Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  What would I picture?

  Disenfranchised girls. Girls who were sold a bag of goods. Lied to. Manipulated.

  The article said that fifty-nine Americans were known to have travelled to Syria to join ISIS. I wondered if I could track down that list. I’d like to check and see if Kaylie had any contacts in common with Americans who had joined ISIS, especially if they had joined ISIS before her disappearance.

  I scribbled notes onto my pad.

  It didn’t feel right. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t at least present these thoughts to Prescott and see if he wanted this hunted down. Of course, every time we reached out to someone, chances grew that Kaylie’s story would leak.

  It didn’t seem as though anyone wanted that to happen. Maybe I should ask why that was.

  “Oh look here,” I said aloud. “The FBI refrained from commenting on these two cases but said that the Agency built criminal cases against any American who joined ISIS since it was designated a terrorist organization.” I noted the refraining-FBI guy’s name. Perhaps he had direct contact with the other Americans who were being held and had been interrogated. Since the African case had gone cold, and no one was looking for Kaylie in the Middle East, perhaps this had gone overlooked, especially if Kaylie was told to adopt a different name.

  I gathered other possible source names from the article. The biggest thing I gathered, though, was that religion, age, and education weren’t predictive, and it seemed that woman’s connection to any given fighter was tenuous.

  Here was an article that might fit Kaylie’s situation. I picked up my pen to take notes. A nurse out of New Zealand, MaryLisa Griffin, was abducted from a check point after her truck had finished distributing medical supplies. Yup, this took place in the same time frame as Kaylie disappeared.

  I scanned through, hoping to see what steps they’d taken to find the nurse. Surely, they had mercenaries on task to find her.

  I noted: Is there an Iniquus counterpart looking for MaryLisa? Did they get wind of someone like Kaylie?

  It looked like employees of the International Committee of the Red Cross made weekly visits to a detention camp, raising a flag high, hoping MaryLisa would see it and find a way to get to them. I jotted notes. Maybe someone from the Red Cross had seen or heard something, and it was passed up or down some chain of command that didn’t reach Prescott.

  I was feeling slightly more optimistic as my list grew. Someone had to have seen something or know someone that we could talk to. A spiderweb of contacts spread across the region. Surely there would be gossip.

  I put my finger on the screen and wrote: “Camp database. Search and rescue have been looking through those pictures trying to find a match one by one. That’s a crazy waste of time.” I added thought bubbles as I wondered if NSA or FBI or heck even Iniquus could get a download of those images. We could use our software to quickly run through facial comparison software. If the CIA was involved, they could probably also add that information to the BIOMIST system so that they had not only the blood biomarkers stored but also images for facial recognition. I drew a third bubble and wrote: CIA?

  The people in the camp were all escapees from a territory that fell to US-backed forces. If Kaylie were there, we would have soldiers in the area to assist. Still, that didn’t make sense, why wouldn’t Kaylie identify herself if she were in that camp?

  There were twenty-three Western hostages known to be held by ISIS, most of whom were released for ransom or beheaded.

  I put myself in Kaylie’s shoes. Kaylie, an educated woman with plenty of international experience under her belt, would know that being seen as a Westerner would put her life at risk. If I were her, I’d hide my nationality.

  While that might have kept Kaylie alive, it also might make it impossible for us to find her.

  Kaylie’s coloring was similar to my friend Arya’s. Arya’s eyes were an intense aqua blue green color. Kaylie might be able to pull it off.

  Ah, look, here was a possible answer to my question. For five years MaryLisa’s employer and the government put out a warning not to mention MaryLisa in any public forum. They called for a complete media blackout since any mention of her—or even her country of origin—could endanger her. That had been my guess this morning during the intake. It looked like this article was only written after allied forces had pushed into the area where MaryLisa had been seen. Australia now believed the public could help find her.

  I compared the women’s situations and decided that, nope, it wasn’t the same set of circumstances, and Kaylie’s case should still be kept under wraps.

  Prescott thought she was still on the run and in harm’s way.

  Days he said.

  We have days to find her. Still, I’d forward this article to him, so we could debate the pros and cons.

  Here was another interesting thought: MaryLisa was a nurse-midwife.

  Witnesses said they saw MaryLisa working in clinics and hospitals under ISIS control. She was using her nursing skills. I wrote “Skill sets—de-desertification” on my paper.

  These women—on the run from dropping bombs and ISIS fighters. Captured. Enslaved. Killed.

  God.

  I was heartsick for them.

  Despair wrapped itself around me. The problem was enormous. Thousands and thousands of women.

  The pictures, the stories, they winded me.

  World weary. Bone weary. My vision was blurred with fatigue. I checked the time readout. It was just now creeping past twenty-one hours.

  People at work were noticing something was off and that made me unprofessional.

  I hadn’t had a restful sleep in well over a week.

  Even though it was still early, I should get to bed. I closed the lid and moved my computer to the side table.

  Beetle and Bella lifted their heads.

  “Do you need to potty?” I asked.

  They laid their heads back down.

