Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

Blue—

Blue had a gun pointing at his back.

With things seemingly under control and every officer’s body cam focused away from me, I eased along the wall. Rounding the corner, I made my way next door to the gas station, where I could check my appearance in their bathroom mirror and regroup.

I second-guessed myself.

Cameras would be everywhere at the gas station.

Again, I wasn’t quite sure how to play this.

How bad did I look?

Did I have blood in my hair from the head butt that broke the guy’s nose?

No, the gas station was a bad decision. Everyone would be gathered to figure out what the commotion was about. Better to slip into the diner. Hopefully, everyone inside would be caring for the waitress, focused on her. I could slip in, head to the bathroom, and wash the sweat off my face.

Except for the bruise that I could feel swelling, I might just look like someone who was coming in on a foggy morning, with temperatures that made my hair and clothes wilt.

Walking through the front door, the tinkle of bell chimes jangled my nerves. They alerted the staff that someone had come in. They could pull unwanted eyes my way.

I was surprised to find everything looked…normal.

The clanking of silverware against the dishes. The blast of morning news on the television. The conversations. It all continued as if there hadn’t been a battle out back.

I tucked my head down, eased up the aisle toward the restrooms, pressed open the door.

Ah, here she was.

The waitress stood in front of the mirror, glaring at her image.

She didn’t have a scratch.

Her whole body trembled with shock as adrenaline left her system.

When I moved behind her, she flicked her eyes in my direction, but she didn’t seem to recognize me.

Terror does strange things to the brain.

“You okay?” I asked. I caught the name on her name tag, Barb.

Her gaze slid back to her reflection in the mirror without answering me.

She still didn’t seem to be aware that I was at the crime scene or had helped her.

Yanking the elastic from my hair, I bent at my waist, fluffing my fingers through the loose strands, feeling for any moisture that would be Blue’s nose blood.

I didn’t feel any.

When I stood, I pulled the ponytail back into place.

Turning on the cold tap, I stuck my hand under the soap dispenser, careful to avert my eyes from hers. Since Barb didn’t recognize me straight off, I didn’t want to do anything that made her focus on me, place me, and call attention to me.

The soap stung as it hit my knuckles, raw and puffy.

Barb moved to a stall, and I was able to check out my face. Yeah, that punch had left a mark. Some abrasion, some swelling, my skin was discoloring into a bruise. It wouldn’t be too visible for another hour or so—enough time for me to try to get eyes on Modesty and get out of here.

Probably, I could get this covered up with makeup before the CIA.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time.

How was it only 7:10 in the morning?

Awful.

All of it.

It didn’t bode well for the mission. As soon as that thought popped into my head, I pushed it back out again. There was no need to plant those kinds of seeds.

This was a fluke, that’s all.

Monday, I’d take this back to Strike Force, and I’d walk them through every move and thought that I could put together. We’d do a tabletop re-creation of the event, thinking it through in retrospect.

A retired Navy SEAL, Striker as commander of Strike Force, brought this to our team as a strategy to make us more effective. We’d reconsider all of it. They’d critique all of it. Not with blame or shame. Together, we’d find the holes in my thoughts, actions, and reactions. In this way, I could fine-tune how I responded in the field during future events.

That was one of my weaknesses, choosing feelings over training.

Sometimes I just felt obliged to act.

Two years ago, I felt impelled to let the kidnappers truss me up and shove me into their van because there were innocent lives at risk.

And today, I felt compelled to protect that young woman—before I knew if she was the FBI asset, or person of interest, or whatever other way they might characterize her.

If I were wrong about my choices, Strike Force would call me on it.

My team only wanted everyone to succeed and go home safe at the end of the day. I wasn’t concerned about their critique of me.

I was worried that Blue had caught me on the cheek with his slug. I rolled out of it, dispersing the energy, but I could feel my sweat stinging the abrasion.

Striker would have a fit.

The doctor warned me about taking any more blows to the head.

And I would be standing in Christen and Gator’s wedding party in a few days. Banged up me wouldn’t look great in their photos.

All right. Enough distraction. Time to get to work.

I dried my hands, checked my pocket for my phone and cash, and moved into the diner.

An elderly man, with his pants hauled up almost to his armpits and a graying afro, got up from his stool at the counter. He pulled out his wallet, left a ten-dollar bill on top of his check, and shuffled out.

Two police officers, adjusting their duty belts, sidled past him at the door.

Shoot!

Okay, if I had been in the restaurant eating, there’s no way I was outside getting clocked by Blue. I slid into the old man’s seat and lifted the untouched toast to nibble.

The waitress, coffee pot in hand, stalled