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

hand the captured soldier over to a Mason from their side of the conflict. It was one of the original “get out of jail free” cards. No matter your side, your Masonic brethren would keep you safe.

Same with the Assembly.

Assemblymen, and they were all men, felt that their membership made them god-like. They weren’t subject to the laws of men. Rape. Theft. Murder even… Nah, none of that mattered. Not when the police chief, the DA, and the judge all wore their little Assembly pins. Signals, just like the Masonic papers had been, that they were subject to different rules.

They were allowed to act with impunity.

Spyder had worked against them for over a decade. We dropped an atomic bomb of data exposing much of their criminal activity about a year and a half ago. At that time, the Assembly was so enmeshed in American politics and the three branches of government, it was quite a societal upheaval.

I thought we’d mostly succeeded. But according to mythology, you cut off the head of the Hydra, and it keeps growing back.

Holy moly, I’m back to fighting the Hydra.

Striker caught my gaze.

I realized my brows were up to my hairline, and my eyes were held wide and unblinking.

“See you at two o’clock then, main entrance. I’ll wait for you and bring you through security,” Finley said. “Call me if the time needs to change.”

“Will do. Bye.” I rolled my lips in.

“That doesn’t look good.” Ridges crisscrossed Striker’s forehead.

Pressing my thumbs into my temple to stop the sudden throbbing, I took in a deep breath. “It’s fine. That was Finley. He wants me to go get breakfast at a diner.” I stopped as I heard a ping and checked my text messages. It was an address. “They need someone who is a good parallel for a subject of interest. Same general age. An unusual background—”

“That someone might read as cultish? You said cult, right?”

“My words, not Finley’s. If you think about it, yes, my childhood could be described in such a way that it could seem very cult-like. I can choose my words carefully.”

“And they’ll give you support? Cults aren’t always safe playgrounds. Think Jim Jones.”

“I was speculating. That wasn’t the information Finley gave me. Right now,” I lifted my mug and drained the coffee, then passed it to Striker’s outstretched hand, “I need to figure out what a teen runaway would look like. Then go have breakfast and size things up. The FBI will read me into the program this afternoon.”

“Spyder’s involved with a cult runaway?” Striker asked.

“That can only mean one thing.” I pressed a kiss onto Striker’s cheek.

“He’s taking another run at the Hydra.” Striker reached for my arm and held me still. “Christen’s getting into town Monday morning.”

“I can’t wait.” I smiled. Christen was flying in from a forward operating base in the Middle East, where she was a pilot with the Night Stalkers. She’d saved up her leave time so she could marry my teammate—one of my best friends, Gator Aid Rochambeau—then head off on an extended honeymoon.

Striker and I got to stand with them as part of the wedding party—an honor.

“I’m bringing it up because you’ll have the wedding on your mind,” Striker was saying. “And we’re heading to the CIA.”

I tipped my head back so he could clearly see my eyes. “I won’t cause a scene.”

“No?” He released my hand.

“What do you think I’m going to do? I could maybe walk across their sacred CIA seal, stand in front of the hero’s wall, and yell out to all that will hear, ‘I was told I was a widow. I grieved my dead husband. I picked myself up, moving on with my life, only to discover that it was a CIA ploy. Angel was alive all that time. I was promised a private divorce, sealed by the courts, in exchange for my silence about their black ops mission.’” My voice was ramping up. “‘You reneged, CIA. You tortured me with my grief, CIA. And then, didn’t even follow through with this teeny tiny ask on my part.’ You think I’ll do that, Striker?”

“Might.” He set his mug on the counter. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Protector-mode. “But you’d probably be arrested for voicing classified information.” He tipped his head and sent me a warm smile. “Christen and Gator really want you to wear a dress to their wedding and not prison orange.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll do my best. And you?” I took a step back to give my neck some relief. I was five foot six, and Striker stood head and shoulders above me. “You have every right to burst into the CIA feeling as angry as I do. After all, the CIA’s decisions affect you, too. We can’t be married until I can do it legally. Our relationship is constrained by their lack of action. It means nothing to them. It’s still unfathomable to me that Angel agreed to their black ops plan. Think of all the pain he caused. All the grief—mine, Angel’s family. His Abuela Rosa.” I laid my hand on my chest. “She nearly died of a broken heart. I...”

My lungs forced the trapped air out in a fast stream.

Heat washed over me as my emotions collided.

Waves against the rocks.

I was done playing with the CIA.

But the CIA was a formidable adversary.

Something needed to move this along. I just needed a plan that would release me from their shackles.

I guessed it mattered how loud and how ugly I wanted to get.

Chapter Four

I plotted it out. I could take the Metro to a bus and then walk a block. That way, there was zero chance someone would see me getting in and out of my car.

When I had dressed this