by Fiona Quinn
I reached for the step stool under the counter and laid it at Jack’s feet. Stepping up to bring my eyes level with Jack’s, I wrapped my arms tightly around his muscular neck.
“Jack, you are so damned loyal and brave,” I said. “I can’t imagine what I put you through.” My voice hitched as my emotions overwhelmed me. “I will always be grateful. Thank you for everything you did to help me.” I hugged him tightly. Jack nodded against my hair, his hands on my hips to balance me. I gave him a big smacking kiss on the cheek and jumped back down.
I turned to the men. “Long time no see, what’s for breakfast?”
When the rapport between Jack and the team had found its way back to even keel, Striker dismissed his men and the medical attendant. Jack, Striker, and I gathered in the living room. I curled comfortably at the end of the couch.
“How are you feeling, Chica?”
“Well, thank you. You guys don’t look so hot.” And they didn’t. They were both clean-shaven and dressed in pressed Iniquus fatigues. But the dark circles under their eyes matched their uniforms. Stress gave them an unhealthy pallor.
“I don’t think I’ve had any shut-eye since you decided to play Sleeping Beauty,” Striker said.
“I explained to you how I slept for three days after that one case.”
“Yes, but this lasted more than twice as long. You’ve been out for over a week now. When you told me about the last time you did this, you never fully explained what would happen to you.” His voice was accusatory, making me feel like an errant child, caught in the act, and shamed.
“I pictured your going behind the Veil more like watching a movie,” he said. “And, that you found the effort tiring.” Striker stopped and scrubbed a hand over his face. Jack shifted around, looking uncomfortable. They both seemed to be struggling.
Striker shook his head and reached for my hand. “I can’t even imagine what was happening for you. I can say it was terrifying to watch. I never would have handed you those photos had I even the smallest inkling of what I was going to put you through.” Guilt thickened his words. I misread what he said earlier. He wasn’t accusing me. He was blaming himself.
“It’s a darned good thing you didn’t understand what I was saying to you, then. I’ve got no regrets. You shouldn’t either.” I shifted my focus back and forth between the two men.
“How are Lynda and Cammy?” I managed after a few minutes.
“Cammy’s good, no residual effects from the drug. She’s moved in with my dad and stepmom down in Miami. They say her only memory is of a pretty blond woman who held her the whole time and made her feel safe.”
“Wow. Surprising. She saw me? Huh. And your sister?”
“She’s alive, and that’s saying something. The men found her on this side of dead. It was a close thing.” Striker stopped for a moment. I think he needed to regroup. “She has some more surgeries to go, and a lot of psychological work and physical rehab in front of her. The doctor said if she sticks with the plan, she’ll eventually recover.”
“Is Lynda in Miami now, too?” I asked.
“They’ll transfer her down when she’s made improvements. She’ll have lots of support—family and her oldest friends—she’ll be able to visit with Cammy.”
“Good. I’m so glad she’ll get the love and care she needs.” I considered Jack. “I walked in on some mighty strong cold-shouldering. Have the men been giving you a hard time?”
Jack shrugged. “Picture it from their point of view. They came in from a mission to find the dining room and kitchen covered in blood. You were gone from sight. Medical support wouldn’t talk. Striker and I wouldn’t talk. I was the guy on duty. We all think highly of you, ma’am, not like a client at all, more like a team member and friend. We were charged with your safety, and they thought I’d hurt you, or allowed you to be hurt.”
“They didn’t think I fell down with vertigo and cracked my head open?”
“It doesn’t matter, ma’am. You were in my charge. If you were falling, I should have caught you. Besides, if you fell, we would say so.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. It’s a small thing, comparatively speaking.”
A distant memory stirred. Something I heard before I went into the trance. “You exploded the devil’s mansion?”
“Axel did, as soon as I had Cammy with me,” Striker said.
“Any survivors?”
Striker shook his head. “None.”
“Good.” I sighed and shut my eyes. Again we fell into silence.
“I need to tell you something.” I shifted my weight uncomfortably, wanting to postpone my newest revelation even if for just a few seconds. I cleared my throat and plunged in. “I get these things I call ‘knowings’—pieces of information that seem to come from nowhere.”
“More ESP?” Striker’s posture stiffened.
“A different channel on my psychic network. Anyway, the thing I was ‘knowing’”—I did finger quotes in the air—“quite clearly, as I woke up this morning, was that Travis Wilson figured out where I am. I need to leave, immediately, and I need to stay at a high security building. The place I should move to has a square, white office with a green roof set on a large lawn. The colored roof helps disguise the building from the air. This is part of a complex with other buildings near moving water, and a high-rise near some woods.” I stopped for a minute to recall the picture I had seen. “The designer situated houses to make it appear to be a small subdivision to outsiders. The houses are not really residences. They’re storage units, I think. Striker will know what bed I’m to sleep in.”
I blushed as I said that aloud. For any man to choose my bed for me made me feel like I was betraying Angel’s trust. Striker eyed me curiously; he had seen the blush. I wondered what he made of it. I took a deep breath and said on the exhale, “That’s what I ‘know.’ I also ‘know’ I’m to take seven days to finish healing my head, and then I’m to dangle.”