  “No? Okay, time to go to bed.” My pups weren’t pups anymore. I had just turned eighteen when they were born, I was about to turn twenty-three in March. They were middle-aged in dog years. The first grey hairs sprouted on their chins. I reached down to rub behind their ears. “You will always be my babies. No matter how old you get.”

  I hefted myself to my feet and started down the hallway, the clickety-clack of their nails tapped behind me.

  As I brushed my teeth for bed, I considered taking a sleeping pill that Avril had prescribed for occasional use.

  The problem was that if I had a nightmare, while under the medications influence, I couldn’t wake myself up. I had to live there in the scene until Striker shook me back to consciousness.

  That wasn’t fair to him. He needed his sleep, too. Though granted, he needed a lot less than the normal person. He was the kind of guy who was ready to rocket into the next day after four- or five-hours’ rest. It said a lot about the situation that he went to bed when I did and got up again when I did. It told me that his five hours weren’t restful for him, and he was spending considerable amount of time with me and my night traumas.

  Striker wasn’t home yet from the Strike Force security assignment at the Kennedy Center. Tonight, they were protecting the gorgeous Princess of Monaco, a former South African Olympic swimmer. I’d love to hear the scuttlebutt. I wouldn’t ask, though. Client information was considered verboten.

  Beetle and Bella had already made their way to the bedroom where their sleeping pads were lined up against the wall next to where I slept. I pulled off my clothes and deposited them into the laundry basket, dropped my nightgown over my head, and crawled under the covers.

  “Night, girls,” I said. Then as convincingly as I could, I added, “I’m going to sleep for eight hours straight. Tomorrow, I’ll be firing on all cylinders.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  My body jerked, springing me from the jaws of the lucid dream that had captured me like a wild wolf in a forgotten rusty trap.

  Lying rigid beneath my covers, my muscles cramped
from holding them taut for too long.

  Through the night, I’d balanced once again on the razor’s edge between being alive and being dead.

  I was so sick of this. I hated to sleep. Hated the invasive thoughts and sensations when I was awake.

  Once again, I thought maybe it would have been better if my team had just let me die out in the desert. Like Prescott had said, sometimes he saved people that he thought were too damaged to ever be okay again.

  Still shaking, I leaned over and kissed Striker’s shoulder. He snored softly, one arm draped over his eyes.

  Good that he slept.

  I felt guilty for all the nights when I’ve woken him, screaming. He probably got better rest when he was down range on a mission, sleeping amidst the sounds of war.

  Sliding silently from beneath the sheets, I tiptoed across the room, signaling my dogs, Beetle and Bella, that they should stay where they were.

  Perhaps I could wash some of this dread down the drain along with the sluicing hot water as I stood in the shower.

  While most of my nights I thrashed with nightmares that were forgotten as soon as I opened my eyes, last night, I dreamed that Angel was calling me to him in the bowels of Hell.

  “Help me. Come to me,” he commanded. “I need you here. I need you now. Come now. Come now!”

  Come to him…to Hell.

  This nightmare had surfaced each night for about a week now. It was frightening how strong the pull was and how much I wanted to go to his voice. The imperative was so forceful, so vivid, so demanding. It has been hard for me to shake it in my waking hours.

  Softly shutting the bathroom door so as not to rouse Striker, I flicked on the bathroom lights and blinked against the sudden jolt of brightness.

  This morning, I experienced what going to Hell might feel like—tasted it, smelled it, felt it. A swirl of heated air rushed against my body, loosened the skin around my mouth, flapping it, and letting my drool—cool and moist—fleck against my skin. When I reached a surface, it was grainy and radiated intense heat. Standing, walking, it had been so dark I could barely make out the emptiness around me. Off in the distance there were wails and ululations. The sounds crept over my skin and made me itch. I didn’t want to know why the souls moaned out that way.

  Regardless, I was drawn in their direction. I had to see for myself. That’s where I belonged.

  Angel was calling me to my death so I could be with him.

  I’d have to talk this over with Avril when I got back from Puerto Rico. Maybe she’d have some insights. I reached past the glass shower doors and turned the tap, letting the warming water hit against my palm while I waited to adjust the temperature.

  As others had been suggesting, my heightened emotions probably had to do with the anniversary of Angel’s death. If I could make it to the other side of that anniversary, then I’d probably find some relief.

  I peeled my nightgown from my shoulders and slid it down my body to pool on the floor at my feet. The crumpled cloth brought up images from the Nigerian file with their little tents next to a piece of bloody clothing, showing that another piece of scientist had been found.

  Perhaps last night’s nightmares had something to do with Melody Foley and the vivid descriptions that her psyche had painted of Kaylie’s death. Her night terrors sounded an awful lot like mine.

  Picking the night gown up, I gave it a flick and settled it on a hook next to the towels.

  The idea of the wildlife feasting on Kaylie’s body had brought up my own memories that I had shared with Avril of vultures waiting to turn me into their next meal. How I had imagined the delicacy of my eyeballs and liver.

  Avril. “This takes time.” “Time heals.” “We’ll work through this. Just keep with the program. Keep on trying.” “One foot in front of the other…” and all the other platitudes.

