Weakest Lynx (41 page)

To Barbara Plum, when I won a manuscript review done by you in the charitable auction to help fund research for juvenile diabetes, I really won an amazing mentor. Thank you for going the extra mile with me. From one T1 mom to another, surely the cure is near.

To Aleise Matheson, I wish you came in pocket size. I’d take you everywhere. Thank you for your riotous red pen and your WTF bubbles. You have been awesome.

To Jamie Mason—you are so good to me, thank you for your kindness.

To Jamie Lee Scott—thank you for your support.

To my early readers, who were honest and supportive at the same time, a difficult needle to thread: Rebecca Antley, B. Boswell, Melissa Berman, Kristi Brashier, Jessica Coffey, Andrea McCarney, Jamie Mason, Ellen Moon, Patti Philips, Joanna Scaparotti, Rick Soper.

To my dear friend, Angel Fraguada—I hope you like your namesake. Thank you for providing the chocolate that nourished my writing.

Thank you to my daughters for being the template for Lexi.

Thank you to kid #4 who named Lexi, came up with her handle, and named all of the Lynx books. Whoop! You are indeed a creative force.

A huge thank you to my editor, Lindsay Smith—I can still hear you in my ear when I write. Working with you is always a fabulous experience.

Thank you to everyone who nominated me on Kindle Scout—you are so appreciated. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Thank you to Kindle Scout for this wonderful opportunity and to the Kindle Press team for the generosity of their support, especially Caroline Carr and my editor James Pierce.

And last on the page but always first in my heart, thank you to my husband. Todd, I adore you.

Canadian born, Fiona Quinn is now rooted in the Old Dominion outside of DC with her husband and four children. There, she homeschools, pops chocolates, devours books, and taps continuously on her laptop. She is a contributor to 
Virginia Is for Mysteries
, the author of the Amazon bestseller, 
Mine
, and 
Chaos Is Come Again
, and is the creative force behind the popular blog 
ThrillWriting
. She is presently writing her
Lynx
Series
.

JAMIE LEE SCOTT, USA Today Bestselling Author

"Quinn's protagonist, Lexi Sobado, is unique, tenacious, and a breath of fresh air for thriller readers."

JAMIE MASON,

THREE GRAVES FULL
and
MONDAY'S LIE
(Simon and Schuster)

WEAKEST LYNX'S heroine, Lexi Sobado, is a rare jolt out of formula. She's sweet and sexy, but it's her background and the skill set she's acquired in a glorious tapestry of unusual experiences that lace this ride with smart adrenaline. Treat yourself to something truly fun and different with Fiona Quinn's WEAKEST LYNX!

Angel Limb - WCVE Community Ideas Station PBS NPR

"Quinn’s spare yet illuminating first-person storytelling is perfect …"

I
strained against the seat belt, leaning forward with impatience, as if by weight and will, I could get us there faster. My fingers drummed anxiously on the car door. I wanted to be at the airport
now;
I had waited more than a year to see my mentor, Spyder McGraw, and hear his rolling-thunder laugh.

Striker slid his eyes toward me then refocused on the road. A little smile played across his lips. “You think that screaming like a Hellhound through Washington is going to get Spyder off his plane any faster?”

Striker Rheas took up a lot of space. His silken rusty-brown hair with its tight military cut brushed the roof; his shoulders—powerfully built from his days in Special Ops Forces—spread wide against the seat back. His bearing was always calm and capable—sometimes too much so. And while I obviously amused
him
right now, he was pissing me off. I answered him with my best withering stare and turned to the window as he drove sedately through the city streets.

The snow outside fell in big, light flakes, powdering the trees and cars, making the road shiny and slick. DC traffic was nonexistent this morning. Everything had shut down for Christmas.

Striker pulled into Reagan International Airport’s parking deck and set the brake. I narrowed my eyes so he would know not to hedge. “At least give me a hint. What kind of assignment are we going to be working on?”

