Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

10. GRAYSON

10

GRAYSON

Amidst the bustling downtown streets of a more populated area, the woman stepped off the city bus while I matched her pace, trying to blend into the crowd, thankful I wasn’t the only pedestrian in a black shirt and pants.

The crisp midafternoon air of October in Chicago carried the faint whispers of approaching winter while buildings towered above us, casting long shadows that played on the sidewalks.

She moved with purpose through the dense river of pedestrians, her steps drowned out by the noises of the city—car horns, distant conversations, and the occasional siren—until she stopped in front of a coffee shop, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside.

The mystery woman entered it, seemingly unaware of a CIA agent following her.

You would think, being late afternoon, a café would not be busy, but the space was alive with energy, with almost every one of the two dozen tables occupied by folks in golden lighting. The air was a few degrees warmer than the crisp autumn breeze and permeated with the rich, heady aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, mingled with pastries.

A constant hum of voices filled the room from customers engrossed in lively chats, their laughter punctuating the air, while others sat as solitary figures, lost in the glow of their laptop screens, their fingers dancing rapidly over the keys. Behind the counter, baristas moved with practiced efficiency amidst the clinking of cups and the hiss of milk foamers.

My mystery woman stood near the entrance and scanned the people, her chest rising when her eyes landed on a man.

The guy appeared to be in his late twenties with disheveled blond hair sticking out from under a worn Cubs cap. Likely a local then. The spiderweb tattoo on his neck told me he either had a violent past or wanted people to fear him.

Joining the long line behind the counter, I watched the man out of the corner of my eye as he shot out of his chair and marched across the room to the mystery woman.

Any hope of hearing anything they were saying went up in smoke with the fresh grinding of a machine. What a suspiciously perfect place to have a private conversation. All I could do was pretend to look at my cell phone screen and watch their movements.

With his jaw clenched and the vein on his neck making that spiderweb bulge, the guy pointed his finger in her face.

Maybe he doesn’t know her very well?

If he did, he was a moron for provoking someone with her skills.

Please turn him into a human pretzel. I bet he cries like a baby.

Her shoulders squared, and her lips thinned as she pointed a finger in his face and said something back. More inaudible words were exchanged in what I assumed was nothing more than a verbal altercation, but suddenly, he took a step closer to her.

I tensed. He’s not about to hit her, is he? Why isn’t she matching his aggression, stepping right into his space?

If anything, she was…shrinking before my very eyes. Was this guy far more dangerous than the man she’d obliterated?

Why did the thought of her being in danger bother me?

And why did it bother me, seeing her anger recede behind a wall of hurt?

While, physically, she was powerful enough to reduce this man to a collection of disjointed bones, emotionally, she seemed…almost frozen. A paradox of strength and vulnerability, she held her expression with glacial detachment, as if she were miles away from this moment, lost in a sea of thoughts or memories that rendered her almost immobile.

All of which aligned with my theory: she was an innocent woman who just had the worst day of her life, and now this scumbag was making it worse.

After seeing what she was capable of doing to the human body, I bet she normally would never tolerate this guy’s behavior. But there she was. Tolerating it.

Whether it was because he was an authority figure or someone who had gained psychological influence over her, I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, she, disappointingly, was not snapping his bones.

As I studied the frozen landscape of her face, a coil of something protective wound itself around my chest. It was an unfamiliar sensation, this urge to intervene, to shield her from the world’s ugliness, even though I knew she could handle her own battles.

I shook off the fleeting and absurd urge to shove this man down for having upset her. Any desire to shelter her from danger, physical or otherwise, had to be because I needed her intact if I was going to get answers from her.

Yet, as she tried to step past the asshole, I realized my role as a mere observer was about to end.