Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

4. GRAYSON

4

GRAYSON

I yanked my mask away with such force that it wrenched a strand of hair from my scalp with a sharp pinch, and just before I chased her outside, I had no choice but to leave my weapon and backpack in the garage. A man chasing a woman with a gun would draw too much attention, and it wasn’t like I could shoot the damn lady until I knew who she was. My heels slammed against the pavement—each step filled with the thunderous determination to ensure she didn’t slip through my grasp after my astonishing failure.

This woman had interrupted the most important hit of my life, and while it wasn’t the sole reason I’d failed to get a shot, her surprise appearance sure as hell hadn’t helped.

I will not rest until I catch her and find out who this woman is.

Her speed was goddamned suspicious, if you ask me, particularly for a woman of her petite size. How was someone so small capable of doing what she did to that driver—a man at least twice her size? In all my years of service, I had never seen someone of her stature embody such an inexplicable threat.

And how was she outpacing me?

Our footsteps echoed against the backdrop of decaying steel and concrete until they were drowned out by the wind’s howl, which seemed to laugh as I chased her through the empty street.

With every breath I took, the October chill sank its sharpened needles deeper into my lungs, each icy prick a jolt to my fraying nerves as I continued my maddening chase of the suspect ahead.

Was she a member of another CIA team? Small teams were vital to keeping well-guarded secrets within our country; was it possible the CIA had sent in a second agent to make sure Vosch was dead?

Her long, dark hair streamed behind her, and her slender arms pumped as she barely made it across the intersection before a deafening explosion shattered the daylight with a roar that seemed to tear the air apart. And shook the ground beneath our feet.

As debris rained down, she collapsed, shielding herself from the concrete shrapnel—which, thanks to our distance and the central positioning of the bomb, was mostly composed of small, innocuous fragments.

The world had turned to chaos, my ears ringing from that damn blast, but our chase of predator versus prey was far from over.

I scanned the empty windows and doorways of nearby buildings, searching for any sign of life, any witness to my approach, closing the thirty feet of distance between us.

Suddenly, the woman launched herself to her feet and took off in a sprint.

We darted across one intersection, then another, and just as victory seemed within reach, my muscles tensed at an unwelcome sight.

A scattering of people walked toward the concrete graveyard with widened eyes. They looked like damn zombies, attracted to the scene of destruction behind me like a moth to a flame.

You think you can disappear into the crowd and escape me? You’ve sorely underestimated me, sweetheart.

“Hey!” my mystery woman screamed, waving her hand at someone.

“Damn,” I mumbled, slowing my pace.

“Hey! Help me!” she shrieked.

There was no way she was CIA. The CIA had strict protocols for how to handle an operation, even one that had gone to shit, so she wouldn’t be waiving down pedestrians like she’d escaped a serial killer.

Who was this woman?

The crowd became my camouflage as I melded into them, blending in with the confusion. Here, a faint dust coated everything in a fine layer of grayish-white powder, but just three blocks down, the city streets resembled a minor war zone with shattered windows, some crumbled brickwork, and twisted metal scattered across the pavement. While pedestrians fixated on the destruction, I watched the woman’s actions—which were so blatant, they defied every dark explanation.

Especially when a wail of sirens cut through the crowd, and a police cruiser screeched to a halt, his hand resting on his holster as he emerged to survey the scene.

“Officer!” she yelled.

The law enforcement complication didn’t bother me from the CIA’s perspective; the CIA was skilled at cleaning up messes. Even ones as big as this one, but I didn’t need her under police protection; I needed to get her alone and find out what she was doing at a top-secret location where the biggest arms dealer in the world had a private meeting. A meeting only the suspects and the CIA were privy to.

Inconspicuously, I stepped closer to her, pretending to be engrossed by the image of dust and broken concrete when, in reality, I was listening.

Carefully.

Her words came out in panicked bursts, though, and with the surrounding people not shutting up about the explosion in addition to the lingering ringing in my ears, I could only make out parts of what she was saying. Still, I dissected every word I could hear, searching for the truth behind her identity.

“…grabbed my hair…and then he…”

“I need you to calm down, ma’am,” the cop said.

“…ran…explosion.”

“I’m going to need everyone to step back.” A second officer moved to the front of the crowd and ushered us further away from the collapsed building.

More problematically, away from the woman and the clues I needed.

I remained a chameleon among the spectators, staring at the piles of concrete that entombed Vosch’s driver, telling the police officer I didn’t see anything when he asked, but mostly, I studied the woman, cataloging her features for clues to her identity.

With her striking appearance, she would make the perfect assassin. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her angelic face, with its doe-like eyes and plush nude lips, could easily lure in unsuspecting targets. Standing at a petite five foot three, her thin frame seemed harmless, but behind her innocent facade lay a highly skilled fighter.

And perhaps a killer.

But a black-market hit man would never run into the arms of a police officer.

In theory. Unless she was creating another distraction. Even if I couldn’t fathom how that would help Vosch, I couldn’t discount she might be involved with him. He was a sophisticated criminal who often had multiple contingency plans in place to evade capture or termination, and for all I knew, this woman could be on his payroll.

Then again, why would his right-hand man have attacked her?

Perhaps as a diversion. Maybe Vosch or someone on his team spotted me, or Seth, or one of the CIA operatives positioned in nearby vehicles and tipped him off. Her confrontation with the driver took my eye off of the prize after all, and here I was, chasing her down.

That didn’t answer the most perplexing question, though: why would she willingly go to the police? It would spell death for her if Vosch or any organized family employed her.

There was no way she could be an innocent bystander either. The odds of her stumbling not only into that parking garage, but the underground level of it were slim to none.

She was there, at that exact time and place, deliberately.

Why? If she wasn’t with Vosch, who was she?

Armed with only a physical description, I’d have to shadow this woman until I uncovered her identity. Without it, we’d be missing a crucial piece of Vosch’s puzzle, potentially derailing future missions due to this critical gap in intel.

But my task was about to become exponentially more difficult.

I clenched my fists as a short, bald police officer escorted her to the back of his squad car and drove off.

As the vehicle vanished around the corner, my resolve hardened. She was a puzzle, one that I was determined to solve, not just for the mission, but to unravel the complication that had violently intruded my world.