Missing Lynx Read online

  Synopsis

  Where do you run when there’s nowhere to hide?

  When a sadistic serial killer known as the Headhunter resurfaces, a government blunder forces the Elite Operatives Organization into action. Operation Mask falls to Lynx. She has the determination, skills, and most importantly, the right profile, but her youth and lack of experience in the field could put more than the mission in jeopardy.

  Her search takes her deep into the jungles of Asia, where she must battle not only the ruthless purveyors of the international skin trade, but also her growing feelings for a mysterious mercenary with her own agenda for the Headhunter.

  Missing Lynx

  Brought to you by

  E-Books from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Missing Lynx

  © 2010 By Kim Baldwin and Xenia Alexiou. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-425-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Printing: February 2010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Jennifer Knight and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Authors

  Lethal Affairs

  Thief of Always

  Missing Lynx

  By Kim Baldwin

  Hunter’s Pursuit

  Force of Nature

  Whitewater Rendezvous

  Flight Risk

  Focus of Desire

  Breaking the Ice

  Acknowledgments

  The authors wish to thank all the talented women at Bold Strokes Books for making this book possible. Radclyffe, for her vision, faith in us, and example. Senior consulting editor Jennifer Knight, we are happy to have found the treasure that is your talent. Your personal attention to this book, and the Elite Operatives series, is deeply appreciated. Editor Stacia Seaman, for making every word the best it can be. Graphic artist Sheri for another amazing cover. Connie Ward, huggable BSB publicist and first reader extraordinaire, and all of the other support staff who work behind the scenes to make each BSB book an exceptional read.

  We’d also like to thank our dear friend and first reader Jenny Harmon, for your invaluable feedback and insights. And finally, to the readers who encourage us by buying our books, showing up for personal appearances, and for taking the time to e-mail us. Thank you so much.

  ****

  My cherished friend Xenia, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for entrusting me with the joyous task of co-authoring your stories. Writing with you has been a most welcome distraction during some troubled times, and you manage to make me laugh every day. I’m honored and deeply touched by your faith in me, and hold you close to my heart.

  For Marty, for everything. Forty years of friendship and so much more. Your encouragement started me on this path, and I’m forever grateful.

  For my parents, I miss you both so much, and know you’re watching out for me. And my brother Tom, for always saying yes when I need a ride to the airport.

  I also have to thank a wonderful bunch of friends who provide unwavering support for all my endeavors: Linda and Vicki, Kat and Ed, Felicity, Marsha and Ellen, and Claudia and Esther. You are family, and near or far, I hold you always close to my heart.

  Kim Baldwin, February 2010

  As always a very big thank you to my wonderfully supportive family and friends.

  Claudia, Esther, Nicki, Steven, Edward, Tiemen, Mirjam, and Rowena, thank you for putting up with me and for your constant encouragement.

  Mom, Dad, and Sis. You are my biggest reward and comfort. Thank you for everything..

  Of course and always, my gratitude and respect to my invaluable friend Kim. Thank you for pointing me in this direction and for being there every step of the way. I am always there for you, no matter what.

  And last but not least, a big bow of appreciation to all the readers out there who make writing one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. YOU ALL ROCK.

  Xenia Alexiou, February 2010

  Dedication

  For my mother

  I’ll never be able to thank you enough for the gift of love, compassion, acceptance and above all, life.

  Your constant faith in me keeps me sane.

  Είσaι η ζωή μου

  Xenia

  All that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men do nothing.

  —Edmund Burke

  Prologue

  The first thing that registered was the sound of someone humming. She awakened to near darkness; there was just enough light for her to identify dirt overhead, disturbingly close. A surge of dizzying adrenaline swept through her, adding to her disorientation. Jesus God. Am I buried alive?

  She got her answer when strong hands clamped around her wrists and dragged her, her arms over her head. The surface beneath her was rough, and as she was pulled along, a few feet at a time, dirt insinuated itself into the back waistband of her jeans. Instinctively, she tried to dig in her heels to stop the forward momentum, but her legs were leaden and wouldn’t obey. The humming stopped briefly, punctuated by a heavy grunt of exertion.

  Where was she, and how did she get here? Who was humming? All she was certain of was her inability to fight back. Her heart was beating so fast it was almost suffocating.

  With all her energy and willpower, she craned her head upward to try to see who had her by the wrists. But the light was too dim and her mind and vision too blurred. The mere effort was exhausting, and once again, darkness enveloped her.

