Chain Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  Striker trapped my hand and held it to his heart. “The one that went. ‘Lynx is upset about the women you dated because I riled her up by accident, so be ready for trouble when you get home?’ Yup.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”

  “You did,” Striker smiled. “Just not in plain words.”

  I took a deep satisfying breath. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Glad to be home. Look at you. You’re almost back to your regular weight.”

  I tugged my t-shirt down and turned slightly to the side. “I have boobies.”

  “I noticed.” Striker grinned with full dimple action.

  Heat rose in my cheeks, and I didn’t quite know where to look, suddenly embarrassed and self-conscious. I knew my body didn’t look anything like it did when we were in Miami when he wanted to make love to me. Now I was. . . “I swear to God, Striker, if I drink one more darned peanut butter smoothie.” It was a graceless change of direction – too sharp of a turn, and that got Striker laughing again. I amused him. He found me entertaining. I sighed.

  “Are you here for a while?” I thumped my way into the living room and eased onto the sofa. Striker sat beside me.

  “That depends on how things shake out.”

  “With Gater?” I asked.

  “With you. What are you thinking about all of this?”

  “Snow White, oddly enough.”

  Striker’s lips wriggled. “Of course. Anything more?”

  “I don’t know more. Snow White is the story that keeps bubbling up.”

  Striker looked at the ceiling, thinking. “You must be Snow White.” Striker focused on me; his eyes were merry.

  “I guess,” I said.

  Striker was having trouble keeping a straight face. Laughter danced behind his twitching lips. Yes. Sometimes my way of thinking sounded ridiculous, even to my own ears. And this was definitely one of those times.

  “And in this scenario our team plays what role?” he asked.

  “Well, that would make you all the. . .” heat rushed to my face.

  “Seven dwarves?” Striker asked.

  “I guess.” I couldn’t help but grin at him. “It is apt though, when you think of it. You found me in the wilderness in distress. You saved me from the witch by hiding me away in your house in the woods. Each day, I see you go whistling off to work.” I laughed. It was pretty comical, thinking of these all-American heroes playing the role of Sneezy, Dopey, and Doc in my drama.

  Striker reached out and twirled a stray piece of my hair around his finger, and gave me a mock-serious look. “So who’s the Prince Charming in this story? The one that gets to kiss Snow White awake?”

  “Snow White doesn’t need a Prince Charming in this story; she figures out there’s a poison apple and decides not to take a bite. Prince Charming has to wait for a different story.”

  Striker actually looked disappointed. He traced his finger over my jawline and down my nose. Looking at me with an artist’s eye, and pleasure.

  “Of course, with the way my life’s been going for the last two years, it probably won’t take long until one is needed. Why? Did you want to audition for the role?” I asked sweetly, batting my lashes. I loved playing with Striker.

  Striker threw back his head and laughed. The good kind of laughing that really meant he loved me.

  “Absolutely,” he said, and then he showed me how Prince Charming really could bring his princess to life with the mere touch of his lips. I was sorry when he pulled back. The game was over. He was somber again.

  “Chica, I never want to kiss you back from death again. Twice I’ve had to do mouth-to-mouth on you. That’s enough. Do you hear me? You stay whole and healthy from this point on. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” I gave him a salute.

  “If you don’t understand your Snow White metaphor, I guess we have to stick to facts. Fact is, your pieces are falling off the board. Where do you want to go from here?”

  “T-Bone, Hector, Maria and Julio — all dead. I’m almost afraid to play anymore. I don’t want to be responsible for more deaths - imprisonment absolutely – death? Not so much.”

  “You can’t take responsibility for any of their deaths.” Striker had his hand on my thigh, just where I like it.

  “I kind of believed that myself, until I died.”

  Striker’s brows drew together. “More?”

  “When I was dead and you were defibrillating me, some part of me was aware, and that awareness was heading straight to hell. It didn’t seem to matter that the people that I’ve killed were killed for good reason. I killed them and that damned my soul.”

