Gulf Lynx

by Fiona Quinn

  “Once I get you two separated, it’s going to take time to readjust. I’d imagine you’ll feel bereft. Maybe even phantom pain. In my mind, I’m thinking of this like an amputation. If that’s the case, you’ll need to rediscover the boundaries of your own aura. You and Angel are both going to have to learn to stand apart on a spiritual level. It’s going to be a period of recalibration, rebalancing. No matter what—I can’t say this in more rigorous or direct words—do not reach out to him in the ether. Do not walk behind the Veil to help him in any way. Hell or no Hell, that’s on his soul and for his spiritual helpers to figure out. You’re not to even check on him clairvoyantly. I feel so strongly about it that I would like you to make that vow to me. For a year and a day, you will not seek Angel in the ether. Agreed?”

  “I so vow.” When I said it, my whole system felt like it had been set on simmer. I flushed and perspired as energy bubbled through my body. I wondered if that was me realizing I’d signed a soul contract with Doc, or if this was my electrical system freaking out.

  Doc did one of her low deep chuckles. It reminded me of Spyder and his roll of thunder laugh. Spyder said it was important to have a belly laugh every day, no matter the circumstances; it helped to balance the dark with the light. Doc’s chuckles had that kind of feel to them. Like they were a tool for reminding her about aloofness and releasing an attachment to an outcome.

  “I just blew your calm right out of the water, didn’t I?” she asked. “Now I can see what was under there. You’re doing fine. Let those emotions come up. We can’t heal them if they’re hidden.” Her voice took on the timbre that Spyder used when he hypnotized me. “Whew, you’re full of emotions. I can see you were pushing down the shock and anger. I can see how you’re trying to be pragmatic and stoic. I agree with you, though, that Angel needs to be saved from his Hell.”

  That was exactly what I was thinking. Angel didn’t deserve to burn for a year and a day simply because I made a vow. His soul was attached because of Indigo and me.

  Angel was an innocent bystander.

  “This psychic surgery might do the trick. It might not. Either way, you made a vow. You’ll need time to settle into your body, so you can understand what your unmanipulated relationship was supposed to be.”

  “Did you see that contract? If not my husband, what was Angel supposed to be to me?”

  “For this lifetime? You were supposed to be a brush past. Someone whose company you enjoyed when you happened to be in the same room. A vague contact.”

  “Psychic surgery it is. When?”

  “Let me catch up with Miriam. You need to talk with Striker. Just like any other surgery, you need to talk about the risks. They aren’t to be taken lightly. You need some time to process. It isn’t something you can put off for long. There’s something ticking. A timer. It has to be done before the buzzer goes off.”

  “Kaylie? The missing woman?”

  “That doesn’t ring true. It’s something else.”

  “Okay, great. Two timers ticking then.”

  “Gator, thanks for holding space for us,” she said. “When I’m doing surgery, you can’t push on me like that. Understood?”

  I didn’t hear Gator’s response. He must have made one because Doc said, “Thank you. And Lexi, you have a lot going on right now. Striker has a process of compartmentalizing so he can stay present and focused. You’d do well to mimic that too. You’re not exactly sipping champagne on the beach over in Iraq. Head in the game.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Head in the game.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  My bottom was numb. Now I knew what it meant to fly as a strap. I’d been given a metal bench to sit on with a kind of plastic netting behind me.

  Pallets and equipment were secured in place by strapping it to the netting.

  One of those palettes was Iniquus equipment. Strike Force had gone to Poland as a security detail. They’d worn suits that had been specially designed to look upscale but were made of fabric that wouldn’t dampen, soil, or wrinkle. Their clothes, from button down shirts to suit coats, were made of material that would stretch with movement. Each accessory had a purpose from the survival belt buckle—that hid a compass, high lumen flashlight, and knife—to the tie clip that served as a body cam. It was all cutting-edge cool.

  But it wouldn’t serve them well in a conflict zone.

