Chain Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  Ears echoing, vision mottled, disoriented, Deep lifted himself from the floor. When he got his feet under him, he ran through the cloud of smoke that filled the hallway toward the enemy. A tango knocked him out cold with a crashing punch to the jaw.

  As Deep went down, there was nowhere for my awareness to go but back to my body. And now that I was home with my own blood and sinew, my training kicked in. I was on my feet, shaking my head to clear away the pain from the punch Deep had taken. I grabbed the pocket knife I spied on the desk, flicked it open, and lunged for the door.

  “Stop,” a man’s voice boomed. He aimed his 9mm between my eyes. “India Sobado, you are under the arrest by order of the United States government. Drop your weapon. Hands in the air where I can see them.” His finger lay flat against the trigger guard. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us, the threat of the barrel loomed a foot in front of me. I guess no one apprised him of my skills.

  Letting the knife drop beside me, I raised open palms in the air, but not in surrender; they were ready for an opportunity. He was going down.

  From the direction of the kitchen, a gurgling scream overrode the yells and commotion. It was enough of a distraction. My left hand parried the gun offline as my right grabbed the top ridges, knocking the slide, jamming it back, and making it ineffectual. My left palm jammed the cartilage in his nose back toward his brain stem. As blood gushed from his nostrils, I twisted the barrel to turn toward the tango. In this position, I easily pulled the gun from his hand. I thrust my rigid knuckle into the pressure point just south of his ear that I knew would put him out for at least twenty minutes and watched him crash to the ground.

  Not knowing how many bullets he had fired, I dropped the magazine and unsnapped the pockets on his tactical belt, grabbing up his spares. One I smacked into place on the bottom of the Glock’s grip; the second I slid into my pocket.

  Striker’s SEAL mantra played in my brain. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast.

  I emerged from the command center, and made my way down the hall towards the great room.

  Chris was down the hallway, dragging Blaze toward the safe room. Cookie, with carving knives in each hand, had squared off with a man who was bigger by about a foot and probably thirty pounds of muscle. The tango fought Cookie barehanded with his rifle near his feet next to another guy’s body. The width of the pool of blood under the fallen man’s head told me he was past help. And the knife shoved behind his collar bone told me that that kill was by Cookie’s hand. In a split second, I took in the slash marks that marred the tango’s arms as he tried to retreat. Every time he reached for his sidearm, Cookie’s knife sliced at lightning speed.

  Deep rolled on the floor with another man. The tango had Deep in an arm lock and pummeled him with a fury of punches. My gaze scanned for other threats as I moved to a better angle, lifted the Glock and took Cookie’s guy down with a shot to the leg. As he hit the ground, a black-clad figure emerged from the basement stairs, his gun aimed at my center mass, his finger on the trigger, I could easily read the hatred in his eyes. My hands shook too much for me to take him, and standing here in the middle of the great room, there was nowhere to dive for cover.

  The tango on top of Deep yelled out, “You’re not supposed to hurt her. She’s precious cargo.”

  The gunman’s eye twitched right toward the voice, and that’s when I regained control of my nerves, raised my weapon, and put my sights on mark. Before I could squeeze the trigger, I saw Bella’s black silky body pinch through the hole she had gnawed in the gym door. It took Bella a nano-second to hone in on the tango, bunch her muscles and leap onto his back, taking him down with the weight of her forward momentum. His high-pitched screams filled the room as Bella sank her teeth into his shoulder. I left Bella to her prize as I trained my gun on Deep’s attacker and paced forward. The tango released his hold, and Deep kicked the guy off of him, rolled him onto his stomach, and used the tango’s own zip ties from his utility belt to secure the guy’s hands and feet.

  I called Bella to me so Deep could make his rounds, zip tying the men on the ground.

  Moans echoed off the cathedral ceiling. The enemy lay dead or injured in heaps on the wooden floor. Smoke from the explosives hazed the atmosphere, painting it in an eerie, otherworldly color.

