Authors: Fiona Quinn
T
he next morning, Axel stood at the whiteboard in the Puzzle Room. Striker commanded our team like we were in the SEALs. After a mission, he broke down everything – what worked, what didn’t, where could we improve? During this meeting, he treated everyone on equal footing. There was no shame and blame, only data gathering and decision making about training needs.
This was like any other post-mission debriefing, except Jack and Striker were still at Suburban Hospital. The doctors upgraded Jack’s status to stable this morning. He had passed the critical markers.
Thank you, God
. And they were optimistic that Striker would be released in a day or two.
I watched my team cobbling together at least the beginnings of a theory. How in the world had this happened? It was as if Strike Force was involved in a historical reenactment where both sides had scripts they were supposed to follow. As if we had faxed over our plans, right down to the timeframes and schematics. How did the D.O.A. have those men so precisely placed? The only thing I could come up with was that we had a mole.
A mole in Strike Force? Unfathomable. The attack endangered everyone on our team. Except Blaze and me. My shoulders drew up to my ears, my legs crossed tightly in the full protective curl of an armadillo. Who? I demanded in my head. I hadn’t given out the information – that was for darned sure. And Blaze? I would bet my last drop of blood that he was loyal. The image of Blaze laying bloodied and unconscious at Striker’s house after he was shot while protecting me last summer, pushed its way forward. I shook my head. I needed to find out who else had our plans.
I jotted notes on the paper in front of me and crossed my fingers, sending up a silent plea that Jack would survive the day – the crucial make or break day – and he’d eventually be able to tell me who knew the plans. Had he filed them with Command? Maybe someone in the support office? Maybe someone in IT?
I don’t care if I never know, Jack. Just be okay.
The rest of the team insisted they’d remained in communication with Blaze the whole time. Copies of the operation communications tapes, forwarded to the FBI contractor for analysis, proved otherwise. So who had been on the radio, feeding Strike Force the “Roger thats” and the “Wilcos”? The whole thing was so bizarre. And so horribly dangerous. Our comms were our life lines when we were operating–not being able to trust them? Not knowing if the person on the other end was friend or foe? This upped the field work danger quotient a thousand fold. We needed answers to our questions and fast.
Gater moved to the board. “The storage shed looked new, and the ladder was in good shape. But you could see where an older ladder was attached to the side here.” Gater sketched his information on the board. “Axel and Deep found survival supplies here.” He drew a square and labelled it. “So this must have been their plan all along for where to hold the hostages. Now, why would D.O.A. take everyone down in the tunnel if the air was bad? Surely they checked it for gases before they picked this place.”
“What was the goal?” I piped in. “How would D.O.A. benefit from taking the Sudanese immigrants hostage? Why were the Sudanese of interest to the FBI instead of Immigration?”
“Classified with the contractor,” Axel said.
“Hmph. But we’re supposed to figure this all out without pertinent data? Okay, what about the owner of the shed? Do we know that much?” I asked.
“It belongs to one of the guys in D.O.A. He was in the tunnel with the rest, so he won’t be answering questions,” Axel replied.
“For sure, he couldn’t have known about the gases, or they wouldn’t try to push us out with flashbang.” Deep said. “Do you think the gas accumulated around the U bend? I wonder why it didn’t kill me and Axel?” Deep picked up a marker and drew two Xs. “We were right about here when we started feeling like we were suffocating.”
“I think it was a lucky thing for Deep and Axel that the target threw the flashbang to pull them in the wrong direction.” I stood up and walked to the board. “Here are my thoughts. D.O.A. and hostages–I’ll call them the ‘target’—head down the tunnel. They turn to the right, and then go around a switchback and to the right into this chamber.” I put a star on the board. “Axel and Deep had kept straight instead of making the right hand turn. There must have been air flow in this shaft, or it would have exploded with the flashbang.” I drew arrows with different colored pens. “Striker took a hit outside of the tunnel, but thought he was fine. He didn’t realize the bullet pierced his vest. He gets in trouble at the bottom of the ladder. Gater stays with Striker right about here.”
“Yup, that’s where Striker got dizzy, and we realized he was losing blood,” Gater confirmed.
I stood back to study the board. “Okay, so by now, the target had moved around the U bend to hide. There must have been an accumulation of gases in this space.” I tapped on my star. “You said they had to step down into the cavity?” I turned to Axel.
“Titus said it was a three-foot drop, and he had to duck his head in there. He’s six-foot-one, and add another couple inches for the hazmat hood and boots,” he said.
“Okay. As D.O.A. forces the Sudanese to jump down into this space, the hostages’ movements swirl the air, combining the bad air pooled here at the bottom with the breathable air above. When the hostages sat down, they breathed in the poisonous fumes and would have quickly passed out. D.O.A., seeing them collapse, are caught between the poisonous gas and Strike Force. The only chance of survival would be surrendering. Looks like the D.O.A. collapsed as they came around the U toward breathable air.” I scanned the room and saw heads nodding.
“With all of this movement by the targets, the bad air seeped out into the rest of the tunnel. Striker and Gater had taken a knee, and got the fumes into their systems. Gater, I imagine your level of fitness kept you from succumbing, and you were able to get Striker up and out.” I had to steady myself with a hand on the board. It was that close. Gater’s determination versus Striker’s death. I cleared my throat and continued. “Axel and Deep start to feel the effects of the gas, but because of their fitness, height, and speed, are able to get out on their own right behind Striker and Gater and just ahead of the D.O.A. members.”
“That makes sense,” Deep said. “When we felt the gas effects, Axel and I held our breath and sprinted for the ladder.”
