The Lynx Series Boxed Set II: Books 4-6 (Iniquus Security Action Adventure Boxed Set Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  “I see that you’ve decided to go for blood. You may want to dim that sentiment just a bit.” He sent me a smile, slightly crooked, double dimples, and merriment.

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “Too much?”

  “A tad.”

  I popped open my door and climbed out.

  Finally, I was going to get some of my questions answered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Finley had said he’d meet me at FBI Headquarters entrance and show me to the meeting. Instead, Finley sent this worker-bee to guide me to the meeting room while Finley finished up with a phone call.

  I was glad I had chosen flats this morning. The security guard was my height, but he moved like an Olympic racewalker. His walking pace was my warm-up jogging pace. I had to shift my gait to that pre-jog glide, with my fisted hands held parallel, my elbows brushing the tops of my hips.

  He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if I was still there.

  He seemed exasperated that I wasn’t keeping apace.

  And yet, he did nothing to slow to my comfort level. I preferred Oliver.

  You know what? This is stupid.

  And because I felt passive-aggressive about the last five minutes of this foolishness, I called out, “I just need a moment,” and swung into the restroom we passed by.

  There, I went ahead and took advantage of the facility while I caught my breath and cooled my system. I wasn’t walking into a meeting with the task force sweaty and breathless. It was unprofessional.

  I washed my hands, combed my fingers through my hair, pulled my colored lip gloss from my pocket, and applied. Having adjusted my dress, brushing my hands over the wide skirt, I took a deep breath and exited.

  The guard glanced over to me with a frown and started bolting down the hall again.

  By himself.

  Nope. Not playing. I’ve had quite enough of these power games for today, thanks.

  At the other end of the hall, the guard came to a stop and waited for me.

  When people act a fool, bad drivers cutting me off on the road or what have you, I think to myself, they have a terrible case of diarrhea. If they don’t get home immediately, they’re going to foul their car. It’s understandable. Thoughts like that allowed me to be kind, sympathetic even, to their discomfort and behavior.

  In my mind, I couldn’t come up with a single reason—apparent or made up for the sake of charity—for his behavior.

  Still, I sent him a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Lynx.” Prescott looked up as I walked through the door.

  “Perfect!” I called out as I caught his eye. “Just the person I needed to see.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “Hey, Finley.” I gave him a finger wave. “Prescott, can I have a moment?”

  Damian Prescott was a good guy. We’d been through a lot together. But the last mission I helped him develop was the mission where I found out Angel was still alive. I saw in Prescott’s eyes, as he moved my direction, the shadow of pity in the way he held his face.

  “Hi,” he said and waved me toward the corner of the room. “I was thinking about you this morning when I saw your name on my agenda. How are you?”

  “Okay. Thanks. And you? How’s Raine?”

  Prescott held up his left hand where a gold band gleamed. “Raine is miserable.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’ll pass. Morning sickness. We expect Baby Prescott around Christmas.”

  I reached up and gave him a hug. “Wow, such great news. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” His grin fell off. “Have you heard from the judge about your divorce?”

  “Nada.”

  He pulled his head back, giving him double chins. “Seriously?”

  “Sadly so.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Possibly. But first, let me tell you that I was at the CIA this morning.”

  Prescott crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels.

  “Let me preface this,” I said. “I was in a meeting. I did not mention you by name. But I saw something of interest, and I was given permission to tell ‘the right person’ about what I saw. Their hope is that you’ll give them a call.”

  “Who needs the call?”

  “Guy named Casper. He didn’t tell me his title or department.”

  “Ah, yeah. Okay. I know him. What did you see?”

  I peeked around Prescott’s shoulder to make sure that no one else in the room was listening. I’d be fine with Steve Finley, but there were people here that I didn’t recognize. “Espionage case.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was watching tapes to help pinpoint the spy.”

  “Okay.”

  “I saw a woman with a very distinct tattoo on her left wrist. She wore a bunch of different disguises, and in each, a watch or bracelet or long sleeve obfuscated the tattoo, but I would catch glimpses.”

  “The Rex Deus? Another player?”

  I reached out and gripped Prescott’s forearm. “Caution. I didn’t see the whole of the tattoo. The video was often low resolution. But yeah, I think we found another member of that cell. Casper didn’t share any of the details of that case with me. This was a visual puzzle they handed me. So I don’t know the circumstances. But. Yeah. I’d give him a call and see if he’d share. I’m pretty clear that he doesn’t have a clue what he’s dealing with. At no time did he mention anything about our DARPA scientists or about terrorism. I’m handing this information off to you. Iniquus won’t be pursuing that connection. I’m happily no longer part of that case. No need to loop me in.”

  “I’ll reach out to him in the morning. Now go back, is there something I can do to help with the Angel situation?”

  “I saw John Black at Langley. He ran from me and ordered a guard to keep me away.”

  “But why?”

  I ran my tongue along my teeth and shrugged.

  “Okay.” He looked down at his shoes as he thought. “Color code hasn’t followed up after eight months. It could be that they need Angel to sign the legal forms, and he’s off doing something mission-wise. Perhaps he’s off-grid, and they can’t pull him out to sign court papers.”