“Sorry?” Striker wrinkled a perplexed brow.
I mimed with my hands. “Like putting a worm on a hook.”
“You want to be bait?”
“I do what I’m told. My ‘knowings’ are never wrong. Just sometimes hard to interpret. This one is very clear.”
“We need to leave now?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Do you recognize the white building I’m talking about?”
Striker and Jack looked at each other. “We do,” Jack said.
Striker’s sharp focus cut through any crap. “If anyone else had said this, I wouldn’t pay the least attention—since it’s you, it’s gospel. I’m willing to do this, move you and dangle you. But no secrets. We’re partners all the way. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I nodded my affirmation. I wasn’t going to dangle on my own, that’s for darned sure.
“Do you know how he found the safe house?” Jack asked me.
“I got the impression he followed us from the hospital the morning I was brought here by a tracking device on one of the Humvees. I’m not sure why he hasn’t made a move yet. But it sure explains my heebie-jeebies. He’s been nearby all this time.”
“Right now?” Striker moved to the window to scan the front of the house.
“Right now.”
“Is there a mole at Iniquus? Do you know? I’m imagining not since that’s where you want to go,” Striker asked.
“Iniquus is clean—when I woke up, the understanding I had was that this guy has an issue with the government. He wants to be a homegrown terrorist, for people to believe he’s a great hero when he finally reveals himself as the mastermind. He had a group he was training with, paramilitary, but he didn’t work and play well with others. I’m picking up on a mentor who encouraged him to branch out and do his own thing, a special operation, something like that.”
I pulled my hair back and secured the ponytail with an elastic band. “Wilson’s goal is to terrorize the agencies. He wants to spread fear through the evening news. He’s pissed off because he’s
not getting the publicity he thinks is his due. Even the picture they showed on TV said ‘armed and dangerous, give us information’—they never explained his crime, and boy was he furious. He thrives on fear.”
Striker turned toward me from his place by the window. “He has someone working with him, then?”
“He’s flying solo now. He doesn’t trust his mentor anymore. They recently had some kind of falling out. This piece of the puzzle explains how he got not only his training but his equipment. The rest of the images mean nothing to me. I have no context for them. Superfluous data for right now. It isn’t much, but it’s something. Am I really going to your headquarters?”
“That’s what you described. Lexi, do you have anything more on this group?” Striker asked.
I shrugged and shook my head.
“I guess we’d better make our move. I’ll bring in a decoy and an escort. Lexi, Jack’s going upstairs with you, gather your things, and load them in the car. Are you ready for this?”
“Yup, I put on my big girl panties when I got up this morning and pulled them all the way up.”
Striker and Jack grinned broadly.
“Good to know,” Striker said.
I stared out my window with excitement as we approached the complex. I’d never been here before. The gates were massive, the lawn manicured. They had easy access to the highway. Woods and water protected them on three sides.
As we bypassed the main building, Striker said, “That’s Headquarters. Our offices are located there. We’re going to the barracks.”
He drove over to the apartment building and parked in the underground lot. Striker’s name, stenciled in yellow paint, marked his reserved spot right in front, by the elevator bank. He scanned to make sure the coast was clear. As I jumped down to the cement, my team surrounded me, shielding me from anyone who would come in, and from the security cameras.
“Even though you said Iniquus is clean, I still want you under wraps. We don’t know if one of the other men could be giving out information by mistake,” Striker said as they walked me into the elevator. Striker pushed the button for the eleventh floor. The top.
“Who lives here?”
“Iniquus men, ma’am,” Jack said.
“No women?”
“Not in these barracks. The women share houses by the water, but there aren’t many women in our organization.”
“What about wives and girlfriends?”
“These are barracks, ma’am. Visitors and family can’t come here. Most of us visit our girlfriends’ places or have homes for our wives. They aren’t allowed here,” Jack said.
“Are any of the Save-Lexi Team married?”
“No.” Jack chuckled. “The Save-Lexi Team are all on the open market.”
Striker inserted his key into the apartment door, and we walked in. He pointed down the hall, and Blaze carried my few shopping bags in that direction.
“This is gorgeous.” I let my eyes take in the room. A floor to ceiling window showing a panorama of Washington on the other side of the river took up one wall in the living room. I bet the view was spectacular at night with the city lights twinkling. A huge, stone, wood-burning fireplace formed another wall. Bookshelves, filled with worn leather and new hardbacks, flanked the chimney. I wandered over to read the titles. Lots of histories, sciences, and biographies. The walls were neutral, showcasing gorgeous works of art with vibrant shades of blues, violets, and indigos.
I turned to Striker. “This isn’t where you live normally?” There was something intangible missing from this apartment; it felt temporary to me.
“It’s where I live when I’m working. My house is on the bay.”
I swallowed a sip of juice that Jack handed me and asked, “Does it look like this? Did you decorate?”
“I didn’t decorate; it was done professionally to my specifications.”
I cast my gaze around again. “Beautiful. Did you pick out the art?”
