for him to be home. I decided to put my mind to work on the case, instead of all the things that could have gone wrong between the desert and here.

  I liked a good puzzle. I enjoyed it when someone handed me a pile of disparate components, and said, “We need the full picture.” It was a creative process. It was an intuitive process. Right now, wading through this pile of junk, it was a pain-in-the-keister process.

  The Assembly. The Assembly, on the surface, was a prayer group. A bunch of guys with connections to Capitol Hill who decided that every year everyone with power, in the political sense of the word, should get together with the people with power, in the I-have–a-direct-line-to–God sense of the word, over breakfast. It turned out that it wasn’t that simple, and it wasn’t that innocent.

  The Assembly men — and as far as I could tell, they were all men – thought of themselves in the vein of medieval royalty. Not quite human – closer to divine. They were the chosen ones. The ones that God said could and should rule the Earth. The mundane among us should have rules, regulations, and laws, but the Assembly members were above that. They were above regulation. They believed this. They preached this. Quietly.

  Now, I had to admit that I liked having my own set of rules. At Iniquus they didn’t want to make rules an issue for me because they thought it might wither my creative thinking vine. Command let me color outside of the lines when it came to the rule manual. I didn’t take advantage of it – well, not too much advantage, not so much that anyone had felt the need to take away my crayons. I stayed in the guest room in Striker’s apartment when they barred other women from entering the men’s barracks. I wore whatever I pleased, while everyone else had a uniform. Pretty benign stuff. The Assembly, on the other hand. . .wowy-kazowy! They did as they pleased. And they got away with it, too.

  Members of the Assembly included House representatives, judges, senators, presidents – past and present. Power. It was all about control and manipulation. One set of rules for us commoners, one set of rules for the Assembly.

  Lately, a Nevada state senator and a South Carolina governor, both Assembly members, had their affairs revealed in a media storm. Neither man thought they had done much wrong. The Assembly believes that fidelity is for mortal men (and all women), not for the chosen ones. Now these guys didn’t come right out and say it, but one could easily read between the lines.

  A reporter, Bill Kennedy, had somehow copped an invitation to live in one of their Assembly houses. In these houses, the newest generation of the Assembly were trained and brainwashed. His entre was bizarre because the Assembly gains its supremacy through secrecy. They are the undercurrent, the po
litical and financial riptide of our nation. Kennedy spent two years walking in the very expensive, highly polished shoes of a member. He researched, compiled, and wrote his findings.

  Almost every library in the US has Kennedy’s book on a shelf, and yet most Americans were blind to the Assembly’s existence. Though right there on Wikipedia, of all places, it had a comprehensive article that said Assembly members took a required vow of secrecy. Their leaders explained the organization's desire for secrecy was based on biblical reproaches against public displays of good works; and also, if they acted publicly, they would not be able to tackle delicate diplomatic missions if they drew public notice.

  In major national papers, they reported the long arm of the Assembly, even to countries in Africa like Uganda, where Assembly members had been instrumental in developing laws that would put homosexuals to death. That kind of delicate diplomatic mission didn’t sound very Christian to me.

  The secrecy component explained why I had never heard of them. Striker had, though. I asked him earlier if he was a member. Turns out Iniquus bans membership to this group. Command thought the Assembly was antithetical to American ideals and counter to our mission.

  My mission this week — along with trying to figure out what the Assembly was all about — had been to see if I could figure out which of the people in my own little saga happened to play on Team Assembly. Kennedy had set up a website where he posted all of his documentation, everything he had gathered over the years of research that he synthesized into his book. That’s where I spent my time.

  I found my federal attorney and DA; I found Noble. Today, four long days into this expedition, I stumbled on a little treasure trove. Jonathan Frith was a member, and so was Judge Wallace. Wallace had signed the warrant that allowed Omega to go after me.

  Night fell, and I was giving up on the idea that Striker would get in tonight. This late, if he were here in the States, he would probably go ahead and stay in the city. I watched Gater, who stood in the great room, bouncing tennis balls. Working the girls into a frenzy. “Here you go.” he’d say as he rolled two balls down the hall. I pushed myself up against the wall to get out of their way as they galloped past.

  “Gater, cut it out. You’re going to ruin the floors.” I sounded like my mother.

  “Nah. Striker knew the girls were gonna be in here. He had everything sealed.”

  “Have you heard anything from him?” I asked.

  Beetle and Bella ran back towards Gater each with a ball in her mouth.“Striker? Nope.” He rolled them again as I thumped my way towards the sofa. The florescent-green tennis balls ricocheted back into the great room. Beetle and Bella did sliding stops and hurtled back towards us. They each dove for the balls. The balls on the tips of my walker legs! With a lunging tug, Beetle and Bella pulled my walker out from under me. I was falling backwards when Gater scooped me up.

  He was laughing full out with me in his arms when Striker walked in.

  “What’s going on?” Striker was not laughing.

  “I’m done using my walker.” I pointed to where Beetle and Bella tugged the balls from the feet. They were wedged on pretty well – it was turning into the ultimate tug-of-war chew toy.

  “I’m not even going to ask.” Striker’s eyes were hard, hands on hips, feet wide. Immovable. “What’s the word, Gater? Did your Florida pals find our man?”

  “Not even a hair on his chinny chin chin.” Gater set me gently on the sofa. “Brody’s a ghost, man. My guys have their ears to the ground. I’ll get a call if anyone spots him. We have his license plate, and there’s a BOLO issued. Hopefully he’s driving around, and some traffic cop will catch sight.”

  “Better than nothing.” Striker picked up his briefcase and tossed it onto the table. “You hear about the Peterson case?”

  “Yes, sir. When do we head out?” Gater asked, back in soldier-mode.