  She wasn’t sure how much time elapsed, but when she reawakened, there it was again—the humming, a tune she vaguely recognized. She wasn’t moving anymore, and she was lying on something hard and cold. Panic tried to reassert itself, so she took a deep, calming breath and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her lungs burned from a horrible smell she identified as chemicals and mold.

  A strong, harsh light blinded her when she forced her eyes open in the direction of the humming. The rest of the room was dark, but when her pupils eventually adjusted, she saw him and it all came roaring back. He was turned away from her, his focus on the syringe in his upraised hand. The humming stopped.

  “You’re going to be my best work yet,” he said without turning around.

  His words and the certain knowledge of his intentions energized her. She struggled to sit up, but soon realized her legs and hands were bound and she was tied to a smooth steel table.

  “I promise you, this won’t hurt,” her captor calmly continued. “Not if you cooperate.”

  She wanted to scream for help but knew it would be futile. From the looks of this place, it was unlikely anyone would hear. They had to be underground, for the walls, ceiling, and floor were made of dirt and there were no windows. One entrance lay straight ahead. It wasn’t a door, just a mere hole carved into one of the walls, not large enough to stand upright. To her left was another, similar hole, though smaller, and next to it, a sink and counter. A round table with a single wooden chair occupied one corner.
>
  Then she saw them. Hanging on the wall to the right of the main entrance were faces. Two of them. Grotesque masks of once beautiful young women.

  Women like her. She stared at them in horror and swallowed hard against the sudden cramping nausea that knotted her insides.

  “Perfect, aren’t they?” he asked.

  She looked back in his direction. Facing her now, he moved slowly toward her. She thrashed desperately against her restraints like a wild beast caught in a snare, the cords digging deep into her wrists and ankles. Her bindings held her fast, but she kept struggling to free herself, the pounding of her heart so loud in her ears it was deafening.

  He stopped when he was within reach, his face obscured by the brutally bright lamp overhead. Humming again, he waited patiently until her strained muscles gave up and she collapsed back against the table. There was no point in asking him why she was there, or in trying to plead with him to let her go. She knew what he wanted, and that no amount of bargaining could change his mind. She needed to stall, although she had no idea what for. A few minutes of delay would not alter her predicament. Did she really think she could somehow talk him out of his twisted nature?

  They say that when you’re about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. It wasn’t true. Not for her, anyway. Only one face flashed before her eyes, and her mind seized on the memory of their precious short time together. Could it be that this one person was her whole life? The realization made her heartsick.

  He was humming again, and the name of the tune popped into her head. “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”

  “You’re beautiful,” her captor whispered as he raised the syringe to the lamp. “And soon, your beauty will be mine.”

  Chapter One

  Vienna, Austria

  October 7

  The Wiener Konzerthaus was not the most outwardly impressive venue of the Philadelphia Symphony’s Fall European Tour. The orchestra already had played at the stunning Art Nouveau Municipal House in Prague and at the Palau de la Música Catalana in Barcelona, with its richly decorated façade and arched concert-hall walls of stained glass. But few cities could match Vienna’s rich historical embrace of the arts, and the 1,840 seats of the Großer Saal were filled to capacity with an appreciative and discerning audience of classical music enthusiasts.

  During the extensive applause that preceded their last piece, Vivaldi’s lively La tempesta di mare, Cassady Monroe glanced up to admire the ornately gilded oval dome that roofed the stage while the second violinist who shared her stand readied their sheet music.

  As silence returned to the massive concert hall and the conductor raised his baton, she tucked her Jenny Bailly violin beneath her chin and held her breath. She’d been playing since the age of six, and at the tender age of twenty-five had already performed with more than a dozen symphonic orchestras, but she never lost that thrill of exhilaration that preceded the execution of a particularly challenging piece.

  When the concertmaster—the leader of the first violin section—rose to take his solo, she allowed herself a brief moment to imagine herself there in his place. She’d been offered the esteemed position, and the conductor had been astounded at her polite but firm rejection of the honor without explanation. But she could afford neither the visibility of serving as first chair nor the responsibility it entailed of attending every performance and rehearsal. And so she remained in the more anonymous second section as a freelance artist, where she had the flexibility she needed to accept engagements that didn’t interfere with her other work.

  She glanced at her right hand, poised with the bow, about to create beauty, and not for the first time wondered how it could so easily adapt, with equal skill, to butcher with a blade.

  When the concert ended, the orchestra rose and departed the stage to the sound of lingering acclaim. Soon after she arrived at the artists’ dressing room backstage, there was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Delivery for Fraulein Monroe.”