  I not only had their Iniquus uniforms with me, but a whole array of ammunition, weapons, computer systems, and other equipment that would help us write another success story. I hoped.

  The people on the bench with me were likewise strapped in. We had all popped our Rx sleep aids and had slept most of the way here.

  The SEALs got to string hammocks up. It was their resonant snoring that had roused me.

  That and the Malinois (I found out his name was Bungee) panting in his crate.

  We must have been descending. My ears were painful. I yawned to pop them.

  The landing gear rumbled into place under my feet. The plane tipped nose up. There was a screech of the braking system, and we were here.

  I was anxious to see how my being down range was going to play out with my team.

  I was equally anxious to know what Striker and Gator were going to say about my Indigo discoveries.

  The first time I kissed Striker under the mistletoe I knew I was home.

  Mistletoe was a parasite, I thought as I unhooked myself from the netting. And Angel’s soul was a kind of parasite. Wasn’t that a sick little concept?

  “Are you gonna barf?” The guy next to me was trying to give me room should I need it.

  I wondered what kind of face I was making. “I’m good.” Wish that were true.

  I should never have worried about my team. There they were, in their shirts and slacks, looking a little warm on this ninety-degree day, but otherwise wonderful.

  There was a round of high fives to welcome me. Then the guys got to work on dealing with the equipment like I’d done this a million times before.

  Striker didn’t kiss me, didn’t reach for my duffle, or take my hand. He wasn’t exerting any claiming body language. It was a hundred percent professional as we strode through the forward operating base to the contractors’ corner.

  He showed me the tent. I had a section blocked off with a tarp at the back. There weren’t any other female contractors on the base right now. No one for me to bunk with.

  “How was the flight?” Striker asked as I sidled back to stow my bag.

  “I was medicated.”

  He laughed. “That’s for the best. General Elliot said you’ve done another one of your magic tricks, and we might just be bringing the dead back to life.”

  “He caught you up on the case?”

  “Prescott did when he brought Kaylie’s son in.” Striker pulled the tarp down, so we were in the back of the tent alone. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me like we’d been apart for months not days. I didn’t mind at all. I wished it could go further, a lot further, but I wouldn’t be so indiscreet around my team.

  “Do you have a next step?” he asked as I cuddled into his chest.

  “I’m reaching out to Sophia as soon as I unpack my SAT phone. In the meantime. I have a GPS and a phone number for her contact, Mushkila.”

  He held me tight against him. “Mushkila, ‘problem?’”

  I leaned back to catch his eye. “Sophia says ‘Trouble’ that it’s from a local phrase.” I bet he’d be glad to get out of that button down and into his usual compression shirt and tactical pants. I wouldn’t mind helping him with that process. I grinned, remembering that Striker and I had once had a heartfelt conversation about the dangers of horniness in a conflict zone. It was a throwback to our caveman preservation ways. And look, my body was proving the theory. Too bad they didn’t give me a women’s shack somewhere.

  “Stop looking at me that way, Chica. You’re making it hard—”

  “Oh, am I?” I reached out my hand to paint over his zipper, grinning at what I fo
und there.

  “You’re making it hard for me to behave. The guys are going to be back in just a—”

  The door squealed.

  “Second,” he finished.

  “Poo,” I grumped.

  “Exactly.” He dropped a kiss onto my head. Then louder, “Mushkila?”

  “I’m hoping Mushkila has data from her CIA resource. If she doesn’t, General Elliot said Iniquus would reach out to Langley. Sophia is trying to get us a time frame for taking action.”

  “We’re changing into our uniforms,” Deep called so I’d stay put.

  Striker sat on my cot and pulled me onto his lap. “A lot happened in the last couple of days. I’m anxious to hear about Puerto Rico and Wyoming. How is Abuela Rosa?”

  “Better. But that trip took an unexpected turn. Let me tell you that story when Gator’s here. I need to share some information about Wyoming, too.”