There it was again, the glimmer of amusement. “I’ve told you everything I’ve got. I’ll be finding out the same time you do.”

“Okay, then where’s Spyder coming in from?”

Striker released his seatbelt and swiveled toward me. “He flew his last leg from Dallas to DC.” He held up his hands. “I swear that’s all the information I know.”

“This is a little surreal.” I pushed a blond curl behind my ear. “One minute I’m starting new classes at the university, and the next you’re handing me my gear to take down some bad guy. I had a plan.”

“Plans change. Seems serendipitous—Spyder reappearing just as you wanted to head out the door.” He flashed a smile. I loved Striker’s smiles—slightly crooked, hint of dimples, straight white teeth. His smiles started in his warm green eyes where the flecks of gold danced. They disarmed me, but I wanted my armor up.

I arched a brow at him. “I think perhaps you used more bullying and less serendipity to change my heart. Maybe a little bribery?”

“Incentivizing, Lynx. You wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to serve your country—and, of course, to work with Spyderman again.”

I got out of the car. The wind whipped the skirt of my Christmas-red cocktail dress around my legs. I was still dressed from the party last night. After the guests left, Striker surprised me with the news about Spyder coming home. Since my parents had passed away, Spyder took on a bigger role than playing my mentor; he became my other dad. Spyder’s homecoming was the best Christmas gift ever. Well, that and the beautiful gold brooch Striker gave me under the mistletoe—along with the kind of kiss that should end every great romance novel. The kind that promises a happily-ever-after.

I sighed.

Ah, if life were only that simple. I didn’t need a fairy-tale ending. Right now, I just wanted to regain my balance. And truth be told, Striker wasn’t looking for fairy tales, either.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that kiss. Striker
was
his job. He was a highly effective operative dedicated to protecting national security. Everything was secondary. Every
one
was secondary. Would I change that? No. Could I live with it? Hmmm. I tried before with Angel, and that ended about as badly as anything could end. If Striker wanted a relationship with me, he’d want it on his own terms. He hasn’t articulated his parameters to me. Probably because he knew I wouldn’t like them.

I tightened the belt around my short wool coat as Striker walked over to my side. His eyes caught mine. He tilted his head with that assessing look of his. “That’s a curious expression, Lynx. What were you just thinking?”

I smiled up at him. “That the décolleté on this party dress might be a little inappropriate for Christmas morning.”

Striker grinned. “You’re probably right, but I’m not complaining. I think you’re beautiful.” He planted a light kiss at my hairline, entwined his fingers with mine, and we walked toward the terminal.

Even in my heels, Striker’s six-foot-three frame towered above me. His Irish cable-knit sweater and pair of 501s accentuated everything a girl could want accentuated. His assets weren’t lost on the woman passing us, pulling her carry-on behind her. She turned to give his rear an appreciative glance—clearly enjoying the view. Pretty tactless—the man was holding my hand, and she didn’t know we weren’t a couple. 

In the waiting area, I discarded my coat and paced in front of our seats, wringing my hands. Impatience and excitement made me hot and twitchy.

“If you get any warmer, there isn’t much left to shed, Lynx.” Striker stretched out his long legs and slouched back in the hard plastic chair.

“It’s Lexi. I don’t use my call name when I’m off the clock.”

Striker’s eyes moved over my dress. The low-cut bodice showed off my full breasts and cinched tight at the waist like a starlet from the fifties. I felt flirtatious and sexy when I danced at the party. The skirt ballooned out as I spun around, showing off legs toned from years of running and martial arts.

“What if he’s late? Did you check and make sure he made his flight?” I pulled my hair back into a ponytail to get it out of my face. “I should take another peek at the board, maybe there’s been a delay.”

“That’s fine. You go do that.”

I focused down the hall where the flight board stood. “I can’t.” I plopped down beside him. “My feet hurt too badly.”

“I will never understand why a woman does that to herself.”

