Page 3 of Acting on Instinct
Nomad
Nomad stood at a polite distance as the Iniquus escort knocked at the thick wooden door with Strike Force War Room on the name plate.
The door opened, and there she was, Lynx, exactly as White had described her—incredibly young, with an approachable smile, long blonde curls, and a coral dress that reminded him of the 1950s with its form-fitting bodice and wide skirt. Her title here at Iniquus was Puzzler, and Nomad thought that apt; it was puzzling how this young woman could outthink people with far more life experience than she. Certainly, if Nomad had met her, he would have honestly thought “babysitter” instead of mad genius. There was nothing about her that wasn’t … fresh, kind, sweet. Yes, she gave off little-sister vibes, and Nomad instantly felt himself stepping into a brotherly role, which threw him.
Well, he couldn’t say White hadn’t warned him.
“Hey, White, come on in.” She stood back. “Nice to see you.”
White passed into the room and turned to gesture his way. “This is Nomad.”
Lynx extended her hand, dainty and pale, but her shake was firm. She wore a wedding ring. He wondered what kind of person this phenom, as White described her, would choose as her spouse.
And he couldn’t help but think she was too young to be married.
“So glad to meet you. Won’t you come in?” She gently shut the door behind them and turned. “Let’s see, quickhousekeeping first. Nomad, White knows her way around and knows how to make herself at home.” She flourished her hand toward a buffet table. “Refreshments. I don’t know where you are in your day, or if you’ve had an opportunity to eat, so if you need more than snacks and drinks, I can have the kitchen bring something up.” She took a step to the side. “To the right, you’ll find the bathroom. And other than that, just pick a chair and move it where you are most comfortable sitting. I find that being comfortable when my brain is busy is best, don’t you?”
White was already heading to the corner of the highly polished conference table to a place that looked like her home base. She pulled out the captain's chair and caught Nomad’s gaze. “Dibs.”
Nomad walked to the buffet and poured a glass of water for himself. “Can I bring anyone anything?”
“No, thank you.” Lynx pulled the seat from the top of the table, gesturing toward a coffee mug that rested on a coaster.
“Lynx doesn’t have any blood in her body. She circulates caffeine instead,” White said as she adjusted in her seat.
“True story,” Lynx laughed, dragging a chair backward so she was sitting in an open space, then smoothed her voluminous skirt under her as she sat.
No ponytail, Nomad noticed as she moved a curl back over her shoulder.
White had said the ponytail was a good sign.
Nomad wandered around the far side and took a chair that would keep them in a triangle for easy conversation.
He had no idea what to expect from today’s meeting. White had handed this woman the scantest of information with which to work: the images he and Red had captured throughout their mission, a vague understanding of the geographical locations they worked in, and the public-facing information available in local news outlets.
White looked tense.
And if Lynx noticed, she said nothing.
But shewasnoticing him. Her gaze went from head to foot and back again. Her eyes traveled down his arm and rested on his hand, where she paused, then did the same on the other side. Scanned. It might feel a bit unnerving, but if it helped stop the terrorist attack that White believed was about to head across the Atlantic to the United States, he was willing to sit there and let her take his measure.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Lynx said with a tip of her head. “But before I begin, let me ask you about your eye patch. I know it’s a result of the accident. But I don’t know why you wear it.”
“Yes, certainly,” Nomad said. “In Morocco, the attack on Red and me started when we were rammed by a delivery truck. There was a subsequent fight.”
“Four against one,” White said.
Lynx kept her gaze on Nomad as she sat silently.
“Through the attack, I sustained a head injury, perhaps whiplash or a blow, that caused occipital neuralgia. This has made me light-sensitive. Bright lights, such as the sun’s glare, can cause a sharp, dizzying pain that is debilitating. Though the doctors hope that I will eventually self-heal, there is little they can do beyond pain medications to rectify the situation. I’ve discovered that it is only in the one eye, so the patch does the trick.”
“If I dimmed the lights to an acceptable level, would you be comfortable removing the patch while I review this information with you?”
“I don’t mind,” Nomad said.
Lynx stood and walked toward the light switch.
Nomad turned to White. “I’m trusting the process,” he mouthed, then waited as Lynx slowly dimmed the lights. “That’scomfortable there, thank you.” And he took off the patch, sliding it into the thigh pocket of his tactical pants.
