Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

1. GRAYSON

1

GRAYSON

I get to kill a repulsive monster today.

As I walked toward the parking structure on Chicago’s southwest side—the chill of the October breeze carrying whispers of the city’s secrets and an earthy aroma that snaked through the desolate streets—life appeared to be business as usual.

And for me, usual was eliminating people at our government’s bidding.

This time, the bastard was none other than the notorious arms dealer, Ivan Vosch—responsible for supplying weapons to the largest criminals in the world who used them for pure evil. Based on our last count, those weapons ended fifty-three thousand innocent lives. Not including the people Vosch killed himself, of course, and now, a major deal was about to go down that would supply mass explosives for an attack planned right here in Chicago. An attack Vosch himself planned to play an active role in.

Time to call us—the elite, off-the-books CIA team who cleaned up messes the government needed to distance itself from.

If I failed today, thousands of innocent people would die, not to mention countless others who’d fall victim to future attacks.

I would not let that happen.

Days like this were the ones I’d longed for when I was a teenager, consumed by rage over my father’s murder with nowhere to direct my vengeance. It was a chance encounter that finally gave me the meaning I sought, and from that moment on, I developed one singular goal:

Eliminate as many monsters on this earth as I could, before one of them eliminated me.

As the target location drew closer, my blood pumped faster with anticipation. The abandoned parking garage was a barren wasteland, once bustling with life in this commercial district, but now, after a tornado of financial times had sucked the soul out of this four-block radius, it served no purpose. Its concrete walls were stained, a fitting setting for the life-and-death battle that would play out within the next few minutes.

Normally, a mission this large required a team of operatives to be on the ground, split up into various duties, including things like creating an armed perimeter, putting snipers on the roofs of nearby buildings, and armored trucks to help get operatives or hostages out, not to mention other folks in charge of communications and explosives.

But the CIA had tried that. Three times and all three teams had come back in body bags—along with four hundred and eight souls lost in Vosch’s subsequent attacks.

My mission was more than a duty; it was a vendetta, written in the blood of all those who’d died at the hands of this criminal.

A fourth major tactical operation to take him out was too risky, the CIA determined, especially since this guy lurked in heavily populated areas.

Thus, here I was. A lone operative, tasked with taking down the most dangerous criminal we’d seen in decades.

Well, lone wasn’t exactly accurate, I guess. I had Seth hiding across the street, and there were a handful of vehicles positioned in nearby locations—but they were too far away to serve as a functional perimeter.

Glass half full, a single skilled operative—without a team of people risking detection—could get closer to Vosch than anyone else had, thus giving us the highest chance of success. Glass half empty, it was a suicide mission, with no cavalry here to save me if things went to hell.

And the chances of things going to hell were damn high.

My handler, Daniel, knew that as well as I did.

Echoes of our conversation planning this mission boomeranged through my mind.

“We need fail-safes this time.” Daniel’s voice was low, pulsing with something I couldn’t detect. Was that nervousness?

While his silver hair always had a rugged, surfer-like appearance, today, it looked even more unkempt than usual, as if he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and his gray eyes were firmer than usual, too, resembling granite. To the untrained eye, the lines that were etched across his skin might suggest the life of a seasoned hiker battling the elements rather than someone who’d witnessed the worst of humanity. Those lines appeared to deepen right before me.

“Such as?” I leaned back and folded my hands on my lap.

“An explosive. Something in case he tries to flee.” Daniel’s words hung heavy in the air, the silence stretching as the implication crystalized between us.

My stomach dropped. Risk was always part of the job, but this—this was new.

“It’s a fail-safe,” he amended. “A last resort, should he survive again.”

“And if he takes me out? How will the bomb help, then?”

“We’ll have a remote detonator as a backup.”

Of course they would, but that begged another question: How would they know when to use it and, more importantly, when not to? It wasn’t exactly a given I’d be able to communicate through an earpiece; I could be in a chokehold or something, fully capable of living, provided they didn’t blow me to bits.

That’s where this mission deviated from my others. This one wasn’t set up to keep operatives reasonably safe; it was set up to kill Vosch, no matter the cost.

Translation: Chances were, I would soon be in a body bag of my own.

This was the risk I’d accepted when I joined this team, though, and my death was a sacrifice I would gladly make to spare innocent civilians from becoming this guy’s casualties.

I just hated that it’d likely destroy my brothers, who’d suffered more heartbreak than anyone should endure. It was why I’d said goodbye to Hunter before I came on this mission. Normally, I didn’t warn him or my other brothers before I’d go on my assignments—secrecy was a protected asset in the United States CIA, and saying nothing had become my mantra since I’d joined. But after what he’d just gone through with his girlfriend, Luna, I didn’t want him or my other brothers wasting time or emotions hunting for me if I never returned. Without explicitly saying it, he knew I was going on the most dangerous operation of my life. And if anyone would understand why I was willing to do this, it was him.

He, too, had been affected by our father’s murder, making it his life’s mission to lock up bad guys. All while shrouding himself in secrecy. We just…chose different paths to the same end. While Hunter protected the people of Chicago, my scope was more far-reaching, protecting the entire country.

In any case, no matter how doomed this mission might be, I’d do everything in my power to make it out of this alive—for my brothers’ sake.

