Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) Fiona Quinn (the dot read aloud .txt) 📖

chin and repeatedly swiped at his cheek with his thumb, a sign that he was thinking quickly and trying to be strategic with his words. “There is a dangerous situation unfolding. It’s very time-sensitive. I’m told that you are… We think that you can… I hope that didn’t upset your equilibrium. This meeting has consequences.”

I didn’t reply. It had been a long day already, and here it was just eleven. I still had the FBI and a trip to the doctor. My cheek where it hit the wall was throbbing. I shrugged my shoulders to get Striker off me as we reached our floor.

I wasn’t mad at him.

He did the right thing. I wouldn’t have stopped. Through his actions, Striker might have saved me from being shot.

Who knew?

Still, I tapped my foot aggressively while the doors opened, my arms folded tightly under my breasts.

“Your cheek,” Oliver said. “I, uhm…shall I get you an icepack?”

Chapter Thirteen

“I’m going to lay this out for you with as much information as I can.” Casper was the way he introduced himself, nothing more—not even a title. That was true for all three men in the room, a name and a blank face that said, “don’t ask for any other identifiers.”

Casper was short and balding. His figure was that of a man past his prime who ate a lunch of vending machine snacks at his desk. His skin drooped on either side of his chin, and I thought a little sunlight with its boost of vitamin D would probably serve him well. “Much of this case will remain redacted information. This makes your job difficult, I’m aware.”

“What job is that?” I asked. I sat kitty-corner with Striker at a conference table too long for the five people in the room. There was a bank of windows off to my right with a view of the expansive, park-like setting outside. The walls, covered in neutral paint, were peppered with various awards and citations, a few pictures from decades past.

I wondered if Oliver was coming back. He’d left us at the door with an odd little bow.

There was no coffee station set up, just a pitcher of water in the center of the table with some glasses upside down on a cork tray. They were too far away for me to reach without standing and bending over the table.

The three suits sitting with us were named Cho, DiSarro, and the head guy, Casper.

Casper’s eye had caught on my cheek and then slid away. He didn’t ask.

Probably wise.

To say we were starting this meeting off on the wrong foot would be putting it mildly.

If Striker didn’t have the car keys in his pocket, I might just have headed on out the door and explained to Command that I wasn’t feeling well after this morning’s fight.

I might just do that anyway. I didn’t need Striker’s car. There were car services readily available in D.C. I used them all the time because they were usually cheaper than parking prices.

Casper cleared his throat. “Our leadership has concluded over time that we here at the CIA might have an institutionalized view of things, especially as they become higher-risk cases and are assessed by our senior staff.” He faced Striker, looking him in the eye and seemingly cutting me out of their dialogue.

Striker noticed it too, and I could tell he was highly amused by the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Though, his face would be read as stoic by those who didn’t know him well.

“As you might be aware, the CIA started a program called Red Cell many years ago, developing ideas about where a big threat might emerge that we hadn’t considered.”

“Creative minds—” Cho started.

“Exactly,” Casper cut him off. “Not to say that there isn’t creativity at work here at the CIA just that—"

“The culture becomes homogenized as people are given promotions,” I said and was ignored.

My dad was one of the creative minds that the CIA had hired. When I thought he was working on cars in the closed bay of his garage, he was often processing through various data points with field officers, helping them come up with creative solutions.

When I was thirteen, Dad and Spyder were talking through a case over their ubiquitous games of chess, I mentioned something I thought was quite evident, and Spyder raced out of the garage. When he came back, he spoke with my parents, offering to mentor me. And that was how I started training in earnest for what I had thought would be my future career in the intelligence field. Iniquus was happily where I landed. I wouldn’t do well here at the CIA.

I wanted to butt heads with everyone. Okay, maybe not Oliver. So far, Oliver was okay.

“That’s the concern. And it’s why we invited Iniquus in.” Casper gave Striker a nod. “Again, there is little I can say about the case. This might prove helpful as you won’t be crawling through the weeds. Or it might prove too daunting.” He sent me a sad smile as if anticipating my failure. “If you walk out of here today,” he now turned to look specifically at me, “and you haven’t offered us any new ideas, we remain in the same position as we were when you walked through the door. So don’t worry if you’re not able to come up with anything that our officers are able to use.”

Yeah, we weren’t going to become besties. That was clear. “But there’s a box to be checked on some form? Run this by an outside creative?” I asked with a tip of my head.

He pressed the flats of his hands on the table, his fingers splayed wide. “There’s a directive that I’m following through with. It’s not meant to be an afront. It’s just—” He waved his hand toward me. “You’re