by Quinn, Fiona
I made a lot of racket, then, “Ahhhh! Gater! Look what you did. I had everything ready to go in the oven, and now we’re covered with batter.”
“I’m sure sorry, ma’am,” Gater said, standing in his boxer-briefs. I tried very hard to keep my eyes on his face.
“Here let’s get these clothes into the washing machine, so they don’t stain.” I trounced down the stairs, opened the lid, and put the GSM bugs in with the load of towels already in there. I ran the washer on hot water - heavy soil. I’d dispose of the bugs when I returned.
Back in the kitchen, we gave ourselves another once over, checked the dogs, put on our clothes, and left.
“Was that woman’s intuition?” asked Deep, once we were safely in the van.
“No. That was a pathetically amateur attempt to bug us. I can’t believe anyone could be so bad at it.”
“Only because you’re so good, ma’am. I didn’t realize what she was doing. I thought she was clumsy. But now I know to strip down to my skivvies if I ever get bumped like that again.” Gater grinned.
“The van is clean? We’re sure there are no GPS units stuck to the under carriage?”
“I just gave it another scan. We’re good to go,” Blaze said.
“Yeah, it won’t help, though. I told Missy that we’re headed for the Millers’, and she won’t know to keep my location quiet.” I sighed.
“Do you think it’ll matter?” Blaze asked.
“Beats me. I don’t know what this woman wants from me.”
Twenty
Nona Sophia Alfonz was my Kitchen Grandmother from Italy. Every night her apartment would fill with noise and family, family and noise. Sometimes the noise was light-hearted and teasing, sometimes someone broke out in song. Many times they broke out in fights.
Deep came from this background - born and raised on Staten Island. He missed it. Joseph-Pasquale, his mother called him — Joey to the rest of his family. I still don’t know why we called him Deep. A “Deep” dark secret, I giggled to myself, popping the garlic bread into the oven. Tonight he was bringing a new girl – Ghianna — to dinner. Honestly, he goes through girls like I go through a bag of potato chips.
Deep rang the bell right on time; I turned the burner under the sauce to off and headed to the door. Deep always showed up at my house for dinner on Thursdays — didn’t even bother to ask. He’d call to check on the time, and to see if I needed anything besides the bottle or two of good, red Italian wine he always brought. I’m not supposed to drink any until my birthday, March third, when I’d turn twenty-one. But I liked to have them to set on the table for whoever showed up for my weekly Italian dinner. Deep and I had started a tradition, and it was pretty much open door night - anyone who was hungry or wanted a little famiglia Italia was welcome.
Okay, almost everyone. Tonight, not so much. As Manny and his boys burst through the front door I spotted Consuela trailing them in. I quickly ducked into the kitchen and flattened against the wall. Holy cow.
Manny’s Italian comes from his father’s side, and Manny liked to eat. Manny and his boys coming for Thursday dinner was a given. But how in the world did Consuela glom on to Manny’s crew? Was she making inroads with the neighbors? First Missy, now Manny? What were they telling her about me? What did they know?
The neighbors all thought I did data entry for Iniquus. They’ve run into my team from time to time, but I introduced them as my friends, which they are. Manny knows I shoot and do martial arts – I wracked my brain for any other information that would benefit Consuela. I didn’t think any of them knew I spoke anything but a little Italian…Shit. I hated this.
Think. Think. Tonight I had a full house. Good. That might help. Gater, Amy, Amy’s friend, Nicki, Deep, Ghianna, Manny, his two boys, and now Consuela. How can I get rid of her? I stirred my sauce manically, sloshing the tomatoes up the sides of the pot and splattering the wall.
Amy and Gater appeared in the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. “Hey, do you need any help in here?” Gater asked.
“Yes, thanks. Can you open the wine and put the bottles on the table? Amy, would you grab some of the platters?” Amy picked up the antipasti and serving forks and moved to the dining room.
“You hiding out in here?” Gater whispered in my ear, as he twisted the corkscrew into the bottle.