  Bella, Cookie and I retreated to my bedroom. Soon Deep followed, darting to my bed and slapped the emergency button. We were on shutdown. Chris treated an unconscious Blaze for his gunshot wound. Deep was on the sat phone to Iniquus. After a short time, the helos that brought the tangos in bugged out and silence fell over the house for just a moment before the whoop-whoop-whoop of the Iniquus cavalry flew into range, riding to our rescue.

  Thirty-Seven

  The submarine was a strange experience. The interior was comfortable. The chairs anyway. Me? Not so much. It was a bit like being a message in a bottle thrown out in the water with crossed fingers. Once you’re in the sub, you’re in. This was a little too much like my cell in Honduras with the heavy clanging metal door. Only there was no open window assuring me of air – also no oatmeal, so some good with the bad.

  I stared at my lap, bathed in horror over what had just happened. Blaze. Fuck. And not only was Striker’s house put on the map, his retreat was all but destroyed in the attack. I had no way to make this up to him. Being around me was just bad juju. No one deserved the crap that followed along with loving me. Especially Striker. When this was over, at least I could do something about that. He could put me in his rearview mirror.

  We were under water for what felt like forever. I spent the time reliving every second of the assault, over and over again. When the “go-ahead” came to us over the loudspeaker, and the bulletproof shutter reseated themselves, the first thing I did was run outside to check on Andy. The rifle shot he took to the chest had winded him, but the ceramic plates that Striker required outdoor security to wear, had saved his life.

  My attention shifted to my dogs, whining at my feet. Striker said Beetle and Bella did better on their first ride when Gater brought them in from the Millers’ Kennel. That was probably because I wasn’t there sending out anxiety waves. I have grown to hate enclosed spaces from which I couldn’t escape. Couple that with battle-frayed nerves and the stench of adrenaline on my skin, and no wonder the dogs were anxious.

  I scratched behind Bella’s ears and pulled her lips back to see if she had hurt herself on the door splinters. Beetle squirmed forward to get her share of attention. My girls seemed unfazed by the battle we had just lived through.

  By the time Echo Team leaped from our own Blackhawk, Omega had exfilled with their casualties. From the security tapes, eight had had boots on the ground. Obviously, there were more tangos in their copters. Even before we left the scene, Command had let Omega know what it thought of their little maneuver. Omega denied a hand in the battle, but said they had a warrant for my arrest, and Iniquus had been warned about aiding and abetting. Iniquus responded that I had not been in the house; I was at the bottom of the Gulf, and Omega could pay for repairs, then they’d talk about what it would take to get the video feed returned to Omega headquarters instead of the FBI where their contract could see what Omega thought of the phrase “treat her like a precious egg”. That was the latest update. And then there was Blaze. He was medevacked out, and I didn’t know yet how he was doing.

  Soon enough we were under the Iniquus McMansion on the edge of the Potomac. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. I was glad to be here, even though we had come in under the cover of darkness and horrible circumstances. Jack took Beetle and Bella for a moonlight potty run. Striker and I made our way up the path to the men’s barracks. Dressed in black, no one would see me and know I was here.

  The Iniquus campus sat on the south side of the Potomac, with easy access to the highway. Iniquus employees had housing on the campus so that when things got tight, Command could keep everyone going around the clock, though most people had a secondary residence. Only Iniquus employees could
enter Iniquus housing. The women were quartered in a few of the McMansions arranged to look like a small elite community. These mansions also contained our warehouses, and apparently, our submarine station.

  On the west edge of the woods, an eleven-story apartment building housed the Iniquus men with a “no women allowed” policy. Striker walked me as far as his door, then had to go down the hall to check in with David, a fellow Lead Commander.

  I pushed open the tall, carved wood door to Striker’s place and took a deep breath in. Even more than the bay house, this apartment smelled and felt like Striker to me. The designer used natural materials, durable, strong, and reliable to construct the interior. The ceiling in the front room was two stories high. The outer wall was made of glass, with a panoramic view of Washington that transformed into a bejeweled, black velvet ball gown of a view at night.

