Weakest Lynx (34 page)

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.”

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.”

“That’s not happy.” Striker sat up and hooked his arms around his bent knees.

“Nope. Those Greek gods weren’t kind to mortals, but at least Artemis felt sorry.”

“Spyderman tell you that story?”

I sat up, too, carelessly picking at the grass blades and twirling them around my fingers. “Yup. Spyderman loves to tell stories.”

Striker quirked a brow. “He ever tell stories about me?”

“All the time. You were one of his favorite story topics.”

“You know a lot about me then,” he said.

“Well, stuff that you did with Spyder—I don’t know much about your personal life. Like for example, how old are you?” I asked.

Striker smiled. “Twenty-six, today.”

I drew up to my knees. “What? Today’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Things are a little hectic.” He reached out to pull a leaf from my hair. His hand rested there, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. His lips looked soft and full. My body urged me into his arms. The pull felt magnetic. I waited for the familiar ‘knowing,’ the words of warning and caution:
hell in a handbasket.
But all I heard was the wind rustling the last of the crisp autumn leaves in the trees. My breath came short and shallow as I struggled with desire. This was wrong—warning or no warning. These were the wrong feelings; Striker was my friend and protector. I was really missing Angel’s arms.

I pushed myself to standing and brushed off my sweats. I needed a little space between us. Striker got up, too, folded the blanket, and tucked it under his arm. Neither of us said a word as we went back to his apartment.

I perched on the edge of the couch across from him. “I’m sorry about …” and I made a vague gesture, “that.”

He shook his head, his voice sounded low and serious. “Nothing to be sorry for, Chica.”

“This,” I gestured back and forth between us, “gets hard for me sometimes. Confusing.”

He slowly nodded, eyes unwavering, body taut. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean for it to be.”

I pursed my lips then stood up with a wobbly smile. “I hope this turns out to be a wonderful year. Happy birthday.” He didn’t move a muscle, he just looked at me with his green eyes unreadable, closed to me, and I went to my room. Alone.

I woke up early, packed my bags, and climbed into Striker’s car for the trip home. The team had been putting surveillance in place all week. Cameras and audio devices peppered my neighborhood, moving outward to include a five-block radius. The team would watch remotely from three blocks over, monitoring all the comings and goings, and keeping in constant contact with my watchdog.

They told me to stay at my house or in my immediate neighborhood, but thought we could speed things up if I hung out on the porch as much as possible. I’d be wearing a Kevlar vest whenever I was exposed, and an escort would accompany me on my errands. So, a little more freedom than at the safe house.

Walking into my home again felt odd. I loved my refurbished wooden floors. The walls were now painted rich, soothing colors, and, thank God, looked totally different from the night I left in the ambulance. Manny had taken my old furniture down to our neighbor Missy’s house and stored Angel’s and my few belongings in boxes in the closet.

“Looks Spartan,” Striker said.

“Ha! Yeah, the painters just got done. My new furniture and stuff are in storage.”

“Give me the info, and I’ll get everything taken care of right now, before you end up sleeping on a bare floor.”

Three hours later, a moving truck pulled up, and Iniquus men started to unload. I had Chantal’s interior-design sketches in hand, and as the men brought the things in, I directed them to the correct rooms. They unwrapped my dishes, hung the new lighting fixtures, and attended to every detail. When they left, my home was both stylish and finished. Striker and I wandered from room to room taking it all in.