“For as long as possible.” My hand trembled as I reached for the pasta pot. Why was I so unsteady? My brows drew together. What could she possibly do to me in a house full of people? My rational mind scolded my limbic system. The leopard purred arrogantly and swished a long lazy tail.
“Can you seat everyone and make sure you and Deep are on either side of Consuela at the far end of the table? Put the little boys up near me on the stools. They’ll make enough noise that I can seem distracted.”
“Wilco.” Gater popped the cork out of the second bottle and headed into the dining room.
I swirled my food in my plate. My stomach refused even a single bite, though the night seemed to be passing drama-free. Deep and Gater deflected the conversation into ankle-deep, banal waters whenever Consuela tried to take a plunge into some aspect of my life. She seemed especially intent on bringing up my homeschool days — my neighbors apparently had been talking. She wanted to chat about my teachers, and where I got my dogs, both of these things connected me to Spyder. Luckily, my neighbors didn’t know anything about him – well, that wasn’t true. Dave Murphy did. But he also knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Consuela spent the night annoying me by speaking in Spanish. I had to be cognizant of which language she spoke, so I wouldn’t respond either by word or facial expression to anything Spanish, as Spyder instructed. It was a lot of work and irritating as hell. Good God, but I’ve been swearing a lot lately. Stress…I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why Consuela was baiting me. What did it matter if I spoke Spanish or not?
Finally, Deep looked over at Consuela and asked, “Why do you keep talking to everyone in English but Lexi? She doesn’t know how to speak Spanish. Lexi’s second language is kitchen Italian. And if you ask me, she speaks it very well.”
“Hear, hear!” Manny raised his wine glass. “A toast to Lexi’s kitchen Italian!”
On that, I smiled and escaped to the kitchen to get the cannoli and coffee.
“Okay, all clear. Table tidied. Guests gone. You can stop hiding out in your kitchen now.” Amy burst through the door with a platter in her hand and a smile on her face. I put a finger to my lips and shook my head. Gater must have been thinking my same thoughts. He walked into the kitchen holding up the Tektronix to sweep for surveillance equipment. I gave him the thumbs up, and he went to work in the dining room. As I turned on the dishwasher, Gater walked in with a little gizmo resting on his palm. After showing me, he opened the dishwasher door, threw it in, and adjusted the setting to disinfect.
“That’s all of them?” I leaned my hips against the counter with a big exhale.
He glanced at the dishwasher. “You’re clean.”
For some reason this struck me as wildly funny, and I bent over laughing.
“Y’all are weird.” Amy shook her head with exasperation and went to get her coat from my hall closet.
***
“In Honduras?” I doodled leopard ears on my pad. I was talking on the phone with a linguistic professor who specialized in Latin America accents. “You’re sure she’s originally from Honduras? Okay, I’m taking notes … and the capital Tegucigalpa, specifically?” I asked.
I sent this guy declassified tapes three days ago with a bonus check if he prioritized my project. Maybe I had a starting point or maybe he just wanted his money – hard to tell from his voice alone. I should have Skyped. Well, at least I knew how I’d spend the rest of the day. I’d be searching Honduran vital records. Huh. Honduras. Sylanos was Columbian…
I lay in bed, lonely and wondering what Striker was doing. My mind went to dark, dangerous places as I remembered the tales Spyder had told me about their down-range assi
gnments. I decided my own disaster was easier to deal with than thoughts of Striker in peril, or hurt, or… Don’t you dare go there!
I derailed my Striker’s-in-mortal-danger thoughts with grim determination and locked onto today’s discoveries. According to Honduran Vital Statistics, Maria Castillo was born in the capital. Kudos to the professor; I have to say that was impressive. She had married there, too. Her husband’s last name was Rodriguez. Julio Rodriguez. Now that name was familiar to me. I’d researched Julio in the past - in connection with the Marcos Sylanos. Excitement bubbled in my veins. I had a new name to look for in American files, Maria Castillo Rodriguez; a new line to fish for information.
The piece of the Sylanos case I worked had to do with illegal arms distribution out of Colombia. Hmm. I needed information from the source, Spyder, but he was recuperating undercover in Somewhere, America. I could try to find him, but that might endanger both of us. I also thought about the high-security storage unit where I stowed Spyder’s things when he took off on assignment. I cosigned the contract so I had the key. Surely, the files I puzzled for him were still boxed up.
