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

what? Early twenties? You haven’t even got a college degree? You’ve been on the job with Iniquus for—"

“She’s been contracted with Iniquus for three years,” Striker said. He didn’t add anything that would bolster me. But his eyes danced with merriment. He leaned back like he was going to enjoy the show.

I hoped I could live up to Striker’s expectations.

“With no formal training in anything that I can discern.” He raised his brows then let them drop, inviting us to draw our own conclusions to that thought. “Iniquus, though, has a golden reputation. Our partnership with them over time has been beneficial to the CIA. This isn’t a mission that we’re handing off this time. Striker is a task force commander.” He nodded his respect toward Striker. “And we’ve never been disappointed. Since he came up through the Navy to the SEALs and later to Iniquus, I have to assume he’s escorting you. Monitoring you as a supervisor? Mentor?”

“No, sir, Lynx isn’t under my command.” Striker pulled Casper’s eyes off me. “She heads her own department at Iniquus.”

“Oh?” He focused harder on me with masked incredulity and confusion. “What department is that?”

“My title is Iniquus puzzler.”

“Puzzler…” He stopped and laughed. “Sounds like you’re Batman’s arch-nemesis.” Casper focused back on Striker when he didn’t get a rise out of me. “I see. I guess Iniquus command got the memo about institutionalization of viewpoints and diversity.” He chuckled. “What could be more different than the hardened and experienced special operators turned private security professionals than hiring,” he turned toward me, again, “someone like…you.”

I focused on the muscles around my eyes, contracting them hard, so my eyeballs didn’t roll. I was here representing Iniquus, and I’d already created issues downstairs. Whether Casper was trying to be offensive to see my reactions as a test or if he was being perfectly sincere with his disdain made no difference.

Striker had suggested they had removed the other folks slated to come to this meeting so that I didn’t embarrass the leaders on this mission. Having sat through that, I had another take. These three, well, maybe not the three—this guy, Casper, probably thought this meeting was a waste of time, and he wanted everyone to focus on their work piles.

“Okay,” I said in my girl-next-door, fluffy-bunny voice, “well, now that we have that cleared up. How about I listen to what you’re willing to share. I’ll give you enough feedback to feel that you can ethically check that box for having tried an ‘outside the CIA loop’ brain, and we can all move on with our day.”

Striker rolled his lips in, a momentary break in his stoicism that I thought was him trying to hold back a snort of laughter.

I so wanted to live up to Striker’s belief in me.

“I mentioned the Red Cell,” Casper said, opening his laptop and focusing down as he tapped the keys. “The Red Cell is a working group of highly successful authors. Thrillers, science fiction, post-apocalyptic writers have the breadth and depth of knowledge to construct their plots. They have the kinds of creative minds that made them curious enough to seek answers, develop relationships with folks with a wide cadre of expertise, and more importantly, they see the not-so-obvious holes that a criminal could burrow into and exploit.”

“Ways that a terrorist could work a loophole into a noose to hang us all,” Cho said.

Casper tapped the enter button to start a PowerPoint into action, the lights in the conference room automatically dimmed. “The Red Cell suggested we contact a New York City artist to participate in this effort.”

“A specific artist with a specific medium?” I asked.

“Right. That’s right.” He shifted around and sent a side-eye to Cho.

Just then, a tap sounded at the door. Oliver stuck his head in, looked around until he locked eyes on me, and then held up an ice pack.

That was nice of him.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Oliver nodded and backed out again, slicking the door closed behind him.

Clearing his throat, Casper tapped the computer, and the graphic on the screen changed to show an art gallery.

In the gallery, people milled about looking at what seem to be modern versions of death masks.

Before photography was around, when a loved one died, if the family were wealthy enough, they’d often commission an artist to come and make a cast of their loved one’s face out of wax or plaster. Just in that form, they could be kept as a memento of the dead person or could be handed to a different artist when the likeness was commissioned as sculpture or perhaps an oil painting.

This display in the gallery looked like a combination of death mask and oil.

Interesting.

Each installment included a box beneath the mask.

“This installation opened last year. The artist collected human debris from around New York City. It might be a hair from the public bathroom, fingernails, cigarette butts from the sidewalk, chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a park bench.”

Strange hobby.

DiSarro pushed away from the table, pressing into the arms of his chair until the seat back squeaked, then coming upright again. “I took these pictures when I went up to New York City to see the exhibit and chat with the artist. To be honest, from an intelligence point of view, I was pretty uncomfortable with this. I wasn’t sure if her collection was ethical. And in this circumstance,” he pointed to the screen, “I’d say it deserves a good conversation amongst ethicists because while some of the collection was made of objects that were knowingly discarded as litter—the gum and cigarettes—the hair, I guess, is my main issue.”

“Because she was collecting DNA?” I asked, figuring out that ethics plus body debris could only mean DNA.

“Exactly,” DiSarro replied.

Was this a trick?

Hair wouldn’t matter. The only DNA in the hair