  “You know, that would be the obvious answer. But I hadn’t thought of that.” I blinked. “That might be the reason. But that reason sure does suck. He could be deep under cover for years. I was supposed to get married in June. I abandoned all the plans. Told my family to cancel their flights. And I couldn’t tell anyone why. They think things are strained between Striker and me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’d like to know if your theory is correct. Or if there’s another reason. If they’d just tell me, I might not be seething over this.”

  “I can’t imagine. Well, I can…but still, it sucks. I’m sorry. And I guess what you want to know is if I have any contacts to talk to Angel’s handler John Grey.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “Let me put my head together with Finley. You know his girlfriend Anna’s in the field right now, but she may have someone’s cell number.”

  Finley walked over. “Is everything okay?”

  “Lynx is making connections for us. I’ll talk to you about it later. Is Gupta set?”

  “Yes.” Finley held out an open palm to indicate a seat at the table. “Are you ready, Lynx?”

  I sure hope so.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hello.” Dr. Gupta stood about five foot three, parting his thick black hair just above his right ear, making a cascade that rounded over his sizable pate. Everything about his head was overlarge, his eyes with their thyroid bulge, his lips and nose all looked like they had been suddenly downsized from a much larger face.

  His demeanor, though, was incredibly kind and intelligent.

  I felt an immediate affinity for this man.

  Dr. Gupta and Spyder had much the same essence—the strength of a quiet soul. A state
that I aspired to.

  And as I thought that, I adjusted the time I needed to wake up tomorrow morning so I’d have time to follow my meditation practice.

  “Hi, I’m Lynx.”

  He gave me a slight bow—weirdly, this was the third bow I’ve received today. Since my parents started to hover, there had been a lot of bowing. Coincidence? Could others sense their presence on a subtle body level and be acknowledging their elevated state?

  I’d never know.

  I bowed back, namaste.

  Not quite sure what was going on, I wanted to know first and foremost how Spyder fit into this picture.

  But that’s not what I was going to get. I’d have to wait.

  “Lynx,” Finley said. “Dr. Gupta is a tenured sociology professor at Georgetown, where he focuses his research on secret societies. We asked him to offer a primer as we follow a lead brought in by our mutual acquaintance.” He referred to Spyder.

  I nodded.

  “We’re just waiting for Kennedy, then we’ll get started.”

  Rowan Kennedy was FBI connected to Eastern Europe. Organized crime families were his emphasis. In particular, where the crime families used propaganda as a weapon. That these three people were involved in this meeting was more information.

  International in scope, for sure.

  As I thought that, Kennedy pushed through the door. He scanned the room and gave each man a dip of his head. And yup, when he focused on me, he offered that odd little bow.

  So strange.

  “Dr. Gupta, we’re all here if you’d like to begin,” Finley said.

  Dr. Gupta stood at the front of the room. “Very well. I was invited here today to give you background on secret societies in general and then to give you an overview of The Grove in particular; for whatever reason this has become interesting to you.” When he said that last bit, he held up both hands like he was signaling stop and rubbed them through the air. It was as if he were warding off anyone’s attempt to fill him in; he didn’t want to know.

  I did, though. The Grove?

  “Since we’re here at FBI Headquarters, let's start with secret governmental societies. We are, aren’t we? Bureaucratic secret societies. Here we have two efforts underway. We seek out secrets. But we also guard our own. Often, there is selective recruitment. No matter how you enter into the ranks, there are oaths of loyalty and silence. Is it spiritual in nature?” He shrugged. “Spy work has a moral code. And that code is probably very different than what the normal Jane Doe walking down the street operates under. For example, the CIA might find it important to kill someone, and that’s allowed under the right circumstances.”

  He scratched his nose.

  “But spy agencies aren’t normally put into the same bucket as the occult. Occult, it has an evil, dangerous feel to that word. It’s become that through our entertainment systems. Horror movies, for example. But really, occult simply means concealed. And we can agree that much of what we do here at the FBI is concealed. The main rule in a secret society is that knowledge isn’t for everyone. It’s for the select—emphasis on select—few. And it’s the job of those who have the secret knowledge to guard it from others.”

  Hmm. Are we going after someone within an alphabet? What would that have to do with a waitress named Modesty?

  I wish they’d cut to the chase. Being patient and focused today was proving to be a challenge.

  Gupta picked up a fob and tapped the button. The lights dimmed. A screen dropped. There was a painting of the Illuminati.

  That got my attention. All of the secret occult-like behavior and Illuminati-connected images were part of the group with the tattoos on their left arms like the one I saw this morning. Could it be the FBI and the CIA were tracking the same dangers?

  “In human history, there have always been secret societies, and there always will be, I would surmise,” Dr. Gupta was saying. “One of the things we expect to find when studying the various groups both historically and contemporaneously is that they have a charismatic or visionary in the leadership role.”

  He clicked the fob, and up came the image of the seal for the Freemasons.