Each step toward the garage felt heavier than the last, a stark reminder of the lives I’d ended and the soul I’d bartered away in service of a greater good. With every life I’d taken, a piece of my humanity flickered and faded, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before something would extinguish what little light remained.

Approaching the entrance, I glanced around the empty roads, checking one last time that no pedestrians were in the danger zone.

The space was empty, and yet an unexplained chill crawled up my back.

“See anyone?” I asked.

“No,” Seth answered in my earpiece. A fellow CIA operative, he was positioned on the roof of the next building, armed with Zeiss Victory HT 10x42 binoculars for high-definition surveillance and a suppressed Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle, known for its precision and reliability.

His presence gave me little comfort, though, since his orders were to stay far out of eyeshot. If anyone on Vosch’s team saw anything out of order, they’d abandon the meeting intended to finalize the details of a massive weapons purchase, and we would lose our opportunity.

This was why I’d taken such important countermeasures. I varied my route to avoid pattern recognition, checked for tails in reflections of windows, had a cover story prepared should I encounter any “civilian”—aka a possible Vosch associate checking me out—avoided all surveillance cameras in case they had hacked into them, and even carried fake narcotics in the same oversized backpack that held the explosive, so I could pose as a drug dealer should anyone stop me just outside the parking garage. I also dressed in normal Chicago pedestrian attire—jeans and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt—to appear like a regular guy.

Entering the parking garage after one last all clear from Seth, I got to work.

First, I changed into black pants and a black shirt, to make it easier to hide in the shadows, and paired my outfit with a black nylon mask. The last thing we needed was to accidentally give Vosch any CIA intel, like the face of an operative. Finally, I disposed of the fake drugs in a corner and moved on to search the space.

I slowly cleared all other levels of the parking structure to ensure no civilians, criminals, or other weapons were hiding and finally moved my way to the basement, praying the CIA intel was right—that Vosch would appear on this level.

Intel said he’d be pulling in from the south entrance, so I carefully shrugged off my backpack near the center column, gently—holy shit, do I mean gently—set it on the ground, and ignored my pounding heart as I pulled out the explosive. The person who created it was an artist. The bomb looked like a brick, meticulously painted to appear like aged and cracked concrete, so it blended in with the parking structure as I rested it behind the column.

When the high-pitched beep confirmed it was armed, I ignored the temptation to run from the structure—the same thoughts that I’d spoken to Daniel about. Maybe I could set a bomb. Wait outside for it to explode. Surely, that would take him down. We’d done it before on other missions.

But Daniel got his orders from above. We’d learned the hard way that bombs weren’t foolproof, that targets could run away from them and miraculously survive, thanks to an unintentional obstruction, or the bomb itself could fail. Plan A was to shoot Vosch in the brain. The bomb was plan B.

As I hoisted the backpack over my shoulder and jogged toward a concrete column that would offer me both concealment in the dark shadows and a direct line of sight of where the SUV would theoretically stop, soft thumps of tires rolled over a speed bump. Followed by the increasingly loud growl of an engine, signaling the imminent arrival of my target.

Squatting behind the concrete barricade, I pulled my own Heckler & Koch HK416 with its shortened barrel from the backpack. Fitted with a suppressor, this rifle was compact enough for the close quarters of a parking structure, yet powerful enough for a precise shot—aided with the Nightforce vision scope to help visibility in the low-light space.

I held the weapon with both hands and resisted the urge to peer out from behind my column and watch the approach. This was oftentimes the riskiest part of a mission when the target would be most on alert.

The rhythmic thumping of tires over concrete seams became more pronounced, and the vehicle’s engine, a low and steady purr, echoed in the chilly, hollow space. Increasing in volume until, finally, the clunk of a gearshift was followed by a car door opening and shutting.

Footsteps drew away from the still-running engine, and I pressed my back flatter against the cold stone behind me, controlling my breaths to be as quiet as possible. The steps stopped, then continued to my left. Still far away, before pausing again and gaining in volume.

Halting a mere ten feet behind me.

My heart decided now was a good time to perform gymnastics in my goddamn chest, thumping in my ears so loudly I worried someone else could hear the damn thing.

To my relief, the footfalls grew softer, presumably clearing the space on the other side of the basement structure before returning to the vehicle, where the clink of the door opened, then shut with a crunch.

I turned and poked my left eye around the concrete shield.

Thirty feet away, a black SUV sat parked with two figures inside. One in the passenger and one in the driver’s seat, but the limited lighting made it impossible to identify who was who. Or if Vosch was even one of them…

“We have a problem,” Seth whispered in the piece in my ear. “Someone’s approaching the parking garage.”

Shit. The CIA had assured Daniel that the other criminals who’d intended to meet Vosch (buyers of weapons) had been intercepted. Had they failed and didn’t tell us?

Blending into the shadows, I drew my body further from its shield and aimed my gun at the windshield. The problem was, as soon as I pulled the trigger, my presence and location would be revealed, so I might only have one chance to fire a bullet before they’d duck. Or, more likely, fire back. I needed to make sure the bullet went into the right skull.

“Female, on foot,” Seth’s voice continued. “No visible weapon.”

She wasn’t in a vehicle? Vosch’s associates always traveled in vehicles for meetings because they provided the fastest escapes if things went south. But the woman had to be with him. There was no way an innocent civilian could become the world’s most extreme example of wrong place, wrong time. Right?

Who the hell was she?

More importantly, how severely would her unexpected presence derail this assassination?