  “I think that you were in hell at the plane crash, and what part of you that was aware perceived that. It was hell for me, that’s for damned sure.” Striker’s gaze locked with mine. “If you’re going to hell, Chica, I’ll be heading there right beside you. I hope that isn’t true. I have to believe that intention makes a difference.” There was sincerity in the gruffness of Striker’s voice.

  I felt his love empathically. It was so big that it was almost heavy. Striker full on is intense. I mentally took a side step. “At any rate, they may be taking my chess pieces, but I’m still going after their king.”

  Striker tilted his head. “Who’s the king?”

  “Sylanos,” I whispered.

  “He’s dead, Lynx.”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t feel dead to me.”

  Striker leaned forward. “Is this your intuition speaking?”

  “It’s my reasoning. Look at the crimes. If the king went down, there should have been a lapse until his number two stepped in and established his command. That’s not what happened. According to the data I’ve been trolling, things have actually picked up.”

  “And you’re taking this in what direction?”

  “Mmm. . .I could follow the politicos,” I said.

  “Are they listed in the phone book under that name?”

  “No. Sadly, they aren’t. Did you see the tapes of Julio and Maria?”

  “I did, and I talked to Axel.”

  “He’s very good at the interrogation gig. How did he get to be Dr. Axel White? I assumed he was on our team for demolition.”

  Striker pulled a throw pillow over and tucked it behind his head as he lounged across the sofa. “That’s a hobby. Axel was a pyromaniac as a kid. He spent some time in juvie for blowing shit up. The psychiatrist there gave him some assessments and found out that his IQ was Mensa quality. Somebody made a phone call to someone else. The Marines liked the combination that Axel presented, so they recruited him. The judge agreed to let Axel out of detention if he joined up.”

  “And he got to blow stuff up for pay,” I smiled, remembering Axel’s glee when we blew up a briefcase bomb on the Iniquus lawn last fall.

  “Blow stuff up and get an education, paid in full.”

  “When Axel was on my team at the safe house, you didn’t know you’d be blowing anything up. Was he there for me?”

  “He was tasked with profiling Wilson. And yes, he kept an eye on your mental health at the same time — checked how you were handling everything.”

  “Ah.” Well, that made sense. “Did he get Wilson right?”

  “Axel said the stalker was a fifty-five to sixty-year-old white male. Hetero – no long-term attachment. Advanced college degree. Organized thinking. Military background. Probably involved with crime prevention in some way.”

  “Like a CSI or something?”

  Striker shrugged.

  That was on the opposite end of the spectrum from Wilson. “Hmm,” I responded.

  “Yeah. That’s what Axel thought, too,” Striker said.

  Beetle snored at our feet. I reached out a foot and rubbed her soft fur.

  “With the amazing Dr. Axel plucking at Maria and Julio’s brains, did you pick up on something specific?” Striker asked.

  “I wondered about the AG, Jim Noble. Maria said Sylanos was funding politicos campa
ign funds. Noble is up for election in November, and he was playing an odd role in the Julio story.”

  “We need to keep our eye on the Lexi Sobado ball,” Striker said. “What would Noble’s election, and its funding, have anything to do with you?”

  “It doesn’t, I guess. It was just odd.” I leaned closer so I could look Striker in the eye.

  “Here it comes,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Some great synaptic leap,” Striker grinned.

  I gave him a bemused smile in return. “No.” I leaned back to cradle my head against the sofa pillow. “More like a coincidence that caught my eye. Did you get my text with the picture of the lapel pin?”

  “Yup.” Striker’s lids drooped.

  “Did your recognize it?”

  He yawned loudly. “It’s an Assembly pin.”

  “The federal agent who went to see Julio wore that pin, so did Noble, so did the DA who talked to Hector and told him he would keep Hector safe, and make everything go away.”

  “It sounds like a conspiracy theory.” Striker peeked out from barely open lids to look at me and shut them again. “Maybe Annie Henderson could use that as a plot line in her novel.”

