Weakest Lynx (3 page)

I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. “What a freaking waste of money,” I yelled toward the man singing about his broken heart on the radio. Reaching out, I fiddled with the knob until I scrolled past a talk-radio channel. The newscaster’s words “Strike Force” caught my ears. They were reporting that an Iniquus team had rescued Graham Chasm, President of CBN Oil, along with his wife and children from a Mexican drug cartel. The team was now en route from Texas to New York to deliver the family safely home.

New York. Perhaps heading up to New York City was a good idea—find a high-security hotel where I could hole up. And Strike Force would be there. Which meant Striker, their team leader would be there. Striker was Spyder McGraw’s golden boy. If anyone would know how to contact Spyder, it would be him. Should I try to reach Spyder—just to run this stalker situation past him and get some ideas? That wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?

As I drove north, my head filled with Striker thoughts—all of the wonderful stories I knew about him. He was legendary. When Striker was still Special Operations Forces, Spyderman—as Spyder McGraw was known on the job—had lent Iniquus contacts and regional expertise to Striker’s SEAL team on various operations. They were together in Iraq when Striker earned a Bronze Star for valor, and in Africa with the UN, when he received a Silver Star for heroism and a Purple Heart.

Spyder loved to recount their exploits. As a teen, I ate those Striker stories like manna. Hungrily. Greedily. I was starving for a hero to come and fight the dragons in my life. Mainly to help me fend off my depression when Dad died in the car accident, especially knowing my mom’s illness meant she’d soon follow, and I’d be left with no family. I remembered how desperate I was for Striker to be mine; though at that point, he was just a fairy tale. Like Arthur or Prince Charming.

Then I met Striker in person, after he left the military and signed on to an Iniquus Team here in DC. The introduction made everything worse. I was so dreadfully lonely and scared, and Striker was so damned
perfect.
So unattainable and accomplished.

I shook my head to clear away those ideas. I hadn’t thought about Striker since the second I laid eyes on Angel. And that was how I wanted it. But still … New York.

My stomach growled, and I realized all I had had to eat in the last twenty-four hours was a few bites of doughnut and my coffee. I pulled in at the next truck stop and took my laptop into the restaurant.

I bit into a chicken-salad sandwich as I booted up my computer to search for somewhere to stay. A plop of mayonnaise fell on my shirt, and I reached for a napkin from the holder. With all of my things still back at the motel, I’d have to run by Target or somewhere, pick up necessities—clothes and some food. Looked like PB&J until I could get back home. I scrubbed at the oil stain the mayonnaise left on my chest while I scrolled down the computer screen.

Score
! A secure hotel—right in the middle of the city for a great price.

“More than I have to spend, though,” I grumbled under my breath and hit “Enter.” It seemed a little cowardly, doing a vanishing act. Cowardly wasn’t how I normally viewed myself. Well, a hidden enemy was a dangerous enemy; even Spyder would probably agree this was a smart tactical move.

A few hours later, I found myself pulling into a parking space at LaGuardia Airport where the Chasm family was expected to land. I checked my watch—only twenty-five minutes. I still hadn’t made up my mind about approaching Striker. I walked around to my trunk and took out a baseball cap. Pulling the bill low over my brows, I dashed up to the news team from Channel 11 and followed behind like I belonged—they would know where to go. As the doors to the terminal slid open automatically, my heart quickened. What was I thinking? I couldn’t talk to Striker privately here, especially in front of all of these reporters. Even if I got close enough to him, I’d come off like some groupie—what did Dave call them? Badge Bunnies. Geesh. And it would be wrong for me to mention Spyder McGraw in public.

Striker would be suspicious of my approach—why would he tell me, a stranger, where a fellow Iniquus agent went when that agent disappeared from my life in September? Would Striker even have contact? Iniquus only meted out information on a need-to-know basis. Shit. What was I doing?