  When she opened the door, the young man on the other side presented her with a bouquet of red roses. The attached card read simply, You were wonderful. It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten flowers from her secret admirer, and she had her suspicions about who’d sent them. But she knew her gruff boss would never admit to any such show of sentimentality.

  Cassady retrieved her coat, purse, and case and headed out, declining invitations from some of the other musicians for a late dinner or drinks. The orchestra was a generally social group, especially when on tour, but she always avoided situations where questions might arise about her background, her family, or her life outside the stage. Though she had practiced answers to any such inquiries, she was by nature a reclusive individual, preferring her own company. And nighttime was her favorite time to prowl alone, curiously scoping out unfamiliar territory.

  Now and then she would satisfy earthier needs by picking up a stranger for an evening of fun. No matter the city, her looks attracted women both gay and straight, and she never had a problem arranging such an encounter. But those primal desires were quiet tonight, and the idea never even entered her mind.

  She’d return to the hotel only long enough to change from her formal black dress and heels into jeans, sneakers, a V-neck sweater and leather jacket. Temperatures were in the forties, but she didn’t mind the cold the way most people did. Winter’s chill invigorated her and drove others indoors and off the streets, and that was fine with her.

  The audience had dispersed by the time she was ready to depart the Konzerthaus. She was alone in a hallway leading from backstage to one of the exits when her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and frowned. “Lynx 121668,” she answered. “Can it wait a day? I have one more performance tomorrow.”

  “Family emergency. Not an option,” the familiar voice on the other end said. “Your return flight is tonight at twenty-three hundred hours.” The line went dead.

  Damn it. Cassady hated that she couldn’t finish the tour. Performing in a concert hall, regardless of the country, always gave her a sense of fulfillment and belonging. She was good—hell, she was a great violinist. And being able to share her talent with people just as appreciative and passionate about music gave her a high that so far nothing could compare to.

  Passion was something she brought to everything she enjoyed. And it was for that reason that her irritation over being summoned home didn’t last long.

  As much as she wanted to show a broad audience how talented Cassady Monroe was with a violin, she also longed to prove to the few who knew her best what she was capable of as Lynx. It was a code name that fit, for she had much in common with her feline namesake: solitary, curious, and agile. An exceptional tracker and patient hunter.

  The Elite Operatives Organization had always treated her well and had given her the opportunity to pursue a future and dream that apparently her biological family never cared to.

  Sacrifices came with the life that had been chosen for her, and she knew that some operatives had a hard time giving up a normal life for the sake of the institution. But so far, life had treated her generously and she was willing to give her best to show her appreciation.

  What do you have planned for me this time? So far, she had only done some minor jobs, and assisted on big ones. She still had a lot to prove to her teachers and to the EOO in general. But she knew without a doubt, just as she had when she picked up a knife for the first time, that she would hit her target.

  Perhaps this call was her big break—the important solo assignment that would give her the chance to show them how capable and ready she was.

  *

  Sonoran Desert, Arizona

  Eleven days earlier

  “Did you hear that?” Judy Ellroy glared at her boyfriend Doug. Their portable radio had just interrupted the weekly top forty playlist with a special weather bulletin warning of an approaching storm with gale-force winds. The teenagers and two friends had been hiking for more than an hour. Their jeep was miles
behind them and the sky was already darkening. It was Doug who’d talked them into this isolated camping adventure amidst saguaro cactus and tumbleweed, extolling the awesome sunsets and brilliant night sky.

  “We all heard it,” Doug replied evenly. They made a handsome couple, he the Cougars’ fair-haired football star and she the school’s prettiest cheerleader, with long, dark hair. But it wasn’t worth this kind of grief. He vowed then and there to dump her when they got back, preferably by texting her. “This time it wasn’t just the voices in your head.”

  “Bite me. I told you this was a bad idea.” She took off one of her sneakers to empty it of sand. “We could’ve so been sitting poolside in Vegas right now, but no, you had to—”

  “Christ, do you think you can stop bitching for at least three minutes?”

  “We should look for a place to take cover.” Tom, the team’s redheaded quarterback, protectively put his arm around his girlfriend Mary. “These things usually blow over pretty fast.”

  “Where, genius?” Judy shouted at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere. We need to turn back.”

  “I’m with you, Judy,” Mary agreed. Cheerleaders always stuck together. “The wind’s already started to pick up.”

  “Too late. Look.” Doug pointed west. Not more than a mile away, the sand had already started to spin into one of the desert’s infamous “dirt devils”—mini tornados that blocked the sun and drove sand and dust into eyes, ears, and mouths. “Holy fuck, it’s coming our way.”