“You think my high heels are sexy, don’t you?” I straightened my leg for him to see.

“Definitely.”

“And that’s why I wear them.” I kicked off my shoes. The cold floor eased the aching. I didn’t care too much about propriety, since we were almost the only people at the airport. “They make my legs long and my butt perky. I like dressing girly and pretty.” Actually, looking young, cute, and approachable made my job a whole lot easier. Being discounted as a piece of fluff let me go places, and do things, that would normally set off alarms.

Striker wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to him. “I totally agree with the girly and pretty part, Chica,” he whispered into my hair.

I pushed Striker off me and jumped to my feet. “Oh God, Striker, he needs our help.”

“Who does?” Striker stood beside me, scanning the room as he cupped my elbow, holding me steady while I hopped on one foot, cramming on my other shoe. “What are you talking about?”

“Spyder. I heard him say it in my head.” I tapped my finger to my temple as I came upright.

Striker drew his brow together. “You heard this ESP-wise?”

A disembodied voice announced Spyder’s flight over the loudspeaker.

I didn’t bother answering. Of course ESP-wise. Why else would I be hearing voices?

I grabbed up my coat and purse and ran toward the security gate. The passengers coming up looked rumpled and droopy eyed. I, on the other hand, was chomping at the bit, eagerly searching the crowd.

Normally, Spyder McGraw stood flagpole tall and thin. The contrast between his white teeth and midnight, blue-black skin was startling, and the only distinctive thing about him. He shaved his head and wore nondescript clothes. Spyder liked to blend. There! The last one off. His tall frame loomed in the back behind the swarm. His shoulders bowed uncharacteristically as he moved forward zombielike.

With my focus glued to Spyder’s face, I pushed through the crush of travelers leaving the security gate. The guards jumped up from their posts—my actions drawing their attention, but I didn’t care. I had to help Spyder. One guard grabbed at my arm. His other hand popped the snap on his Taser holster. Striker brandished his Iniquus ID, and the guards fell back.

I swam forward against the current of travelers until I could get to Spyder. The deadly strong arms that I knew so well hung lifelessly by his sides. I pulled him into a hug. Sweat glistened his face, and his body trembled against me. I reached up and touched his head; the heat rose off his skin in almost visible waves.

“I need a wheelchair.” My command carried over to the guards who had their eyes on me still. “Spyder, you’re burning up.”

Spyder mouthed, “Malaria,” and keeled over.

Striker lunged for him, but couldn’t get a good hold from over my shoulder. I dropped to the ground to protect Spyder’s head from hitting the tile floor. The guards ran toward us, pushing passengers from their path.

“Call an ambulance!” I shouted and struggled out from underneath Spyder.

He was conscious, but his eyes were glassy and unfixed. I patted his face and called his name. He didn’t even try to respond or focus on me. Striker loosened Spyder’s clothes at the neck and waist.

Grabbing my purse, I upended it, searching frantically through the debris to find the extra diabetic-supply kit I carried for when I babysat my neighbor’s little girl, Jilly-bean.

With shaking hands, I grasped Spyder’s finger. I have done blood checks about a thousand times as a volunteer EMT, but my training whispered from deep in my brain—muffled by the storm clouds of my emotions. Memories of the night my dad and I were in the car accident swamped my mind. I knelt exactly like this, on the side of the road, holding my dad’s head and praying the same prayer, “Please be okay, please be okay,” even though it was obviously too late for him.

The number on the meter came up low. Way too low. Verge of coma low. “Think,” I commanded myself as I reached blindly for the glucose gel from my purse jumble.

“Striker, hold him still.” My EMT voice sounded focused and in charge. Where did that come from? I felt everything but professional; I felt gelatinous. “When I give Spyder this glucose, he won’t understand what’s going on. He’ll fight for his life.” Striker nodded and clamped down on Spyderman’s wrists, straddling Spyder so he could use his weight as leverage.