If that didn’t work, I’d try to get hold of the file Striker brought to the safe house. Just two little problems. First, Striker didn’t have a complete file; Spyder’s information proved much more comprehensive. Second, there was a good chance Iniquus had classified the file, and I hadn’t been read into that program. Come to think of it, Striker never told me what happened after I broke the case. I had never heard anything about Sylanos being taken down – surely that would have made the newspapers. So he didn’t get off on a technicality; he didn’t go to trial…I remembered my rat dream where they collared the beast and let the humongo thing go. Holy cow – they watched while Sylanos morphed into a Hydra. Anger and frustration vied for my attention – the battle of emotions raged loudly in my head
Twenty-One
What’s the plan today, Lynx?” Gater asked as we finished our coffees. “We’re going to get dusty. I’m working on the Hervas case. I need to go over to Spyder’s storage unit and do a little digging. I’ll probably need your brawn to move a bunch of stuff around.”
“I’m game. Are you going to tell me what we’re looking for?”
“Sure. I want to see if I can find the files I was working on when Spyder took off.”
Gater stalled with his breakfast burrito seemingly forgotten in his hand. “Marcos Sylanos? You’re kidding. You’re thinking this Consuela girl’s caught up in all that? That’s bad juju.”
“Very bad juju. She’s married to one of the key players.”
“How’d you figure?” Gater asked.
I smiled smugly.
“Damn, girl.”
Pawing through the boxes in Spyder’s storage unit, I wished Striker were here with me. I liked that his calm and steady played antithetically to my bristly and electric. He was like a metronome set to four-four time while I danced an emotion-filled fandango around him.
Gater was a great guy, and I loved him dearly. It’s just our relationship was different. I couldn’t show my soft underbelly around Gater. I was his team mate, and I wasn’t about to be seen by my team as a weak link.
Gater and I hefted and sorted, rubbed dust into our clothes, and sneezed violently. Now we were sitting on the cold cement with our backs to the wall, stacks of files at our feet.
“Hey now. Looky here!” Gater waved a thick manila folder at me.
I reached for the file and looked hungrily down. Boom. Page one, a photograph of the spider web of string leading from name to name stuck to my bedroom floor back at my old apartment. Life was very different at the time of this photo. Mom was alive, Spyder and I were partnered, I hadn’t met Angel yet. He was still alive, too. I was so innocent then. It wasn’t long ago, a year and a half, but it doesn’t take long for life to swing wildly out of control. My life certainly proved the point.
“Good job.” Sadness colored my voice, and Gater cast a perplexed look at me.
I offered him an artificial smile. “I’ll have to look at these in the Puzzle Room for security. But, listen Gater, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t mention our outing to anyone. You know — that I have this.” I waved the file at him.
Gater’s expression clouded. “Do you mean Striker?”
“Um.” Did I mean Striker? I thought for a minute – I’d never ask Gater to hide something from his Team Lead. “No. I mean anyone outside of the team. I have to play this close to the vest. I need this information to puzzle with, and I’m afraid Command would take this data away from me if they found out I had it.” I wasn’t sure I understood all of this “on a need to know basis” business. They were using me to draw out information, which made me bait, and quite frankly, that meant I needed to know.
Gater looked uncomfortable. “Is that an order, ma’am?”
Surprise shot my eyebrows up to my hair line. “Do I have that authority?”
“While Striker’s gone, yes, ma’am. You’re Team Lead on this case.”
Shoot, who knew? “Well then yes, it’s an order.”
In my office, I verified Julio Rodriguez as the guy I thought he was – definitely in Sylanos’s inner-circle, and I even found information on Maria. Her name in the file was Castillo; that must be why Spyder had said Maria Castillo and not Maria Rodriguez. Okay. One mystery solved.
Julio seemed to be attached to Sylanos through his shipping route in some way, and yes indeed, when I reviewed the shipping information I found triangular stops — Columbia, US , Honduras.
