by Quinn, Fiona
I licked my swollen lips. They were crusty and dry under a thick layer of what tasted like Vaseline. It took me a minute and a few false tries to coordinate my tongue and teeth into intelligible words.
“Chest hurts,” I croaked, toad-like.
“I’m sure it does, Chica” His vowels and consonants leaped like a gymnast doing floor exercises, swirling and spinning. It was hard to form them into understandable words. “We had to defibrillate you.” His grip tightened around my hand, pinching my fingers together.
Defibrillate. I let the word condense into a thought. “I was dead?”
“When we pulled you from the plane wreck, you had no vitals. You must have just gone into cardiac arrest, because we were able to bring you back right away.”
I tried to shift, but my body only moved centimeters. I couldn’t turn my head. I was fastened by some kind of restraint. I let my gaze take in what I could. Plain, green walls. Fluorescent lighting. An IV stand. I wasn’t in the desert anymore. I wasn’t alone anymore.
“We flew you here to Lackland Air Force Base. You’re in their hospital,” Striker said.
“Texas, then. Not Honduras.”
“You’re on US soil.” His eyes hardened into his assessing look. “That was one hell of an escape plan.”
I tried to screw my expression into a wry smile, but my skin wouldn’t oblige. “My face…can I see a mirror?” I hadn’t seen my reflection in a mirror since mid-February, when Maria Rodriguez kidnapped me and hid me in a Honduran prison. It was what — sometime in late June? July?
Striker locked down his emotions. His facial muscles froze into combat stoicism. What made him brace? I lifted my hands to my head, where my fingers explored the unfamiliar terrain. Bandages and tape crisscrossed over my forehead and down my nose. Scabs, like chicken pox, dotted my cheeks. Everything felt scaly and tight.
Striker eased my hands away from my face, moving them gently down to rest on my stomach. “Lynx, I’d rather you wait a little while before you look in the mirror. You don’t look like yourself right now.” His combat mask slipped a little, and I saw the shadow of sadness and concern written in his eyes. No pity, thank goodness. Pity makes me weak.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he said. “You were only eighty-ish pounds when we brought you in yesterday. Your skin’s pretty badly sunburned. Those sores you’re feeling are from the toxins trying to get out of your system when you were dehydrated.”
“What else?” My voice cracked. I’d love a sip of water. Some ice chips. I wondered if they’d allow that. Somehow, it felt like too much effort to ask.
“Broken nose. Broken ribs and sternum. Trauma to your head and spinal column. The head trauma is worrisome because it’s your second major concussion in the same year. The doctors are stabilizing you for surgery. Hopefully that’ll happen in the morning if you continue to improve.”
“Surgery because?” When I squeezed his hand for support, the tubing and tape from the I.V. pulled at my elbow.
“They need to rebuild your sternum and re-attach your ribs. You’re strapped to a board right now.” He reached out and rapped on the surface beneath me so I could hear its solidity. “But when you wake up, they’re going to have you in traction for your spine and neck.” His words became gruff when he drew my hand to his lips for a kiss. “Chica, it was a near thing.” Emotions under his skin and behind his eyes fought for expression, but Striker’s steely will held out, and he maintained his control. As always.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t feel his distress empathically. His energy entwined with mine until I couldn’t tell us apart or tell his pain from mine. One of the many things I hated about ESP.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t handle the guilt. This whole fiasco was my own damned fault. Poor decisions. Impulsive behavior. Secrecy. I offered Striker the closest thing to a contrite smile as I could form on my inflexible face.
I felt like I was treading water - my head lifting just above the black swirl of morphine. It was exhausting to struggle, so I tried to float for a minute. To rest. My words slurred together. “You know, it’s going to feel so good to get home again. We can…”
“No.” Striker’s voice slammed into my thoughts like a brake stopping a barreling car. My eyelids stretched wide.
“You aren’t going home.” He softened his tone. “It isn’t safe. You still have people out there trying to get you.”
Monumentally confused, I played his words over again in my mind. I wanted answers, but the pain had turned into a raging monster, clawing at my chest. I gasped at the shock of it. It pulled all of my attention away from here and now, and my questions of what? Why? And, who in the world?
Striker pressed the call button. A nurse appeared next to me. That was all I remembered.
Read CHAIN LYNX to follow Lexi along her adventure.
~Enjoy!
Acknowledgements
My great appreciation ~
To Diane Capri—you are so good to me, thank you for your kindness.
To my editors Lindsay Smith and Teresa Watson
To my early readers, who were honest and supportive at the same time: Melissa Berman, Rick Soper, Aleise Matheson, Joanna Scaparroti, Christen Miller, Kristi Brashier, Darlene Charles, Ellen Branson.
To all of the wonderful professionals whom I called on to get things right especially: Angel Fraguada, Scott Silverii, Michael Dryer, Barry Bedard, Jeff Critser, Jay Korza, Rock Higgins, Tony Nester, Shawn Rafferty, Dr. Judith Lucci, Dr. Michele Carlon, Allan Leverone. Please note: this is a work of fiction and while I always try my best to get all of the details correct, there are times when it serves the story to go slightly to the left or right of perfection. Please understand that any mistakes or discrepancies are my authorial decision making alone and sit squarely on my shoulders.
Thank you to my family for their support.
Kid #4 for her patience as I read this book aloud to her – over and over again; for her naming Lynx, and coming up with the title of this book.
Kid #3 you have a knack for keeping me humble. Thank you for all of your eyeball rolls – they made for many a rewrite.
Especially to my husband, Todd, for being his wonderful self; I adore you.
And of course thank YOU for reading my stories. I’m smiling ear to ear as I type this. I so appreciate you.
Canadian born, Fiona Quinn is now rooted in the Old Dominion outside of DC with her husband and four children. There, she homeschools, pops chocolates, devours books, and taps continuously on her laptop. She is a contributor to Virginia Is for Mysteries, the author of the Amazon bestseller, Mine, and Chaos Is Come Again, and is the creative force behind the popular blog ThrillWriting. She is presently writing her Lynx Series
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Copyright
Missing Lynx is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
©2015 Fiona Quinn
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindlecovers
Garamond and Calibri used with permission from Microsoft
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No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission from the publisher or author. Doing any of these actions via the internet or in any other way without express written permission from the author is illegal and punishable by law. It is considered piracy. Please purchase only authorized editions. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected].
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One