No one questioned me as I scrambled behind News 11 into the bay that was set aside for the news conference. The excitement was palpable. The extended Chasm family huddled in front of the dais, with tear-stained faces, while various report teams claimed turf and filmed teasers. I worked my way over to where I thought Strike Force would exit, figuring I would wing it based on how Striker reacted to my approach. Once I had Spyder’s contact information, I could make other decisions about
if
I would burden Spyder with my problem.

A shift happened in the room. Reporters raised their microphones to their mouths as the on-air lights blinked on the video cameras. The well-dressed and highly polished reporters laid out the story line: the Chasm’s private jet had landed, and they were expected at the podium any second now. I crossed my fingers and willed that everything go exactly as it should. If I were supposed to lean on Spyder, everything would go off without a hitch, but my efforts would be thwarted if it were better to do this on my own. There. Let fate figure out my dilemma for me.

The family burst jubilantly through the door. Their bright grins were dichotomic to the black circles under their eyes. I stared at the door. Why was the family alone? Maybe Strike Force didn’t want their images broadcast in order to preserve their anonymity. I slid along the wall to get to the door the family had entered. Hopefully, Strike Force was just on the other side, and I’d find Striker away from this circus. Just as I pushed through the door, a reporter asked about the rescue team. Graham Chasm explained that an assignment had come up, and as soon as they delivered his family safely home, the team needed to be wheels-up on another assignment.

They were already gone.

I spun in place.
Well, thanks, fate. Looks like I’m on my own. Shit.

T
he sky was a deep violet when I stepped out of my car onto the marble-paved turnabout at the hotel and tipped my head up to take in the splendor. Wow, was I out of place. This was posh beyond belief—the crystal and mahogany at the valet desk, the women prancing by draped in furs and dripping jewels. I, on the other hand, stood shivering in my pink hoody and Levis. The valet palmed the keys to my rusty Camry, and I blushed hotly as I handed him his tip. My car wheezed and coughed as she chugged away to be replaced in line by a silver Bentley.

After signing in with the front desk, I took an elevator up to the fourth floor. My room was New York City small. I could barely inch past the little alley between the bed and the wall to get over to see outside my one-windowed view. I peered out at the traffic and pedestrians, and sighed. Nothing said anonymous like the Big Apple.

Surely I can safely lose myself in the crowd
. I moved toward the dresser where my phone was buzzing and checked the screen.
Dave.

“Hey there.” I said.

I heard panting quickly followed by, “Holy shit!”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No. I am
not
okay. You gave me a friggin’ heart attack, Lexi. I drove over here to your motel to talk to you, and you weren’t around. Not one of your apartment-building neighbors has seen you since this morning.”

“I was getting ready to call you in a minute anyway,” I said. “I got spooked at the motel and drove away.”

“Away where?” Dave asked.

“New York City,” I clamped the phone between my ear and shoulder as I twisted my hair into a braid.

“Spooked like a normal person gets spooked? Or did you
sense
someone out there?”

“I
am
a normal person, Dave. But yes, I had a sixth sense that hanging out in the DC motel was going to be bad news, so here I am.”

“How long are you planning to stay up there?” he asked.

“I don’t know … until the house is settled? I’m kind of winging it here.”

He grunted, then a door slammed. “You checked your rearview mirror?”

“I did everything Spyder would want me to do. No one followed me up here. And if they did …”

“It would be a hell of a bad sign.” Dave finished my sentence for me. “It’s one thing to shove a letter under someone’s door and a whole different ball game to follow someone out of state.”

“Yup,” I said, moving toward the bathroom to get a drink of water. This tiny hotel room was claustrophobic. I wanted to go out for a walk to get some air, but rain tapped against the windowpane.

“What are your plans for up there?” Dave asked. “Are you going by your Nona Sophia’s?”

“I planned on it. I need to sit tight and get through my assignments first.”

“Assignments?”

“Yeah. For my classes at the community college.” I nibbled at my fingernail.

“Oh, for a second I thought you were attached to a new partner.”