  “You don’t find that a little too coincidental?”

  Striker rolled over and stood. He reached for my hands and pulled me up beside him. “I think that when you do a little research tomorrow, after Laura leaves, that you’ll see it’s as significant as all those men wearing gray suits with white shirts.” He pulled my walker over and started me down the hall towards my room.

  “What are we doing?”

  “I’m going to put you to bed so I can cuddle with you. When my being there cramps your back, or I mutter obscenities in my sleep, you’re going to elbow me in the ribs. Then I’m going to wander back to my room, and sleep for about twenty-four hours straight.”

  Twenty-Six

  “Striker, how long is Gater going to be in Florida?” I lay on the sofa in the great room with an ice pack on my head, a heating pad on my feet, and an IV cocktail of pain inhibitors, and anti-nausea medicines stuck in my vein. Luckily, it was doing the trick; my migraine was easing.

  “I need to pull him back up in the next day or two.” Striker was reading briefs in the chair next to me, being very quiet when he turned the pages.

  “I was thinking. I’d like Gater to go check on Pablo’s family since he’s right there. I’d like to talk to Pablo’s parents on the phone.”

  Striker’s phone buzzed on his hip. “I can arrange that.” He swiped the screen. “Hey, man, what’s the word?” He walked toward the east wing.

  “Thank you,” I whispered after him, then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  Striker woke me and hauled me to my feet. “Babe, that nightmare was intense. Let’s walk you around. You can’t do that.” I wondered what “that” was. I didn’t remember having a nightmare. Striker was using his commander voice, so I followed his directive, and thumped down the hall with his hand gently on my back.

  “Who called earlier?” I asked.

  “Randy.” Striker pushed my IV pole along beside us.

  “Oh, good. Is he heading back now?”

  “Heading back? Yes. Good? No,” Striker said.

  “Shit. What happened?” I turned to lean my back against the wall so I could see Striker’s face.

  “No computer. Four days ago, the CPA’s office caught fire and burned down to the ground. Nothing left but the toilets.”

  “What? Four days ago was Monday. That’s when Axel was interviewing Julio. I thought from what Maria and Julio were saying, no one knew about the location of the CPA.”

  “The fire wasn’t intentional. There was a grease fire at the diner three doors down, coupled with morning rush hour pile up on the highway that jammed rescue. The fire trucks didn’t get there until the block was wiped out.”

  “Morning rush-hour in California. The fire happened before Axel and Dalton even arrived at the prison for the interrogation. This is nerve-wracking.” I paused while the new fiasco sunk in. “But surely, the CPA had offsite backup — Carbonite or something. Maybe that —”

  Striker shook his head. “This guy wasn’t as much detail oriented as he was an alcoholic. He didn’t have a lot of clients left. The guy didn’t bother with back up.”

  I worked hard to stopper the geyser of emotions crashing to the surface. The effort left me panting, and was mostly ineffectual. The doctors said erratic, overwhelming reactions would affect me temporarily. Of course, the doctors had no clue that a torture and kill order hung over my head. These feelings were probably more rational than not. I spoke through a tight jaw. “That seems odd to me.”

  “Odd or not, I am absolutely sure there was no backup. Randy was thorough.”

  “Which means?”

  “Randy was thorough,” Striker said with a hard glint in his eye. “That’s all you want to know.”

  ***

  Gater was in place when Franco got home from work. He was on a wire-cam. We watched on the computer as Gater presented pictures of Axel, Randy, and his Iniquus ID. He showed them a picture of me, before my prison stay, and called me Santa Blanca.

  Iniquus files listed Gater as bilingual. If someone were to ask him, Gater would say he spoke three languages: American, back bayou, and Spanish. I would say that Gater seasoned his Spanish so heavily with Creole spices that it was almost unintelligible.

  Gater dialed my safe phone, and put a very confused Elicia on the line.

  “Hola Elicia ¿Cómo estás?” I asked.