But some of Julio’s information didn’t fit…seemed strange. Julio was an educated man with a Master’s degree in computer software design from the University of California. Why in the world would he get involved in shipping a Colombian weapons dealer’s merchandise from East Coast ports down to Honduras and then to Colombia? Hmmm, “curiouser and curiouser,” as Striker liked to say.
As I flipped through the file, I came upon the picture from Mrs. Agnew’s desk. On the back, someone had written in black pen. “Honeymoon in Costa Rica, Julio and Maria” — with a heart around drawn around the names — “with our new friends, Amando and Beth Sylanos.” A shiver ran through me. Amando Sylanos? Was he related to Marcos? I needed to do some more research - this time in the Colombian vital stats. But exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders. I needed to go home.
I called over to the barracks. “Gater?”
“Yeah?” His voice rumbled, thick with sleep.
“It’s 1:30. I had no idea I had worked so late. I’m going to bed down in the barracks tonight. Go back to sleep.”
“K.” He hung up.
My mind played on fast forward. I lay in bed, tossing around, trying to find a position that made my body feel restful, hoping my brain would get the hint and let me fall asleep.
Around three in the morning the girls popped their heads up, but they weren’t barking, then the door opened and softly closed. Striker must be home. I let go of my stress with a big sigh. A giddy smile tickled my lips as he walked softly to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He came into the guest room where I was snuggled under the covers, and he burrowed in beside me, pulling me into his bare arms. The smattering of his chest hair tickled my back. His sweatpants rasped my thighs.
“Hey, welcome home. How did everything go?” I rolled toward him and could just make out his smile in the dim light from the Cheshire Cat moon outside my window.
“Pretty well. Things are moving in the right direction. I’m bringing in some data that needs to be puzzled. I’m afraid I have to get you to put your other cases on hold while you focus on this. It’s time sensitive and serious. We’ve got competition, too.” He kissed me lightly.
“Who?” I reached up my hand and traced his full lips with my finger. He had beautiful lips.
“Bunch of the agencies. Everyone’s stepping on everyone’s toes.”
I moved my hand to his hair. Mmm. Silky. I kissed him sweetly; he tasted like mint toothpaste. He smiled agai
nst my lips.
“It’s pretty fierce - you’d think they’d get themselves together and cooperate.” He kissed the tip of my nose “…then they could pull it off. But then Iniquus wouldn’t have a mission.” His mouth moved to my neck just below my ear.
I giggled. “Do I need to go over now?”
“No, first thing tomorrow will be fine.” He moved his kisses to my throat down to the v of my clavicle. I angled my head to give him better access. “We can’t move until we get an updated file and the info isn’t coming in until eight,” he murmured, his words tickling my skin, making me squirm. He gathered me in his arms and pulled me tight against him.
“So, why are you climbing in bed with me?” I whispered into his ear.
“I have the heebie-jeebies.” He chuckled, rolling me onto my back and hovering above me.
“Cute.” I breathed in the clean smell of his body wash — just like in bed at the safe house. But at the safe house I had to fight against desire and here…now…
“It worked for you,” Striker kissed my lips softly as he adjusted his knees underneath him. His hand explored down the length of my body. Edging my silk camisole up fractionally to expose my belly, he lay soft kisses in a tantalizing line across the top of my panties. I groaned and arched toward his mouth. Striker stilled, and I felt him smiling against my skin and the heat of his chest against my thighs.
He gathered my camisole in his hands and slowly lifted the pink silk up and off. His fingers trailed down my breasts. My nipples hardened as he rolled them between his fingers and then with his tongue. I needed more of him and tried to pull him to me, but Striker was not to be rushed.
Very slowly, he dragged his fingers lightly over my skin, waking up my sense of touch, making me tremble. “Please.” I gasped my need. His mouth found mine his kisses serious and demanding, our tongues dancing and exploring. His thigh moved between my legs his erection pressed against me. He wants me. The thought worked as a powerful aphrodisiac. He eased his other leg between mine and my knees came naturally up on his sides, opening me to him. My body hummed - greedy for his attention.