  I went to use the bathroom and saw that my bags sat in the hall between the two bedroom doors. Would I sleep in my own room or with Striker? I couldn’t tell if Striker was trying to make a decision, if he wanted me to make the decision, or if this happened to be where Jack put them. I was going to leave it alone for now.

  I wandered back towards the great room and looked in the fridge. I wanted to cook but wasn’t sure there would be any food since we’d been away. Luckily, the food fairy had come. I made burritos and put them in the oven. Striker came in; his face had the pinched look of fatigue and a busy mind. I brought him a beer and sat down beside him to stare out at the view, still a little shell shocked and not at all sure what to say to Striker. What could I possibly say; “Sorry they blew up your house”?

  “Gater’s here,” Striker said.

  I glanced over and saw Striker’s eyes were dark and hard.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “You always get that little smile on your face right before he walks through the door.”

  “He tickles,” I whispered.

  “Yeah. I’m going to leave that one alone,” Striker’s jaw was set.

  “What the hell does that mean?” My effort to control my emotions was flagging.

  “You tell me what the hell that means,” Striker’s voice had a snarl at the edges. Was this because of Gater? His house? Had I finally found the not so sweet spot that said Striker had reached his limits with me?

  The doorbell rang. I shot Striker a contrite look, and went over to open it to Gater and Deep. They were both dressed up in suits like it was Sunday morning. I stood for a minute, staring at the bruises that bloomed over Deep’s face. I knew he wouldn’t want me to baby him; I should treat him like a warrior who had faced the enemy with valor. But god, my heart squeezed down so tightly that it took me a minute before I could step back and let them in.

  “Hey guys, come on in. Dinner’s about to come out of the oven.” I tried hard to relax my face and dial down the sobs that wanted to surface.

  “We cain’t stay. Just wanted to let y’all know that Blaze’s out of surgery. Good thing they were using round nose bullets. If they had been using hollow points, he could have said goodbye to that shoulder. Doctors are thinking full recovery after some rest and PT. But Blaze said he ain’t gonna let Laura come anywhere near him. He’s not a glutton for punishment like Lynx is.” Gater rocked back with a grin “It sure does smell good though. Wouldn’t mind if you were to wrap some up for tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you guys be resting? What are you doing dressed in suits?” I asked.

  “No rest required – just another day at the office. Besides, we got dates.” Gater pulled at the neck of his starched shirt and looked like he was doing penance. “The girls have some big shindig with work.”

  “And Deep’s going like that?”

  “Shoot yeah,” Deep’s attempted grin went lopsided by the swelling at his jaw. “Girls find out that I beat up a guy who was attacking a lady, and they’ll get all hero-worship-y and want to tend to my wounds. And I’ve got wounds all over.” He winked.

  “Hero-worship-y. I didn’t know that was a word.” I moved in to straighten Deep’s collar. “Do I know them?”

  “You know Ghianna,” Deep said. “She asked me to bring someone for her friend Becky.”

  “And if this Becky looks anything like the Becky I grew up with, then Deep is going to owe me big time.”

  “Ghianna’s smart and cute, Gater, birds of a feather and all that. I’m sure you’ll have a great time. You look fabulous, Deep,” I lied. “Those poor girls’ hearts don’t have a chance.”

  Deep looked over at Striker; I saw him register the hard line of Striker’s mouth. “Hey man, looks like we’re interrupting something. So we’ll head on. G’night.” Deep whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Good luck.” And they took off.

  I wandered back into the living area, glad to have a little of Deep’s good juju. I’ve seen that hard ass look on Striker’s face only once, and what happened after wasn’t pretty, and luckily, was directed nowhere near me. Striker never loses control, but the situation that had upset him got controlled, that’s for damned sure.

  I sat down facing him and waited. Nothing. No words. No reaction. Striker stood there like a concrete barricade. His walls were up. He had closed himself off. He was having a private argument in his own head and I didn’t like that I was excluded. I didn’t like that any conclusions he came to on his own would be his alone. Keeping me at arms’ length seemed selfish. This should include me. All right, truth was I wanted to be in control. Though it was a little bit unethical, I searched around him with my sixth sense, and the hostile vibrations he sent off had to do with Gater. Not Blaze. Not his house. Not the battle. Only Gater.