“I painted those myself. Painting helps me unwind.”
“Striker, they’re gorgeous. Breathtaking.” I stepped forward and read the signature G. Rheas scrawled across the bottom corner. I knew Striker the soldier and the operative, not the casual, hang out at home, artistic Striker. This was weird.
Striker stood behind me. “Surprised?” he asked.
“Stunned.”
While I explored the apartment, Striker briefed and dismissed the team then showed me to my room. He pointed to the door next to mine. “The bathroom is here. My room is the next one down.”
“If you can’t invite people to the barracks, why are there two bedrooms?”
“Sometimes we work through the night, and we prefer to do it here at my place. If my team members need to rest, they do that in the guest room.”
“Oh.” The rich teal walls were dramatic against the luxurious ivory comforter and sheets that dressed my bed. The lines of the furniture were clean, a modern styling that was reminiscent of the 1940s. As I took it all in, running my hands over the rich textures, Striker watched me closely. “Okay?”
“Just lovely.”
Striker looked at my feet. As he raised his eyes, they settled on my chest. “You need shoes … and bras.”
I glanced down at my breasts; yup, it was cold outside.
“Can you call someone who would pack a bag for you?” he asked.
“Yes, please. Alice, my across-the-street neighbor.”
Striker handed me his phone, and Alice picked up on the third ring.
“Alice? Lexi here. Did I catch you at a bad time?” After assuring Alice that I was going to be okay and would be released from rehab in a week’s time, I had asked her to pack up a bag for me.
“Okay?” Jack asked, standing in the doorframe.
“She said she was so sorry I had a horrific fall down the stairs.”
Striker put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the highboy. “Detective Murphy told the neighborhood you screamed when you fell down and hit your head. The men rushed over to check on you. They had to break into your house, which set off the alarm. The cops were investigating, to make sure it wasn’t a crime scene.”
I nodded. My memory flew back to that night. Anxiety clawed its way up my throat.
“Murphy told everyone you had a head and back injury, and you went to the hospital, then to physical rehab. The men who were involved were sworn to secrecy in order to protect you, the neighborhood, and the investigation.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’ve felt guilty about bringing this craziness to our neighborhood.”
Thirty
I spent the seven days sequestered in Striker’s apartment recouping, practicing my quick draw skills, working out as much as possible, and preparing myself to play chum for Wilson. The night before I was headed home to act like all was right in my world, my nerves were getting the better of me. I paced manically, wringing my hands.
“You don’t have to,” Striker said, from where he sat on the breakfast bar stool, watching me.
He had startled me from my thoughts, which were razor-blade sharp and vinegar soaked. “I don’t have to do what?”
“Go home. Act as bait. Face Wilson.”
“I should stay a prisoner?”
Some emotion flickered across his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. You guys have been great. I’ve never felt imprisoned … I’m not sure why I said that.”
“I know.” He shifted off the stool and held out his hand. “You need to see the sky.”
Laying on a quilt Striker had spread in the middle of the green expanse outside the barracks, I pointed at the plane overhead descending toward Reagan National. “Someday I’m going jet away to faraway places and see exotic things.”
“You haven’t traveled?”
“Unless I was flying a mission for the Civil Air Patrol, the farthest I’ve been from home is the Millers’ farm with Spyder and the dogs. There’s a long list of things for me to see—the aurora borealis in Iceland, the
fields of tulips blooming in Holland … Have you traveled much?” I rolled on my side, propping myself up on an elbow.
“More than I want in some parts of the world, less than I’d like in others.”
I nodded in the dark and flopped on my back. “Spyder loved the stars,” I said. “He used to tell me all of the stories. I think it’s amazing to stare up into the heavens and know that those stars are portals through time. I’m seeing back hundreds, even thousands of years, the same stars that Galileo and Copernicus studied. Someday, I’ll tell my children the same Greek stories the ancient Greek mothers told their children. Do you see Orion?” I pointed up. Striker angled his head toward mine until we touched. “Yes,” he said.
“See the belt? Those two stars are Betelgeuse and Bellatrix—the real names of my dogs, Beetle and Bella. Do you know the story of Orion and Artemis?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Well,” I started in. “Orion was a mortal, and also gorgeous and sexy and wonderful, and the gods and goddesses had taken note of him. He ran around hunting with Artemis. They were close friends. But she had dedicated herself to virginity, and Orion preferred bedding men, so no hanky-panky was going on between them. One day Apollo shows up and gets all jealous of his sister, Artemis, because he thinks she’s broken her vow and done the deed with Orion. And really Apollo wanted to do the deed with Orion.”
“The deed?” he asked.
“The deed.”
Striker chuckled. “Ah.”
“So, later in the day, Orion makes a play for Apollo, and they enjoy a sexual tryst. But Orion makes the mistake of talking about Artemis, and this makes Apollo insanely jealous. In his pique, he tricks Artemis into shooting Orion in the head. When Artemis figures out her brother’s duplicity, she tries to get someone to help her bring Orion back to life. No one could, so she flung Orion’s body up into the heavens. He continued on as a constellation. She sits over his shoulder.”