  Elicia spoke no English. I learned my Spanish from Abuela Rosa. I flavored my own accent with the aromas of Puerto Rico and spoke very differently from Elicia. Even some of the Honduran vocabulary she used was different. We struggled along together. Gater had her on speakerphone.

  “Elicia, Pablo is doing well?”

  “Beautifully. Thank you so much. You are an angel. A saint. We pray for you every day. My mother says a rosary for you.”

  “Thank you. Your prayers have served me well. For the moment, I’m safe, too. Some bad men are looking for me. They are the same people who put me in the prison. Elicia, I need your help to try to figure out who they are.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t help you with that. I have no idea why you were there.”

  “There was a man who acted like he was in charge when I arrived. He was tall with a thick gray mustache; do you know who he is?”

  “Sr. Alejandro Castillo. He is the man who runs the prison. He lives in the big house outside of the gates.”

  “Yes, I saw it. Was he a good boss? What kind of person was he?”

  “He did not speak with me. He was a very rich and important man in our village. Now that I am here in Florida, I see that life outside of our village is different. The houses are huge here in America. Everyone has electricity, clean water, toilets, and food. In our village, Sr. Castillo had all of these things all the time. He and his second were the only ones.”

  “Did you ever meet his niece, Maria Consuela Castillo?”

  “No, I don’t know this name. Mommy? Mommy, do you know a girl named Maria Consuela Castillo? Yes, Mommy knows her. I’ll have my mother speak to you.”

  “Hello?”

  “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Bless you, child. I bless you. Thank you for our new life. Thank you for Pablo’s health.” The voice that warbled over the phone was soft and warm, like the pink blanket my mom would wrap around me when I had nightmares as a little girl.

  “I’m very happy we could help you, Abuela. I’m trying to find out why I was put in the prison near your village. I was wondering about a woman named Maria Consuela Castillo. You knew her?”

  “Yes, little Maria. I knew her when she was young. She came to our village from the capitol to live with Sr. Castillo after his mother got sick. Maria took care of Senora Castillo.”

  “How old was Maria then?”

  “Let me think. Young. Maybe ten or eleven years
old. She was taken out of school. We did not have a school for her. She read books all the time. She was a good girl.”

  “Is there anything else you remember about Maria? Was Senor Castillo good to her?”

  “I don’t think he paid any attention to Maria.”

  “What else do you remember, Abuela?”

  “Well, Sr. Castillo had a second-in-command at the prison. His house is the smaller one next to Sr. Castillo’s. This man, Sr. Tabora, had a daughter named Elizabet. She was a few years older than Maria, but they were best friends and always together until Elizabet left our village.”

  “Do you know where she went? Why did she leave?” I asked.

  “Her father was a harsh man. Cruel. It was his job at the prison to get information from the prisoners. He beat them, sometimes to death. I do not blame Elizabet for wanting to leave. I think maybe though, that when she left, she found herself in the exact same place she was trying to run from.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “She married Sr. Sylanos. He was a very hard man, too. They all were – vicious, evil people.”

  “Is this Amando Sylanos?” I asked.

  “Si, si. Sr. Amando Sylanos.”

  “Did Amando live in your village?”

  “No, he brought the prisoners in on the plane. He would stay with Sr. Castillo while he questioned them in the prison.”

  “Did he work for the government? The army?”

  “I believe that he worked for his cousin. But this is a very long time ago. When Elicia was a toddler.”

  “What was the cousin’s name?”

  Abuela Garcia paused for a moment. “That I do not know.”

  “Did Elizabet come back to the village after she was married, or would Amando come alone with his prisoners?”

  “Sr. Sylanos had a different job. He moved to America. He took Elizabet there to live. Elizabet looked American like her mother, and spoke English like her mother. But Elizabet’s mother died, and that’s when Elizabet took up with Sr. Sylanos. We never saw or heard from her after that. Maria was very lonely. She ran away when her grandmother died. We don’t hear about her, either.”