  ***

  Dressed in an Iniquus grey camo uniform, I stood out from the others because of my grey niqab. It had its benefits. For example, it kept sand from between my teeth when the wind picked up. The breathing thing was strange. Like wearing a medical mask under a heat lamp. Now that the temperatures were cooling, it wasn’t quite as claustrophobic. Maybe I’d get used to it.

  I hoped I wasn’t here long enough to get used to it.

  We were loading up provisions and water. We planned to spend the night. But they said to always be prepared for worst case. No one was going to drive out to this particular location and give us a ride home if anything were to go contra to plan.

  I didn’t weigh in. I didn’t know anything about anything. My plan was to snap to when asked to do something and be zero problems.

  Okay, my track record on the problem part was pretty bad, but still. Today was another day to try.

  With satellite oversite that Nutsbe was monitoring for us from Panther Force war room back at Headquarters, we drove to the Iraqi-Syrian border.

  Normally, Deep was the Strike Force computer and logistics guru, but the team hadn’t needed that for Poland. General Elliot had rerouted the entire team as soon as they put their executives back on their private plane bound for New York.

  Our team was divided between two armored vehicles. Blaze drove, Striker sat beside him. I was bobbing along with the rough terrain in the back seat next to Randy. This was Randy’s first mission back following his death-defying recovery from a terrorist attack last July. It was good to see him here. He was obviously in his element.

  Behind us, Gator was at the wheel. Jack was shotgun. In the back seat, Deep and Axel.

  Blaze swished the windshield wipers to push some of the dirt to the side. Up ahead was a large village that had been pitted by bombs. I had no idea if this destruction was done by the U.S. or ISIS. It looked dangerously uninhabitable with tall buildings ready to collapse.

  When Blaze pulled the vehicle into a shadow and turned off the engine, I sent a message to Mushkila in Arabic: We’re here.

  Sophia said Mushkila spoke Kurdish and Arabic as a second language.

  Our car was air conditioned. When I opened the door, it was like sticking my face into an oven. The dashboard said it was only ninety degrees. Striker and the other men had been drinking bottle after bottle of water and had been pressing me to catch up. Heat stroke could be deadly. None of us were acclimated to this heat. The guys, though, would be much better about it than me. After all, they’d served long years here. They’d fought days-long battles in a hundred- and twenty-degree weather. Blaze was just laughing about the time when he’d been on a roof in his ghillie suit, doing overwatch with an IV of saline solution dripping in his vein to keep him functioning.

  “Speaking of overwatch,” Striker said. “How about you and Randy find some nests.”

  “Nutsbe to Strike Force Actual.” Nutsbe’s voice came over the comms.

  Striker keyed the mic on his chest. “Go for Striker.”

  “I have about twenty figures due north. They’ve been there for about an hour. Looks like they’re just sitting.”

  “Any other movement or vehicles?”

  Gator pulled up beside us and shifted out of gear. The men popped open their doors. Heads on a swivel.

  “Not that I can make out,” Nutsbe said.

  “Copy.” Striker turned to face the team. “Here we go.”

  My teammates stacked up, rifles in hand. I didn’t know my place in the pecking order.

  “Lynx.” Striker looked at me. “We didn’t have time to teach you tactics. I want you to let us get ahead of you, and you’re to shadow walk behind us, working from cover to cover.”

  Shadow walking was a skillset that I’d learned from my martial arts master as a small child and honed with consistent practice. It allowed me to move like a ninja without being observed. The technique has served me well and saved my life on more than one occasion. I was glad to have this skill out here. And would happily employ it.

  “If you see movement, disappear. If there’s any gunshot, I want you to stay invisible and make your way back to the overwatch. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t usually “yes, sir” Striker. But here, I wasn’t his fiancée, I was a teammate. I wanted to be clear that our roles changed with the circumstances.

  My SAT phone buzzed as I got a reply that we were welcome and then a string of numbers to tell me the GPS location within a meter of where she stood.