  Under the strum of the shower, my anxiety used more than its share of oxygen. I bent to put my hands on my knees and worked to suck a great lungful of air into my body.

  I was suffocating in my fear and horror.

  Hell was a terrible place.

  Here I was, back on that precipice. Back dancing with the Devil.

  This time, though, it wasn’t about me and my soul.

  It was Angel who was in Hell.

  I knew it.

  Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel Angel burning up. I could feel him begging me to save him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dressed, fed, and resolute in my determination to stay focused on helping Kaylie, Striker and I left the apartment hand in hand as we walked toward Iniquus. It was a beautiful Indian summer’s day. The air felt like warm velvet. Fall wrapped its crisp spicy scent around us. Sunlight beamed between the clouds. I tipped my head back so I could catch Striker’s eye. “You’re a mighty handsome man, Commander Rheas.”

  He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed the back.

  I was still a little rubbery feeling from my dreams, newborn giraffe wobbly as I walked. It was like I’d pushed too hard on leg day and my muscles had called it quits.

  When I was alone with Miriam in Puerto Rico, I’d talk to her about my experiences and see if she didn’t have some techniques to clear the excess psychic energy from my space.

  I’ve been having trouble grounding and meditating. Whenever I sat and closed my eyes to center myself, I felt a pull and drag toward the Veil and into the ether. Never having sought psychic information from someone who was dead before, I thought answering that call to go into the void might be a big mistake.

  One thing I understood; I was to the point where I needed someone’s help. I hoped Miriam could be that someone, and if not her, then the Galaxy operatives.

  It was a problem.

  My job was to be a problem solver.

  I’m on this! I encouraged myself.

  I turned and kissed Striker’s shoulder. “I love you,” I said, shutting my eyes for a moment to connect with those feelings.

  When I lifted my lashes, I found Striker’s moss green eyes squinting down at me with that assessing look of his. That brought a genuine smile to my lips. “When I get back from Puerto Rico, you’ll still be in Poland.” We started walking again. “That’s going to be an amazing trip. I looked up Krakow, and the architecture is gorgeous. I want to hear all about the non-security details—the food, the clothes, the sights.”

  Striker dropped a kiss into my hair. “It would be nice if things lined up differently.” He tugged my hand, and I let him guide me off the walking path. “I’d like to go down to Puerto Rico with you and pay my respects to Abuela Rosa.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll appreciate that.”

  Our feet crunched through the leaves that carpeted the ground with bright crimson and gold.

  The scent of river water rode the breeze. We walked amongst the trees until we were away from anyone’s scrutiny. Striker leaned against an ancient oak and pulled me into his arms, tucking me under his chin and smoothing down my hair.

  I wrapped my arms around him, wanting to relax into this little pause in our day, wanting to be in the moment and feel his love and support. But what I felt was stiffer, more guarded. “You did this once before. Do you remember?” I asked.

  “What’s that?” Striker released me from his hug and lifted a foot to rest it on the trunk.

  “I was wearing a coral and rose dress.” I stepped back and sat on a fallen tree. “You were out of uniform, wearing jeans. I was test driving your car that day, and you directed me to the little park with the pine trees. Word had come down your contact channels that Angel and his team had been pinned down in a firefight and men had been injured but not Angel. Angel was fine. I imagined you wanted me near something that had deep roots. Something that would give me stability as you told me the bad news. It feels the same right now. I wish you’d just say it.”

  “All right.” He rested his hands akimbo. “As the commander for Strike Force, I’m worried about your ability to function in your job. As your fianc�
�, worried doesn’t even come close. Your nightmares this last week have been kicking up with a vengeance. They seemed to let up in the last year after Indigo and Scarlet were no longer in the picture. It’s been a comparatively calm year.”

  “Yes, it has. I agree.” I smoothed the skirt of my dress, resting my folded hands on my lap.

  “Your nightmares are worse now than when I first met you in the safe house two years ago, and I thought those were pretty hellish. Then you were thrashing and moaning, calling for help. Now you’re screaming in your sleep that you’re in Hell.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not fair to you.” While I responded to the nightmares keeping him awake, I was caught on the fact that he thought I might not be functioning at work. My work helped solve crime puzzles, but my main job was to help the team think through the possibilities that made being in harm’s way turn deadly. If I missed something or messed up, my team could be impacted in the worst possible way. I couldn’t allow that. I sent him a frown. “I’ll stay at my house, so you can sleep.”

  “Stop.” The command was quiet but irrefutable. “This is not a conversation about me or my comfort. This is a conversation about you and your safety.”

  I nodded as he moved to sit next to me.

  “Every night. Several times a night you get sucked into these episodes.” His fingers tightened over mine. “Have you talked to Avril Limb about this?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed hard. I did my work at the psychiatrist’s office, so I could keep my head on straight. But I couldn’t shake my feelings about Angel and his death.

  They always struck me as odd. I mean, I had grieved before. My dad died when I was seventeen. My mom died when I was nineteen. I mourned them. I missed them. I thought of them daily, but the things I pulled up were the good memories, the sage counsel, the deeply felt love.