  I cleared my throat. “When I was younger, I adored reading English legends.” Striker lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly. At least I knew he was listening. “I guess, with my mom’s terminal illness, I was scared most of the time.” I twisted my fingers into a knot on my lap. “The idea of a knight in shining armor facing down my dragons for me was very appealing. Ivanhoe, La Morte D’Arthur, Tristan and Isolde, Robin of Sherwood. I read them over and over again. I dreamed of meeting men with that kind of valor, that kind of code — men with chivalry.”

  Striker’s eyes turned curious, though still distant.

  I was slouched back on the sofa, trying to look casually conversational. “The men in my life, though, were ordinary men. You know, ordinary strength, ordinary problems.” I pushed my hair back from my face, wondering where I was headed with this line of thought, and decided to just keep talking. “They dreamed mundane dreams, and they went through their days doing routine things.” I cleared my throat, hoping that would stop the wobble in my voice. “I resolved myself to the idea that men made of legendary stuff were of the very distant past.”

  “Not your dad,” Striker said, and shifted against the wall. Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. It seemed unnecessarily burdensome to me. I was willing to take my share of the weight.

  “No, not my dad.” I looked out the window toward the Washington lights, but didn’t really registering them. “I was too young to understand how incredible he was. He was familiar, though.” I focused back on Striker. “I didn’t have the proper perspective until after he died. He didn’t wear armor that sparkled in the sunshine.” I let a long breath whisper between my lips. “What I wanted at the time was fairy tale magic. When I needed him to slay the dragon, he couldn’t. My mom was going to die, and he was a mere mortal.”

  Striker crossed his arms over his chest. I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt.

  “When I was thirteen, Spyder became a big part of my life. I got to experience extraordinary for the first time. He was so exotic with his accent, and his strength. As my mentor, he taught me so much. He showed me amazing things. Introduced me to Iniquus.” My mouth had gone dry and my lips were sticking to my teeth. It made the smile that I was offering Striker feel awkward and untrue. “Who knew there was such a place? That men like you existed?” Striker’s gaze was too intense. I couldn’t bare up unde
r it. I was suddenly exhausted. Beyond exhausted, actually. Wrung dry of all energy. I looked down at the floor.

  “Spyder filled my head with modern legends, like the ones that you and the teams were writing every day. Like today at your house – good conquering evil.” I lifted my eyes to Striker’s “I’m so so sorry about your house, Striker.”

  He waved his hand back and forth as if to bat that idea out of the way. I guessed he wanted me to finish my thoughts.

  “Back when I was known as Alex, and I was playing the role of a young guy under Spyder’s wing, meeting you was like meeting Arthur himself. You were so handsome. Strong. Smart. Brave. I was in awe of you. I was completely star struck — out of my mind, uncontrollably in love with you.”

  “You were in awe of me? What, no more?”

  I looked up at him for a beat then back at my hands. “You know what I mean.”

  “Not really. I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’ve never known you to need a knight in shining armor to ride to your rescue. To support you as teammates, yes, but you’ve done a damned good job of saving yourself. You’re hardly a damsel in distress.”

  I leaned forward. “If there is any myth that goes with the Middle Ages, it’s the damsel in distress. Do you know what happened when those errant knights went out on their quests? They left the castle. They took every worthwhile man with them and left the battlements. Who got ditched? Old men, children and women. Who ran the castle and protected it from the enemy? Women. Who was it that. . .”

  “Lexi?” Striker’s voice had softened and so mine did, too.

  “Yes?”

  “I think you might be straying from your point.”

  “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I guess my point is that when I was younger, my world seemed black and white. There were knights and there were dragons. There was right and there was wrong. There was no gray area. As I’m getting older, with more experiences and relationships, I understand that life is more nuanced than that. There is a whole lot of gray, isn’t there?”