  First, entering the coordinates into our systems, including waypoints back to the vehicles and our overwatch, we trekked through the cubist surrealism of demolished urban landscape.

  Rubble was tied with ribbons of wire. Charred wood. The remains of a cooking fire. Hard surfaces were softened by the litter of colorful cloth, quilts, pieces of satiny clothing.

  Here, a flash of lilac, or scarlet. A moment of magenta or salad green. There was a leg, bare but for its shoe, dried in the heat, blooming with fungus. In the fire lay a ribcage, surely human at some earlier point.

  Up ahead, a wall of barrels was topped with sandbags to shoulder height. It would stop most rounds. They were safe enough as long as the enemy wasn’t firing an RPG or something bigger.

  “They’re around the next corner to the south.” Nutsbe’s voice was in my ear.

  Striker waved me forward and whispered, “You’re lead.”

  I flipped my rifle onto my back and held my hands where they were visible as I rounded the corner. “Greetings from Sophia,” I called out, seeing no one.

  A blue bedsheet flapped in the wind over an opening, a moment later it was thrown back.

  A woman emerged. Her waist-length hair was braided to hang down her back. She wasn’t wearing a veil, so I yanked off my niqab with relief. “My team has men,” I warned her in case she wanted to veil.

  “You and your team are welcome.” I held up my hand to signal Strike Force forward, then walked under the sheet.

  The women moved into a disciplined line in the space.

  This had been someone’s living room once. An oriental-patterned rug lay over a spotless tile floor.

  My team came in one by one, saw the women and moved to the other side of the room where they lined up and stood at attention.

  “I’m Lynx,” I said in Arabic but pronouncing my name in English. I didn’t know how to say Lynx in Arabic. “I bring you greetings of friendship.” Shoot, was I supposed to protest being welcomed? That didn’t feel like the right thing to do. I reached into my backpack and pulled out the box I brought of candy and dried fruit. I held it out with my right hand.

  “This was too kind,” Mushkila said.

  “It’s my honor.” I held the box out further out.

  “I accept them with gratitude.” She took the box then handed it over to the next woman in line who took them and left the room. “I’m Sophia’s friend and fellow resistor, Mushkila.” She pointed at her chest, then went down the line of the other women’s names.

  The women wore loose camouflage pants that reminded me of the pants Hammer had
worn in his video. They looked much cooler and more comfortable than the camouflage tactical pants I was wearing. The women had stuffed the bottoms of their hems into their combat boots. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders or propped against the wall close at hand.

  Broad squares of cloth printed with bright flowers were tied around their heads or necks. I was surprised to have such vivid colors on a warrior. I thought it would make them an easier mark. But what did I know about combat? I wasn’t going to second guess these warriors.

  Wow, some of them looked young. Mere babies.

  One of them was wearing a T-shirt that had been hand lettered, “War and religion were created by men. God is a woman.”

  Mushkila watched me read. “We want to create our own history.” Her eyes travelled to my team.

  “At ease,” I said, not sure that was the right thing. They shifted to parade rest as I introduced each one. Before I got to Gator, Mushkila’s phone rang.

  She frowned and answered it. Her words were rapid Kurdish, and I had no idea what she was saying. Blaze leaned in, and the team drifted around to listen to him. “Two snipers from ISIS were shooting. She thinks they must have tracked our vehicles coming across the open road. She wanted to get to them and get them dispatched before they could report their findings to anyone. She’s agreeing to something she’s hearing. She’s telling the person to come and speak to them. The name she said is Grey, like the color.”

  I smiled. Perfect. I had tried to find him through Margot and that had been a dead end. But now he was coming to me.

  When Mushkila hung up, she made a command and her unit grabbed their guns up. “We can help,” I said. “Just tell us what’s needed.”

  “There’s fresh tea in the pot. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  I watched as Mushkila, then each of the women, dropped into a channel dug into the dirt. It allowed them to walk through the village ruins in a low crouch without exposing their heads.