  “Most secret societies aren’t publicly secret. We know they exist.” He pointed to the screen. “People know about the Masons. What they don’t know is what happens within the Masons. Rituals, passwords, member belief systems, even individual identities may be obfuscated from public view. Think. Even in our colleges and universities, our campuses are rife with secret societies. These include what happens in fraternities and sororities—whether they’re social or professional/academic in nature. Now, why would one choose to be part of a secret society?” Dr. Gupta’s question was rhetorical.

  So far, nothing new here…

  “Secret societies promise their membership special status. The more exclusive the secret society, the more likely they will seek recruits amongst the rich and powerful. You might have heard about the Bohemian Club, for example.” He put up an image of symbology. “This all-male group. It’s filled with CEOs, politicians, financiers, and influencers. Among their history, you’ll find names like Henry Kissinger and Ronald Reagan. Both of the George Bushes are Bohemian Club members.” Gupta scratched his head. “Ancient history, I know, but when Nixon was considering his run for president—while he was never a member of the Bohemian Club—he was invited to go meet with them over a weekend. Nixon knew it was a big step toward being elected. Clout.” Gupta pointed at the ceiling. “Power. Another group that acts that way is the Assembly. And we all know from the ongoing legal entanglements for the Assembly that those who were recruited and initiated believed that rules and laws were for lesser men. The Assemblymen believe that through their rituals they are the voice of god, and therefore they can do as they wish.”

  Assembly? Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “This all leads me to our topic for today, The Grove.”

  The Grove… I tried to think if that had come up in anything Spyder had ever mentioned to me. But it didn’t seem familiar.

  “Here is the history.” Gupta pinched at his lower lip, pausing as if to align his thoughts. With a nod, he began. “Just slip into your thinking caps three aspects of secret societies: selective recruitment, fanatical loyalty, rigorous discipline. Okay, with that background, we’ll begin. The Grove started off as a progressive idea. Very progressive. June 4, 1919, Congress met to vote on whether or not women should have the right to vote. One of these senators was Marshal Leadbottom. Senator Leadbottom voted against the women. That night he died. Corpulent, to say the least, and older, it was assumed that he died of natural causes. With forensics, what they were in 1919, we’ll never know.

  “The next day, his wife Dotty, Dorothy Leadbottom, sold their house, their belongings, cashed in her stocks, jumped on a train, and moved to Hollywood, California. Once there, she was absolutely done with the misogynist lifestyles of the east coast elite. She purchased what was then named Athena’s Grove.”

  He posted a picture of an ornate wrought iron main gate with an owl motif.

  “There, she had cabins built to set up a community of women. These women were sour on males—mistreated wives, rape survivors, prostitution survivors, lesbians who didn’t want to marry. Mother Dot, as she came to be known, enjoyed the classics and liked the idea of the Oracles of Delphi. The women, like any secret society, were chosen and welcomed. Once they lived in The Grove, they had rituals and initiations. They did have men come in, day workers paid for by Mother Dot’s wealth. They did the manual labor and also—uhm…” He sent me a red-faced look. “Excuse me. These men also provided the women with sexual interactions if the women wished them.

  “They were living a very nice life when the stock market crashed many years later. Mother Dot owned the land and the cabins. There, they grew and produced their own food. Expenses were meager, and Mother Dot had a stash of gold. They were financially ready to weather the storm. Going back just a bit, some of the women had children that came with them when t
hey were invited to the Grove. Some became pregnant while they were there. Once they were adults, the girls could decide if they wished to stay or go on with a more traditional life. Some stayed. Some went. They always knew that they’d be welcomed for visits as adults. However, once they became adults, the male children needed to make their own way elsewhere. No men had lived at The Grove.

  “With the Great Depression, many men were desperate. The women decided to allow one of the barns to be turned into a male dormitory. And a new man arrived on the scene. Mother Dot was very pleased. A doctor from New York, his family lost everything in the crash. The Grove would certainly be glad to have a doctor. He was given a cabin to live in and work from. Ward Blackburn was his name.”

  Finley caught my eye. “Our person of interest is Modesty Blackburn.”

  Interesting. I nodded. “Was The Grove considered a cult?” I asked.

  “No,” Gupta explained. “Well, not in the beginning. The distinctions and designations are hard for us to tell now. Secrecy is nearly absolute in the current iteration. A cult uses psychological control. None of what was happening under the women back in the 1920s was psychological control—except women holding money and power away from men. However, the secret rituals were to be kept secret. From what we can tell from the histories written by the women, they were having a great time being free of men’s rule—including exploring their own sexualities.” He coughed into his fist. “Back to Blackburn. He liked the setup at The Grove and wanted it for himself. Instead of being a laborer, he wished to have the women serve him. How could he make this secret society of liberated women into a subservient society dominated by the men, and him in particular? Well, we’ve pieced this together as best we can. Back in the time that Dr. Blackburn arrived, the puberty rituals lasted for three days. The first day the women who were already initiated went to the center grove to plan and dance and eat and enjoy. The next day the young ladies who had gotten their menstrual cycles that year would be invited to join for their ritual. On the third day, they’d all party together. It is reasoned that Dr. Blackburn, using his chemistry background, poisoned the punch, thereby killing all of the women who had been through the rituals. We believe this was studied by Jim Jones in Jonestown, killing his followers with potassium cyanide in the punch.”