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

I said. “Well, body language is helpful here, but it’s not going to give you the information you’re asking for. Those are two different things.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Casper leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers and posting his hands on his head. It was an alpha body language move. He was spreading his arms like a frilled lizard to take up space and show dominance.

“You want me to prove that you’re focused in on the right guy. And I can tell you -ish.”

“-ish? How professional.”

“That face you made, disdain. That’s fine. I’m not particularly interested in winning you over. From your expressions, I can tell you that someone above you insisted that you call me in. You didn’t want to do that, but you couldn’t say no, so what you did instead was you contracted Strike Force to come. This is your baby, and you don’t need some young whippersnapper coming into your office and blowing some information your way. Especially since you don’t really believe in the science of body language.”

Mmmm, I hit the nail on the head. “And frankly, I’ve had a long day, and I have a lot of work to do.” I checked the time on my phone. “I need to be at the FBI very soon. So let me just cut to the chase. You both do and do not have the right guy. And by that, I mean, your focusing on the wrong crime.”

“What crime do you think we should focus on then?” DiSarro asked.

“Conspiracy.” I stood and walked toward the windows. The sun had popped out behind a bank of black clouds. I’d just use my own power move to make them squint at me. “I think I see your problem. Gentlemen, your officers are playing the three doors game on the Monty Hall show. You’ll remember that game. There are three doors, one has the grand prize of a new car, and then there are two goats. Only one door is a winner. What you’ve found are the goats, which have their value but certainly aren’t the big prize.”

“What now?” Cho posted his elbows on the table.

“First a story.” I leaned my hips into the ledge and crossed my feet at the ankles, looking comfortable and relaxed by design. “I would like to tell you the tale of Agent 355, during the Revolutionary War.”

There was a great shifting around the table. I had felt the undercurrent of their disdain since I walked in. No one asked me to fetch them a cup of coffee, but they viewed me as Striker’s subservient. Brought here for no discernable reason and now flapping my gums.

Whatever.

I planned to tell them my little story and then explain why they were chasing the goats, then walk away before I damaged Iniquus’s reputation by being petty—which was the most benign feeling I was experiencing.

Black walked away from me at the elevator bank.

Saw me and decided to ignore me and walk away.

It had been eight months. And the CIA owed me my freedom.

“According to historians,” I explained, “there’s no information about Agent 355 other than they know she was a woman. Those who have tried, since Revolutionary times, to figure out the mystery have failed. It was almost like she was a time traveler.  Oh, they thought they had her name a few times. Serenity Bryant, they postulated. The soldiers arrested Serenity multiple times. They had a noose hung at the gallows awaiting a head and a neck. Now, it was really unusual that Serenity Bryant would be accused by the British soldiers. Serenity was the eldest daughter in a family of British loyalists. Her father wielded both money and prestige. Invariably, at trial, someone of equal social standing and who knew the family would come forward and say that it was impossible that Serenity has stolen the secret papers or had spied. She always had an alibi. She had been busy tending them on their sick bed or was busy caring for the poor the day the espionage had happened.”

I leaned over the table and poured myself a glass of water. I took a slow sip, knowing full well I was irritating people as they wished I’d just get to the point.

But I had been trained in many things by my CIA operator father and later by my mentor, Spyder McGraw.

One of those things was magic.

With magic, if you just went right for the big bang of the reveal? Well, it wasn’t very theatrical, and I didn’t get the gasp at the end.

This was performative.

I’d get to the jazz hands at the finale.

“Agent 355 was dangerous to the Loyalists. The Tories thought that perhaps the spy was a maid in a high-ranking Red Coat household where, as she served, she would have contact with British officers and overhear what was said over cards or drinks. A lot is unknown.” I gave a slight shrug. “One thing that is known about Agent 355 is that she helped to uncover General Benedict Arnold’s plans of betrayal. And her work led to the arrest of Andre, Arnold’s contact, by the Colonials. West Point was saved. Andre hanged.”

Pens twiddled in the officers’ hands.

“While Agent 355 is now listed as a woman named Abigail, a former slave owned by Anna Strong, in reality, the spy was a woman named Serenity Bryant.” I paused for effect. “She was my seventh-great grandmother. I will tell you also that Grandmother Bryant was thirty years old when this took place. How did she thwart the gallows, and how did she spy for America? When you know the whole story, it seems quite easy and obvious. Serenity had an identical twin named Mercy. She had been married at the age of sixteen to a fifty-year-old Loyalist, Jacob Witherspoon, who moved Mercy to Williamsburg, Virginia.” I glanced from man to man. “I’m sure that’s