“I told you, I’m not playing Nancy Drew anymore.”

“So you’re good?”

“Locked down under high security. You should see this place. No one can get to me.”

“Alright then. I want a phone call every day. Okay? Every
single
day. I’ll let you know how things are going with the house. At least the money’s in escrow, so it should move forward fast enough.”

“Thanks. Love you.” My singsong good-bye sounded a thousand times lighter than I felt.

After a pause, Dave said, “Love you back. Please be safe.”

“I promise.” I hung up and set my phone back on the dresser.

Tired didn’t even start to describe the hollowness in my bones. I couldn’t remember ever being this kind of exhausted. The stress of the day had completely wiped me out. I checked the locks on my door, slipped out of my clothes, and let them drop to the floor. After pulling an extralarge T-shirt over my head, I climbed under the covers and fell instantly into an aerobic and strenuous sleep.

I ran through the sandstorm, choking on the dust-caked scarf I had wrapped around my face. My gun was jammed with tiny particles of silica, and I let it dangle ineffectually from my back as I fought my way up yet another dune. Gripping serrated knives in each hand, I used them to dig in and pull up. The heat and the smell of charred flesh filled my nostrils and made them burn.

I jerked reflexively as a bomb blew up a truck on the road below. The move made me lose my footing. I rolled down into the enemy encampment, where they sprang on me.

“Angel!” I screamed and thrashed to escape. I woke up knotted in the sheets, my damp hair plastered against my cheeks, panting for breath. Sunlight shot through my window, and I forced myself up and away from the desperation that clung to me.

Climbing off the bed, I scooped my hair off my prickling neck and made my way into the bathroom. It was so small I had to stand in the tub to shut the door. As I turned on the water, I started a mental list of the things I needed to do. Things that were completely unrelated to worrying about Angel or protecting myself from the stalker. Spyder taught me that a predator wanted to disrupt his victim’s life, keeping them in a state of fear. Life disrupted? Check. Living in a state of fear? Well, I’d work hard at distracting myself. I’d finish my calculus assignment, go to the gym—burn off some stress, perhaps I’d grab lunch downstairs.

The stream of hot water soothed my nerves. I reached for the minibar of hotel soap. It was safe here, I rationalized. Safer than a motel in DC anyway. Yeah, but sooner or later, I was going to have to go home and deal. I massaged the lather over my stomach.

White bones, dry veins, and melted skin
. Holy hell. Who writes shit like that?

Suddenly, the world tilted. I stretched out my hands to brace myself against the white tiles. Words illuminated my consciousness with vibrant colors and dizzying oscillations. It was a psychic “knowing.” And a doozy, too. I crouched down in the tub and tried to breathe past the angst.

“Knowings” came to me frequently since I was a little girl but were mostly bits of useless banality—
Dave likes ice cream
or
Cathy has a cold.
Sometimes they acted as harbingers—
the ice storm will last three days.
Today’s “knowing” flashed a red warning sign.

Ring-a-ring of rosies. A pocket full of poesies. Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush! You fall down!

I wrapped up in a towel and flung myself across the bed. How to interpret this information? Okay first—not good. I pinched my nose closed and stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe deeply through my mouth, working hard at not freaking the hell out.

Think like Spyder’s operative holding a new puzzling clue. Let’s say Spyder came in with a new case and handed this to me. What would I tell him?

Anomalies. I’d start there.
Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!
I’ve read something before … yes, in an antique children’s anthology—that phrase was used, but not common. Hmmm. I didn’t know what to do with it. Silenced, maybe? That no one would hear me if I needed help? I jumped up to pace.
A pocket full of poesies.
This was clearer. Not the customary “posies” like a bouquet of flowers. “Poesies”—from old French or Latin, meaning poems. And of course, the poem shoved under my door on my wedding day was Robert Burns’
A Red, Red Rose.
That could explain the first line,
Ring-a-ring of rosies.
I would guess the Burns adulteration was going to be the first of many poems.