  “Command is working out logistics. Soon.” Striker looked down at my walker, then back at me. “You’re okay?”

  “Good thing Gater got trained in scoop-and-save at the safe house. Felt like old times,” I said.

  “I heard you’re still working on your conspiracy theory,” Striker said.

  “I wish Brody would show up, willing to talk. I don’t know where else to go but to conspiracy theories. Sylanos, Omega. Sylanos, Omega. Sylanos. . .why does the Assembly keep popping up?”

  “That’s a very good question. I sent you some computer files that Command thought might be helpful.”

  Striker looked tired. I felt a twinge of guilt, though I wasn’t sure why. I went over to give him a welcome-home-I-missed-you-loads kind of kiss.

  “Thanks for the files,” I smiled up at him. “Are you hungry?”

  Striker’s eyes dilated to black. He held me tight against him. “Starved.”

  I gave Striker a smile, and Gater made a show of leaving the room.

  I snuggled my head against Striker’s chest. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

  “That’s for sure.” Striker tilted my head up. “Are you trying to send me to bed so you can start looking through the files?” I could tell by the warmth of his eyes that he had taken off his Commander’s hat, and was wearing something more domestic and comfortable.

  I smiled and shrugged. “Judge Wallace is on the Assembly list.” I reached out and popped a strawberry in my mouth from the bowl that Cookie had set on the table.

  “Everyone’s on the Assembly list.” Striker bent to kiss me, then sat down on the floor with Beetle and Bella, his long legs stretched out, leaning against the chair. I sat in the chair across from him.

  “Not everyone – you’re not. I’m not. It’s invitation only. The list is long, but it’s prestigious. Not everyone gets to sit at the Assembly table.”

  “I hear you.” The bland look on Striker’s face told me that he wasn’t convinced that this was meaningful. I sighed. He could be right, but I didn’t have any other direction to go. “I did a search on Wallace. He retired two weeks ago. There was a big hoo-hah in the paper about him and his sendoff party at the Smithsonian. Lots of politcos were there,” I said.

  “Not surprising.” Beetle curled her body and put her head on Striker’s leg to get her ears scratched.

  “If he was the judge who signed my arrest warrant, and now he’s retired, someone else is in charge of my file. Maybe even – and I know this is a long shot – someone who isn’t in the Assembly.”

  Striker nodded his head speculatively. “The Assembly idea is an interesting twist. If you’re right, that would be the Mount Everest of takedowns. Even you couldn’t win that one. Iniquus would be powerless to help.”

  I stilled as a frisson of cold nerves swept over me. “Wow. That’s quite the statement.”

  Striker rubbed a finger over his bottom lip. “What does your gut tell you?”

  “That I’ve just spent four days down a rabbit hole.”

  “Funny thing about rabbits: they breed like crazy, and then each one takes off in a different direction.”

  “I hear you, and I understand. I need to pick one rabbit and chase it down. Otherwise, I’ll be running all over the place like a crazy person. Which, by the way, is exactly how this mess makes me feel.”

  Striker looked at me thoughtfully and pursed his lips. “Let’s focus on Wallace for the time being. I’ll call Spencer, see if we can’t get the new judge to open your file and let us take a peek.”

  I held up crossed fingers.

  “I have some news. The Honduran project got a green light. Axel’s wheels are up.”

  I grabbed for Striker’s wrists in my excitement. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Maybe Sr. Alejandro Castillo holds the key to your lock.”

  Thirty

  Striker was back at Headquarters, reviewing logistics with Command and the Honduran consulate. After that, they were going with Iniquus legal counsel to a “big meeting”. They had an appointment with the judge to see why I was a public enemy. I would make a very
bad criminal. I felt hugely guilty even though I didn’t think I actually did anything wrong.

  I walked down to the edge of the bay, and sat on the beautiful little beach that Striker had created. The sand was silky white and still hot from a day of ninety degree heat. It felt good to feel the warmth radiating up underneath me as the cool twilight breeze winged over the water and blew my hair around my face.

  I reached back to pull the strands into a ponytail bun and watched my girls playing in the water, barking at the passing fish and birds. They were happy here. I was happy here. Striker made an oasis. A little safety zone in a turbulent world where evil could never find me.

  My strength was returning little by little, though the doctors only signed off on baby weights. My coordination was slower. I wouldn’t dare walk out on the mats to spar with someone. But I felt like I was finally making progress. There was a sense of freedom that came from physical power, from feeling capable. Weak as a kitten did not fit well with my personality. Neither did being sequestered. As safe as I was here, I was ready to get this resolved. I wanted to hear a judge’s gavel bang, putting the bad guys away for good.

  At least today some good was coming of my prison stay. Axel’s squad had moved into place. I had been anxious all day. Agitated. Another tropical storm hit the Honduran coast. We had no satellite feed. Deep monitored the airwaves from the command room in the west wing. Every once in a while, he picked up a sporadic sentence or two. The general vibe was the mission followed along the planned trajectory. I wondered about the inmates, about the guard dogs, and worried.

  Command, Striker, and Iniquus lawyers were probably still meeting. My freedom depended on the outcome. I worried about that, too. Judge Talbot opened and reviewed the sealed file from Judge Wallace’s court. Judge Talbot needed more information.

  Iniquus lawyers, as my posthumous representatives, along with Striker and Spencer, were meeting with FBI lawyers to figure out the charges and the supporting evidence for the warrant. It turned out that Judge Talbot had a niece working for Iniquus as a copy girl. Lucky me. At least with her poking at her uncle, I got some attention. It also didn’t hurt that the Iniquus reputation was pristine. It was hard for Talbot to believe that Iniquus would have a rogue agent, and our commanders wouldn’t be the first in line to slap on the cuffs to protect their image.