“And of course, we now know that Jack took two bullets outside of the tunnel and Randy provided life support, calling in medevac to God knows whom. Some tango knew
exactly
what was going on for our team. Their
exact
movements and locations. And if I’m not mistaken, looks like D.O.A. was set up to take a bad fall.”
There was nothing that I wanted more in that instant than to be locked in the room with the man or even the men that had the audacity to squeeze the trigger and hurt Striker and Jack. My lips curled back. I felt like a lioness. I wanted to sink razor-sharp incisors into their jugulars and shake my powerful neck, to feel their blood drain from their bodies, knowing they would soon die. The energy I pulled through me felt universal, primal, and extremely dangerous. This energy felt hungry–rabid, even—and now frightening, because it didn’t feel like it originated from me.
The “buzzing” had started again. Electricity ran from my head down my arms and legs, acidic and bright like a note held by an operatic soprano, a sustained high C with enough volume to shatter glass. I wriggled uncomfortably. Gater and Deep glanced toward me, looking concerned. I didn’t want their concern. I wanted them to rest and recover and figure out what the hell happened, because this still made no sense.
I paced back and forth in front of the board. “My guess is that an Iniquus team – maybe even us specifically — was the target, not the Sudanese. Or maybe whoever was orchestrating this fiasco needed all three groups out of the picture. They may even have known about the gas, and they were aiming for an efficient kill. That’s especially true if they knew in advance that there was gas down there and instructed D.O.A. to throw flashbang. An explosion would result in no survivors and no bodies. But if that were true, they were measuring air quality back around that U-bend. If the FBI would share, I might be able to puzzle this out. But for now? I’d say we need to watch our backs.”
A knock sounded at the Puzzle Room door. The team fell silent as I went to see who was there. Leanne gestured me out to the hall. She was pale and nervous. ”Uhm. I have a return message for you.”
My heart picked up its pace.
“Mango sorbet, tomorrow morning, eleven hundred,” she said, glancing up and down the hall, then she wiggled her knees like a sprinter getting ready for the lineup to be called.
I whispered, “Thank you” into her ear and gave her a squeeze. Relief washed over me.
***
I drove an Iniquus pool car across town, past where my apartment building had stood before the fire burned it to the ground. The corner where I grew up had morphed into an office complex.
Out of the ashes comes progress, sort of.
I ticked the left-hand signal down and waited for my turn at the light, checking my watch and drumming nervous fingers on the steering wheel.
Five minutes down the road, I pulled into a mall parking space, did a quick scan, dragged the bill of my baseball cap lower over my eyes, and moved to the entrance. I wondered if Spyder would be observing me like he did when I was his student, noting where I made mistakes and left myself exposed. I made sure to follow protocol for meeting a contact in public spaces. I went in and out of stores, watching for a tail. I walked with groups so it looked like I belonged and peeled off into the ladies’ room. In the stall, I changed my clothes from my backpack. With a new hat, a new gait, and my backpack stuffed into an oversized hobo bag, I headed to the food court. I scanned, but only half-heartedly. When Spyder wanted me to see him, I’d see him and not a moment before.
At the counter, I accepted my mango sorbet from the cashier and licked along the edges to smooth the sides and prevent it from dripping. I couldn’t believe the Confucius fortune had worked.
Two years.
I shook my head and tossed my receipt into the trash.
It was that easy.
I had simply forgotten how to click my ruby slippers together and transport Spyder home. I bet a psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing the whys and wherefores of that black hole.
I pretended to window shop, watching the passersby in the reflection on the glass. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a tall man with blue-black skin, long limbs, and graceful movements weave in and out of the crowd. He wore his black fedora pushed forward over his brow, disguising the part of the face that the human eye zones in on as the first point of recognition and description – the forehead and hairline. I watched him head toward the exit, and I followed at a discreet distance out to the parking lot, into the white van with the overly tinted windows, and snapped my safety belt in place.
“Hello, Lexicon.”
I stared straight ahead with a grin stretched across my face. “Hi, Spyder. Thank you for coming home.”
I rode in silence. Easy. Being with Spyder was as familiar and as comfortable as lounging around the house in pajamas. Like wrapping up in soft warm blankets on a chilly evening and feeling perfectly content.
He drove us to the Maryland shore, where we rolled up the cuffs of our pants and pulled off our shoes to walk along the water line. Though it was an almost-hot Indian summer day, and my hoodie kept me plenty warm, the water felt spiky cold. By the time we got to the large rock, our “thinking spot,” I welcomed its radiant heat.
“I can see from your eyes, Lexicon, that you have forgotten one of the most important lessons I taught you.”
I quirked my head and waited.
“You must laugh a deep belly laugh every single day, no matter how the day presents itself. Surely there is one thing in each day that is a source of joy and from which you can balance the darkness with light.”
In my mind, I became defensive. The last Spyder had heard about my welfare, I had survived the Travis Wilson attacks and was doing fine. If he knew how my life had unfolded over the months since our separation, he would be more patient with me. I lifted my chin a little; the move smacked of belligerence. I worked to take the edge off with a little shake of my head.
Spyder reached for my hand and looked at me with his steady gaze. “I left my location immediately to return to DC. Spencer and Striker both filled me in on your adventures.”
Wait. What? “You met with Mr. Spencer and Striker before you let me know you were in town?”
“Of course, Lexicon. What would a good operative do once they have received an emergency summons?”
“Obtain intelligence, make a plan, find alternatives, actuate. I could have told you what was going on in my life, Spyder. It feels like you went behind my back and asked people to tattle.”
He threw his head back and laughed – the laugh I loved. It rolled up from his belly and burst through his mouth with the power of a storm. When I heard his laughter, rich and deep, it reminded me of the title of a favorite childhood novel,
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.
Thunderous — sometimes startling — his laughter cut the air and changed the atmospheric pressure.